A woman dances in lingerie hinting at more than it reveals. She pouts and poses, tossing long, dark hair.
A couple watch.
“Nice tits,” the lady says, leaning into her partner.
“Not as nice as yours.” He turns towards her. “Not even close.”
“Aww, baby.” She nuzzles his neck and squeezes his leg. Her fingers wander up his inner thigh.
He blushes and glances around.
Red-faced businessmen with loosened ties mix with cameraless Japanese tourists and a group of young men, nursing drinks and counting cash. Fewer than half the tables are taken. No one pays attention to the couple. The lady downs an Alabama Slammer—old-fashioned glass, slice, no cherry—makes a vague gesture and gets up and totters away.
James Harford sat in the half-lit club, his back ramrod stiff. Beer washed away the after-burn of whiskey. Empty bottles crowded the table, not quite ordered. Suppressing a yawn he rotated his arthritic shoulder.
Wordless men lined the bar, beers laid out before them, cricking their necks to watch, feet tapping and heads nodding more or less in time to the music. The room should’ve been smoky, but new laws meant it wasn’t.
Sally, James’s wife, emerged from the bathroom framed between two paintings, nudes Rubens or Lindsay might have painted. She wobbled across the room and her skirt swished with the sway of advancing hips. Breasts challenged a singlet top and her arse wiggled as she manoeuvred around tables. Men looked away from the dancers, eyes tracking up and down. Auburn hair fell around her face and bounced over her shoulders. She took a seat beside him and citrus perfume and gin washed over him. The throbbing in his joints eased.
Sally grinned and squeezed his hand and gazed at the girl on the podium, glanced at another giving a portly man a private dance and back to the podium. The dancer finished her routine and James beckoned her to their table and slid a wad of dollars into her garter.
“How about a show for the lady, yeah?”
Breasts inches from Sally’s face, the woman ran a hand over her chest, nipples straining thin material. She teased theatrically. Sal squirmed and her pupils dilated. James sipped cold beer.
Afterwards—the woman having moved on—Sally checked out the men in the club, trying, but failing, to be discreet. She lingered on one, medium height, square-jawed with a triangular torso; a man in good shape, the kind James knew she liked, the kind where he understood the attraction. He touched her arm. “Spotted someone you fancy?”
She leaned into him, her breath sweet. “And who would that be?”
“Green shirt guy.”
“Clever clogs.” She grinned. “He is cute.”
“Oh, he is, is he?”
“Not as cute as you.”
“Would you screw him?”
“I wouldn’t say no.” Her face glowed the way it did when she was drunk or horny or both.
“What about the three of us?” Years ago they’d shared their fantasies. Two men was one of hers. She’d been blasé about the opportunities presented. James had been the one to blush.
“Yeah, right.”
He shook his fuddled head. “I mean it.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I’d do anything for you.” He owed her so much. “Anything.”
“You’re not going to invite some strange guy to—”
“I will if you want me to.” His shoulder twinged. The music got louder. Dancers' faces and bodies blurred.
“Sweet idea, but you’re pissed.”
“I’m going over.”
“Silly-billy.” Her hand brushed his thigh.
“You want me to, yeah?”
She snogged him, her kiss his answer. She’d always hungered for men. He strode to the bar and cleared his throat.
“G’day.” He strained to be heard over reverberating bass. “Might sound odd, but I don’t suppose you’d like to come home with me and my wife?”
The stranger nodded, then turned his gaze directly to Sally.
The man’s eyes met hers and she grinned. He checked her out—he knew which one she was—lingering on her tits, and drained his beer.
“You’re not a queer are ya?” he asked with an Irish accent.
“Not at all. She rather fancies you and . . . well, you interested?”
Green shirt guy gauged James through narrowed eyes and shrugged. “Is the Pope Catholic?” He picked up his coat. “I’m Danny, let’s go.”
Outside the club, the New Year’s heat bore down. James’s shirt clung. Pitt Street—only a few blocks from the bustle of Circular Quay—was deserted. Scrunched up Macdonald’s wrappers, cigarette butts and take away cartons littered the pavement. James lit a smoke. Two drags later a taxi appeared and he stuck out his thumb. Sally and Danny got in the back while he took the front seat, ready to give directions; unlike London cabbies, Sydney drivers often needed to be guided to their destination. Middle Eastern music blared from the cassette player, drowning out radio room announcements.
“Curl Curl, yeah,” he said leaning towards the driver. In the mirror Sally moved closer to Danny.
“I’m Sal, delighted to meet you,” she slurred.
“You’re a fine-looking girl. Where’ve you been all my life?”
The driver headed south and west crossing George Street—where the Saturday night action was—before turning north and climbing the ramp onto the Harbour Bridge. James looked over his shoulder. Sally had edged close to Danny. Lightning played over the city. A flash lit the cab freezing her and Danny in an embrace. Dark clouds hung low in the sky, but it didn’t rain.
The taxi crawled through North Sydney and onto Military Road, winding through the Lower North Shore, picking up speed as they hit Spit Road, site of the city’s most profitable speed cameras. They turned off Pittwater and the driver asked directions in broken English. The meter ticked over. Tonight was turning out more expensive than expected. At least Aussie drivers didn’t expect a tip. Whatever was going to happen was going to happen soon.
James fluffed the keys twice before opening the front door. Sally ushered Danny to the sofa and snuggled beside him, his hand in hers. James sank into a one-seater across from them. They’d had the suite—calf-skin leather—a few months and he still hadn’t got round to applying the conditioner, never enough time. The coffee table was a mess, strewn with the Saturday supplements and dirty plates from dinner taken in front of the television. Sally got up, dimmed the lights and put a Sade CD in the hi-fi. The steel and glass of the Bang & Olufsen multi-disc player’s carriage gleamed. Everybody knew what was going to happen. Nobody knew how to begin.
“A grand place you have. And a beautiful lady.” Danny inched towards Sally—she was practically on his lap. “Are ya not the lucky fecker?”
“I’ll get drinks.” James stood up, straightened a picture—a print of The Lady of Shallot—and started for the laundry and the beer fridge.
“You’ve enchanting eyes,” Danny said, moving closer. “Is there any Irish in ya?”
“I don’t think so.”
James half expected the next line to be: “Do you want any?” Instead he heard, “Sure and you’re lovely enough. The right colouring too.”
He lingered outside the door, looking back. Danny touched Sally’s hair, fingers brushing her cheeks. Her throat flushed.
“I love all things Irish.” She batted her eyelashes. God, she could be obvious when she flirted, especially when drunk.
“You’ve Irish blood, girl, how could ya be so beautiful and not?”
Her hand moved towards his leg.
James entered the laundry, laughter echoing behind him. He opened the fridge and a crayon drawing of the family fell to the floor. A magnet bounced on the linoleum with a dull thud. He bent to pick up the picture, his knee creaking. He smoothed out creases in the paper before putting it back. Mummy and daddy, two small children between them, restored to their proper place.
He had everything he wanted—job, house, car, wife and kids—and yet Sally had been slipping away. His week had been hard. Truth be told, it had been a killer month, working long hours and travelling. A few weeks ago he’d gone to Melbourne at short notice, Sally had planned dinner for his birthday and he missed it. Tomorrow was their seventh anniversary. He’d have preferred not to go out, but he couldn’t let her down again.
The day had started normally enough, they’d slept in—Sal’s parents had taken the children—then lay in bed reading the paper. After finishing the last of the supplements, he’d asked Sally, “Fancy going into town, darling? Kids won’t be back till tomorrow.”
“Sounds good,” she replied. “I’ll get ready.”
He rolled off the bed and headed to the kitchen. She’d be a while. Time for a French breakfast: coffee and a cigarette. He placed a cup on the tray of his Isomac Mondiale semi-automatic espresso machine and ground the beans—a teaspoon and a half of Arabica—knocked the handle out and tamped fresh coffee whilst the machine warmed. A flick of a switch and rich brown liquid began to flow. As the stream turned to blonde he turned off the pump.
He took the cup, rimmed with thick crema, onto the deck and lit a smoke and looked out through stands of silver and grey gum-trees to the ocean and waves washing over the beach. Red and yellow pennants marked the safe swimming zone. Venture outside the flags and the rip-tide could sweep you away in an instant. Bitter coffee coated his tongue.
Sally joined him, breathtaking in a breezy skirt—Laura Ashley probably—and a sleeveless orange silk top. She kissed him. O de Lancome, a fresh fragrance she said made her feel sexy, clung to her.
They took a bus into the city, changing at Wynyard, and browsed Glebe’s jumble of shops. Narrow pavements thronged with students, middle-class middle-aged hippies and perplexed senior citizens. In the schoolyard, under the shade of massive fig trees, Aboriginals, old before their time, drank from bottles half-concealed in paper bags.
Sally and James picked through antique stores, bemused by some of the things for sale. Who needed a cannon and where would you put it?
“These are cute,” Sally said, picking up a cocktail shaker and martini glasses, “reasonable too.”
So he bought them, not that either of them drank martini.
Outside, ozone tickled his nostrils. A storm threatened. Looked like a steamy summer. They browsed until the shops began to close—sheltering from a brief shower in a café—then found an Indian restaurant for dinner. Chilled wine washed down the spicy meal. Sally drank more than usual and they ordered a second bottle. The fiery vindaloo challenged, but did not defeat, James’s appetite. Curries reminded him of growing up in England.
“Not bad.” He dabbed his brow with a warm flannel. “The bahji weren’t as good as at home, though.”
“They never are.”
She must have heard him reminisce about onion bahji—delectable balls of onion coated in chickpea flour and spices, and fried—a million times. Though he was set in his ways, she never complained. He didn’t deserve her. For dessert they shared a blueberry cheesecake, alternating forkfuls.
“This is perfect,” he said, “the two of us, an indulgent day.”
“Yeah.” She licked debris from her top lip. “I do like indulgent.”
The way she rolled a word could make him hard.
“So what now, darling? Let me indulge you some more.”
“Why thank you, kind sir. I think I fancy a drink.” The tip of her tongue poked between her lips. “And maybe something wicked.”
“Such as?”
“I don’t know. I feel daring. Want to take me to a strip club?”
“A nudie bar?” She had a playful, naughty side when tipsy and appreciated the female form as much as he did, though she was fussier.
“Why not? I haven’t been to one in ages. Not some dive in the Cross, nothing seedy. Somewhere classy.”
The laughter stopped. James massaged his shoulder. He glanced at his watch; today was their anniversary. Lightning flickered at the window. He counted under his breath, a dull roar of thunder, too far away to be of concern, filled the silence. Time to get back. He hesitated at the door, took a swig of beer and re-entered the room. Sally and Danny sat close, eyes locked.
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