"She's German."
Ellen was tinkering with the BMW; it had taken less of a battering than one would have thought possible. "German? Who'sGerman?" She was squinting up at him over her shoulder.
Although she was holding a spanner in her raised hand he answered her. "Caroline. She's his 'Germanic Queen.' "
The seat of the bike must have been very strong; he was surprised the leather didn't split when she smashed the spanner down on it. "Will you stop with that fucking tape! I wish I'd never mentioned Lou Reed."
"They met in Berlin. This whole round of songs is about their relationship." The earphones went up again. Unfortunately they didn't cut out her voice.
"Who cares where they fucking met? " She started wheeling round and round, reminding him of Abby. Goading Ellen was almost as much fun as goading Agatha.
"You look really fucking stupid with those earphones on," she shouted.
"Is that all you think about?" he asked mildly.
She stopped her dervish-turn two feet from him and looked at him suspiciously. "Is what?"
Melrose reached out his hand, shoved the fingers in the neck of her black jersey, and pulled her to him. As he kissed her, harder than he'd ever kissed anyone, she made a strangling sound-perhaps, one part of his mind told him, because his fingers were looping the neck of the jersey too tightly. Still with his mouth on hers, he let the jersey go, put his hand instead on the back of her head; her hair was softer than it looked, given the tangled and crinkly style. After a certain amount of pounding her fists against his heavy sweater, she went limp. That part of his mind into which blood was still pouring (all the rest was going off in different directions) thought that perhaps she was dead. Strangled. He went on kissing her.
But he must have let her go at some point because she was standing back, getting her breath, and muttering. He seemed to see this through a filament as if there were a wavering, clear waterfall between them. Or possibly he was getting cataracts.
Ellen wandered drunkenly over to her BMW and lay across the leather seat, still mumbling.
"Are you being sick?" asked Melrose. "Did we stop too soon?"
She raised herself and wheeled on him. "No! My Lord, I havenever been kissed like that-"
"That's because you've manacled yourself to Manhattan men. They're all dolts who spend their lives chasing the elusive shadow of success instead of women-"
Her hands, like headphones, leapt to her head. "Shut up shut up shut up. I wasn't complimenting you. My God, I was nearly raped by an earl."
"Is that the trouble then, I mean the 'nearly' part?"
Her hands dropped away. She stared at him. "What conceitHow does any woman manage around you? Why don't they tear off their earlobes, or something?"
Melrose thought of Vivian, leaving tomorrow. She hadn't wasted time on Manhattan men. Only Italian, he thought woefully. He was floundering. He didn't know what was happening to him. He was listening to the bedroom scene where Caroline had cut her wrists, and he felt like weeping. But he came round in a minute as if he'd just had a fever-flash and saw Ellen looking at him with real concern.
"Ellen, you're too smart, too young, too much wanting to be another Brontë. Get out of this place; you'll die of illusion." Melrose restationed his earphones. "Let's go to Berlin."
"I don't know what you're talking about." It was hopelessness rather than dismissal in her tone. "I have deadlines to meet."
Melrose shrugged. "Let's go to New York, then, and meet them. Stop talking. I think another clue about Caroline just went missing." He pressed the 'phones to his head.
Calmly, Ellen went back to adjusting the lugs on her BMW wheel.