Lingerie For Felons (6 page)

‘Hello there, Rocket.' He grinned at me like a sexy shark, slow with lots of teeth. It suddenly occurred to me that he was bigger, badder and older than me. And he had eyes that looked like he was way more experienced too.

‘I've been looking forward to this.' He muttered something under his breath as his crinkly eyes took in my black stretchy dress and knee high boots, another loan from Heidi.

‘What?' I demanded.

‘Sorry, I was just saying “Madam Lash”. You look like Madam Lash. With green eyes.'

The bottom dropped out of my tummy. ‘What color are they normally?'

‘Hmmm...?' Those dark eyes were still admiring Heidi's dress.

‘Her eyes,' I prompted, placing a finger under his chin and bringing his own eyes up to meet mine. ‘Madam Lash. Her eyes. What color are they normally?'

‘Dunno,' he grinned, kissing my cheek and handing me a glass of wine. ‘Come on, I gotta show you something.' He took my hand in his big, warm one and dragged me behind him. My heart fluttered and my legs felt weak as I navigated a little winding staircase.

I wanted to ask ‘where are you taking me?' but then we were there. Standing in a rooftop garden that was like this tiny slice of Eden, crammed with potted trees, shrubs and herbs. A chaotic Picasso, all color and scent and texture.

I dropped his hand and turned a slow circle, feeling like Wendy the first time she saw Neverland. By the railing stood a little wrought-iron table and two chairs, under a small roof formed by a miniature bower, heavy with purple flowers.

Wayne's eyes searched out mine. ‘You like?'

I nodded, not trusting my voice. I turned another revolution and took in a long, rectangular trough, overflowing with different herbs.

‘Yes. It's beautiful. You're like... Richard Attenborough.'

He guffawed and picked my hand up again, running it across his rough cheek as he studied my face. ‘You say that like it's a bad thing.'

His eyes were hooded, and a deep crease furrowed his brow. I fought the urge to reach over and smooth it out. ‘No, no, of course it's not. It's just...'

‘What?'

‘Well, you're this.' I flapped a hand at his beautiful chinos and open-necked shirt. ‘You're a...suit. You work in the city. You make money. You're not supposed to...garden.' I sniffed again, dragging in the aroma floating up the staircase towards us. ‘And cook.'

He lowered the hand that had been caressing his cheek and ran it across my lips.

‘Who says?'

I shrugged, and felt a tiny shiver chase down my spine.

‘Come on,' he growled, pushing me towards the stairs. ‘It's too cold to eat up here tonight. ‘We'll have to have it downstairs.'

‘It' was sand-crab risotto, and a leafy salad with walnuts and blue cheese that tasted kind of French and decadent. And homemade bread, sweet and crumbly.

I shook my head as I buttered another piece.

‘What are these?' I gestured at the dark red splotches in the bread.

‘Sugar plums,' he said, winking at me.

I ran a finger over the soft, red flesh captured in the bread. Sugar plums. I examined the finger, then sucked it and tasted the soft, dark explosion in my mouth. When I looked up at him again, his eyes were on my mouth.

‘I'm sorry,' he said quietly. ‘What did you say?'

‘I didn't,' I said, avoiding his eyes. ‘But I should.' I straightened up in my seat and wiped my finger on a dark green linen napkin. ‘This is a date, right? Let's talk.'

So we did. Light stuff. He told funny stories about home — about Australia and his dog, and about coming to the city and feeling like a total hick. Every time I asked about his family, he steered the topic away, ever so casually.

And he was careful. I had the feeling he was treating me like an interesting but slightly scary snake, trying to avoid topics that might cause me to bare my fangs and poison him. I told him things too, about my mad parents, and my siblings. About how I was different. Serious, like Dad. And about math, how beautiful and pristine it was. Then the meal was over and I suddenly looked around at the demolished food and felt a pang.

‘I can't believe you made that bread. Did you churn the butter as well? Got a cow hiding in the spare room?' I was trying for light banter but kind of knew it came off spiteful.

‘Ah, don't be cranky, Rocket. Come here.'

He picked up my hand and led me to the couch. I complied meekly, because his hand was so big, and so warm, and my whole body was melty-warm and full of good food, and my eyes were so full of the sight of his great big body and his crinkly eyes.

We sat down at the same time and my body rolled into his on the squishy sofa. He slid an arm around my shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world. I felt his mouth drop to the top of my head and heard him inhale deeply. His breath feathered my neck and I smelled skin and sun and citrus. He fiddled with a remote control and from somewhere close by a beautiful voice rasped ‘whenever I'm alone with you'.

Then all of a sudden, the room was hot and close and I began to babble. ‘Actually, I'm sure I'll find out you really faked the whole thing. The meal, that is. Ha ha. I'll locate the tricky little deli where you got this stuff from. And don't think I'll forgive you for making me feel inadequate either. I can hold a serious grudge. Like, really.' I was talking faster and faster as his big face inched closer to mine. ‘I might not ever forgive you. I might have to exact some horrible revenge.'

His beautiful, scary green eyes were millimetres away now. I could feel his breath on my face. So close.

‘I might… I might…'

One of his hands snaked into my hair, twisting it around big fingers.

It was all too dangerous.

His big, soft-hard lips closed over mine. I'd only been kissed a couple of times in my life, but when Wayne kissed me I had none of the thoughts I'd had those times. Like, ‘ugh why is he doing it like that?' Or ‘why can I smell coriander?' Or ‘God I can taste it cologne'.

It wasn't like a storybook kiss either: stars exploding, astral travelling, blah blah. But that kiss reached its velvet tentacles right down to my toes, and on the way it grabbed my large intestine like a big, unseen, hairy hand, and stroked it like a very willing kitten.

And all I could think was:
Ah, that's what they mean by toe-curling.

I pulled away, gasping for air.

‘More?' he asked.

I started babbling again. ‘No, no. No way. Not that it wasn't very nice. It was. Nice. Very. It's just…er...I think I might have peed my pants'.

I made a spirited dash for the bathroom, displacing some pottery on the way.

I sat on the toilet with my mind racing. What. The. Hell. What the hell was this? Why was this crazy Australian suit-boy's kiss reaching in and stroking my internal organs? And what was I going to do about it? I didn't know how to do this. I was going to have to ask Heidi about the...logistics.

I stayed there a full twelve minutes, formulating a plan.

When I got back, he was lying back on the arm of the sofa, eyes closed.

He sat up as he heard me approach. For the first time I noticed the little lines on his forehead. ‘Everything okay? I'm sorry if I shouldn't have —'

‘Oh no, no. Look, it's not that. Really, it was…lovely. Well, you know what it was. It's just I think I'm out of action. You know. Down there.' I motioned vaguely in the direction of my vagina and lowered my voice. ‘Women's business. Suddenly, you know.'

What the hell did I just say? Did I actually fake having my period and use the pathetic euphemism ‘women's stuff'? I wasn't sure what I wanted. But I did know I didn't want to leave, not quite yet. I also knew there was no way I could handle any more of that kissing until I had sorted some things through in my head.

So I sat down, carefully, at the other end of the sofa. ‘Um, so let's just talk, okay?'

‘Sure.' It sounded like shoar-oar-oar. He sounded even more Australian when he was tense. ‘Okay, let's do that.'

A pause.

‘So, tell me. What do you wanna do when you leave school?'

Oh no. Not that. Almost worse than the kiss.

Almost. I took a deep breath. ‘We-ell. I don't know. Not really.'

Wayne slid closer to me and took one of my hands.

My shoulders relaxed a little as warmth slid through me.

‘I mean, I'm doing this thesis, and I love it, but I know I don't want to be a professional mathematician. And I don't think I want to teach.'

‘What then, sweetheart?'

I wriggled a little in the sofa that was like quicksand, sucking me down and in and closer to him. ‘Hmm. I don't really know what to do. I just know what I don't want to do.'

He gave me a ‘go on' look. So I did.

‘I don't want to sell out. I don't want to just have a great apartment, in the right part of town, and a nice little investment place. I don't want to send my kids to good schools and bitch about the fees.' My breath was coming short and sharp as I thought about it. Thought about all the bad things in the world. ‘There's so much to do. I don't want to be old and look back, and think ‘what good did it do that I even lived? Who did I touch? What did I change? How did I make the world better?' And have no answers to any of it.'

My heart was racing, and not because of his touch and the garden and the food and the kiss this time. Some big, serious voice in my head was telling me it was important.

It was important that I explain this right.

‘I don't want to sell out, gradually. So gradually that I don't even realize that's what I've done. I don't want to convince myself that sponsoring some poor little African kid means I've done my bit, and I can go on nice vacations and drink expensive wine and have no guilt that the rest of the planet is going to hell. I don't want to be comfortable.'

I stopped but didn't look at him. The CD ended and silence seemed to envelope us.

I looked down at my boots, rubbing a spot on the leather.

‘Er, so your turn. What do you want to be?'

He didn't answer for a moment.

When he spoke, his voice was softer than usual, but even deeper.

‘Comfortable.'

I sneaked a peak at him and for once his open, mobile face was inscrutable.

‘I want to have stacks of kids and enough money to give them anything they want. College. Overseas trips. A car when they can drive. A new car too, not some old bomb.' He paused. ‘You see, something I've noticed: only people who grew up with enough of everything think being comfortable is a sell-out.'

Goose pimples formed on my arms and I felt my face flush. ‘I'm sorry.'

He patted my hand and laughed. ‘Don't be. I've got just the thing we need.' He jumped from his seat and came back with two huge plates of apple pie. He proceeded to attack his with gusto while I picked at mine, feeling like five kinds of middle class fool.

Until I tasted it, and the sweet, buttery crunch overtook the shame.

‘Tell me,' I said, when I'd finally licked the plate clean. ‘How did you get here?'

‘Ah, now,' he began, ‘that is a story.'

Oh good, that's just what we needed. A story. A distraction.

‘You see, I met this guy. A few years ago., when I was just starting out.'

I chased a last crumb around my plate. ‘Mm?'

‘He was out in Sydney, working with our firm. He was a big deal, really connected here. Said he could help me into a firm over here if I wanted to expand my horizons a bit.'

‘Wow,' I said. ‘You must have impressed him.'

He grinned. ‘I've got a kind of unusual specialty. A side-line really.'

‘Oh, yeah?' I didn't know much about what he did, and my curiosity was piqued.

‘I help invest party funds.'

‘Party funds? Parties like...functions?'

‘No,' he shook his head, getting up to refill my wine. ‘Political parties. It's kind of arcane. Political parties have particular needs, because of their donors and fund raising rules, and the calls they need to make on the money from time to time. It's not my bread and butter. I'm in resources. Mining, mostly. But it's always been a sideline.'

‘Hang on.' I shook my head. ‘You manage funds for politicians?'

‘Well, it's not all I do.' It was his turn to shake his head. ‘But yeah. And no. Not politicians. Parties. The machines.'

Something clanged shut in my head. ‘So.'

I didn't want to ask.

‘Who was this guy?'

‘Hunter Monroe.'

Oh. Oh freakin' fourth of July.

‘Hunter Monroe?' It was a mistake. It had to be a mistake. ‘
The
Hunter Monroe?'

‘Er...' His smile dropped a little. ‘I think so. Hotshot in the —'

‘GOP.'

Wayne laughed. ‘Yep, that's him.' He shook his head again. ‘GOP. Still can't believe they call it that. Man, you'd never get away with that pretentious shit back home.'

My brain clung to his derision. ‘So you used him, right? You know, as a ticket here.'

I wanted it to be true.

I thought about that kiss, and I wanted it to be true.

I started again. ‘People...some people...do that, right?' I could hear my voice creep higher. ‘You don't still see him, right?'

‘See him?' Wayne smiled his broadest smile at me, and patted my hand, as though it would make everything better. ‘I manage his fund locally. Well, the GOP's fund, I guess.' He made the inverted commas sign as he said GOP, still chuckling like it was a great joke.

‘Oh yeah,' he popped a chocolate in his mouth. ‘And we play racquetball.'

‘You make money for them?'

His smile slid some more. ‘Ah, yeah. Did pretty well last year. Got a tidy bonus.'

‘For Hunter Monroe.'