Chapter 7
We thank the driver who closes the doors and screeches away at speed, dust clouding around us. When it settles, we are standing at the edge of a dirt track. ‘There,’ I say, pointing. ‘Some lights.’
There is what appears to be a small town not far from us. My feet are still aching as I attempt to lean against Jackson to put my shoes back on. My legs are dead weights. I can barely move them.
‘Here. I’ll carry you.’
‘Are you sure? I feel very heavy all of a sudden.’
He nods heroically as I clamber onto his back, clinging to him while we make our way towards the lights.
I am conscious of every muscle that moves in his strong upper torso.
It feels like riding a panther. His shoulders are round and firm.
His latissimus dorsi is spectacular. I resist the urge to stroke it as we pass a huge sign welcoming us to Turgutries.
‘At least we know where we are,’ he says as we make our way to the main street, with me casually draped over his back like a French pullover.
The only place open is ‘Club Cherry Lips’.
There are no bouncers, and it looks as seedy as it sounds as we wander in.
I’m immediately surprised at how packed it is, full of people dancing and music is blaring out, but at least Jackson can put me down.
I spot a booth, and we hurry towards it, flopping onto the cushioned seats.
‘I can’t believe we fell asleep,’ Jackson says, still looking flummoxed.
‘I know.’
He has been repeating himself on a loop since the bus raced off and he checked his watch to see that at three in the morning it was probably the last bus of the night.
‘Are you worried you’ll miss your meeting tomorrow?’ I ask. Did he say he was here for work? I simply can’t remember.
‘Something like that,’ he says.
Within seconds, a barman flies towards us with a strange mix of what smells like a cherry-flavoured shisha to smoke and a beautifully decorated ceramic pot of apple tea with two dainty cups, a bottle of red wine and two glasses and a bowl of candied dates.
‘Excuse me. Are there any taxis outside the club? A taxi rank?’ I ask him as he sets it all out before us.
He shakes his head. ‘Sorry. No dolmus. No taxi.’
So, we have no option but to wait here until morning. We thank him and stare at the table.
‘Fair dinkum. When in Rome,’ Jackson says, picking up the shisha mouthpiece which is atop a long flexible red hose, connected to a strangely shaped blue glass water-filled bubble.
And maybe because I’m still a bit drunk and high and self-conscious, because he’s so incredibly attractive, even with a bejewelled whistle-shaped pipe sticking out of his mouth, I collapse into peals of laughter.
We manage to smoke most of the shisha, drink the apple tea (deliciously sweet) and polish off half the bottle of wine before I find my voice.
‘Where exactly are you from?’ I ask. I love an Australian accent – I mean, who wouldn’t? – but they all sound the same to me.
‘Central Coast of NSW.’
‘Oh. Exciting.’ Means nothing to me.
‘New South Wales?’
‘Uh-huh.’ I keep nodding. I’ve got nothing. Never even heard of the place.
A chuckle escapes from his kissable lips. ‘I can tell by the blank look you have no idea, do you?’
‘Nope.’
‘It’s just north of Sydney.’
Thank God. At last, a city I recognise. ‘Oh, yes, of course. Even I’ve heard of the capital of Australia,’ I say, accidently snorting.
He tilts his head. ‘Yeah, about that. It kinda isn’t.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘Have you heard of Canberra?’
‘No.’ Has anyone?
‘Well, that’s the capital.’
‘Are you sure?’
Jackson smirks. ‘You’re funny.’ He inhales deeply on the shisha pipe before sliding it over to me.
‘Is it full of surfer dudes?’ I say, skirting over my ignorance while admiring the way he tucks his unruly locks behind his manly ears.
‘Yeah. We all pretty much look the same over there.’ He chuckles, flicking his hair from his eyes. ‘Jesus waves, wetsuits and a surfboard under one arm. You can barely tell us apart.’
I wonder how quickly I could move there…
permanently. I waft a hand over my face as a hot flush creeps up my neck.
I can only imagine what effect hundreds of spectacular Jacksons charging around on the beach, six-packs, lean muscles and flowing locks must do to the female population.
There must be testosterone exploding all over the place.
‘And we all learn to barbecue from an early age. We sure know our way around a set of meat tongs. In fact, how to throw a couple of snags on the barbie is on the school curriculum.’
He’s being facetious and I am loving it.
‘How did you get to be so Australian?’ I ask, suddenly ravenous as I lunge at the sticky dates. I pop two into my mouth at once and prop my chin up on both fists, leaning forward as I begin to chew.
His eyes twinkle mischievously. ‘Seriously?’
Chew. Chew. Chew.
‘But like… how?’ I’m suddenly craving information on how this magnificent man came into being before the universe thrust him into my path.
He takes a sip of his wine. ‘I was born there.’
Whoa. He’s blowing my mind.
‘And how come you don’t have another girlfriend yet? Did Australia… run out of women?’ I ask, causing him to spit out his wine.
‘Oh man. Who even are you?’ He wipes tears from his eyes. ‘You’re so funny.’
Take that, Dillon.
‘Jackson. Tell me everything I need to know about you. Skip the birth. I can do without stories of torn fanny flaps and triggered husbands. And don’t spare the horses.’
‘Crikey. Torn what now?’
Oh. My. God. These lips of mine need to have a word with themselves. ‘Never mind that. Have you ever heard of the optimal stopping theorem?’ I trot out some fascinating facts from my dissertation on The Maths of Love. After all, I am the brainiest person to have ever lived.
Jackson shakes his head. He leans over to slide the shisha away from me and pushes a glass of water my way.
‘Well, it’s a theory concerned with the problem of choosing a time to take a given action based on sequentially observed random variables, yeah?
’ I lean in to deliver the punchline. ‘Get this. In order to maximise an expected payoff. Maximise. Yeah? You think it’s going to be minimise but then…
’ Ho-ho-ho. This is almost professional-level flirting.
Best I’ve ever done. I wait for his reaction.
This is Nobel prize-winning type stuff. He must be incredibly turned on. I know I certainly am.
He searches my face in awe. ‘You are the cleverest person I have ever met.’
My stomach does a complete flip. We have become incredibly close, incredibly quickly. We are in complete agreement as to the karmic manner of our meeting.
‘I love your eyes. Are they blue or green?’ he says, draining his wine glass.
‘Yes, they are,’ I say. ‘I turned my back on a six-figure, globe-trotting modelling career to become an account manager.’
Jackson smiles. ‘Models are overrated.’
‘I don’t get the whole Kate Moss “Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels” thing. And that reminds me.’ I bring his focus to my legs by fiddling with the suspender. ‘Feel these.’ I swing my leg onto the table with a thud. It lands beside our ornate cocktails that we must have ordered and then drunk.
He strokes the length of my appendage tantalisingly slowly. It’s borderline transcendent. ‘You have very pretty knees.’
‘So have I.’
Suddenly the song ‘I Touch Myself’ comes on and it feels as though everyone in the whole place leaps up and stampedes to the dancefloor. Women touching themselves inappropriately. I can do nothing else but join in because I’m free.
I’m a free woman.
Free to touch myself inappropriately on the dancefloor.
I drag my leg from the table and spring out of my seat, stepping towards Jackson.
He is nothing short of spellbound as I gyrate sexily in front of him.
He pretends to pull an imaginary rope, drawing me closer until I’m at his side.
It feels a logical step to climb onto his lap, my knees either side of his thighs.
I roll my head around and around, swinging my hair like a big swishing curtain as he holds my waist with both hands.
It’s complete sensory overload and I love it!
When I come to a stop, Jackson is staring intensely at me and it’s as though we both know it is time.
My breathing is coming in short bursts as he pulls my head towards his.
Our mouths collide in a frenzy of passion.
My soft lips slide over his firmer ones.
The slight scrape of his stubble feels manly against my chin.
We kiss for thousands of years before we become conscious of the music blaring out around us.
It is ‘Two Princes’ by Spin Doctors and it is as though Jackson is hearing his all-time favourite record to dance to.
He leaps to his feet, with me still attached like a tree frog clinging to bark as he races me towards the dancefloor.
I slide to the floor as he begins an exuberant dance routine.
His head is jerking from side to side while he looks as though he’s sparring with an imaginary punchbag.
I’ve had to duck several times. Luckily, ducking is a huge part of my new dance sequence that I just made up.
I’m taking huge side steps and lunging down in what could be the lowest squat anyone’s ever achieved on a dancefloor.
Not easy but I’m being so impressively athletic that it’s hard to stop. My nipples almost graze the floor.