Chapter 18
CHAPTER 18
T he sheets, usually so soft, were scratchy, prickly. I felt itchy all over. I tossed, turned, couldn’t get comfortable. Sleep hovered, out of reach. I closed my eyes, determined to relax, but instead, images of Arnaud rose. Arnaud with his cat-like green eyes, his perfect hard body. I touched my breast, and the T-shirt I was wearing became a black push-up bra. Then I added black silk stockings attached to a garter belt and thigh-high black boots with stiletto heels. Where was I? Where were we?
For now, Arnaud is with me, here in a fabulous Turkish bathhouse, water all around, velvet draperies, and the smell of incense. He reaches for me, caresses my naked belly, lingering over my navel, and I feel hot stirrings. He pulls me to him, his mouth seeking mine, his tongue thrusting deeply into my mouth, my own tongue responding greedily. He pulls away and – wait! Oh my God! It isn’t Arnaud at all! It’s Graeme, with his rich blue eyes, laughing at my surprise.
He commands me to stand perfectly still, not to move. He kneels before me and begins to kiss my inner thighs, his tongue tracing the tops of my boots, exploring the region with the skill of a veteran climber. Then I feel hands on my shoulders, tracing down my spine, unhooking my bra, reaching around to cup my aching, hungry breasts. Arnaud! Here, too! I am swept with waves of passion unlike I ever imagined. I am like a person lost in the desert, parched and alone, who finds an oasis. I drink in all the fiery, wet, pulsing sensations as these two men stroke, lick, touch, tease and thrust themselves into me, and I give myself over completely to the uninhibited delight of being worshipped and adored.
How amazingly dangerous, how frightfully decadent, how perfectly wonderful.
‘Mum.’
Angus’s voice was in the distance, but what about Arnaud? Graeme? I can’t quite pull myself away?—
‘Mum! Wake up. It’s your birthday.’
I opened one eye. Angus was standing beside my bed with a tray bearing breakfast and scattered with several pink hydrangeas from the garden.
‘Angus, thank you.’ I sat up and dismissed the dream from my mind. His smile was almost as big as his face. There was Vegemite toast, tea and a glass of orange juice. ‘Thank you so much, beautiful boy.’ I reached over to kiss him.
Mum walked into the room with Lexi trailing behind. ‘We know you have to work, but we didn’t want you to leave on an empty stomach, especially on your birthday.’
I wolfed down the toast and tea, and within minutes, was showered and dressed and standing in the kitchen with my loved ones and their gifts of chocolate (Angus), lipstick (Lexi) and flowers and a pair of Royal Albert pink vintage teacups and tea caddy from Mum.
‘Thank you. They’re beautiful gifts,’ I said before rushing out the door.
It was after midday when Matthew called. ‘I’m sorry I can’t be with you. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. And I’m sorry I forgot to organise flowers and a card?—’
‘That’s okay. Mum did.’
‘I’m also sorry about our argument. I was just so shocked at Lexi’s hair.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Why don’t you go out with Diane tonight to celebrate?’
‘It’s midweek. She has kids to look after.’
‘I promise I’ll make it up to you. Love you.’
Throughout the day, Robyn and several friends, including Diane, called. It wasn’t like I didn’t feel special, but I missed Matthew.
As I was packing up to go home, Arnaud popped his head in. ‘We’re going out for drinks. Join us?’
‘Better not. It’s my birthday and?—’
‘All the more reason.’
‘But Matthew’s away…’
‘I insist.’
I hesitated all of ten seconds before calling Mum.
After assuring me everything was under control at home – ‘There’s a casserole in the oven, Gus is doing his homework and Lexi’s home from netball practice’ – she insisted I go out. ‘It’s your birthday. Enjoy yourself. Lexi wants to have friends over to watch a documentary regarding penguins on the Discovery Channel. Something about a final biology assignment…’
‘As long as you don’t mind,’ I said, hoping she wouldn’t. It’d be nice for Lexi to have some old friends over, maybe even do a bit of adolescent bonding by remembering when they used to dress up and dance to Hi-5. Back when she had hair.
‘It’s fine, but I do have a request.’
‘Anything,’ I heard myself say. Then crossed my fingers.
‘Dinner, my house, Friday night. You, Matthew, the kids – and Dad. A belated birthday celebration for you.’
Friday night! God! The pain! How would I survive it? But until I agreed, I knew she’d continue to pester me about dinner with Dad. There was nothing to be gained by further resistance except heartache. It was better to get it over and done with.
‘Okay. Deal. Can you make sure the girls go home at a reasonable hour? I won’t be late. Thanks, Mum.’
I was tired. Tired – and nervous about going out for drinks with my colleagues.
Every place I’d ever worked had staff politics, whether it was a small magazine or the photographic department of a large newspaper. It was part of the culture, like leaving dirty coffee cups in the kitchen sink when no one was watching and whispering on your mobile to friends when you thought no one was within hearing distance.
But after-work drinks were usually where it all happened. My ancient experience revealed:
Staff always jockeyed for position, trying to get the boss’s attention in a vain attempt to get ahead.
Everyone from the receptionist to the managing director worked their agenda, hidden or not.
Sooner or later, chatter got round to gossip.
Inevitably, wine would be spilled.
By the end of the night, someone’s harmless flirting and/or gossip would have turned into something more sinister.
And it was always a lot worse once silly season kicked in, a month before Christmas, which happened to be today!