We turned away and walked slowly across the grass. The fire was only burning fitfully now, and the battlefield was almost dark. My watch said it was three-thirty. I suddenly felt utterly, absolutely finished.
As if echoing my thoughts, James said, “That’s worked the Benzedrine off. How about getting a little sleep? There are still four or five cabins in good shape. How about 2 and 3? Are they desirable suites?”
I felt myself blushing. I said obstinately, “I don’t mind what you think, James, but I’m not going to leave you tonight. You can choose either 2 or 3. I’ll sleep on the floor.”
He laughed and reached out and hugged me to him. “If you sleep on the floor, I’ll sleep on the floor too. But it seems rather a waste of a fine double bed. Let’s say Number 3.” He stopped and looked at me, pretending to be polite. “Or would you rather have Number 2?”
“No. Number 3 would be heavenly.”
Fourteen: Bimbo
CABIN Number 3 was airless and stuffy. While James Bond collected our “luggage” from among the trees, I opened the glass slats of the windows and turned down the sheets on the double bed. I should have felt embarrassed, but I didn’t. I just enjoyed housekeeping for him by moonlight. Then I tried the shower and found miraculously that there was still full pressure, though farther down the line many stretches of the pipes must have melted. The top cabins were nearer to the main. I stripped off all my clothes and made them into a neat pile and went into the shower and opened a new cake of Camay (“Pamper your Guests with Pink Camay—With a scent like costly French Perfume… blended with Fine Cold Cream” I remembered, because it sounded so succulent, it said on the packet) and began to lather myself all over, gently, because of the bruises.
Through the noise of the shower, I didn’t hear him come into the bathroom. But suddenly there were two more hands washing me and a naked body was up against mine and I smelled the sweat and the gunpowder and I turned and laughed up into his grimy face and then I was in his arms and our mouths met in a kiss that seemed as if it would never end while the water poured down and made us shut our eyes.
When my breath was almost exhausted, he pulled me out from under the shower and we kissed again, more slowly, while his hands wandered over my body and desire came in waves of dizziness. I simply couldn’t stand it. I said, “Please, James! Please don’t! Or I shall fall down. And be gentle. You’re hurting me.”
In the moonlit dusk of the bathroom, his eyes were only fierce slits. Now they relaxed into tenderness and laughter. “I’m sorry, Viv. It’s not my fault. It’s my hands. They won’t stay away from you. And they ought to be washing me. I’m filthy. You’ll have to do it. They won’t obey me.”
I laughed up at him and pulled him under the shower. “All right, then. But I shan’t be gentle. The last time I washed anyone it was a pony when I was about twelve! Anyway, I can hardly see which bit of you’s which!” I got hold of the soap. “Put your face down. I’ll try not to put too much in your eyes.”
“If you put any in, I’ll—” My hands stopped the rest of the sentence and I set about scrubbing his face and hair and then moved on down his arms and chest, while he stood bowed and holding with both hands to the water pipe.
I stopped. “You’ll have to do the rest.”
“Certainly not. And do it properly. You never know. There might be a world war and you’d have to be a nurse. You might as well learn how to wash a man. And anyway, what the hell’s this soap? I smell like Cleopatra.”
“It’s very good. It’s got costly French perfume in it. It says so on the package. And you smell delicious. Much better than your gunpowder smell.”
He laughed. “Well, get on. But hurry.”