she was bliss. He began sucking the nipple, rolling it around his tongue, feeling it harden against his upper gum.
‘An allnighter is –’
Without looking up, Jay placed a finger on her open mouth. ‘I’ve got the money, baby.’
After Cheri left, Jay slept like a baby. He slept like he hadn’t slept for more than twenty-five years, and when he eventually awoke he felt different. He wasn’t sure in what way, but he felt a definite change. As he lay in bed very still, chain-smoking and deep in thought, his eyes roamed the luxurious room. He felt cosseted, cocooned, safe; yet strangely detached.
Eventually he rose and, naked, he padded to the window. Yesterday the world outside had seemed scary; today it looked a little less daunting. It was raining hard, slanting off the black umbrellas that moved like a swarm of insects seven floors below. A stretch limo, dark and sleek, pulled into the kerb – a fountain of water spraying the sidewalk. Transfixed, Jay watched the scene which was all in black and white like a silent movie playing in slow motion. He considered the years ahead. If he was lucky he had twenty good years left. He was almost forty-six, looked younger; at a pinch he could pass for forty. At least prison life had kept him fit: regular exercise; balanced diet; no alcohol and only the occasional foray into drugs. His intellect had been his salvation; his writing cathartic, as well as lucrative. As he thought about his future, his dreams surfaced – and he’d had plenty: fodder for the imagination; dreams of such glorious extravagance. Los Angeles, producing movies in the Californian sun. Beaches, beautiful babes, great sex. And love. Love with a wonderful woman; an intelligent, sensitive soul mate – his wife. He’d even invented his ideal mate, an enduring fantasy that had for many years inhabited his imagination; as real to him as a living person. Her name was Colette, she was petite with a cute, slightly retroussé nose and full mouth. Her hair was the colour of old gold and it fell in soft waves to an inch below her ears. And they had a daughter who looked like him, dark haired with her mother’s cobalt blue eyes. They laughed a lot, the three of them, and loved. Oh how they loved; hugs, kisses, stroking, bathing together, picnics, walking hand in hand, always tactile, very touchy feely. And every morning he awoke covered in white cotton, in their duplex apartment overlooking the sea, with Colette’s toasty body slotted neatly beside his, the faint scent of her musky perfume awakening his senses. The scenario always ended the same way with Colette telling him he was going to be a daddy again, and the three of them celebrating the good news. The prison shrink, Doc Kramer, had confirmed what Jay already knew. His fertile imagination, aspirational dreams and erotic fantasies were normal and important. They would keep him psychologically balanced. You mean keep me from going stir crazy in this fucking zoo, Jay commented. Simon Kramer had laughed, a deep mellow sound that had warmed Jay’s heart. From that moment, the two men had struck up a rapport and they had talked about anything and everything except psychology, literature, commerce, politics and chess. It was unusual for Simon Kramer to enjoy the company of his patients, but then he recognized that Jay Kaminsky was an unusual inmate. The day before Dr Kramer had retired he’d shaken Jay’s hand and patted him on the shoulder. It was the first time Jay had been touched with affection for six years, and he’d felt tight-chested and close to tears. Kramer went on to say it was a pleasure to have met him, and that unlike most convicted felons Jay had the strength of character and the will to survive a long-term sentence.
The sound of the telephone interrupted his introspection, and made him jump. For the last few months he’d been nervous, strung out. Jay knew he was paranoid about life on the outside, unknown territory changed beyond recognition since he’d been imprisoned. Would he lose his marbles like so many ex-cons did, and end up drinking himself into oblivion? The day before yesterday when the prison doors had slammed shut behind him, he’d panicked. Learning to live independently again after twenty-five years was going to be no picnic; it was a mind-blowing prospect, and he was more scared than he’d thought. As he picked up the phone, Jay realized it was going to take much longer than he’d anticipated to re-enter the human race. Even the simple task of learning how to use a digital telephone made him grimace.
It was Hooper. ‘How did you get on with Cheri?’
‘She was great, Ed, just what I needed.’
‘What did I tell you! Cheri’s a good girl, she really goes, gives great head. I’ve known her since she started out at seventeen. Wow, then she had an ass …’
Jay interrupted, ‘Like I said she was great.’ He sighed. ‘I’d forgotten how good it feels to be inside a woman.’
Ed guffawed. ‘You and me both, buddy.’ Then without waiting for a reply, he continued, ‘Lunch is on for tomorrow, the vice president of Maxmark Productions wants to meet you. They’re pitching for the movie rights on Killing Time. This is big-time Hollywood, pal.’
‘That’s great news, Ed! I’m on; where and when?’
‘Indochine, Lafayette Street, take a cab, be there for twelve-thirty. Your publisher, Bob Horvitz, is coming too. Says he’s dying to meet you in person at last. Bob is one of those dudes who likes to eat the same way he talks, fast. I’m warning you he doesn’t even draw breath, let him have his head and leave me to do the negotiations.’
Jay said, ‘So who needs me?’
‘Bob’s keen to hang on to you for Schnieder and Smith and to get the next book in the bag. I’ve told him what a great guy you are. The personal touch always helps.’
‘Spare me the bullshit, Ed. I’m a convicted felon who’s spent the last twenty-five years in the pen on a second degree murder charge. What’s with the nice guy routine? He likes the way I write, period. Schnieder and Smith have made big bucks outta Will Hope, but I sure as hell know that Bob Horvitz couldn’t give a damn about what sort of guy I am.’
‘You’re way too touchy, Jay, still over-sensitive. It’s gonna take time; you’re on a learning curve, man, you’ve gotta lighten up.’
‘Yeah yeah; I hear you. Don’t worry I’ll do what I’m told. I’ll wear the nice new Brooks Brothers shirt and tie. Eat food I can’t pronounce, listen to the suit and make the right noises in the right places.’
‘That’s my boy; see you at twelve-thirty sharp.’
Jay replaced the telephone, walked to the mini bar and, marvelling at the selection of drinks and confectionery in the small fridge, he took out a beer. He returned to the bed, and using the remote control spent twenty enjoyable minutes surfing the channels. He was about to switch off when he saw her. Like a bolt of lightning her face shot on to the screen. He jumped up, running towards the TV to get a closer look and dropping to his knees. It was Kelly, he was certain, he would recognize her anywhere. In fact she hadn’t changed much in all the intervening years. A little fuller around the middle, but the same twinkling-eyed wide smile – a tantalizing mixture of warmth and mischief. The kind of smile that turns heads, melts knees and knots guts. He felt his own insides respond now, bunched in a hard ball.
Kelly was standing next to Senator Todd Prescott, the man tipped to be the next Republican president. Jay knelt rigid, mesmerized. He couldn’t hear what they were saying for the loud buzzing in his ears. Then Kelly was gone, replaced by the newscaster’s face. Kelly Tyler, Kelly Tyler, he repeated her name in his head. She’d been the girl of his dreams, the one who’d broken his heart, his first love. His thoughts sped back down the years, back to the fall of 1972. It was after a summer of the Eagles and Santana. He’d been invited to spend the day at Susie Faber’s house. He remembered that day as if it were yesterday. It had started out warm, had got more so, and by midday was perfect. He’d picked Kelly up in his beat-up Wrangler jeep. And on the way home, later, much later that evening, they’d made love on the back seat. He would never forget the way she’d looked that day. Her long dress, flowing to her ankles, the curve of her body clearly silhouetted by the sunlight through the diaphanous fabric. When he’d commented on it, she’d told him it was only cheesecloth. Fooling around, someone had