Sloane Ranger

12

Sloane Ranger

    Cal hadn’t got Pete’s message to ring him. He had left the Cessna at Adelaide and, after a delay of several hours, got a commercial flight to Sydney. It was a grey, drizzly, muggy sort of day in Sydney: very unpleasant, and a quite a lot colder than the day Cal had left behind him. As usual it took ages to get into town from the airport: it was well into the afternoon, but Sloane would still have been at work, he didn’t want to talk about this sort of thing at her work. So he found a pub that had a dining-room. Lunch was off, fair enough. He had a couple of beers. Then he realised he really should have something to eat, so he wandered off in quest of a coffee bar. But whether he wasn’t in the right district for trendy eating places or what, he didn’t know: but all he could find was a sort of corner deli that sold pies, that sort of thing. There weren’t any pies left, though. He bought a thing with fake cream oozing out of it and ate it out of its paper bag. Then he decided he’d get round to Sloane’s place and wait for her there. Then it took him ages to find a taxi. Even so, he ended up at Sloane’s with a fair time to wait before she could reasonably be expected home. He fidgeted around for a while but finally sat down resignedly on her front step.

    When she did turn up it was in a ruddy sports car with some type in dark glasses. On a day like this? He hadda be kidding! This type got out and came round the front of the car looking suspicious but Sloane said in a weak voice: “It’s all right. I know him. Thanks, Barney.” Barney, whoever the Hell he was when he was at home, told her she knew where he lived if she needed him, and pushed off, still looking suspicious.

    “Just don’t say anything,” she said grimly before Cal could open his mouth.

    He waited meekly while she unlocked her door.

    “The place looks good,” he said feebly, following her into the lounge-room.

    Sloane ignored this. She set her briefcase down carefully, and took a deep breath. “I may as well tell you: Kitten and Pete rang me and told me that he passed on some garbage to you that he got off Melodie and her friends.”

    Sloane hadn’t really been able to think out what to say to Cal. She’d been furious both with him and with Kitten. In fact, at first she’d been angrier with Kitten: stupid little thing, her and her gossipy friends, letting it out in front of Pete what they were up to! And as for ringing her up when Pete was actually there listening: that was typical of Kitten! But by the end of the afternoon she was mostly furious with Cal: that he could actually believe she was chasing him because she wanted to marry a rich squatter was just so— Added to which she manifestly hadn’t chased him at all, it had all been his idea, and if he couldn’t see that, he was not only an idiot, he was the thick macho clod to end all thick macho clods! And she’d told him when he rang just a few days ago that she’d decided not to see Kendall again. –Yes, very probably that had confirmed Mr High and Mighty Squatter’s opinion that she was chasing him for the sake of his precious Outback station and his mother’s cabbage roses and Sanderson linens!

    “That’s right: he did,” said Cal.

    Her lips tightened. “Go on, what was it?”

    “Um—no, well, if they rang you—” he fumbled.

    “I know what they told me, I want to know what they told you.”

    “Um—it was only Pete. Uh—according to him,” he said, clearing his throat, “I mean, according to what Melodie and those dim mates of hers were saying, you and all of them have cooked up some dumb scheme to get back on the KRP lot and the Burgoynes because your grandfather lost Lallapinda after that mining thing that him and Robert Burgoyne were in. It seems to entail marrying any of them that you can get your hooks in, from what I can make out: personally I wouldn’t call that getting your own back, but I’m not a female. I wouldn’t’ve believed a word of it, except that Pete’s not in the habit of telling lies,”—he gave her a hard look—“and it’s true that Ingrid’s managed to get Reardon. Your part in it seems to have been to lead Kendall on but not to actually marry him. If I’ve got it right.”

    Sloane waited angrily but he didn’t go on. “You’ve got it right that I don’t want to marry Kendall Burgoyne. In fact if the two of you were the last men on earth I’d be hard pressed to say which of you I wanted to marry the least!”

    “So why have you got yourself mixed up with him?”

    “I thought it might be nice to be the spoilt mistress of a rich married man, Cal,” said Sloane sweetly. “You probably can’t understand that, but you’re not a female.”

    “Look,” he said, gnawing on his lip, “this isn’t like you, Sloane. I mean, you’ve got a right to be angry, but... Um, well, why would they have said it all if it’s not true?”

    Sloane took a deep breath. She had realised, thanks to Kitten, that Pete now actually seemed to believe some version in which Melodie had made the whole thing up in order to encourage Nikki to go after Neil Reardon. She had fully intended to impart this version coldly to Cal Wainwright and then shut the door in his face. Instead she said angrily: “I’ve got no idea, I’m not privy to what goes on in their bird-brains, and I don’t CARE! What I do has got nothing to with them and nothing to do with you, so GET OUT!”

    “All right, forget about this crap about the Reardons and them: I just want you to tell me that you haven’t deliberately been, um, playing me and Kendall off against each other,” he said miserably.

    “NO!” shouted Sloane. “Did I ask you to come to Sydney and infest my flat and take over my decorating? NO!”

    “That’s true enough,” he said, swallowing.

    “Go away,” she said through her teeth.

    “No, um, listen, I just want to get this straight,” he said miserably.

    “Cal, you’ve come to Sydney in accuse me of chasing you because I want to become a rich squatter’s wife: don’t deny it, Kitten and Pete warned me. There is nothing to get straight, I’m not interested in being the mistress of Muwullupirri, so GO AWAY!”

    “All right,” he cried angrily: “tell me you never rang those dumb dollies at Lallapinda after I’d spoken to you last Monday!”

    Sloane looked at him blankly. “I might have: so what?”

    “Because that’s the very bloody phrase that Pete heard the little bitches using!” he shouted. “Don’t ruddy well try to deny it, the lot of you have been laughing at me behind my back!”

    “What phrase?” said Sloane feebly.

    “‘The mistress of Muwullupirri’, that’s what!”

    Sloane just stared at him.

    “Go on, tell me ya never said it!” he shouted.

    “Um... I might have. Only as a joke,” she said feebly.

    “EXACTLY!” shouted Cal, turning purple. “It’s all just a ruddy joke to you, isn’t it? Poor bloody Kendall and his rotten marriage, and me— I suppose you thought it was very funny, having me come dangling after you after I’d been a scalp on your bloody sister’s belt!”

    “No, I didn’t.”

    “BULLSHIT, Sloane!” shouted Cal. “You’ve used me as an excuse to dump Kendall after leading him on since New Year’s: don’t bloody deny it! I dunno why you really got mixed up with him and I don’t care! But you can put this in your bloody pipe and smoke it: while you were up to your pathetic tricks and sniggering at the both of us behind our backs, you could have been the mistress of Muwullupirri for real! And don’t think you’ll ever set foot on the property again as long as I live!”

    Sloane’s nostrils flared disdainfully. “I don’t want to set foot on your precious Muwullupirri, I’ve never wanted to set foot on it, it’s a dump and you’re a country clod. And I don’t give a damn what you think of me,” she said icily, looking down her nose. “And get out of my flat.”

    “I’m going, believe you me!” Cal strode over to the door. He paused. Then he turned and said: “Look me in the eye and tell me there never was a plot to lead Kendall on and drop him in the shit.”

    Sloane looked him in the eye. To her fury she felt herself go very red. “All RIGHT, there WAS!” she screamed. “And get out! Get OUT, get OUT, GET OUT!”

    Cal got, slamming the front door behind him.

    “And choke on your precious Muwullupirri!” shouted Sloane to the ambient air. She thereupon burst into loud tears, threw herself on her gold sofa, and sobbed her heart out.

    “Red roses?” drawled Gail, raising her eyebrows. “Bit of a cliché, isn’t it?”

    Sloane replied calmly: “He’s got a conventional mind. And I don’t mind two dozen long-stemmed red roses at over thirty dollars the dozen.”

    “You counted them, did you?” said Gail nastily.

    “Yeah.”

    Gail had to swallow. She fidgeted a bit, picked up the postcard from Melodie—the Little Mermaid, possibly proving the girls had reached Copenhagen—fidgeted a bit more, and said feebly: “Look, Sloane, are you serious about pulling out of RightSmart?”

    “I don’t want to pull out entirely, at least not yet. Just hand over some of my responsibilities. And either Irma or Gillian will do a good job for you.”

    Gail scratched her head. “Yes. I’d rather bring Mandy in, to tell you the truth.”

    “I thought she didn’t have any capital?”

    “No, she hasn’t.”

    Sloane shrugged. “There you are, then.”

    “If you’re that interested,” said Gail on an annoyed note, “it’s probably just as well you want to pull out!”

    “Mm,” replied Sloane vaguely, looking at the file on her desk.

    “All right, set up another meet with Irma and Gillian,” she said grimly.

    “Okay,” Sloane agreed mildly.

    Gail marched out, breathing heavily.

    Sloane looked thoughtfully at her office wall. “Yes, well, which of us is going to tell Irma and Gillian about these rumours of a takeover, Gail?” she said to the wall. “Or are we gonna let them come into the firm all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and then quietly sell it out from under them?” She shrugged, and rang Mandy to ask her to schedule joint meetings for both her and Gail with Irma and Gillian.

    Gail wandered in again round about five o’clock, frowning.

    Sloane was doing her face. “What?” she said in a vague voice.

    “Wouldn’t you be better doing that in the Ladies’? I’m not sure, not being a lady, but isn’t that what that huge mirror in there’s for?”

    “The mirror may be larger but it’s like the frozen Siberian wastes in there. Did you want something?”

    Gail fidgeted. “Um—look, are you serious about this Kendall type?”

    Sloane shrugged. “I’m serious about having him to dinner tonight, yes.”

    “Where’s his wife?” said Gail grimly.

    “No idea. Drinking gin in that hideous dump of theirs in Double Bay, probably.”

    “Well—uh—is he still living with her?”

    “As far as I know, yes. Why?”

    Gail went very red. “You’re your own worst enemy!”

    “Probably. Is that relevant?”

    “Yes, it bloody well is! Look, the mistress ends up the loser in ninety-nine percent of these scenarios, Sloane!”

    Sloane looked at her with some amusement. “You’d know.”

    “I know you’re not Blanche Whatsit and he’s not the ruddy Silver Bodgie!” she retorted with feeling.

    At this unexpected crack Sloane went into a fit of the sniggers, gasping: “He’s got the hair for it!”

    “Really?” said Gail weakly. “Like Bob Hawke’s?”

    “Yeah!” she gasped, wiping her eyes. “Or like Richard Gere’s,” she admitted, blowing her nose. “These days: more silvery than it was in Pretty Woman.”

    “Oh,” said Gail blankly.

    “He was a male heart-throb of the Nineties,” explained Sloane kindly.

    “Not one of those grotesque Muscle Beach—”

    “No! Um—no, even Kitten admits that Richard Gere has got genuine hetero S.A., out of her period though he is.”

    “And has Kendall Thingo?” asked Gail drily.

    “Well—enough.”

    “I see. Talking of which, how is Kitten?”

    Sloane made a face. “Apparently blooming. She reckons pregnancy agrees with her. She seems to be throwing herself heart and soul into the wee-wifey thing with poor old Pete: you know, little flowery pinnies, crocheting weeny white garments for the kid, cooking him giant meals of cholesterol and protein—” She sighed.

    “Well, it won’t last, if that’s any comfort to you,” said Gail drily.

    “I dunno that it is,” she said dully.

    “Has she ever let on to Whatsisface Kent that it’s his?”

    Sloane swallowed. “No. How did you—?”

    “I can count.” Gail went out but popped her head back to say: “Don’t forget to take the roses home with you. If tonight’s the night he’ll expect to see ’em on the dining table.”

    Sloane treated this with the ignore it deserved. But she did wrap the roses up carefully and take them home.

    She had told Kendall “about half-past seven” and he arrived on the dot. Just as well she’d done most of the food preparation in advance. He thought Sloane looked terrific and she’d done the flat up wonderfully. Sloane was in a long-sleeved, narrow woollen dress that was a dark burgundy shade. Her lipstick matched. She’d been a bit doubtful about the colour on her, and was glad it seemed to work. The dress was very plain but had a low, scooped neckline. Calf-length, but a slit on the left-hand side of the skirt to just above the knee, allowing the wearer to cross her legs. And show off the said legs. Kendall didn’t seem to mind either of these points. He accepted a glass of sherry and congratulated her eagerly on it. The bottle was one that Kitten had forced on her some time back: Sloane refrained from saying that Hugo Kent’s money had undoubtedly paid for it.

    Kendall was observedly nervous but he was also observedly very lit-up. Well, that was natural enough, if he thought he’d cracked it. Especially after being told not so long since that she thought they’d better drop it. He hadn’t asked her why she’d changed her mind—perhaps he thought it was his charm alone that had done it? Before dinner he told her eagerly all about the deal that Fine Holdings was doing with KRP. And about how pleased old Maurice Fine was with him. Sloane refrained from asking him if he’d given any more dinner parties for old Mr Fine. And from pointing out that he was giving her confidential commercial information.

    She had thought she’d be very nervous but instead she found herself feeling very calm and very much in charge. When they went through to the dining-room Kendall congratulated her on the appearance of her table, with his red roses in a crystal vase as the centrepiece. She didn’t point out that the “crystal” vase was a glass one she’d had to rush out and buy at lunchtime from Woolie’s. And she didn’t mention that the table and chairs had come from Fine Brothers very recently on her credit card and as yet she hadn’t paid off a red cent, or that Ingrid had looked down her nose at them and said that that reproduction stuff was really Out, and did Sloane realise how fake it looked? Sloane did, but it was the sort of traditional look she wanted for that room, and once she’d re-covered the seats in a very dark emerald velveteen (not a furnishing fabric. a cheap dress material she’d picked up as a remnant), they looked a lot better. A sideboard would have been nice, but it would have to wait. In fact, with the amount owing on her Visa it would probably have to wait about ten years.

    Kendall praised the meal extravagantly. Sloane knew it wasn’t all that great: avocado starters and then her coq au vin. According to Kitten avocado with prawns was bourgeois, but too bad, it was easy. The dressing was a recipe that Kitten reckoned any idiot could do, and it was much better for you than that bought muck. As it was composed largely of yoghurt and lemon juice Sloane had conceded that even an idiot like her could do it. The chicken was falling off its bones because of the long, slow cooking in Sloane’s slow cooker that Mum had given her years ago when she first went flatting. Sloane had never bothered to ask Kitten whether coq au vin should do that. The slow cooker was more or less fail-safe: you put it on, dumped the ingredients in it, and forgot about it. Kendall had brought a white wine, because she’d said it’d be chicken: it was nice, and so what if Kitten had once screamed in horror at the idea of white wine with coq au vin. Sloane wasn’t much good at puddings, apart from apple pie and apple crumble. She didn’t think apple crumble would be upmarket enough to give Kendall Burgoyne the idea she was a very up-market girl, a fit mate for a not-so-young yuppy executive—although there was the point that it would remind him of his childhood, so perhaps she’d do it another time, when they were dining less formally. She’d done her basic apple pie, adding some blueberries to make it look really up-market. She hadn’t been able to find any fresh ones, so she’d used tinned Canadian ones. As a finishing touch she’d dusted the pie with icing sugar: Kitten had been quite right, it made a pie look a million times fancier. Kendall pronounced it delicious and ate two helpings, both with great spoonfuls of whipped cream. Well, it was his cholesterol count, not hers.

    They had coffee back in the sitting-room. Kendall bustled about helping her; possibly this was actually a move designed to let him steer her to the sofa and then sit beside her. Sloane knew, thanks to Kitten, that her coffee was awful, but Kendall didn’t seem to notice. The exchequer hadn’t run to liqueurs and as Kitten hadn’t donated any, he didn’t get one. He didn’t seem to notice.

    “This is lovely,” he said as the Vivaldi highly recommended by Kitten for such occasions played softly in the background and Sloane relaxed on the sofa, her legs duly crossed, smiling at him over the rim of her coffee cup. –The demitasse set actually belonged to Kitten, and was on loan. She’d picked it up second-hand and there were only five cups and saucers left in it but neither of these points was a need-to-know of Kendall Burgoyne’s.

    “Mm,” Sloane agreed.

    Kendall then told her a lot, very bitterly, about Joyce’s general unsatisfactoriness and gin-drinking and more specifically about the very recent row they’d had over Joyce’s trading in her Mercedes sports car on a more recent model without consulting him and about Joyce’s having the Gardners and the Oliphants to dinner without consulting him, and about Joyce’s booking them in for a long weekend on the Gold Coast without consulting him and about Joyce’s refusing point-blank to have the Fosketts and the Goulds to dinner when he asked her to. Though she knew perfectly well that Ben Gould was one of the power-brokers at FH! And about Joyce’s getting very, very drunk when they were at the races with the said Goulds and Gerry Fine, the old man’s son.

    Sloane sat back and watched him over the rim of her coffee cup. From time to time she produced a sympathetic murmur. She did not, however, feel particularly sympathetic. What a wimp! Couldn’t he see, for a start, that she was playing him like a fish? And, for a second, that moaning on about Joyce rather than doing something about her only made him seem wetter than ever? Added to which, there was the point that he was talking to another woman: did it ever cross his mind that Sloane might feel some sympathy for Joyce?

    “Her latest is she’s going to Europe, with or without me,” he finished sourly.

    Good on her. However, as this seemed to expect some actual response, she murmured: “Really? Do you care, though, Kendall—fundamentally, I mean?”

    “Um—no,” he said, blinking. “Well, I care how it looks, I suppose.”

    “That doesn’t seem like any way to live, to me,” murmured Sloane.

    “No,” he said, chewing his lip, “it bloody well isn’t! Only—well, what’s the alternative?”

    Look, mate, if you don’t know, don’t expect me to tell you! On second thoughts, that was undoubtedly her cue: how could anybody as old as Kendall Burgoyne be that obvious and expect to get away with it? Naïve, and then some, wasn’t he? She shrugged very slightly. “Leave her?”

    “That’s easier said than done!” he said bitterly.

    “Why? You haven’t got any kids, I can’t see that there’s anything to stop you,” she said lightly.

    “Apart from the fact that Joyce’d grab half my assets?” replied Kendall sourly.

    That was definitely a point: so she would! Sloane quite liked the thought of the Burgoynes losing part of what they’d got out of Grandfather to awful Joyce. At the same time she decided sourly that “naïve” was definitely the word for Kendall Burgoyne: if he expected to have any sort of relationship with her, implying that she wasn’t worth the loss of half his bloody assets was hardly the way to go, was it? Didn’t he think that girls thought that way? Or was he too dumb himself to see that what he was implying here was some sort of a trade-off in which she, Sloane, lost out? She managed to look sympathetic, but not to utter.

    “And old Maurice likes his execs to be respectably married—well, you know. Established, something solid behind them, all that,” he said sourly.

    “Mm. I wouldn’t have thought that getting drunk at the races would strike him as terribly solid,” she said lightly.

    “Uh—no. Bloody Narelle Fine told me ever so kindly that maybe Joyce should ‘seek help’,” he said sourly. “Uh—sorry: that’s Gerry’s wife.”

    “And will she?”

    “No: she reckons she hasn’t got a drinking problem.”

    Sloane thought that perhaps she didn’t have, yet: she had a Kendall problem. Most of the drinking, from what he’d said, seemed to be in the evenings when she was stuck at home with Kendall with nothing to do, or at public occasions where she was expected to perform creditably as Kendall’s wife. Though it was clearly going to develop into a drinking problem if something wasn’t done about it.

    What she said to him at this point was tricky. She could say what she thought of the abysmal Joyce and come over as a real bitch. He might not mind at this moment: he was obviously fed up enough with Joyce not to care what anybody said about her; but later, it could influence his attitude towards her quite seriously: prevent him offering marriage, even. On the other hand, she didn’t want to give him the idea that she was on Joyce’s side against him: otherwise he’d certainly start to see her as another Joyce! Um... light sympathy mixed with light criticism?

    “I feel rather sorry for her. She—she seems a resourceless sort of person, from what you’ve said,” she said on a hesitant note, giving him a doe-eyed, submissive sort of look which was worthy of Kitten at her most sickening. And which she hadn’t been at all sure she could produce until she found herself doing it. “Has she got any interests—hobbies?”

    “No,” said Kendall with a sigh. “Well, spending money. She doesn’t even belong to any clubs. She used to play a bit of tennis, but she’s given that up.”

    “I see,” she said on a note of mild surprise, the sophisticated detachment well to the fore.

    Kendall gave an uneasy laugh and looked at her with an expression of... humility? Yes, it was: definitely! “A busy person like you can’t imagine it: don’t say it.”

    Sloane wouldn’t have dreamed of it, it would have been too obvious. She shook her head very slightly and smiled, just a little.

    “Not getting up till past ten helps,” he said sourly. “Don’t ask me how she fills her days, though. Aerobics in front of the TV when she does get up, I think. Then a bath. That takes a while. Then she generally has lunch with a like-minded crony. The trick is to find a place that’ll charge you the earth for a mineral water and a lettuce leaf.”

    Sloane bit her lip a little, and allowed herself to twinkle into his eyes. On the whole, this was turning out to be a lot easier than she’d thought!

    “Yeah,” he said with a rueful grimace. “What’s left of the afternoon usually goes on bridge.”

    Nice work if you could get it, in short. “I see,” she said neutrally.

    “Yeah—pathetic, isn’t it?” said Kendall heavily. “’Specially to a busy, organised person like you.”

    Sloane lowered her eyes modestly and murmured: “I suppose I am... I’ve had to be.”

    “Yes: I really admire the way you manage to run your business and make time to cook and so forth! Joyce can’t bloody manage a dinner even though she has a woman to do the housework and gets the caterers to buy in all the food and— Oh, well. I didn’t mean to go on about her: sorry.”

    “I’m not much of a cook, really,” murmured Sloane modestly. Thinking it was probably more than time to get him off the subject of Joyce. Not to mention about time to get round to the subject of bed: he’d been blahing on for ages, and if he didn’t get on with it she might lose her nerve. Added to which, the erection he’d sat down with hadn’t noticeably diminished, even while he was whingeing about his wife. It wasn’t easy not to stare at it, actually. She recrossed her legs and licked her lips slightly, smiling at him, only realising after she’d done it that it was a sequence of gestures that she’d seen Kitten use on hapless males a million times. Help!

    Kendall’s eyes had been riveted to her legs. He cleared his throat. “What? No: that was a delicious meal!” He swallowed hard, and put a hot hand over hers. “You must know how much I admire you, Sloane,” he said hoarsely.

    “It’s actually very difficult to know what to say to that, Kendall!” returned Sloane with a breathless laugh, looking into his eyes.

    Kendall’s colour rose: he said huskily: “Good. Don’t say anything.” And edged nearer to her on the sofa.

    Given that he was full of food and wine, that he’d been boring on about his wife that didn’t understand him for a good half hour whilst sitting rather close to her in a warm room, and that, presumably, he’d come tonight expressly to do it with her, why on earth didn’t he get on with it? What was she supposed to do to encourage him? What did Kitten do at such moments?—Providing she had them.—She could simply put her hand on his fly, but then, though she was quite sure that wouldn’t discourage him, it would, once again, give him the impression that she was the one doing the chasing. Drat him, anyway! Sloane smiled into his eyes, hoping that would do the trick.

    It seemed to help, because he then said huskily: “Is it all right if I kiss you?”

    What a wimp, thought Sloane limply. “Mm,” she said, holding up her face.

    Kendall thereupon kissed her.

    Sloane had only let him give her a couple of good-night kisses ever since the time she’d almost let him go too far. She already knew she liked kissing Kendall: that hadn’t been the problem. The point was, how serious was he and how far did she want it to go, not specifically in the matter of sex but in terms of a permanent relationship of some kind— Oh, forget it. Whichever way it went she was pretty sure she could turn it to her advantage. So long as she was on her guard and didn’t let herself fall for him.

    He must have been feeling very unsure of himself, because for quite a while he only kissed her, didn’t try to touch her or undress her or anything like that. Actually, it was quite exciting, just sitting on the sofa, barely in contact at all, just kissing...

    Kendall began to breathe very heavily indeed.

    Sloane was breathing rather heavily herself. She drew back. “Listen, Kendall—”

    “Mm?” he said muzzily. “What?”

    She had planned this speech but now that it came to producing it, felt all of a sudden very uncertain of how it was going to go over. Oh, well—too bad. She took a deep breath. “Before this goes anywhere, I just want to warn you, don’t let yourself get carried away.”

    “What?” said Kendall dazedly.

    “I mean, emotionally,” she said, opening her eyes wide in one of Kitten’s tricks.

    “Oh,” he said foolishly, gaping at her.

    Sloane put a hand very gently on his knee and he jumped a foot. “I’m a free agent, Kendall, you see; but you’re not. I don’t want you to get into anything you might not be able to handle.”

    “I— Whaddaya mean, a free agent?” he stumbled.

    Good, thought Sloane. She sat back, and gave him a tiny, mocking smile, the sophisticated detachment well to the fore. “Well—you know! I suppose I’m used to handling... casual relationships,” she ended with a tiny shrug.

    Kendall was now a sort of purple shade. “You mean you can have any bloke you want: yeah. I realise that,” he said bitterly.

    That was flattering. “No, I don’t mean that at all. Only that... it’s different for me. I am free,” she said calmly.

    His jaw trembled. “Yeah. But I—I don’t want a casual thing, Sloane: I thought you understood that?”

    “Well, no,” said Sloane with a horrible appearance of frankness and a horribly kind smile—Kendall blinked. “I’m not too sure that I want anything more. I suppose I’ve got used to living my life on that basis.”

    “Oh.”

    Sloane just waited.

    “But you do want to—to go ahead, do you?” he said, licking his lips uneasily.

    “I’d like to have a relationship: yes, Kendall,” she said calmly. “I like you, and I find you very attractive. But I don’t want you to get hurt.”

    “Me! Darling, you mustn’t worry about me,” he said, picking up her hand and sort of... cradling it? Cripes. “That’s so like you,” he said with a soppy smile. “I suppose I’m the one that’s taking advantage of you.” He gave her a miserable look. Miserable but still hopeful: yuck. Whether or not he knew it, this little-boy act was clearly supposed to appeal to her maternal instincts. Men were just so... naïve, again: there was no other word for it. Well, “pathetic” was another word, true.

    “Don’t be silly. I’m quite free.” Sloane smiled slightly, enough to look reasonably encouraging but not enough to look too eager. At the same time it was the sort of smile designed to show him quite clearly, if he hadn’t already grasped it, that she was the one in charge, here. “Are you sure it’s what you want?”

    “Yes, of course!” he said anxiously,

    Still smiling slightly, Sloane put her hand on his fly.

    “Oh, Sloane!” he gasped. Sloane realised he’d begun to tremble: help. “Cuh-couldn’t we go upstairs?” he said huskily.

    “I was just going to say that,” admitted Sloane airily.

    “You’re quite a girl!” he said with a nervous laugh, standing up. “Shall we, then?”

    “Mm,” said Sloane, getting up and taking his hand. At this point wouldn’t most guys have pulled you against them and pressed it into you and kissed you really hard? But Kendall didn’t. He just gave her a sort of humble, grateful smile, and let her... lead him, yes, lead him upstairs. Crikey, what had Joyce done to him? Given that the basic male urges were very obviously there, he was as much like a whipped puppy as Sloane ever expected to see in a human being in her lifetime.

    In the bedroom he did, though he was now shaking like a leaf, pull her against him and press it into her and kiss her hard.

    Sloane kissed him back eagerly. “Get undressed,” she murmured, standing back. She wasn’t going to relinquish the advantage now she had it. True, she wouldn’t go so far as volunteering to go on top, she didn’t want to be in charge to that extent—not the first time, anyway. But as for anything else, there was no way he was going to be allowed to take the initiative. Not that he looked capable of it, actually. He nodded convulsively and began to struggle out of his clothes. Sloane turned away slightly and took off her dress and tights, laying them neatly on a chair.

    “You didn’t have a petticoat on, then,” said Kendall huskily, staring, as she turned round.

    “No, I couldn’t find one that was the right style to go under that dress,” said Sloane. standing there in her bra and panties, smiling at him. She knew she looked good in her undies, and she was used to showing herself off in them: she’d done quite a lot of modelling of underwear: although much smaller breasts had become fashionable for dress modelling, not to say small, hard, boyishly rounded bums, apparently the underwear trade still wanted their models to look female. –Dad’s expressed opinion was that the fashion for minute tits and boyish bums had been dreamed up by a bunch of nancy-boys from Hollywood, USA, and Sloane, on losing a lucrative fashion-show contract to a boyish little creature possibly aged as much as sixteen, had been so annoyed that she’d agreed with him. Non-p.c. though he was.

    Kendall very obviously didn’t share the opinion of the modelling agency. Well, she more or less knew that: he’d looked down her bodice enough over dinner. The bra and panties were the same burgundy colour as the dress, and while it wasn’t true that the bra was actually supposed to show under the dress, she hadn’t minded the fact that when she bent over, like to reach for the salt, or later, to put the tray of coffee on the coffee table, it had been pretty visible.

    “Come on,” she said mildly, smiling at him, slowly unhooking the bra.

    “Um—yeah!” he gulped, managing to scramble out of his trousers while he was still goggling at her.

    Sloane removed her panties and got into bed. She leaned back against the pillows, watching him. He was a bit thick round the middle: that had been obvious from the word go, when she’d seen him in his jeans at Muwullupirri. His shoulders and chest weren’t bad: quite solid. Not very hairy—sort of average. She was conscious of a certain disappointment: his forearms were quite hairy and she’d thought— Not that she really went for the ape-man look, but... Come to think of it, she recalled, a bubble of laughter welling up in her throat, unless they’d shaved him for the bath scene in Pretty Woman, Richard Gere didn’t have a very hairy chest either, did he?

    “What’s the joke?” said Kendall uneasily.

    “Nothing. Well, I was just thinking that you really do look a lot like Richard Gere, it isn’t just the hair.”

    “Uh—thanks. I think.” He looked at her, and hesitated.

    “Take your underpants off. I can’t stand men who leave them on when they get into bed,” said Sloane briskly.

    “Um—yes. Righto,” he agreed humbly, taking off his underpants.

    She wouldn’t have been terribly surprised, after that, if he’d put his hand modestly over himself while he walked over to the bed, but he didn’t. Though he looked bloody self-conscious. Never mind, he didn’t have anything to be ashamed of: he was pretty hairy down there, and very dark—and very big. Sloane swallowed. Not extraordinary, but— The unlamented Marty had been quite small.

    Kendall got in beside her, breathing heavily, and without saying a word, got his arms round her, rolled right on top of her and kissed her very thoroughly. Sloane hugged him very tight and kissed him back greedily and strained herself against him...

    “You really want to!” discovered Kendall with tears in his eyes.

    “Yes,” she said in a strangled voice. “Just be sure you use a condom.”

    “Yes, of course. You’re so practical!” he said on a laugh that cracked. “Of course I will.” He took his weight off her, pushed his face into the hollow of her neck and said huskily: “I’m not going to be able to last, you know. It’s been ages… Joyce doesn’t let me do it much.”

    “I see.”

    “No, you don’t!” he said on a cross note, raising himself on one elbow. “It started off because she had a miscarriage, about seven years back. After that she always reckoned she was feeling rotten, or— Anyway, she went to endless specialists and they all reckoned there was nothing wrong with her.”

    “Oh. What did she reckon?” said Sloane dubiously.

    “That I didn’t turn her on any more,” he said dully.

    “I—I’m really sorry, Kendall,” said Sloane in a shaken voice. She was pretty sorry for both of them, actually.

    “Sorry: I only mentioned it because I—I’m a bit out of practice!” he said with a loud, awkward laugh.

    “Never mind,” said Sloane softly, forgetting to be sophisticated or in charge, and hugging him gently. “They say it comes naturally. And if it’s a bit quick, I won’t mind. I’ll let you have another go, later!”

    Kendall gave a shaken laugh and kissed her hard, again rolling on top of her.

    “Hell!” he gasped, coming up for air. “I can’t— Look, I’m sorry, Sloane, I’m just about coming as it is: can I?”

    “Mm. Just use a condom,” said Sloane faintly.

    “Yes. Um—damn, they’re in my pocket— Hang on.” He staggered out of bed and found the condoms in his pants pocket. Then he sat down on the edge of the bed. “Don’t offer to help me, I’ll come like a rocket if you touch me!” he said with a nervous laugh. He rolled it on with shaking fingers and turned round.

    Sloane lay back against her pillows—they were her best pillowcases, featuring a lot of broderie Anglaise threaded with ribbon: murder to sleep on, mind you. “Come on, Kendall,” she said softly.

   It was what you might have called quick. He rolled on top of her, entered her, thrust twice—Sloane was unable to prevent herself counting—and came with a yell that was sort of mid-way between a shriek and a roar.

    ... “I’m really sorry,” he said faintly.

    “Silly,” said Sloane mildly. Oh, well: if Richard Gere had only had it half a dozen times over the last seven years, would he have performed any better?

    After a few minutes she realised he was asleep. Help. Maybe your actual Richard Gere might have done better than that!

    He woke up about two hours later, panicked because of how late it had got, apologized profusely but didn’t offer to give her a come in the middle of his apologies, had a quick shower, had a mild panic about the fact that she only had perfumed soap and Joyce might smell it on him, kissed her in a proprietorial fashion, promising to ring her, and hurried off.

    “I see,” said Sloane very grimly indeed, sitting up in bed, as the sound of his bloody BMW died away. “That’s how these married Richard Gere lookalikes manage it Downunder, is it? Well, no way, mate!”

    “How was Richard Gere?” leered Gail on Monday morning.

    “Shut up, and get out of my office. –Oh, hullo, Fee,” said Sloane weakly as Fee’s red head appeared behind Gail’s fawnish one.

    They came in, grinning.

    “Told you,” said Fee smugly.

    “Looks like it,” agreed Gail.

    “What?” said Sloane through her teeth.

    “Fee’s theory is that these Aussie Richard Gere lookalikes—we got a video of Pretty Woman, watched it on Saturday, it was a viable alternative to the Nth re-run of Clint Eastwood or Big-Foot basketball,” explained Gail kindly: “—her theory is that they don’t know what women’s sexuality, to coin a phrase, is all about. Tell me she’s wrong and I’ll eat that desk, and the papers on it for dessert.”

    Sloane opened her mouth. She closed it again. “All right, you’re right. Satisfied? But if he thinks he’s going to get away with it, he’s got another think coming.”

    “How will you manage that?” asked Gail with interest. “You’re not actually proposing to talk seriously about your sexual needs to an Aussie male, are you?”

    “Look, shut up! Whaddareya, the new millennium’s answer to Germaine Greer?” she snarled.

    “So he didn’t give you a come?” said Gail calmly.

    “No! And I thought you weren’t interested in hetero relationships in any style, shape or form?” shouted Sloane.

    “Ssh. Mandy’ll hear you.” replied Gail calmly.

    “She’s not blind or deaf, she does know about the two of you.”

    Fee got out a piece of sugarless gum. “Yes, but she still thinks you’re a nice, sweet girl: leave her a few illusions, Sloane.” She chewed the gum juicily.

    “That’s a revolting and infantile habit: do they know at your up-market place of employment that you indulge in that?” said Sloane coldly.

    “No,” replied Fee with complete insouciance. “We are interested in this relationship of yours with Whatsisface,” she explained kindly. “Horror value.” She chewed juicily.

    “Yes, well, Whatsisface is about to be told that unless he can get his act together in bed we’re not going to go on with it.”

    “Can I tape that?” replied Fee calmly.

    “No. And go away,” said Sloane grimly.

    They opened the door. Gail did go out but Fee paused in the doorway and said: “Actually, I’m sorry that it didn’t go too well, Sloane.”

    Sloane sighed. Pair of clowns. “Well, I wasn’t expecting all that much, but— Oh, well. It isn’t as if I’m in love with him. But I wouldn’t mind being in a relationship: everyone else seems to be.”

    “That’s not a very good basis for starting one,” she said cautiously.

    “Look, I’ve had all that from Gail, thanks!”

    Fee replied calmly: “Then Gail was right.” And went out.

    Sloane gave the phone an evil look but it didn’t ring and apologize grovellingly in Kendall’s voice for having behaved like a macho pig, so she got grimly on with her work.

    Gail should have been getting on with hers, but she accompanied Fee down in the lift.

    “Was this supposed to be the great romance?” asked Fee dubiously as they reached the lobby.

    “I honestly don’t know. I sort of thought—well, Mandy did, too, I’m not relying on my own judgement, here—that Farmer Jones was the one.”

    Fee sighed. “Mm. Um—how’ll this affect her attitude to RightSmart, then?”

    “We’ll have to see, won’t we? –I must say, she’s a bit young for bloody mid-life crises!”

    Fee eyed her sardonically. “Yeah. But she’s at about the right age to go slightly off the rails because she’s hetero, thirty, and not married with one point seven kids.”

    “You put these things so well,” said Gail sourly.

    “Yeah. See ya.” She walked off, five-foot-nine of slender, black-suited elegance.

    “Fee, don’t forget to spit that gum out before you get to work,” said Gail heavily.

    Her life-partner turned round, winked, and exited with an elegant wave. Chewing.

    Sighing, Gail thumped the button for the lift.

    Kendall had informed Sloane that he was ringing from his car. Wimp, thought Sloane grimly. However, it meant she could say what she thought, so when he said it had been wonderful the other night, she replied: “It wasn’t particularly wonderful for me.” Kendall’s phone emitted a stunned silence, so she let it for a moment, and then clarified calmly: “Sexually, I mean.”

    “N— Um—I’m sorry!” he gasped. “I did say that I—you know.”

    Was the man in the Honda sports job next to him at the lights listening in? Really! Talk about coy! She gave him a few moments in which to get really twitchy and then said: “Yes, I know you said you wouldn’t be much good, but a woman does sometimes like to feel she’s actually there when a man goes to bed with her.”

    “Yuh— Um—”

    “You could have done something for me, instead of rushing off home,” she said, still calm.

    “Y— Um, it was Helluva late, and—uh...”

    “And Joyce was due home from her bridge party: yes, I did gather that. I do understand your situation. Kendall. And I understand that a man’s sexual needs can be... urgent,” said Sloane, staring dreamily at her office ceiling and wondering why, exactly, she was managing to say all this so calmly to Kendall, when she’d only been able to communicate anything to do with sex or their relationship to Marty in a screaming rage or floods of tears or both.

    “Yes, well—”

    “If you care more about Joyce getting suspicious than you do about having a relationship, we can end it now, if you like.” She waited calmly.

    “No! Of course I don’t want to end it!” he gasped.—Almost in tears. She could only hope that he wasn’t actually driving in city traffic as of this instant. “You—you don’t want to, do you?” he said miserably.

    “Not really. But maybe you need to think about it. When I said I wanted a casual relationship, I didn’t mean that I wanted to be used as a convenience.”

    “A conv— I’m not using y— Damn, the lights have changed! Hang on!” he gasped.

    Sloane looked at her receiver coldly. Then she shrugged and hung up.

    He rang back a few minutes later. She asked Mandy to tell him she was tied up and ask him to get back to her in about an hour. Mandy’s voice, audibly disappointed, agreed she’d do this. Sloane watched drily as the red Line 1 light on her phone went out.

    .... “Perhaps we could meet,” she said calmly, as Kendall’s voice informed her cautiously he was ringing from the office.

    “Yes, great! Um... could we set up a lunch meet?” he said, cautious again.

    “I’m rather tied up this week... Friday?” she said airily.

    “Friday!”

    Sloane just waited.

    “Um—yes, Friday would be fine,” said Kendall limply.

    Sloane let him decide on the time and the place, bade him good-bye in a super-casual voice, and hung up calmly. And got on calmly with her work.

    ... “Well?” said Gail sepulchrally, leaning over Mandy’s reception desk and waggling her eyebrows.

    “Don’t do that!” said Mandy with a loud giggle. “It’s all right: she’s gone out to see a client.”

    “And?”

    “Um—he rung back.”

    “And?”

    “Well, she never said anything to me,” revealed Mandy regretfully, “only she’s put herself down for lunch in the book: look!”

    Sure enough, in Mandy’s reception book Sloane had marked herself as out for lunch on Friday.

    “Two hours?” said Gail, raising her eyebrows. “That’s enough for these Richard Gere lookalikes, is it?”

    “Um—it depends how quick he is, I suppose!” gasped Mandy, collapsing in giggles.

    “Yeah, doesn’t it?” agreed Gail drily. “You’re sure it was the Richard Gere type, are you?”

    “Mm,” she said. blowing her nose. “Kendall Somethink,” she explained.

    Gail nodded and went on her way, reflecting it was just as well the Mandys of the world—well, of Sydney, anyway—were so decent. Or possibly decent and innocent? Otherwise, with all these extra-marital non-business lunches, not to say expensive bunches of red roses, there could be a thriving little market in blackmail, couldn’t there? Kendall Something? Not even bothering to retain his surname? Oh, dear!

    Sloane had had to see a client that morning quite near to the trendy little eating place that Kendall had chosen, so she went straight there. It was table service, but not the sort of up-market place that Joyce would be likely to patronize. She ordered a cappuccino: it was a cold, blowy day, and she needed it after the client, who hadn’t been sure exactly what temporary staff she needed, only she thought that if Miss Manning could supply someone to fill in for her housekeeper maybe they could do some of the cooking as well, and then there was picking up the kids from school... Typical. Three people’s jobs at less than one person’s wages. Undoubtedly how these rich bitches got rich in the first place. Or how their rotten families did. Not to mention how they stayed that way.

    The cappuccino wasn’t bad and the little restaurant was warm. Sloane sat back in her chair, sighed, and gradually relaxed. And began to let herself feel the seeping excitement at seeing Kendall again that had been creeping up on her all week. She had even gone mad and bought herself a new suit on the strength of it.

    When she’d walked into the office this morning of course Mandy had squeaked: “Ooh! New suit?” And Gail had wandered through from her office sipping the inevitable black instant and drawled: “Do Aussie Richard Geres rate the expenditure of three months’ income on clothes, then?” Mandy had collapsed in giggles, gasping incoherently: “Yes! Pretty Woman!” but Sloane had ignored both of them. The new suit hadn’t cost all that much. Strictly speaking it hadn’t cost anything yet, she’d put it on her credit card. At David Jones. Well, why not? The wool suit was dull yellow, almost mustard but not quite. Given that almost everybody was wearing black or grey, a very unusual shade. Waists and fitted jackets seemed to be back, or In, or something: anyway, that was what it had, and secretly Sloane didn’t give a damn if the style only lasted one season, though she wasn’t about to admit it to Gail or Mandy. The skirt was longish, but slit to the knee at the back. Sloane had thought it was a bit tight but DJ’s saleswoman had assured her they were wearing them like that. Initially she’d thought she’d wear a plain black silk shirt with it, but it swore at the gentle, feminine lines of the jacket, with its three large self-covered buttons. Sloane had gone back to DJ’s and bought a blouse she’d fallen in love with. Filmy black, with a soft ruffle at the neck. It had had more soft ruffles at the wrists but as they fell right over her hands she’d removed them. The blouse was so filmy that it necessitated wearing a black slip, but she already had a couple of those. The tights were, however, brand new: not black, that would’ve been too obvious. Very pale and very sheer and in them Sloane’s legs, with the very high-heeled black patents which she wouldn’t normally have worn to work, looked, frankly, fabulous.

    It was the sort of windy, nasty day that, however neat your hairstyle, whipped strands of hair across your face unless you glued the hair in place with gallons of spray. Since Kitten had left almost all her clothes with Sloane, having sublet the pink nest, there had been plenty of hats to choose from—though most of them would have looked awful on her. She’d finally plumped for a black turban which she couldn’t recall ever seeing Kitten wearing. It was a pull-on thing, quite comfortable to wear, but looking very elegant when on. Sloane hadn’t worn anything like it since her modelling days, and had been a bit doubtful about it, but her reflection in the mirror had assured her it was just the job. Her hair was tucked up neatly under it: she pulled it off now, and shook the hair loose with a sigh.

    The handsome young man who’d been sipping coffee at the counter immediately got up and came over to her table, looking pleased. “Hullo,” he said, smiling.

    Sloane looked up sharply, about to bite his head off. She blinked. He looked just like Whatsisface from Blue Heelers, the one Nikki was nuts— Oh.

    “Didn’t we meet at Lallapinda last New Year’s?” said the guy who looked like Martin Sacks back in his Blue Heelers days, smiling.

    “Um—yes. I think we did,” said Sloane feebly. “You were with the KRP lot, weren’t you?”

    “That’s right. Hardy Saunders,” he said, holding out his hand. And considerately bending over so as she wouldn’t have to get up.

    Sloane shook it limply. Help, he was the handsomest thing! She didn’t particularly share Nikki’s passion for the actor, or perhaps it was the character: he’d been a bit of a macho tit and very up himself. And in real life he probably wouldn’t have looked twice at the dear little policewoman—not that she would have been a sweet little thing in real life. But in the flesh, very tanned and with the curly dark hair receding a little and thinning on top— Goodness knew why that was so sexy, but it was! He had those rather blunt features. too. Sloane had hitherto firmly believed herself to be an admirer of the more chiselled-featured male—Marty had been a case in point. She now realised forcibly that compared to Martin Sacks, or, as it were, Hardy Saunders from KRP, Marty had been... namby-pamby looking.

    “Hullo, Hardy. I’m Sloane Manning,” she said feebly.

    “Mind if I join you?” He didn’t wait for an answer, probably no girl had ever refused him anything, and sat down opposite her. “It’s great to see you again, Sloane!”

    Bullshit: he’d barely looked at her at the dance. he’d danced two dances with her—Sloane didn’t pause to ask herself why she remembered this so clearly—and after one in which Kitten had allowed him to plaster himself to that pale pink satin thing, had got off with Nikki.

    “So how are things at KRP?” she said coolly.

    “Not too bad!” Hardy told her a lot about their trip to Western Australia and some of the deals that had come out of it. Sloane with difficulty refrained from rolling her eyes: yet another dim male who seemed to believe that letting out confidential commercial information to females didn’t count.

    “I see. And what do you do, yourself, at KRP, Hardy?”

    Hardy was with the Legal Division: corporate law, mainly. He’d been with the team on a watching brief, and it had been, he didn’t mind telling Sloane, a real feather in his cap to be picked...

    Sloane looked submissively up into his face and let him rave on. Wondering on the one hand just why the way his firm but rounded chin curved in to the rather full but not sulky lower lip was so absolutely irresistible, and on the other hand if that tan was natural or pure sunlamp. And incidentally how old he was and if he was married— She came to with a jolt. Bullshit.

    Hardy was smiling at her with a look of eager enquiry. “Sorry: what?” she said feebly.

    “I said what do you do?” he said with a kind smile.

    Sloane opened her handbag and silently handed him a card.

    “RightSmart,” he said, smiling kindly. “You work for these people, do you?”

    “More or less. I am half of these people,” said Sloane drily. “I’m a director and shareholder.”

    “Really?” He seemed genuinely impressed and began to ask her a lot of questions about RightSmart. Sloane answered automatically, admiring the entrancing way that chin curved in to that lower— Bullshit, she was mad, she was here to meet another man, for Heaven’s sake! Anyway, it was very obvious that Hardy Saunders could have any female he wanted. And she didn’t intend to join the queue, thanks.

    The waitress came up before Hardy had run out of questions and asked if they were ready to order now.

    “Are we?” he said with a boyish grin.

    “I’m waiting for someone, actually,” Sloane replied coolly.

    “Oh,” he said with a grimace. “—No, it’s all right, thanks,” he said to the girl. “Um—hang on: want another coffee, Sloane? Something else to drink?”

    “Not for me, thanks.”

    “I might have known you wouldn’t be by yourself,” he said, repeating the grimace, when the waitress had gone. It wrinkled his straight, blunt nose up and slightly lifted his upper lip. His eyes were a very pale, light-filled grey, and very bright.

    “Mm,” agreed Sloane noncommittally. “Aren’t you? Or has she stood you up?”

    “No, I’m foot-loose and fancy-free,” said Hardy with a watchful look in his eye.

    “You certainly seemed to be fancy-free at Lallapinda,” agreed Sloane in a bored voice.

    Hardy went very red and said with a flustered laugh: “Aw—that! Look, there was nothing in that: it was just—um—New Year’s Eve—you know!”

    “Mm,” agreed Sloane noncommittally.

    “I suppose she’s a friend of yours?”

    “Who?” replied Sloane without interest. He had terrifically long lashes, which strangely enough did not detract from the impression of complete masculinity that he radiated— Bullshit, in fact total crap!

    “Nikki,” said Hardy, now a glowing scarlet.

    “Oh, was it you that Nikki— Um, no, actually: she’s a friend of my little sister’s, she’s years younger than me,” said Sloane in a bored tone.

    “She was a bit too young for me, too!” admitted Hardy with a laugh that was very obviously meant to charm the pants off her. So to speak.

    “I wouldn’t have said so. She’s well over the age of consent.” Sloane pretended to look round for Kendall. She’d been miles too early, and she wasn’t in fact expecting him just yet. But mind you, if he did walk in while she was talking to Hardy Saunders from KRP it would be quite an interesting encounter!

    “No—um...” Hardy looked at her weakly. “It was just one of those things—you know.”

    “Well, yeah, I do know, but I grew out of that sort of thing years ago,” said Sloane kindly.

    “Very funny!” he said, flushing angrily.

    “I’m thirty, you know,” she said kindly.

    “Well, how old do you think I am?” he said angrily.

    Sloane looked him up and down. Gradually the annoyed expression on his tanned features was replaced by a hopeful one. His eyes were very bright; his lips just parted and his breathing quickened.

    Sloane’s heart thudded madly. She was very tempted to try one of Kitten’s tricks— Well, why the Hell not! She looked straight into those light-filled grey eves and let her tongue very slowly lick her upper lip. Hardy Saunders went bright scarlet and looked at her helplessly, his mouth slightly open.

    Whatever effect this sort of response might customarily have had on Kitten, it had a fairly radical one on Sloane: her whole body seemed to glow with awareness of him. Oh—blast! she thought shakily.

    “Um, I don’t know, Hardy,” she said huskily. “I’m not very good at ages. Um—twenty-eight?”

    “No!” he said with a smile, suddenly appearing to get his self-possession back. “Do you really think I’m only twenty-eight? Uh—no, I’m old enough to know better, I suppose you could say! Thirty-four. Divorced three years, no kids.” He shrugged slightly.

    “I see,” said Sloane feebly.

    “So, how about you? Is there someone special?” He looked at her ringless left hand. “Engaged or anything?”

    Sloane was used to this sort of blunt enquiry, it seemed to pass for conversation in most circles. She replied coolly: “I wouldn’t say there was anyone extra special, no. But I am waiting for someone just at the moment.”

    “Yeah.” Hardy looked at his watch. “Late, is he?” he said on a hopeful note.

    The watch was gold on a gold strap, and his hand was very tanned and the wrist slightly hairy below the creamy silk of his very nice shirt. Cufflinks, too. All in all he was perfectly yummy and Sloane didn’t know which she most wanted: to leap on him and gobble him up, or that he’d push off and leave her in peace.

    “No, he’s not late. I’m very early: I had an appointment with a client nearby so I came straight here.”

    Hardy drew her out about the client. Sloane answered politely, wondering what it would be like to kiss that well-modelled, entrancingly curved, rather sensuous mouth. And exactly what, under the smart suiting, his figure was like. He was reasonably tall and seemed reasonably slim, but a heavy winter suit could hide an awful lot of—

    “Sorry, what?”

    “Can I get you a drink while you’re waiting?”

    “Um...” Sloane looked at her watch. Probably a glass of white wine wouldn’t go too well on top of one slice of dry toast with coffee for breakfast and the cappuccino she’d just drunk. –The client hadn’t offered her a coffee: in Sloane’s experience the plutier the client, the less likely you were to get a coffee out of them. Oh—what the heck, she couldn’t just sit here, and Kendall wasn’t due for another twenty minutes. “Well, yes, thanks, I’ll have a glass of white wine.”

    Hardy got them each a glass of white wine.

    “Don’t let me keep you from your lunch,” said Sloane politely.

    He pushed his chair back a little, and crossed his legs in a relaxed manner, but said: “If I’m in the way, tell me.”

    “No: I just thought— If you’re on your lunch hour,” she said, pinkening.

    “It’s a flexible lunch hour,” said Hardy with a little smile.

    “Oh—good,” said Sloane limply. “Um, so do you often come here?”

    “Not so much, these days. I used to come here a fair bit, I had a flat not far away—” Hardy told her quite a bit about what seemed to have been his carefree bachelor days.

    “This was before you were married, was it?” asked Sloane cautiously. Mentioning their marriages usually had one of two effects: either it scared them off and they ran like rabbits, terrified you were about to entrap them into another permanent relationship, or they bored on for hours about how misunderstood they’d been.

    Surprisingly enough Hardy Saunders didn’t plump for either of these popular options but said simply: “Yes. When I married June we bought a unit in Stornaway Close—do you know it? It’s just down by—”

    “Yes, it’s quite near me,” said Sloane limply.

    “Then you’ll know the socio-economic bracket it’s in,” said Hardy drily. “Not that we couldn’t swing it with our joint incomes: she’s an investment banker. It had a great view: big selling point.” He shrugged.

    “Um—so didn’t you like it?” she asked cautiously.

    “It was all right. Bit too much of the industrial glass tile thing, y’know? The walls of the ensuite were all glass tiles. It took a bit of getting used to. Only by the time I’d got used to it, June decided we’d better cash in our investment.” He shrugged again. “I think the rows more or less started then. –Oh, well, water under the bridge.”

    “So where are you living now?”

    Hardy grimaced. “Nowhere, really. I had a flat for a couple of years but the building was pulled down not long before Christmas to make way for yet another high-rise. It didn’t seem worthwhile looking for another place, because I knew I’d have to go off with the team from KRP more or less right away, so I just dumped all my stuff at Mum and Dad’s.” He looked at her ruefully. “I’m still there. I have to admit I’d forgotten what it was like: it’s not just the home cooking and the fact that Mum does all your washing for you the minute your back’s turned, even though you’ve told her not to: there’s the small factor that they both lie awake worrying if I’m out after—I was gonna say midnight, but I tell a lie: ten!” he said with a laugh: Sloane smiled and nodded. “And Mum keeps moaning on behind Dad’s back about him overdoing it with his bad heart and not being supposed to drive because of his eyesight, and Dad moans on behind her back about her overdoing it with her high blood pressure—” He shrugged ruefully. “Not that either of them’d take a blind bit of notice of anything I said to them. Mind you, neither of them expects that, as far as I can see.”

    “No, the moaning’s probably the point,” said Sloane sympathetically. “Mum and Dad aren’t like that, but they have their little ways!” She began to tell him something about Dick and Karen.

    When Kendall came into the restaurant Hardy had given up on his casual pose and was leaning eagerly right over the little table, looking into Sloane’s eyes. They had reached the stage where the conversation had become somewhat disjointed. though there was a lot of laughter, and where the pauses had become somewhat lingering. Hardy’s strong, tanned right hand lay casually on the table very near to Sloane’s hand. Both wine glasses were empty and both pairs of cheeks were rather flushed.

    “Hullo, Sloane. Sorry to keep you waiting.”

    “Hullo, Kendall,” said Sloane weakly.

    Hardy got up, looking stunned.

    “Uh—it’s Hardy, isn’t it?” said Kendall feebly.

    Hardy agreed it was, shook hands, said he wouldn’t interrupt them, and took himself off. Not staying for lunch but walking straight out.

    Kendall sat down heavily in the chair Hardy had been in. “What the Hell was he doing here?”

    “Having lunch, I suppose.”

    “I didn’t know you knew him. You know he works for KRP?” he said, frowning.

    “Mm. I met him at Lallapinda,” replied Sloane calmly.

    “Uh—oh. Yeah,” he said uncomfortably.

    She picked up her empty wine glass and looked into it thoughtfully. “Kendall, if this is going to be another thing you can’t handle, I really think we’d better not go on with it. Sydney’s a big place, but you can’t expect that we’ll never bump into someone one of us knows.”

    “No, I— It was just— I mean, he is with KRP.”

    “I suppose that’s better than being one of Maurice Fine’s little yes-men.”

    “Uh—yeah. Look, forget him!”

    Sloane smiled a little. “I don’t know that I can promise to do that.”

    After a puzzled moment Kendall went very red. He leant over the table and put his hand heavily on hers. “Sloane, I thought you did care about me, a—a bit.”

    “I do. But Hardy Saunders is thirty-four and free. And apparently available,” she said with a shrug. “Added to which, according to Melodie and her friend Nikki he looks like Martin Sacks.”

    “Who?”

    “Never mind: a dumb thing on TV,” said Sloane, smiling. “I’m not interested in Hardy, really, but he is attractive. –Shall we order? I’m starving, I spent the morning with a pig of a client.”

    “Uh—yes. Of course.” Kendall attracted the waitress’s attention with no trouble whatsoever. Sloane had to admit to herself that this was a considerable point in his favour: it was the sort of thing that Marty had never been able to manage.

    Also in his favour was the fact that he was looking very spruce, in a dark navy pin-striped suit, with a pale blue silk shirt and a navy and crimson Paisley tie. A matching silk handkerchief was tucked into his breast pocket. Sloane looked at him, all neat and spruce in his nice clothes, and remembered him in her bed, and felt a little shiver of desire run through her.

    Kendall looked into her eyes and flushed darkly. “I’m just so glad to see you again!” he said huskily.

    “Mm, me too, actually.”

    Neither of them noticed much what they ate. By the time they reached the coffee stage Kendall had a foot against one of hers under the table and was holding her hand on top of the table. Judging by the flush and the brightness of the eyes and the deepened breathing he also had a hard-on. Eventually Sloane let her knee nudge his, and he jumped a foot.

    “Look, couldn’t we go back to your place?” he said hoarsely.

    Sloane wanted to. But she had an idea that this might be the thin end of the wedge. They’d do it once, and he’d come to expect it as a regular lunchtime thing, and she’d never get him to lunch with her again in public, let alone take her out to dinner: the standard mistress thing, in fact. No way.

    “I can’t possibly, I’m afraid. I’ve got appointments all afternoon.”

    “Shit,” he said, gnawing on his lip. “Um—look, could I come round after work?”

    Sloane sat back in her chair, sliding her foot away from his and her hand out from under his. She eyed him mockingly. “This would be in between work and a dinner party with Joyce at some fellow exec’s place, would it?”

    “N— Um—dammit, Sloane, you know how I’m fixed!” he said in an agonized voice.

    “Yes, and although I sympathize, I don’t want to become a convenience, as I’ve said. I’d rather leave it until some evening when you’re quite free.”

    “Um—well, hang on.” He got out his diary and looked through it. “Damn,” he muttered. “Um—look, Joyce won’t want to come to this bloody thing: I could skip it. Um... no, hang on, that’s her bloody mother’s birthday. Um... Look, I usually have tea in town on a Friday: she never wants to be bothered with cooking at the end of the week—well, any time, really, but definitely not on Fridays,” he said with a sigh. “I’ve got this bloody do on tonight, but—um—could we make it Fridays, as a general thing?”

    “I’m pretty tired by the end of the week: I usually have tea in town myself on Fridays. The office usually goes out for happy hour with some of the people from our building—I think you’ve met one of them: Barney? Oh, no,” she said blithely as he looked blank: “it was Cal I was with that time.”

    Kendall turned purple: for a moment Sloane wondered if Cal had told him what he’d found out about the Lallapinda revenge. But no, that wasn’t like Cal: and if he had done, Kendall would never have agreed to see her again.

    “I bet it was!” he said in a choked voice. “And who is this Barney type?”

    “I said, he works in our building. He lives just round the corner from me,” said Sloane, omitting the fact that he was gay and lived with a very pretty friend called Dirk. “I sometimes car-pool with him if I don’t need my car for client visits.”

    “I get it,” said Kendall, clenching his fists. “Your life’s full of them, isn’t it?”

    Full of pleasant gays and macho Aussie clods and luscious young Martin Sacks lookalikes that vanished like dew in the morning without even asking for her phone number? Yeah, wasn’t it?

    “Don’t be silly!” she said with an airy laugh. “I was just trying to say that I’ve usually had it by Friday evening. I suppose you’re not free next Wednesday?” –This was a safe bet: she’d noticed that Wednesday was filled in in his diary.

    “No,” he said glumly. “Old Maurice has got a bloody great do on. You know: attend or die the corporate death.” He shrugged and grinned a bit.

    Sloane gave a genuine laugh, this time. “You love it, though, Kendall!”

    “Uh—the corporate cut and thrust?” he said, cheering up measurably and beaming at her. “Yeah, well, I do, I suppose.”

    She smiled into his eyes. “Mm.”

    He leaned across the table, took her hand again and said in a low, urgent voice: “Sloane, it’s killing me!”

    Sloane gave a breathless laugh, but said: “Don’t.”

    Kendall released her hand but sat back, smirking. “Listen: I’m slated to play golf with bloody Gould and some friends of his on Sunday: I could get away early.”

    “Ye-es... Won’t they be suspicious?”

    Hel shrugged. “Doubt it. People quite often try to get away early from anything involving Gould: he’s a real bastard. And then—uh—”

    “I see. Male peer groups, eh?”

    “Um—well, yeah. None of ’em are the sort to go home and say brightly to their wives that old So-and-so left unexpectedly early and they wonder why, if that’s what you mean.”

    “Mm,” she agreed drily.

    “So—um—Sunday?” said Kendall, licking his lips.

    “Yes, okay,” she agreed. He looked at her in a disconcerted way as she then stood up and said: “Sorry, but I have to go.”

    “Yeah.” He got up slowly. “Where are you parked? I’ll see you to your car.”

    “I got a taxi, actually: my car’s been playing up, I’ll have to trade it in, I think: this is the third time in the last six months it’s had something wrong with it.”

    Kendall beamed and offered to drive her back to work.

    Sloane didn’t mind being chauffeur-driven in a BMW, so she agreed, even though she was pretty sure that the minute he got her into the car—

    The weather seemed to be on Kendall’s side: the day had darkened: it was very grey and drizzling as they made a dash for the BMW. The rain started to stream down the windows as they got into the car: visibility was reduced to practically nil. Breathing heavily, Kendall pulled her against him and kissed her hungrily, squashing one yellow-suited breast tightly with one hand. “I’ve been going crazy, wanting you!” he said thickly.

    “Mm,” said Sloane faintly.

    “Have you got a bra on?” he said in her ear, panting, as he tried to get his hand inside her suit jacket.

    “Um—no,” she said feebly. “Just a petticoat.’

    “Jesus!” said Kendall thickly, getting a hand inside the jacket and squeezing her breast. “Jesus, Sloane!”

    “Don’t. Um—people will see,” she said feebly. Actually you couldn’t see more than a couple of metres down the road: the rain was coming down in torrents. “Um—no, don’t, Kendall. Not in the car, for Pete’s sake, I’m not a kid.”

    Glumly Kendall drove her through the ghastly Sydney traffic in the rain to RightSmart. But when they got there he leaned right over her to open her door, managing to squash both breasts as he did so, and said with a grin that Sloane couldn’t persuade herself didn’t verge on the—the proprietorial, drat it: “See ya Sunday, then, darling!”

    With that he drove off into the traffic in the rain with a toot on the BMW’s horn and a casual flip of the hand. Sloane took a deep breath and went inside.

    It was another wet day: a Saturday. Sloane woke late, yawning, and feeling thankful, though with a certain amount of guilt mixed in with the thankfulness, that it wasn’t a day that Kendall was due. Last night had been pretty energetic. It had been satisfying—but she’d been very glad to hear his car disappearing up the street around one-thirty and to snuggle down into her own bed by herself. They’d had two Sundays as well as the one Friday evening, by now. Sloane had been very, very careful not to weaken and feed him last night. It wasn’t that hard: she’d said that she couldn’t possibly get home until eight-thirty at the earliest and would be having tea with the happy-hour crowd. When he arrived at the flat she didn’t ask him if he’d eaten. After they’d made love—Kendall very humbly making sure that she had an orgasm before he did—he’d revealed sadly that he hadn’t had dinner. She’d shrugged and said that she hadn’t done any shopping yet.

    The Sundays had proved more difficult: the first time he’d turned up at ten-thirty in the morning, terrifically pleased with himself. When he’d found that there was only some sliced low-fat cheese, a pot of yoghurt and half a carton of milk in the fridge, with half a loaf of sliced bread in the bread bin, he’d made cheese on toast for both of them for lunch. He’d stayed until six-thirty and had given Sloane three comes, managing two himself. Somehow he’d seemed even prouder of the one he’d given her when he hadn’t been able to manage it than of the other two. Sloane had thought involuntarily, weren’t men extraordinary? Really odd. The second Sunday he was a little later: not because he hadn’t deserted his golfing cronies at tennish, but because he’d stopped off at a hot bread shop and a corner deli on the way. Weakly Sloane let him make them both a lunch of fresh bread, unsalted butter, tinned pâté—it was Danish and not too bad—and apple and raspberry cheesecake. It must have been the corner deli nearest the flat, they had their own supplier for that cheesecake, she’d have recognised it anywhere. He’d also brought coffee and was rather disconcerted to find she only had a percolator.

    She’d had a coffee—instant—and a shower, and was just stepping into her jeans when the doorbell rang. Who on earth—? Well, possibly it was Barney or Dirk, come to borrow something, or Vaughan from next-door: he was gay, too, and not the good-cook sort of gay, more the sort that turned up on your doorstep looking shagged-out about lunchtime on Saturday asking if he could “borrow” a cup of milk. Or possibly Mrs Mincham from the other side: she was a respectable elderly widow, and an early riser: not a borrower, more a foister of herself on unwary neighbours for joint supermarket expeditions. The horribly spry and energetic sort of elderly widow. Though by now Sloane had sort of hoped that Mrs Mincham had got the point that all she bought at the supermarket was toilet paper on special, and marg if it was on special. She hauled on a tee-shirt and rushed downstairs, distractedly tucking it into her jeans as she went, muttering under her breath: “All right, all right!” as the doorbell sounded again. If it wasn’t Mrs M—and come to think of it, nine-thirty was her preferred time, not elevenish—then it was probably someone selling something, or a bloody cheeky land agent wanting to know if she might be thinking of selling—

    “Hullo,” she said numbly.

    Hardy Saunders, very washed-and-brushed-looking in a casual black leather jacket that had probably cost a month’s salary over a black and brown jumper that just sat at the base of his strong, tanned throat, allowing a glimpse of dark hair and a glint of gold chain to show. He grinned at her, the light-filled grey eyes very bright. “Hullo, Sloane: how are you?”

    Sloane gulped. “Um—fine, thanks,” she said numbly, finishing tucking the tee-shirt in at the back and realising belatedly that the whole thing had probably been the wrong move: Hardy’s eyes, brighter than ever, were glued to it, or rather to her bra-less breasts in it, and there was a very discernible bulge in his smart but casual pale grey cotton slacks.

    “What are you doing here?” she said weakly.

    “Flat-hunting. Thought I’d look you up, since I was in the neighbourhood.” He looked at her damp hair and smiled. “Not too early for you, is it?”

    “Um—no,” said Sloane limply.

    Hardy just stood there, grinning at her. Sloane would have bet every cent of her equity in the flat, and in fact her right arm to boot, that he knew that the way that jumper just sat at the base of his neck was a complete and utter turn-on. In fact he’d probably arranged it very carefully in the mirror— “Um, come in,” she said limply.

    Hardy followed her in eagerly, looking about him with great interest. “You’ve got it looking great!” he approved. “Box-like little places, really, aren’t they? I love the old window frame. And did you put those dividing doors in?”

    “Um—yes. Um—well, Dad did it for me. Come on through to the kitchen,” said Sloane feebly. “Would you like a coffee? I was just going to have one.”

    Hardy accepted eagerly. He praised the unusual look of her dining-room, in fact going so far as to say he saw what she was trying to do. Sloane smiled uncertainly. In the kitchen he announced that she could easily put a dishwasher under the sink.

    “Not until I’ve paid off the dining suite, not to say some of the mortgage,” she said definitely.

    He laughed cheerfully. “Yeah, I know what it’s like! –Did the ceramic cook-top come with the flat?”

    “Not exactly,” said Sloane with a sigh, filling the percolator. “It’s a choice between percolated and instant, so if you’re a coffee fanatic, you’ll just have to put up with it.”

    “Percolated’s fine,” he said mildly.

    She finished filling the percolator in silence. Why on earth had he come? Well, that was fairly obvious, she supposed. But how on earth had he found out her address? She wasn’t in the White Pages, yet.

    “How did you know this was where I lived?” she said, turning to face him.

    He perched one hip on the ancient table that Dick had done up for the kitchen. Probably this posture wasn’t actually intentionally designed to show off the hard-on. He grinned. “When I realised that a couple of the flats I had to look at were down this way, I gave Ward and Ingrid a ring.”

    “Oh,” said Sloane feebly. “Um—so whereabouts are these flats?”

    One was at the end of this street and one was round the corner. She nodded feebly. The one at the end of the street was a three-bedroomed job, with a garden at the side and front: one of the most expensive units in the street. Added to which, he’d rattle in it. And if the one round the corner was the one she thought it was, it wouldn’t be cheap, either. Well—no doubt corporate lawyers at KRP got paid a fair whack.

    “The one on the corner’s too big for me,” said Hardy on a doleful note.

    “Um—yes,” she agreed, jumping slightly.

    “The other one’s okay, but boring. It’s in one of the old warehouse blocks, but there’s only the frontages left, they’ve completely torn the guts out of them. Though at least it hasn’t got glass-tiled bathroom walls!” he said with a smothered laugh.

    “No!” agreed Sloane, smiling at him before she’d had a chance to reflect whether or not she wanted him to know that she remembered every word of that conversation. Blow. She turned back to the bench.

    After a moment she became aware that Hardy had come up to her side. “It is okay, is it?” he said uncertainly. “It’s not inconvenient?

    “No. Um—actually I haven’t had any breakfast. I was just going to make some toast. I thought you were Mrs Mincham,” said Sloane idiotically.

    Hardy laughed. “I’m definitely not Mrs Mincham!”

    “She lives next-door—that side,” she said limply. “She’s the sort of old lady that turns up at crack of dawn in the weekends to see if you feel like going to the supermarket. Mind you, she could go any time during the week.”

    “Yeah!” he agreed, grinning. “There’s a bit of it about! –I’ll make the toast, shall I? Got a toaster, or do you just use the grill?”

    “The toaster.” It was on top of the fridge: bench-space was bit limited since Ingrid, once Dick had installed the new stove with the ceramic cook-top, had insisted on putting in a terrifying grill complete with a barbecue facility. She reckoned it would make the place more saleable. Sloane got the toaster down. “I’ve never used the grill, I’m terrified of it.”

    Smiling, Hardy Saunders made a great plateful of toast for both of them. Finding plates in her cupboards without asking. He then found the remains of Kendall’s butter in the fridge, and Sloane’s Vegemite and strawberry Jam.

    “Sin jam,” said Sloane feebly, bringing the percolator over and sitting down at the stripped and revarnished old table on the whitish paint-splashed straight-backed chair that she hadn’t got around to stripping.

    Hardy sat down on the re-varnished Windsor chair. “That’s what it is, eh?”

    “Yes. –No butter for me.” she said hurriedly as he started buttering the plateful of toast.

    “Why do you buy it if you don’t eat it?”

    “I didn’t buy—” Sloane broke off. Hardy just looked at her mildly. “A friend brought it,” she said, turning scarlet.

    “I see,” he said mildly.

    Over the toast and coffee he chatted easily about the flats he’d looked at, and drew Sloane out a little about her family. “Sounds like fun,” he said, smiling, as she described their typical family holidays over at the beach house: lazing, sunbaking, swimming, half-hearted fishing and a bit of crabbing. “I’ve only got the one sister: Julia.” –He pronounced it “Jewlia” like the nayce people did, not “Joolia” like the yobs Sloane and her siblings had played with and gone to school with, she registered idly. No doubt he’d been to a nayce school, then.

    “Mm... Well, I’m fond enough of them, I suppose. I’ve always seen a fair bit of Kitten and the twins—that’s Melodie and Ingrid. Only we haven’t got all that much in common, really.”

    “No? I’d have thought you and Ingrid would have a fair bit in common.”

    Sloane swallowed a sigh. “I suppose so. Though since she married Ward, she’s— Well, it’d be mean to say she’s lost interest. It’s natural for her to be absorbed in her husband and her marriage.”

    “Yes. Ward was saying they’re thinking of giving up that ruddy flat of his.”

    “Really? I thought Ingrid was going to redecorate it?”

    “Think he’s decided he doesn’t fancy hauling the pram up all those stairs if the lift breaks down!” said Hardy with a laugh.

    “Mm.” The horrible suspicion had just crossed Sloane’s mind that Hardy Saunders had decided to latch onto her because her sister was married to one of the top bosses at KRP. She swallowed hard and eyed him warily. “Do you see a lot of Ward, then?”

    “Depends what I’m working on. I’ve seen a fair bit of him since the trip to SA and WA. I’ve been seconded to the team that’s working on the projects.”

    “Oh, yes, I think you mentioned it,” said Sloane limply.

    Hardy scratched his rounded chin. He looked at her sideways. “Yeah. That didn’t mean he didn’t think I’d flipped my lid when I rang him at nine this morning, wanting to know your address. –I gather that nine o’clock’s too early for a young married couple like them,” he added, making a comical face.

    “Um—yeah!” gasped Sloane, bright red.

    “So I explained that I was ringing him because I’d been too gutless to ask him all week,” said Hardy, this time making a horrible face.

    “Oh,” she said weakly. “Um—didn’t I give you my card? You could have rung me at work.”

    “Yeah. I was too gutless to do that, too.”

    “You don’t look the gutless type,” said Sloane feebly.

    “No, well, it was more than—um—the normal jitters!” he said with a little laugh. “I was sitting at my desk with your card in my hand, you see, and it suddenly came all over me that you were gonna think I was sucking up to you because your sister’s married to the boss.”

    She swallowed. “Oh.”

    “Yeah.” He rubbed his chin again, looking wry. “Actually, after he’d shouted at me for the obligatory ten minutes I more or less admitted as much to Ward, this morning.”

    Sloane gulped.

    “He said,” said Hardy, the sensuous mouth twitching, “—I’ll paraphrase his actual words—he said that if I turned up on your doorstep looking visibly interested you wouldn’t think that.”

    After a moment’s blankness, Sloane went scarlet.

    “So I hope you don’t,” said Hardy primly. “Ward pointed out that no bloke can fake that.”

     Sloane stumbled to her feet and began gathering up cups and plates distractedly. “No, um…”

    Hardy got up, laughing just a little, and helped her collect up the dishes and then wash and dry the dishes. It was just possible that he didn’t notice the fact that she was unable to stop herself from glancing at his pants, but on second and third thoughts Sloane decided it was highly unlikely. Highly unlikely. Help, he was bright! Well, probably you had to be, to be a corporate lawyer with KRP and get seconded to project teams and stuff when you were only thirty-four.

    He was not only bright, she discovered with a sort of sinking feeling as, having urged her to come and look at the flat round the corner, and reminded her to put something warm on, it was nippy out, and having then helped her tenderly into the large red fluffy cardigan which was hanging up in the hall before Sloane could say that shouldn’t be there and she normally only wore it round the house, he strolled slowly down the road with her hand tucked through his arm: he was... educated, was probably the word. Help!

    Well, Sloane had a B.A. and she knew she wasn’t dumb. But Hardy Saunders seemed to be interested in art, classical music and opera, whereas most of the guys she and her sisters knew were interested in working out at the gym, footy, and cricket. Even the gay ones were interested in working out at the gym, rather than art or opera. She didn’t dare to ask him if he worked out, or if he played any sport. Let alone if he watched any sport. After he’d revealed that he knew the man from across the road—the one who drove a strange-looking grey car that Karen had made a choking noise over—and played chess with him, Sloane said in a weak voice: “What school did you go to, Hardy?”

    Hardy told her. Even Sloane had heard of it. She swallowed.

    “Not all its old boys play chess,” he said on a dry note.

    “No. I’m sorry,” she said miserably. “I didn’t mean that.”

    “What did you mean?” he said lightly.

    “Nothing. Well, Dad plays chess, but... We’re just ordinary,” said Sloane on a miserable note.

    “We’re pretty ordinary, too,” Hardy replied calmly. “In fact, by the sound of your parents, a lot more ordinary than your family. Mum’s into floral frocks and flower-arranging and china painting. And Dad spends most of his time mowing the lawn and looking after his roses, now he’s retired.”

    “Yeah, this’d be in the intervals of going to opening nights with all the Friends at the Opera House!”

    “All the— Oh! that sort of friend!” said Hardy with a laugh. “Yeah. So?”

    “Mum’s interested in computer programming and computer programming. Oh, and fancy European cars. And just lately she’s begun to take a very slight interest in her grandchildren,” said Sloane grimly. “And Dad’s interested in the innards of computers and do-it-yourself stuff, so long as he doesn’t have to do it to his own house, and slightly interested in chess.”

    “Not in his grandchildren?” he said lightly.

    “Um—yeah,” said Sloane, swallowing. “As a matter of fact he’s always been a lot keener on them than Mum has. Um—sorry,” she said awkwardly.

    “No, I am,” said Hardy, looking at her seriously. “I didn’t mean to—um—to criticise your tastes, or—or imply anything about your family.”

    “That’s all right,” she replied, licking her lips. “None of us know anything about classical music, that’s all. Um—well, Kitten takes herself to the opera, but all she talks about afterwards is who she saw and what they wore.” She shrugged.

    “You might like it if you tried it,” said Hardy with a little smile. “I’ve got tickets for next week, actually. Come with me?”

    “Um... What day?” said Sloane feebly.

    The young ladies that Hardy Saunders usually took out would have asked him what was on. Either that or they’d already know, and probably would tell him what was wrong with the production. He smiled just a little. “Wednesday. It’s La Bohème.”

    “Um—yes, I’d like to,” said Sloane in a small voice. “Thanks very much.”

    Hardy smiled, pressed her hand against his side, and arranged to pick her up in time for dinner.

    Sloane repressed an impulse to ask him what to wear, smiled into his light-filled grey eyes, and refused to let her brain examine the implications of what she was doing.

    “My God: it is bloody well Pretty Woman!” said Fee, her eyes on stalks, leaning on Mandy’s reception desk.

    “Um—yeah!” she agreed with a nervous giggle. “Ssh! –Yeah, but this is a different one, Fee!”

    “Oh, right: it wasn’t La Bohème in the film, was it? Um—forget. La Traviata, was it?”

    “Not that! It’s a different guy!” hissed Mandy with an agonized expression on her face.

    Fee’s jaw dropped.

    Mandy nodded frantically.

    Rolling her eyes, Fee gestured wildly in the direction of Sloane’s office. She held up two fingers. “Far-mer Jones?” she mouthed, pointing at one.

    Mandy gave a sort of choked sound, halfway between a choked gasp and a choked giggle, and shook her head frantically. Cautiously she held up three fingers.

    “Jesus,” said Fee limply.

    Mandy gulped, and gave her a pathetic look.

    “A third one? She’s going it a bit, isn’t she?”

    “Yeah. Um—he came in,” muttered Mandy with a haunted look over her shoulder, “and took her to lunch the other day. He’s quite young.”

    “Well, that’s a step in the right— Wait on: not another Marty?”

    Mandy shook her head frantically. “He looks like Martin Sacks!” she hissed.

    “Eh? –Never mind. And do I gather she’s never been to the opera?”

    “No. She doesn’t like The Three Tenors,” she offered.

    “Glad to hear it.” Ignoring Mandy’s bewildered expression, she added: “I’ll just get myself a coffee. When’ll Gail be free?”

    Mandy looked at her watch. “Another five minutes.”

    “Righto.” Fee lounged off towards RightSmart’s minute kitchen.

    … “According to Mandy,” she reported ten minutes later, “this one looks like Somebody Sacks—don’t think Wagner comes into it;”—Gail choked slightly—“and he’s starting her off gently with La Bohème.”

    “So?” replied Gail in a bored voice.

    Fee sighed. She perched on the edge of Gail’s desk and dragged what she knew out of her. “Hmm... Is he one of those types that can only get it up by hanging round females that have been excited by other males?”

    “Look, shut up!” hissed Gail, turning purple.

    “Well, they do exist.”

    “Thanks for creating a new and unnecessary worry for me, Fee. I needed that.”

    Fee merely shrugged.

    “Look,” said Gail heavily: “as far as can be ascertained, he saw her at Lallapinda last Christmas, was struck by her, bumped into her again, was even more struck by her, and is merely doing what comes naturally.”

    “Glad to hear it. In that case, what’s she doing?”

    “Oh, get out of here,” she groaned.

    “Well, does she know what she’s doing?” said Fee obstinately.

    “Mandy classes this new one as ten out of ten: what do you expect her to do?”

    Fee shrugged. “Start producing two point three kids? I presume whichever way she jumps RightSmart’s out of the picture?”

    “Gillian starts next week, so I presume it is, more or less, yes.”

    Fee slid off the desk. “Just how many of Sloane’s clients will she be taking over?” she asked uneasily.

    “I don’t know, I only work here!” shouted Gail. “And GO AWAY!”

    “One of us warned you it was a mistake to go into partnership with a young, nubile hetero,” she noted calmly.

    “Get OUT!”

    Shrugging, Fee wandered out.

    “Who was that?” gasped Kitten, interstate, after an unknown man’s voice had answered Sloane’s phone.

    “Um—Hardy,” said Sloane cautiously.

    Hardy was perched on the edge of the bed. He winked at her.

    “Who?”

    “You know,” said Sloane in a very weak voice. “Hardy Saunders. He works for KRP. We met him at Lallapinda last New Year’s.”

    “He’s the one that looks like Martin Sacks when he was in Blue Heelers!” gasped Kitten, interstate.

    “So they all say, mm.”

    She heard her gulp. Then she said grimly: “Sloane, do you know what you’re doing?”

    “More or less, yes,” replied Sloane airily.

    “Well, how long— I mean— What time is it, over there?” said Kitten cautiously.

    “Eight-thirty, we’re still half an hour ahead of SA,” replied Sloane sardonically. “Are you ringing from Muwullupirri?”

    “What? Yeah. I’ve just had breakfast with Mrs Wainwright. Never mind that, what’s Hardy Saunders doing answering your phone at this hour of the morning?”

    “Exactly what you think.” –Hardy waggled his eyebrows at her, got up, mouthed: “Might as well have my shower,” and went into the bathroom. Sloane waited until the door closed and then hissed: “Kitten, you’re the living end! He was sitting right here!”

    “Yeah, and what I wanna know is, why? You’re supposed to be concentrating on Kendall!”

    “Why do you think?” she gasped, suddenly going into a fit of the giggles.

    “Look, shut up! Stop it! SLOANE!” she shouted. “What about the Lallapinda revenge?”

    “Shut up, Mrs W.’ll hear you,” said Sloane unsteadily.

    “Nah, she’s making a batch of pies. Listen, you idiot, what about Kendall?”

    “I am still seeing him,” said Sloane very cautiously—though there was no need, she could hear the shower running.

    “Good. I s’pose he hasn’t said anything about leaving Joyce? –No. Well, in that case, you seeing someone else might be just what he needs to give him a push. Don’t let him know who it is, just let him get all het up and suspicious.”

    “Look, I’m not—not gonna use him like that, Kitten!” she hissed crossly.

    “Have you gone and fallen for soppy Hardy?”

    “He’s not—” Sloane took a deep breath. “I don’t know what makes you imagine he’s soppy. He’s got a great body. He does rock climbing.”

    Kitten made a rude noise. “All the gyms have got those fake rock walls, these days!”

    “No! He practises at a gym, but he belongs to a club and he goes real rock climbing every other weekend!” she said crossly. “Just because he likes the opera, doesn’t make him soppy!”

    “Shit, does he? No wonder he dropped Nikki like a hot potato!”

    “Um—yeah. Um—Kitten, do you know anything about one called Aïda?”

    “Yeah. Why?”

    “Um, the thing is, I sort of let on I’d heard of it,” said Sloane, making a face. “He thinks I know what it’s about and who it’s by and everything.”

    “Oh! Listen—” Kitten gave her the details. Sloane listened meekly. “Got it?”

    “Mm, thanks. –Are you okay, Kitten?”

    “Yeah, fine. I just rang up to check up about Kendall. And just watch it: you’ve got a weakness for young and dishy types, don’t get carried away over Hardy Saunders.”

    “He isn’t. I mean, he’s not young. Well, if you mean Marty, he’s a lot older than him: he’s older than me. I just— Well, why shouldn’t I have something in my life?” said Sloane defiantly. “It—it’s not serious. It’s just something—something for me!”

    “Yeah,” she agreed pacifically. “So is he any good in bed?”

    “Yes,” said Sloane with a smile in her voice. “He actually makes it fun!”

    A moment’s stunned silence emanated from Muwullupirri. “Uh—yeah. Well, I can see that ole Kendall wouldn’t, and Marty was too much of a drip to make anything fun. But—uh—”

    “He’s passionate, I don’t mean that. I dunno that I can explain it.”

    “You don’t need to explain it, I understand exactly what you mean; I’m just kinda horrified,” said her little sister grimly, “that you hadda wait until now to find out it could be fun as well as passionate!”

    Sloane swallowed. “Mm. Well, he’s not serious, any more than me: I suppose that helps.”

    “Yeah, well, just mind you don’t let it get serious until you’ve settled Kendall’s hash. Mind you, it’ll be a good excuse for dumping him. Only don’t do it till I tell ya. –I gotta go, Mrs W.’s gonna show me how she gets her pie crusts so golden. See ya!”

    Sloane hung up numbly.

    Hardy came in from the shower, towelling himself roughly. “She okay?”

    “Yes,” said Sloane limply. “Apparently she rang up to tell me that Mrs Wainwright’s teaching her her tricks with pastry.”

    Grinning, Hardy chucked the towel on the floor. “Come here, I’ll teach you a trick worth two of that!”

    Weakly Sloane, giggling, let him teach her. Hardy Saunders, as it had turned out, was the sort of nice young man from a nice school that came round for dinner for your second date and let you get halfway through the first pre-dinner drink before he got an arm round you on the sofa. And didn’t breathe a word, the whole evening, about his ex-wife. It was an awfully nice change after Kendall. The roast had got a bit overcooked but Hardy hadn’t seemed to mind. Nor had his private-school sensibilities been at all shocked at Sloane’s suggestion, considerably later in the evening, that maybe they could just eat off their laps, in bed. In fact, he’d seemed to find it quite invigorating. Pudding had got put off until very late.

    That had been last week. It had sort of gone on from there. Sloane was enjoying it very much. He was young and ardent, and had a great body as well as thinking sex could be fun. Also he apparently had no hang-ups, unlike bloody Marty. And he was very nice. In fact, Sloane wasn’t sure why she wasn’t head over heels in love with him. He was ambitious but not overly so, intelligent without being an intellectual snob, hard-working, good at his job— And she did like him very, very much. But she hadn’t yet been inspired to give Kendall the push on Hardy’s account. It wasn’t anything to do with the Lallapinda revenge, either.

    Sloane had come to the somewhat guilty conclusion that she must be naturally poly-something. Not polygamous, that was only used of men, or so Kitten had once scornfully informed her. Poly-whatever-women were. That was, whatever women, the liberated 21st century or not, were not supposed to be. She was it. It was awfully nice, and for the moment, she was thoroughly enjoying it. Having Hardy was, frankly, like being presented with a lovely ripe, sweet, juicy peach on a plate all to herself.

Next chapter:

https://thelallapindarevenge.blogspot.com/2022/11/the-new-kitten.html