The Story of X: An Erotic Tale Read Free

horizon is the dark, serrated profile of an island. This
     must be Capri.
    I can see Capri from my balcony.
    I’ve only been here twenty-four hours, and already I love the place. I have to share
     my happiness. I ring up Jessica, at work, to tell her so. She swears rudely down her
     cell and tells me to stop being a soppy cow. Very British. Of course, I want to ask
     her about him . But I can’t. She would laugh.
    “Thanks for getting the apartment, Jess.”
    “ Prego . Now get on with your unpacking. And stop thinking about him.”
    I laugh.
    “How did you know?”
    “You didn’t stop talking about him last night. Can’t imagine you’ve forgotten.”
    “I’m glad I’m such a woman of mystery.”
    “Chill out, X. Relax . So Viscount Perfect paid for the drinks. So what?”
    “Jess, why is there so much garbage everywhere?”
    “I told you, it’s the Camorra, they rule the rubbish collection, they won’t let anyone
     else collect—it’s a racket, a scam. The whole city is a kind of drama—a masked ball, everyone is in masks, remember that .”
    “And?”
    “And the garbage guys, when you see them, have armed protection.”
    “Wow. That’s so nice .”
    Jess pauses, and laughs.
    “Yeah. ’Course, if you really do want to know more about the Camorra, you could always
     ask an alleged member.”
    “What?”
    “There’s this bloke . . . Lord Roscarrick. Heard of him?”
    “No. Tell me more.”
    “Well . . . I suppose he’s quite attractive, if you are into that whole handsome,
     sexy, charming, billionaire aristocrat thing. I hear some girls like that?”
    “And . . . ?”
    “Some claim he’s high up in the Camorra, or the Mafia; others say he fights them.
     Gotta be interesting either way. Ring him up and ask for an interview.”
    “Jessica, now you’re suggesting I just call him? Out of the blue? Are you bored? You’re
     bored, aren’t you?”
    She groans down the phone.
    “Thursday bloody morning, every Thursday morning, a class of principesse .”
    “Okay—”
    “They just file their nails and talk about orgasms. Anyway, look, X, I’m not joking.
     I mean, this guy isn’t unreachable . If you really want. He definitely gives money to charities that help mafia victims.
     That could be a way in. Did you really like him that much? X? Be honest.”
    I draw a breath. Did I? Did I? Do I really want to respond to that enigmatic overture? Do I truly want to get involved with
     this mysterious, slightly menacing figure?
    YES. Oh God, yes. An almighty YES. No man in my short life has disturbed me, stirred
     me, roiled the sexual waters in me, the way he did, merely by not really looking at
     me for several hours, then frowning my way maybe once, then quietly disappearing—after
     paying for my drinks. That’s all he did, but it was plenty more than enough.
    YES, I want to get involved. YES YES YES YES YES.
    “Maybe,” I say.
    “Yeah, right. You’d tear his shirt off with your teeth, given half the chance. You
     tart.”
    “His bespoke shirt, made with Egyptian cotton, on Jermyn Street?”
    She laughs.
    “That one. The one hand-stitched by orphans in Antwerp.”
    “So . . .”
    “If you really want to know . . . He lives in a famous palazzo—in the Chiaia.”
    “The what ?”
    “The Chiaia. It’s the, like, really posh neighborhood. And it’s about ten minutes’
     walk from Santa Lucia. Palazzo Roscarrick; google it. He’s practically a fucking neighbor . You could walk there after lunch, interview him about the Camorra, and be smoking
     a postcoital fag by teatime. That’s if he doesn’t have you shot by his gangster pals.
     Okay, gotta go. Be careful!”
    The call is closed. My heart beats on. I stare at the azure Tyrrhenian and the shimmering
     serration of Capri. So he lives very close. A palazzo. Of course a palazzo. Where
     else?
    I stand on the balcony and willingly tip into a reverie. I imagine him—Marcus Roscarrick,
     the young Lord Roscarrick, the