Talk to Me Tenderly, Tell Me Lies. John Davis Gordon

there are some!’

      ‘I believe in ghosts.’

      ‘Do you? A big brave man like you? Maybe I’m not such a bimbo!’

      Ben smiled. ‘I also don’t like the dark in big empty houses. That’s natural. Man has been afraid of the dark ever since the cave. And if you believe in God, and a spiritual life after death, what’s so improbable about there being a few maladjusted spirits knocking around?’

      ‘Right!’ Helen cried. She stuck out her hand. ‘Shake on that! You’re not Christian if you don’t believe in spooks!’

      It was another moment when he could have enfolded her. ‘Or Jewish.’

      ‘Or Jewish,’ she assented reasonably. ‘So are we two reasonable people going to have another drink?’

      ‘Sure – but up at the reservoir while we’re having our swim. To freshen up.’

      ‘Brilliant! To sober up! I’m almost as bad as Billy.’ She leaned breathily towards him again. ‘Ben, will you do one more small thing for me tomorrow?’

      Oh, he would do all kinds of things for her tomorrow. Including crawl on his hands and knees over broken glass. ‘If I can.’

      ‘You can! Oh, you can. Because you’re a man.’ She held up a finger. ‘Tomorrow, when Billy’s sobered up – and me, hopefully – tomorrow will you accompany me to his hut to kick his Aboriginal arse? Figuratively, I mean. But help me to give him a bollocking. I mean, I’ll do the bollocking, but I’d appreciate your moral support. So he doesn’t think I’m a helpless female on my own with whom he can be cavalier over his putative duties.’

      He grinned. ‘You’re not a helpless female.’

      ‘Oh, I know that! Boy, do I know that! Dumb, maybe, stultified maybe, believe in ghosts definitely, but helpless I am not!’ She looked at him cheerfully. ‘But will you come with me tomorrow to Billy’s?’

      ‘Certainly.’

      ‘Thank you. So let’s have a drink to that! To our united front against Billy the Blackamoor. He of the sooty breast. That’s Shakespeare.’

      ‘Othello.’ Ben grinned. ‘But let’s have that swim first.’ He could hardly wait. ‘Go’n put on a swimsuit, I’ll meet you at the reservoir in five minutes.’

      ‘You’re quite right! Sober up – that’s me every time!’ She frowned happily, then pronounced: ‘Ben, if I appear a bit pissed, it’s not an optical illusion, it’s just because I’m having such a good time! All that heady stuff you gave me about that crash-hot number-one sheer-genius bestseller I’m going to start writing tomorrow – it’s been very stimulating! Gone to my head like wine. Yes, I shall meet you at the reservoir! In my itsy-bitsy teeny-weeny yellow polka-dot bikini! Pronto!’

      Ben rode back to the cottage, not knowing what to think. He had lived long enough to know that he certainly couldn’t be confident about his chances with the gorgeous Helen McKenzie, even though drunk and all by herself in the middle of the Outback, but he was tipsy enough and certainly horny enough to be optimistic as hell all over again. He unpacked, pulled on his swimming trunks, then got out another bottle of Shiraz, a corkscrew, two glasses from the kitchen, and set off jauntily, barefoot and tingling with anticipation.

      He arrived at the big circular reservoir beside the windmill behind the eucalyptus grove. Helen was not there yet. He climbed the steps to the rim. The interior had been painted blue. There was hardly any sediment on the bottom. It was a perfectly good spot for seduction! He opened the wine and sat down on the concrete steps to wait for her, looking impatiently towards the house. It was just visible through the trees.

      He wondered what she looked like in her itsy-bitsy bikini, and he wanted her so much he didn’t care what she looked like. She had lovely big tits, that much he had seen – a real Earthmother type. Her stomach was probably a bit fat, and doubtless stretch-marked, but so what? Her thighs? Oh, he longed to see her thighs again …

      The flies spoilt his anticipation. He stood up, waving them aside, looked back towards the house, then turned and plunged into the pool, to get away from them.

      The surface was lukewarm, but deeper the water was cool, a delightful, sensuous balm. He swam underwater to the opposite side, then back again. He did the diameter four times underwater, to contain his impatience, then burst the surface. He gripped the rim, tossed back his hair, and looked over the top.

      Helen was still not in sight. He looked at his watch, sighed and subsided back into the water, wallowing impatiently.

      It was over twenty minutes since he’d left her. He muttered aloud: ‘Remember the story of your life, Sunninghill, my boy, my life …’

      He wallowed some more, trying not to feel unduly expectant. And he really did feel sorry for her, all alone in the Outback. It was a hell of a life for a woman …

      It would do her the world of good to be laid …?

      He snorted at himself: there you go again, Sunninghill! He submerged his head in an attempt to dampen his expectations.

      But, by God, if ever you’ve had a chance it’s this one …

      He plunged his head underwater again and swam hard to the steps. He reached for his wine glass and looked again towards the house. Not yet … He subsided back into the water, sipping.

      After another five agonized minutes he just knew she wasn’t coming – she had thought better of it. So much for thinking your luck had changed, you fool. You asshole …

      He banged his glass on the rim, heaved himself up. He descended the concrete steps, grabbed his towel, picked up the glasses, corkscrew and wine bottle, and set off down the path to the main house.

      The kitchen was empty, and the whole place had an abandoned air.

      ‘Helen?’ he called.

      No response was the stern reply. He put the wine on the table, walked to the open door and peered down the passage. He listened. Not a sound. Then Dundee came waddling through from her bedroom.

      ‘Helen? You all right?’

      No reply. He hesitated, then walked down the passage and knocked on the half-open door. ‘Anybody home?’

      Silence. He cautiously stuck his head inside.

      Helen’s jeans and shirt were slung on the floor, and one shoe lay on the bed. An empty brandy glass stood on the dressing-table.

      ‘Helen?’

      He took a step inside, then went towards the bathroom. He peered through the open door. He saw Helen’s bare foot.

      ‘You all right, Helen?’

      Silence. He hesitated, then took another step and peeped inside.

      She was sitting on the toilet. She was slumped sideways, against the wall, eyes closed, her legs stretched out. She was naked but for a bunch of swimsuit around her knees. She was fast, fast asleep.

      Ben stared at her. In a confusion of surprise, lust and disappointment. Then, with difficulty, he pulled himself together, and he was about to leave hastily, as was the correct thing to do – then he stopped, heart knocking, and allowed himself another look.

      Oh … Yes, there were stretchmarks on her tummy, and her posture did not show her breasts to best advantage – they lolled down her chest. And her thighs were flattened by the lavatory seat. But, oh, she was all woman … And, oh, he felt a yearning in his hands to touch her, to feel her womanness, to seize her, to devour her.

      Ben Sunninghill tore his eyes off her, and turned back. He stood just outside the bathroom, a little shakily. He closed his eyes, trying to think.

      Well, this was the end of this little party. And, he was bitterly disappointed. Bitterly – and he was annoyed with himself for getting his stupid hopes