She had often daydreamed about doing this, running away with Micky Miranda, both before and since the death of her husband. She had always been stopped by the thought of all she would lose--house, servants, dress allowance, social position, and family power. But the bank crash had taken all that away, and now she was free to give in to her desires.
"Water," said Micky feebly.
She poured a glass from the pitcher beside the bed. He turned over and sat up to take it, then drank it all.
"Some more ... Micky?"
He shook his head.
She took the glass from him.
"You lost the snuffboxes," he said. "I heard the whole thing. That swine Hugh."
"But you've got plenty of money," she said. She pointed to the champagne in the ice bucket. "We should drink this. We're out of England. You escaped!"
He was staring at her bosom. She realized that her nipples were hard with excitement, and he could see them poking through the silk of her nightwear. She wanted to say You can touch them if you like but she hesitated. There was plenty of time: they had all night. They had the whole voyage. They had the rest of their lives. But suddenly she could wait no longer. She felt guilty and ashamed, but she longed to hold his naked body in her arms, and the longing was stronger than the shame. She sat on the edge of the bed. She took his hand, drew it to her lips, and kissed it; then she pressed it to her breast.
He looked at her curiously for a moment. Then he began to stroke her breast through the silk. His touch was gentle. His fingertips brushed the sensitive nipple and she gasped with pleasure. He changed his grip and held her breast in his palm, lifting and moving it. Then he grasped her nipple between finger and thumb and squeezed. She closed her eyes. He pinched harder, so that it hurt. Then, suddenly, he twisted her nipple so viciously that she screamed and pulled away from him, standing up.
"You dumb cunt," he sneered, getting off the bed.
"No!" she said. "No!"
"You really thought I would many you!"
"Yes--"
"You've got no money and no influence anymore, the bank is bust, and you even lost the snuffboxes. What would I want with you?"
She felt a pain in her chest, like a knife in her heart. "You said you loved me...."
"You're fifty-eight--my mother's age, for God's sake! You're old and wrinkled and mean and selfish, and I wouldn't fuck you if you were the last woman on earth!"
