Читать книгу Talk to Me Tenderly, Tell Me Lies - John Davis Gordon - Страница 17

The switch worked like a charm. Helen was delighted; now she could go to bed without running through the dark house pursued by spooks.

‘Now you can start the washing-machine,’ Ben said. She hit the button with a flourish. The machine burst into shuddering life. ‘Eureka!’ she cried. Dundee began to make another puddle. ‘You and I are going to have a little talk tomorrow, Dundee!’

Ben smiled. ‘Well, I’ll ride back to the cottage and put on my swimming trunks. Meet you at the reservoir?’

‘Haveanotherdrinkfirst! Did you get all that? I’m having a lovely day! First a washing-machine again, then Dundee, then a thousand bucks’ worth of diamond, now no more goddam spooks hard on my heels!’ She leant boozily towards him. ‘Do you think I’m childish, believing in spooks?’

It would have been so natural to lean forward too, and put his mouth on hers. ‘No.’ Ben grinned.

‘I don’t believe in spooks. I just suspect 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 up. But at least she hadn’t decided against having a swim with him. She had only fallen by the wayside …

He took a deep breath, to smother the image of her defenceless nakedness, and tried to consider what to do.

Well, she should be woken up, surely, and either go to bed and sleep it off or rejoin the party – though there was little hope of that.

He sighed, then walked out into the passage. He filled his lungs and bellowed:

‘HELEN! WAKE UP!’

He listened, his heart thumping. His voice seemed to echo over the Outback. But there was no response.

‘HELEN! WAKE UP! FIRE! FLOOD! EARTHQUAKE!’

Nothing.

‘RAPE! PILLAGE! PESTILENCE!’

Nothing.

‘SNAKES!’

Still nothing.

‘SPOOKS!’ he bellowed.

He slumped his shoulders, and leant against the wall. Forget it. He grimly retraced his steps to the kitchen.

The hell of it was, it was all such an anticlimax, such a waste. Of a nice day, a promising day. An opportunity … And he really did enjoy talking to her – she was so appreciative. And so lonely …

Like me.

He stood in the empty kitchen, feeling sorry for himself. He sighed with frustration, poured a glass of wine and sat down at the table.

Dundee appeared, sniffing at his toes. ‘Hullo, Dundee, where’s Mommy?’ Well, he might as well go to bed himself – but perhaps he should leave a note for her to wake him if and when she roused herself.

Then a thought occurred to him: She might topple off the toilet, and bash her head …

He sat there, considering the possibility and what could be done about it.

Stop looking for excuses to handle her womanflesh, pal!

But it was true – she could fall off and injure herself. And that would be terrible.

Bullshit. She’d bounce.

Yeah, but if she doesn’t? It could be very serious. How do you call the Flying Doctor?

Well, all right, he said to himself reasonably, so you should put her to bed, shouldn’t you?

Ben Sunninghill sat, considering this, trying not to be excited at the prospect. Trying to feel chivalrous. And he was right, dammit – she could topple off that john and crack her head. So there was only one sensible thing to do …

He got up, and walked back to the bathroom. He stood looking at her.

No, she was not truly beautiful, but to Ben Sunninghill she was. Maybe it was because he had had a lot to drink – but no, he wasn’t that drunk. To Ben she seemed the loveliest woman in the world, and possibly the nicest. She was so sweet and defenceless sitting there.

He took a deep breath and tried to thrust carnal thoughts from his mind. He picked up her limp wrist and shook it.

‘Helen? Come on, pal. Bedtime.’

Helen gave a groan, then slowly toppled forward. Her head slid across the wall in an arc. Ben dropped to his haunches in front of her, his arms out. She slumped to a stop against his narrow shoulder.

He held her, his hands on her bare back. And, oh, the feel of her soft smooth flesh, her breasts brushing his bare chest. He closed his eyes, overcome by the soft female feel of her, the woman smell of her. Her hair against his cheek, her breathing against his neck. The defencelessness of her. And, for an instant, it almost felt like love.

He took a deep, shaky breath, opened his eyes, and considered the problem of moving her.

She was too heavy for him to pick up in a fireman’s lift. So? Drag her? He looked down at the bathmat. If he could get her on to that, he could drag her.

He reached out and pulled it nearer. Then he swivelled on his haunches and eased her weight forward, trying to turn her at the same time. She groaned, and slid slowly off the toilet, on to her knees. He knelt beside her, holding her tight, terrified of dropping her; then he shuffled backwards, grunting, and tried to control her dead-weight descent on to the mat.

She landed on her side with an alarming thump, but showed no sign of waking. Ben got to his feet, crouched and heaved her over on to her back.

She lay there, deep in drunken sleep, her legs half apart, her swimsuit stretched between her knees, her arms out as if in surrender.

He looked yearningly at her nakedness. Then he gently moved her arms to her sides. He put her legs together Oh, the lovely feel of them. He looked down at her again, at her pretty face in drunken repose, her full lips a little parted, her breasts lolling; then, trying to ignore her nakedness, he gripped the corners of the mat and began to drag her.

He manoeuvred backwards across the bathroom. Helen did not murmur. He had difficulty steering her through the doorway – her hip caught. He dragged her on down the side of the double-bed, shoving the other mats aside with his feet. He dragged her past the foot of the bed, up along the other side. He stopped and looked down at her. ‘Out to the wide, wide world …’ he whispered tenderly. He turned to the bed and pulled back the covers.

Then he hesitated – no way could he hoist her up there without giving himself a hernia. How? Legs first? Head first? All together and break his back? And he certainly didn’t want her to wake up and find herself naked in his arms en route to bed. In fact, having done his Good Samaritan number he should now make himself scarce; just put a pillow under her pretty head, throw a blanket over her and get out. He took one more look at her, and was reaching for a pillow when another thought occurred to him: he’d better get that swimsuit into a more decent position, because when she woke up and found herself neatly at her bedside she might think he’d pulled it down …

He got down on one knee, gripped the swimsuit in trembling fingers. He gently manoeuvred it up her soft thighs.

Then came the obstacle of her hips and buttocks – and there, there, was her pubic triangle.

Ben Sunninghill crouched over Helen McKenzie, his smouldering face eighteen inches above her, and with all his heart and loins he wanted to bend lower and lower, and then fiercely kiss her soft curly sweetness. For an agonized moment he hovered poised above her – then he screwed his hungry eyes closed, and hastily wrestled the swimsuit upwards. And Helen said:

‘… we’ll merry-merry be …’

Ben froze, his heart pounding. She was half-smiling; he crouched there, waiting to make sure she was asleep, then feverishly dragged the swimsuit up over her belly. Was that as far as he dared go? Yes. He got up, grabbed the sheet and blanket off the bed and hastily spread them over her. He grabbed a pillow, got a hand under her silky head, gently lifted it. He shoved the pillow underneath.

He crouched over her, his breath trembly, looking down at her.

Oh, it was such a woman’s face … it wasn’t beautiful in the classic sense, but beautiful it was, in the woman sense. And now that her nakedness was past, he felt only a throbbing tenderness. Of course he had lusted after that body under the blanket, but right now, looking down on that lovely, rather worn, half-smiling face, it was tenderness that he felt. And with all his heart he yearned to press his lips to hers.

But he did not. He forced himself to his feet. Make yourself scarce, Sunninghill … He looked down at her and whispered:

‘… we’ll merry-merry be, tomorrow we’ll be sober …’

He left, closing the bedroom door behind him.