Ainslie Paton

The mattress was the last thing to put in place. The last thing she could make use of him for. She was aching all over and the sooner she was soaking in an Epsom salts bath the better.

He watched as she ripped the plastic from the mattress. He’d watched a lot, taking his lead from her, not in a boring way where he never thought for himself, he had plenty of initiative, but in a respectful way where he wasn’t trying to take over, where he acknowledged this was her new house and he was just the help.

The mattress was heavier than it looked, or it might’ve simply been that her arms were tired from two days of heaving things around and unpacking. Without him she’d have never gotten finished today. She had to admit the house looked amazing now that it was all put together.

They were done after this and he’d know it. “You’ve been a huge help. Thank you.” She should reward him with a drink or a snack or something, but God knows what was in the fridge, only leftovers.

The resentment she’d felt when he roared up, Mr Super Cool in his leather jacket and helmet, had softened. He hadn’t understood why she was so frosty to begin with when all he’d done was follow through on his promise to help. But then he wouldn’t would he.

What man you meet for the first time a week ago at a BBQ with a woman half his age on his arm who then learns you’re about to move in to his neighbourhood would volunteer to help out, and then actually remember the address, rock up on his bike and make himself indispensible for hours despite you being arch ice bitch for no particularly good reason.

Except who does that?

He smiled and pointed out the handle on the side of the mattress. Together they heaved it onto the bed base. She sat on the side, testing it. It’d been okay in the store but she’d chosen so quickly she hoped it was okay now.

The sit test wasn’t quite enough. She could sit forever. She rolled back and looked at the ceiling with a groan. He laughed. Then he bent, took her by the ankles, slipped her shoes off and brought her legs around so she was laying the right way around, head to tail. She watched him, amused, let him manhandle her into place. He looked so pleased with himself. Maybe he was a nice man. It was hard to tell. So many people seemed to be one thing and turned out another. He must want something for this.

He looked like a man who’d had a hard life, wore leather to hid the scars, but it sat gently on him without that bitterness some men got when life dished them unexpected hardship. From a purely practical point of view he wore a pair of jeans and an old Chisels t-shirt remarkably well. She could see why the younger women were a thing for him.

“Now how does it feel?” He stood back assessing her. There was nothing judgemental in his eyes, he was having fun.

She patted the space beside her. “Second opinion.”

His smile broadened. He did have a great smile. You could see a younger version of him in it. He’d have been a lady killer. Who was she kidding, he still was. Just not her lady, she’d been dead a long time.

He’d ditched his biker boots at the door, so he was already bare foot. He climbed on the bed from the base, flopped on his back beside her, echoing the groan she’d made. “Not bad. Firm. I like a firm mattress.”

“I hope I do.”

“Never had a King. Always thought I would. Never had the space for it.”

“I nearly didn’t. Seemed like an indulgence, all this space.”

He raised his head, looking around the perimeter of them. “Not that lavish for two.”

She grunted. “It’ll be me and the book I fall asleep with, though I could lose the laptop in here easy enough.”

He rolled to his side and propped himself up on his elbow. “I don’t believe that for a second.” He wasn’t talking about lost electronics.

“Hah. Believe it. I’ve retired from that game.”

“Retired or resting?”

“Retired, no come-backs. Moved on.”

“To what?” He sounded shocked.

She turned her head to look at him. “The rest of my life.”

“I get that you have a career. But that can’t be enough.”

“It’s been enough for more than ten years.”

“Holy fuck. Sorry. I just.” He lay back flat and put his palm over his eyes. She’d shocked him. She like that. Why not? It was the truth. It was the truth for a lot of people, they just never talked about it. Not that it was clear why she had, the bed maybe, the oddness of sharing it with a man she’d known for less than eight hours.

He came up on his elbow again. “You’re telling me you’ve not had sex in over ten years.”

“Yup.”

“Shit.”

“You can’t even imagine that can you.”

He shook his head. “Not for you.”

Oh, that’s not what she’d expected him to say. “What do you mean?”

“What a fucking waste. That’s what I mean.”

She should stop this. She should get up, but her bones liked it here. She should at least make him see he didn’t need to patronise her. But really why bother? He’d be gone soon and she’d see him about the place occasionally and they’d chat politely and that was that. “Oh.”

“Not, oh. I mean it. I can’t. Hell, what made you? I mean, why?”

“Have you always stuttered?”

“Fuck off. I’m having trouble processing this.” He laughed and so did she. He wasn’t patronising her. Was this flirting? Technically, maybe. She had no idea, but it was fun.

“You want me to answer that question?”

“Yeah, I sure do. Because I can’t imagine the reason.”

“Stud.”

He rolled over, pillowed his head in folded arms. He was hiding his laughter, not very effectively. She had a great view of his bum, his broad shoulders. He was right about the bed, with another person taking up space it wasn’t so indulgent.

“Of course you can’t imagine it. You’re still doing women who could be the age of your own kids.”

“If I had any, and I don’t. And yes, I am, but it’s never serious.”

“She looked serious about you.” The lovely brunette at the BBQ. Young and lovely.

He knew who she meant. “For about another month and then she’ll be ready to move on.”

“Sounds like that’s a pattern.”

“A healthier pattern than the one you’ve got going.”

“I’m stunningly healthy and happy with my choice.”

He raised his torso, resting on his elbows. “You can’t possibly be.”

“Stud.”

He laughed. “Look, I can understand why you’d give up sex if you had bad experiences, if you lost the love of your life perhaps, or had a medical condition.” He frowned.

“Not even warm.”

“Okay, so why?”

“Harm’s way.”

“I don’t get it.”

“I had the normal kinds of relationships early on, then a long stable one that lasted all of my twenties and then I simply never met anyone I was interested in or who was interested in me.”

He shook his head. “Never married?”

“No.”

“And what, you never wanted to be with anyone else, even causally?”

She nodded. “I like my life without the complication.”

“It doesn’t have to be complicated.”

“Stud.”

“Ten fucking years.”

“Ten non fucking years.”

This bed was going to be good, they were both laughing and yet no jostling at all. Maybe you didn’t get jostling in beds anymore, how would she know if they’d manufactured that phenomenon out in the last decade.

“I need to understand this. No friend tried to set you up at a dinner party. No guy tried to crack onto you at a work function. You didn’t put up a profile on some god-awful dating website.”

“None of the above.”

He flipped to lie on his back again. “Inconceivable.”

“I’m hardly alone in that. I know other people who hung up their sex drive, for lack of interest or opportunity. But no one talks about it.”

“All I know is it’s a fucking crime for you to be one of them.”

“Did you hear the part where I said I was happy, Stud?”

“I heard. I believe you. I feel—”

“—if you dare say, sorry for me, you can get off my bed.”

He went silent. He did feel sorry for her. And how did she feel about that? Fine, actually. She was happy. Far, far happier than some of her married friends and colleagues stuck in loveless unions or chasing doomed affairs, or pining after lovers and experiences they realistically would never have. She thought herself lucky not to be one of those terminally unsatisfied people. Being lonely at Christmas time was a very decent trade off for having a life where she could please herself.

“I was going to say, I feel privileged to be in your bed.”

Oh. He could surprise her. He was a surprising man all round. “You’re hardly in it.”

He waved a hand at the ceiling. “Semantics.”

“But an important distinction.”

“What if I wanted to be in your bed?”

Oh, yes, this was flirting. “Do you?”

“Fuck yeah.”

She rolled her eyes. Not a swear word out of him all day, but now. “It’s the challenge isn’t it? I’m basically a born again virgin, we’re having this conversation in my bedroom, on my bed and you’re a stud so you can’t resist. It’s your true nature calling.”

“It’s my dick.”

“You did not just say that.” She grunted and tried to sit upright, but he caught her arm.

“Let’s do an experiment.”

She pulled her arm out of his grasp. There was a tiny moment where she felt his strength, felt him let go. She stayed where she was. “You’re going to kiss me and if I feel nothing you’ll agree to back off.”

“Something like that.”

She looked at the ceiling again. “You should go. You’ve been enormously helpful. Really I’m being genuine here.” She sounded anything but. “I could not have gotten the place squared away so quickly without you.”

“The implication being you’d have managed it yourself, it would’ve just taken longer, and you’re used to doing things your own way. Furthermore, I’m an unlooked for intruder and the only reason you kept me around is that I was useful and I’ve amused you.”

“Something like that.”

“Jesus, you’re a hard case.”

There was nothing to say to that, except to compliment him on his astuteness and this man didn’t need any more compliments. He had rotating twenty-five year olds for that.

“Two things are going to happen now.”

“Are they just.”

“I’m going to kiss you and I’m going to cook dinner from whatever you’ve got in the fridge.”

“I’ll raise you with, you’re going to put your boots on and leave.”

“You’re not holding all the cards here.”

“I see nothing but a royal flush in my hands. My full house, my life, my call.”

“You’re not even a little bit curious—”

“—About being kissed?”

“About whether I can cook?”

She ruined, totally crushed her pretend outrage, her prickly offense by laughing loudly. “How do I get you to leave my bed and never come back?”

“Hard fucking case.”

“It would be the best thing.”

“Hard fucking-on. It would not be the best thing by the longest ever shot. I need a woman like you in my life. You’d be the most excellent friend, call me on my bullshit, ground me, give me somewhere to come to get my head kicked-in between twenty-five year olds, someone to trial new dishes on.”

“You really like to cook?” It seemed an odd fit, a man like this, a little rough around the edges, a little dangerous, who liked being in a kitchen, especially when she didn’t.

“Jesus.” He palmed what she could see was indeed an erection and he was clearly talking to God. “I offer her my hard-on and she’s more interested in my talents with a wok.”

It was impossible to hide her amusement. “Never happens huh?”

He’d closed his eyes and shook his head sadly.

“Then we’re at an impasse and effectively that means I win.”

He opened his eyes. So blue, so clear. Seeing something in her he liked, when no other man had for the longest, longest time. “And I lose.”

All his joking had fallen aside. “I imagine that never happens either.”

“Oh, no that happens. All too frequently.”

And that was the reminder she didn’t know him, just as she’d been wondering what it would hurt to let him kiss her. It was simply a kiss. It would mean nothing. At best it would be pleasant. And then he’d go and they’d have a valid excuse to avoid each other—that embarrassment on her bed. “I’m fairly sure I’ve forgotten how to kiss.”

“Did I help you move into a nursing home?”

“I’m serious. I think one of the reasons it was easy to give up sex was that I wasn’t very good at it.”

“You’re killing me here. You never learned something through practice? That’s how I learned to cook.”

“Oh what, because you were naturally good a sex, Stud?”

He breathed out in what might’ve been an irritated way and she supposed she was pushing it. “Are we doing this?”

“I believe you were about to go home to your girlfriend.”

“I live alone.” He rose up on his elbow and started down at her. Did they make beds bigger than King? He seemed awfully big and remarkably close. “But I’ll go if that’s what you want.”

Oh he was too clever. He was making her want what she didn’t need and couldn’t really have except for this one time. This right here, right now time.

“What do you want?”

“I think there’s beef mince in the freezer. Can you do something with that?”

A smile placed on his face, but he wasn’t giving in to it. He moved a piece of her hair from her cheek, tucked it behind her ear. Apart from the thing with the shoes and her ankles, apart from the occasional brush against each other as they’d been moving furniture and boxes, it was the first time they’d touched. “The way to a woman’s heart is through her kitchen. I see where I’ve been going wrong all these years. Should’ve learned to cook a lot sooner. I’ll manage.”

She supposed she could manage too, one kiss. She sighed. It was a bother, but it was right there in front of her. She liked how he looked, how he smelled of his leather jacket and sun warmed laundry. Worse things had happened.

He loomed a little larger, but his hand to her opposite shoulder.

“I really don’t remember how this goes.” He’d built this up into something and it was going to be nothing and it was only fair to warn him.

“That’s okay. It’s my kiss, I’ll do all the work.”

“Yours?”

“Ah-huh. You’ve made it clear you don’t want it, so it’s a kindness to me, right?”

That made it sound like he was forcing himself on her and that wasn’t the case or her hand wouldn’t be on his shoulder, her hip wouldn’t be snug against his. If she wanted him gone, he’d be gone. But she wanted the kiss now and the meal later.

“I might catch on, you know like riding a bike.”

“I’ll watch out for that. You can jump in at any time.”

“That’s good of you to be so considerate.”

“You’re fucking with me.”

Not quite but wonder of wonders she could almost image it. The warmth of his skin, rough hair and bunched muscles, the strength of him, the gentleness too. “Shut-up and kiss me.”

He did. At first it was strange, too close, too tense, too intimate. Weird. Why did people like to do this? How had she ever liked it? She panicked, would’ve pulled away, except she had nowhere to go, she should’ve sat up first. Then between one frantic second and the next, the locked box in her brain where she’d stored her memory of passion burst its hinges and all the lost sensations trickled out and crawled over her skin bringing pins and needles and shivers so bright they hurt a little. She remembered to open her mouth to him, to accept his tongue, that kisses could be coupled with touching and touching was lovely when done right and he was doing it so very right and surprisingly so was she because it wasn’t one kiss, it was a series of them and they were slow and lazy like Sunday afternoons should be and hadn’t been forever.

He pulled away to take a breath and that was annoying because she wasn’t finished with him. She wanted him back and yet she wanted most of all to tell him it’d meant nothing, that she’d felt nothing and didn’t now ache for what had been missing. “I didn’t want that.”

He stroked her face with a curled knuckle. “I know.”

“You’re not sorry.” He might have shown some remorse.

“I’m not.”

“You should be. I was perfectly happy without it and now what am I supposed to do?”

“You could have it again. We could practice till you get good at it.”

Why had his voice gone like that? Red wine on hot gravel. What on earth possessed her to let him on the bed? “I don’t want to get good at it. I’m busy. I don’t have time.” She didn’t want to be feeling his thick dirty blonde hair in her fingers, or enjoying the weight of his leg across her thigh either.

“I should get out to the kitchen then.”

She wrapped her arm around his neck. Yes, but not yet. And she couldn’t very well ask him to kiss her again after making such a big deal of the whole no process.

“I’ll just finish off here. Nothing worse than leaving a job half done. Is that okay with you?”

“If you must.”

“Oh, darlin’ I must.”

So he did. And she remembered more about how a body could feel when lips met lips and later when she watched him cook, she remembered other stuff about sex she might like to experience again, and she should’ve been angry about it. She was angry about it. He’d come into her new home and polluted it with unsteady yearning and fledgling desire and she was too old to be bothered with all of that, it spelled certain heartache, but it wasn’t going to be as easy as wielding a broom or burning a scented candle to clean out those unsettling emotions.

He’d spoiled things with that kiss and she was an idiot to have let him.

She praised his meal. Maybe he could cook for her again. Maybe they could be friends who used each other for cooking. If that was a thing people did. Friends with meal benefits. “You can’t kiss me again.”

He cocked his head, gave her a quizzical look. He’d cooked and he’d cleaned up after himself as if it was no big deal. “I was worried you might say that. You didn’t enjoy it?”

“It’s not useful.”

“Useful. You’re a funny woman.”

“I’m not trying to be funny and you used the word, ‘furthermore’ in conversation.”

“I know.”

“There’s nowhere to go with it.”

“You really have forgotten how sex works haven’t you.”

“You’ve forgotten girlfriend.”

“My disposable girlfriend is what you’re worried about? And here I thought it would be the whole I’m happy alone, I hated kissing you, get out of my life thing.”

“I didn’t hate kissing you.”

“No, you didn’t. And if you let yourself you’d not hate other things too.”

“Why, what would be the point?”

“The point would be I like you and in spite of trying not to, you like me. It could be fun, but you don’t have time for fun do you?”

“Nope. Not on the agenda.”

“Shame.”

She shrugged. “Fun like you I can do without.”

“You make me sound like small pox.”

“I don’t think small is your issue.”

He laughed. You could imagine him as a boy laughing like that over some scam he’d pulled off, over some poor unfortunate he’d sucked in. “And you said you’d forgotten how sex worked.”

“What do you want from me?”

“Nothing.”

“Except to cook in my kitchen.”

“It’s bigger than mine. I hate cooking for one. I live around the corner and we both have to eat. Or have you come up with a way to eliminate the need for food from your life as well and this, eating with me now, is just you slumming it.”

“Why aren’t you married?”

“Why aren’t you?”

“I’m not good at the whole being a traditional woman thing. Bores me.” She gestured to him, his turn.

“It didn’t work out for me, the permanent thing.”

“But you tried.”

He nodded. “Couple of times. Totally my fault it never worked out.”

A couple was two. Had he been married twice? “Quick to blame yourself, what did you do?”

He leaned on the bench. “What’s going on here?”

“We’re having a conversation.”

“An interrogation. You don’t get to cross-examine me because I moved your furniture and cooked you food you were surprised was edible.”

“I don’t?”

“No chance, Slugger. You do get to have me cook for you again, with more ingredients and a good bottle of wine because you kiss like a goddess and I want to be around when you realise what you’re missing out on.”

“Not going to happen, the goddess stuff. You’re wrong about that. I don’t even wax my legs in winter. Do you do handyman things?”

“I am not simply resourceful with leftovers. I’m man enough to deal with hairy legs and armpits in any season. You want to use me for my hammer now do you?”

“Big talker.”

“And we’re back to size. Listen, I think you’re interesting. I’d like to hang out with you again. We don’t have to kiss.”

“We’re not.”

“I got that vibe from you, loud and clear.”

“My bedroom is totally off limits, unless I need something fixed in there.”

He grinned.

“Oh shut-up.” She’d walked straight into that. “You’re wearing boots, what’s stopping you leaving?” She was and they both knew it. This was definitely flirting and she’d fallen into it and now she didn’t know how to quit it. “You can make me dinner next weekend.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.”

He bowed. She smacked him on the shoulder. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

He straightened up laughing. “Yeah, you did. That’s okay, I can play at being subservient, what do you think I’ve been doing all day?”

His best to charm her that was obvious. Cheating. Scum. Rat.

It worked. Like his lips on hers worked, like his hand in her hair and on her hip and low on her belly, not quite where she’d have liked it to still, but enough of a freak out as it was. What was she supposed to do about all that feeling he’d churned up from nothing? She resented him and his smug handsome face and his rugged athlete’s body that belonged to a much younger man. “I really don’t like you. This is going to end badly.”

He rounded the kitchen bench and picked up his bike keys. “It has to start to end.”

“No, it can just stagger around like a drunk for a while then fall over.”

“I have variable speeds but stagger isn’t one of them and it started when you let me in your front door this morning.”

Goddamn she’d thought as much too. “I tried to freeze you out.”

“I’m impervious to cold.”

“I can guarantee I’m not going to be worth the effort.”

He took a step towards her. He was big up close, more imposing than his laying down version, a lot more imposing than his following her around the house or cooking one. She took a step back. He took a step forward in his big boots. She took a step back and met the wall. Help. She wanted to kiss him again and that was like wanting to see a foreign film, unexpected and awkward and ultimately annoying because of the subtitles. She liked things to be straight-forward, no reading between the lines. Here there were lines, whole telephone exchange’s worth of them, and all he wanted to do was cross them.

He leaned down and she braced like for a car crash. He laughed and kissed her forehead. “I can guarantee you already are.”

She walked him to the front door. Mostly to make sure he left her in peace. Did he make the bike especially noisy on purpose? He was such a kid, yet he had to be older than her. He could be fifty for all she knew. He could be an axe murderer out on parole. In spite of herself she wanted to know how many times he’d been married.

She ran the bath and dumped the Epsom salts in the swirling hot water. She wished she’d never met him, certainly never opened the door to him this morning, and letting him on her bed, what a disaster. She was old enough to know better. Old enough, alone long enough not to need the headache of him, because he was going to be a headache, a recurring one judging by the look in his eye and the way he laughed when he’d faked another kiss at the front door.

She deserved the evil snicker because she’d totally fallen for it, getting her hands to his chest, wetting her lips like she was some kind of desperado. She was a forty year old woman, with a great career, a new home full of lovely new furniture and an uncomplicated life she enjoyed. She travelled, ate out, spent money on clothes and shoes and cars and she didn’t have to see foreign films or watch sport, or wax or pluck or preen unless she wanted to. She wasn’t missing out. She wasn’t secretly just making the best of it till something better came along. She’d built this life, she loved it, and she wanted to keep it this way.

So damn him and his stupidly sexy bike and his too blue eyes and capable hands. Damn him and his easy gruff laugh and his too cool to be fooled manner. She did not want his kisses. Not today, not tomorrow. Not in exchange for household chores. And damn her too because she’d been so cocksure that she was beyond the sex thing, that she’d moved past it forever and didn’t need the hassle of it, because who was hassled now huh.

She got into the bath and it felt good on her muscles, but not as good as his touch had. The lavender scent was soothing, but not as attractive as the scent of his skin, the trace of cologne he wore under leather, the dust and sweat of the day. Instead of relaxing in the heat she got steamed up over what that kiss did to her. It wasn’t nothing. It couldn’t simply be written off and replaced like damaged goods. She had no insurance for it. No cover.

And worse, worse, so much worse.

She couldn’t wait for the weekend to roll around so she could begin the damage, the screeching, roiling devastation, the end to her sanity and her sensible, reasonable, enjoyed life, all over again.

About Ainslie Paton

Ainslie Paton is a published and indie author, who lives in the most awesome city in the world – Sydney, five minutes from the beach, but not the famous one where her age spots and skin cancers came from.

She was a shy child who was frightened of the vacuum cleaner and sand.  Only one of those things changed.

The literary tradition runs deep in her clan.  Her grandfather told a mean story though he hardly had any schooling.  He once sent an important letter written on a roll of toilet paper because that’s all that was available.  He also pulled his own teeth and set his own bones, so you know.  Her grandmother was an expert in British aristocracy.  She made a weekly study of popular magazines and could quote them.  She believed every word.  Her uncle wrote unintentionally hysterically funny airmail letters from abroad in tiny handwriting that required a magnifying glass to read.  Her brother believes a fully-rounded person only ever need read the sports pages.  Her father has never read a book in his life, but he might one day.  Her mother texts. Occasionally they make sense.  Mastery of phonetic spelling has proven key to knowing when there’s a free feed on.

She has two cats.  Don’t bother drawing any clichéd conclusions about that.  They’re cats who think they’re dogs.  To her knowledge neither of them can read.  Yet.

She has never used an oven.

She was one of those torch under the bedclothes after lights out readers as a kid.

She particularly liked reading stuff she wasn’t supposed to and still does.

She set out to write but the need to eat, have bedclothes to read under and books to read was ever present so she sold out and worked as a hack and a flack, mostly impersonating other people and making things up for companies and the occasional government.

She still does that.

She also writes for what must be love.

She's the author of:  Hiding Hollywood, Turning Tables, Getting Real, Grease Monkey Jive, Desk Jockey Jam, Detained, Floored, White Balance and Hooked on a Feeling.  There's more to come.  Stay tuned.

She tweets @AinsliePaton.

She blogs at www.ainsliepaton.com.au.

Facebook, yeah somewhere, but not so much.

1:        Welcome to the Neighbourhood

“Mum, Mum, can I, can I? Say yes. Pleeeese say yes.”

Gayle sat back on her heels juggling the fondue set in her arms. It wouldn’t fit in the cupboard with the Tupperware. She should’ve left it behind. It wouldn’t get much use anymore. She peered around the stack of boxes she’d yet to unpack at her son. Dean was jumping up and down with the kind of excitement he reserved for major outings, presents, or when he’d had too much red cordial. It’d been a while since she’d seen him this revved up.

“May you what?” She put the fondue pot down on the lino tile floor.

“May I ride my scooter with Kim? Please, pleeeese.”

She looked about the messy kitchen and got to her feet. “I don’t know where your scooter is and who’s Kim?”

“Kim lives in our street. Mum, can...may I?”

“You’re supposed to be helping me unpack.”

Dean screwed up his face. “Muuum, I’m just a kid. I don’t know where anything’s s’posed to go. Kim goes to my new school. We’ll be in the same class. Our teacher’s name is Sister Thekla.”

“That’s right.” Sister Thekla taught second class at St Anne’s and Sister Thekla didn’t know about the divorce or maybe Dean might not be in her class. Anyway it wasn’t a divorce yet. Not really. They had to do the separation first and by then, surely the school wouldn’t ask them to leave. “I’d better meet Kim then.”

Dean threw back his head and roared, “Kiiim. My mum wants to—”

Gayle clamped her hand over his mouth. “Dean, the whole street would’ve heard that.” She looked down into his pale blue eyes. Ice blue like Max’s, whose eyes she’d once thought were so cool, so divine. Dean smelled of the bacon she’d hastily cooked him for breakfast at home. No, not home, at the old house. “Did you clean your teeth?”

He nodded, little liar, then wriggled free. “Mum!” He pointed, “That’s Kim.”

Gayle turned to find a scruffy looking kid. The child was about Dean’s height and size and wore a pair of denim shorts that dagged around the knees with Dunlop Volley’s that’d never been whitened, no socks, a stained red t-shirt and a cap. “Hello Kim.”

The child’s face came up and Gayle got a look at gap teeth and a grubby chin. She looked from Kim to Dean. He was nodding furiously. What would it hurt to let him play, and making a new friend in the street who he’d know at school was a wonderful co-incidence.

“Don’t go far. Stay where I can see you from the front steps.”

“But Mum, Kim knows the way everywhere. We won’t get lost.”

Gayle looked back at Kim. It was impossible to tell if the child was a boy or a girl. “You play where I can see you, or you can stay here and help me unpack.”

“But Muuuum. We’re going to play Evel Knievel.”

“Oh Dean. How do you play that?” It sounded like the type of game that would lead to skinned knees and worse.

“Kim has a ramp and a milk crate and—”

Goodness gracious. “You’re not to play Evel Knievel. Just ride your scooter and stay where I can see you.” Not what she needed; first day in the new house and her child with concussion, and Max coming with fish and chips for dinner. It was exactly what he expected to happen; for her to make a bad job at being a single parent.

“But Muuum.”

“You heard me, Dean.” She looked at Kim again. The child was leaning back on the doorjamb. The American style cap was several sizes too big and had the words Tiger Beer written on the crown.

“Oh all right.” Dean stomped through the kitchen and out to the small backyard. He must’ve put his scooter out there.

“Take it around the side,” she called after him. Too late, he rode it through the laundry and kitchen, weaving around boxes and stacks of crockery and cookware, and with Kim in tow disappeared up the narrow hallway and outside.

It was the inappropriate cap that convinced her to go and check on them. Gayle stood on the front steps of number 15 and looked out at the street. Dean and Kim were sitting on the footpath examining something on his scooter. Directly across the road a man in a singlet and stubbies with a cigarette in his mouth was washing his Holden. Two doors down from him an older woman wearing a housecoat set a sprinkler on the lawn. She exchanged a wave with the car wash man and went back inside. On the same side as number 15 and down past the telegraph pole there was another man pushing a lawn mower, and outside the big house on the corner there were a couple of teenage boys with their heads under the hood of a car.

Max had given her a choice of houses. Both similar in style: solid, red brick semis with long hallways, a pokey bathroom and no backyard to speak of other than the Hills Hoist. Gayle had liked the look of Middle Street best and now that she was here she hoped she and Dean would fit in. But she wasn’t ready to meet the neighbours yet, and she wanted the house to have some semblance of order before Max arrived. It was never too soon to start showing him she could live without him.

She left the door open and went back to the kitchen and started in on the small pantry cupboard. Already she missed her walk-in pantry, her island bench, her dishwasher and her shag pile carpet. The carpet in this house had seen better days. Everything in this house had seen better days. Her furniture looked out of place. It was wonderful at the old house, but here it looked like it was trying to show off. And no one likes a show-off.

She shook her head. It would do no good to think that way. Yesterday, she was a married woman who lived in an architect-designed home in a premium suburb. Today, she was a separated woman in a rented semi with no visible means of supporting herself and her son beyond what money her ex-husband chose to give her. Her eyes felt tight. Goodness knows where she’d put the box with the bathroom stuff in it. She needed Disprin.

Meanwhile she had to get these boxes unpacked. She had to get Dean ready for school. She had to get her own bank account. And learn how to check the water and oil in the Beetle. She had to get a job.

She dropped a glass platter and it smashed into a million pieces. Where was the dustpan? She hadn’t had a job for eight years, and she was too old to be a check-out chick this time around, but she wasn’t qualified for anything else. She couldn’t even touch-type. She never thought she’d have to work, but now...

Well now it was 1975—three whole years since she’d danced around in her underwear in the empty house singing along with Helen Reddy to I am Woman at the top of her lungs. And now it was really was time to roar.

She couldn’t find the silly dustpan. She broke a piece of cardboard off one of the packing boxes and used it to sweep the glass into a heap. She was picking up the bigger pieces when a sound in the hallway startled her. A piece of the broken plate stabbed her finger and she winced and straightened up.

There was a man standing in her kitchen. He wore a Tiger Beer cap. He was enormous and the cap fitted just right.

“Hey, you’ve cut yourself.”

Gayle looked down at her hands. Blood streamed down her finger and dripped on the floor. It was so thick and red, and there was no air, and the floor started shifting, and she was very hot, and who was this man?

“Hooh.” She put her other hand out to hold onto the sink. The room was spinning and her knees had gone funny.

Big arms wrapped around her and she leaned on a warm wall of man. “I’ve got you.” Who was he? He smelled like chocolate topping and leather warmed in the sun. “Don’t faint on me. I’d rather have you lying at my feet for other reasons than blood loss.”

Gayle shook her head. “What?”

The man released her but kept hold of her hand. “There’s a little bit of...let me.” He opened her palm and pinched a shard of glass from her finger. “There.”

“Oh.” The blood flowed freer now, it got on his t-shirt and the buzzing in her head started up again. Oh no, she couldn’t faint—there was a strange man in her kitchen, and Dean was outside and she didn’t know anyone here, and Max would come and find her like this and hate her more and take Dean away. I’m not woman. I’m a puddle of nothing.

“Moving day ‘eh. Hard work. I’m Steve.”

She looked at his handsome face and said her name and then all the air left her body as Steve took hold of her hand, put her finger in his mouth, and sucked. “Oh!”

He grinned around her hand, then sucked again, his lips, his tongue folding, flickering wet and firm on her finger, his moustache bristling. He looked down at her with a wicked glint in his eye, but when she pulled her hand away he let her.

“That’s...” Oh, she didn’t know what that was apart from disturbing, unhygienic and vaguely like something out of a Jackie Collins’ novel. She felt nauseous and kind of slutty. A stranger had just sucked her finger in the mess of her rented kitchen. And she looked like a complete dag in her terry towelling shorts and a tank top that’d shrunk in the wash. She was pretty sure her bra straps were showing. This was humiliating.

And then it became downright pornographic. He took off his shirt and wrapped it around her hand. “Field surgery. But don’t worry, I’m not Bela Lugosi. I just came to see if you needed anything.”

Gayle looked at her hand, now in a wad of t-shirt. She didn’t look at him. But even without looking at him she knew he was like something that’d just walked out of a Cleo centrefold. “You, I...” If this was The Stud, he’d have her stripped naked and bent over the table before she got her wits about her.

His big hands were on her again. “You’d better sit down.” She sat, he moved away, and she could breath properly again. “Your shirt.” She started to unwrap her hand.

“It’s just a shitty old thing. Don’t worry about it.”

“I got blood on it.”

“Sweetheart, that shirt’s seen more blood than I’ve had hot sex with neighbours.”

Gayle jerked and bashed her elbow on the table edge.

He laughed. “Hey, hey, that was a joke. I don’t hit on neighbours. Usually.”

“Are you, are you...” She couldn’t even say the words, ‘hitting on me?’ Her mouth was dry like the dead leaves in the unswept backyard.

He laughed again. “Nope. I’m here to see if you need help, that’s all. You’re safe with me. I think you’ve already met my niece, Kim.”

“Kim. Oh, yes.” Kim was a girl. Gayle pointed to her head. “She had—”

Steve’s hand went to the brim of his cap, he pulled it off and slapped it against a worn denim thigh that was at least as thick as both of Gayle’s. “Yeah, she loves this cap. Little monkey nicks it all the time. Told her it’ll give her nits. Think that made her want it more.”

He said he wasn’t hitting on her. He didn’t come for hot sex. He had chocolate hair, handfuls of it, and chocolate cupcake eyes that looked somehow sad. He was tanned a warm bronze colour, the hair on his chest and arms bleached blonde and it was only September. He’d had his nose broken at one time; it had a little kink in it. It made him look all the more interesting. The muscles on his arms bulged and he had a Superman chest. Was he a body builder? He was sculptured like a hedge into this extra large form. He had thick lips and huge hands, his big feet in rubber thongs, and that clipped beard was just, oh. God Lord he was the most dangerous man Gayle had ever seen.

He was half naked. And he’d sucked her finger.

It was the most unexpected thing that had ever happened to her. And if he did go all Sean Connery or Paul Newman and kiss her, she’d, well, she’d... She’d kiss him back.

Gayle shook her head. No she wouldn’t. She didn’t know the first thing about kissing a man like Steve. She’d probably faint from the excitement of it. Just thinking about it was making her cling to the chair.

She watched him step around a pile of saucepans and go to the sink. “Is the power on? I’ll make you a cup of tea. You look like you could do with one.”

She found her voice. “The kettle should be in that box on the stool.” He grabbed it and filled it. She stood. This was her kitchen; she couldn’t let a stranger take over. “I’m not sure how to light the stove.”

“Gas, like ours.” He reached into a pocket and pulled out a Bic lighter and the stovetop came to life. “You got milk, tea?”

The fridge was the first thing she’d attended to when the truck left this morning. There was milk. There were Mint Slices. There was this extraordinary man making tea. She unwrapped her hand. The cut was clean and had stopped bleeding. She gave the shirt a shake. “I’ll wash this and return it to you.”

Steve was leaning back on the sink watching her. He had a hungry look about him. A Mint Slice wasn’t going to be enough. He took the shirt from her hand, his big warm fingers rubbing along her palm. “Don’t worry about it.” He tucked a corner of it in the back of his jeans so it hung like a skewiff tail. Oh Lord. He was a great big lion prowling around her kitchen as though it was new territory he had to mark.

She found cups and saucers, a tea strainer, and took the bottle of milk and biscuits out of the fridge. There wasn’t much room to manoeuvre between the sink, the bench and the table, but she managed not to brush up against him as she made the tea, and then she wondered why she bothered because he was looking at her like she was a caramel Drumstick and he couldn’t work out if he wanted to lick her or bite her bottom. Her hand shook when she poured milk in her cup. “Do you take milk?”

“Please, Gayle.”

He remembered her name. She liked that. A little too much. She poured milk in the second cup. “Sugar?”

He shook his head. “Can’t you see I’m sweet enough?”

She laughed, that was so corny but he was so fresh. “Very funny.” Was he flirting with her? He was probably like this with everyone. But he was shirtless and he’d done the thing with the finger and that look, and what if it was flirting with her? What was she supposed to do about that? She was a married woman.

Except she wasn’t anymore.

She could do anything she wanted. She’d somehow missed the whole sexual revolution until right this moment, and it was all too confronting while she was sweaty, dusty and wearing terry towelling. He was all too confronting, fully dressed or otherwise. She watched the teapot. Steve leaned on the sink and watched her. “If you need any lifting done I’d be happy to help.”

Maybe if she knew the right signal he’d lift her so she could wrap her legs around him. Lord what was wrong with her to be thinking things like that? But it’d been so long since a man had looked at her like she was worth more than having his dinner on the table and his shirts ironed. Looked at her like he wanted to touch her. Max hadn’t touched her in a long time except perfunctorily or by accident. Steve was probably just being a guy.

A big, bronzed, prowly, flirty, chocolaty guy.

“So Kim is your niece.” She had no idea how to talk to this man. Or how to look at him without checking him out. She looked at the pile of boxes still to unpack instead.

“Yeah, we live in number 22, the one with the big arse brick fence.”

“You live with your niece?”

“And my brother Ray, Kim’s dad. It’s just the three of us.”

“Oh.”

“That’s the old neighbourhood scandal. Ray—the single dad. Wanna know what the new neighbourhood scandal is?”

Now she looked at him, primarily at his hips, where his jeans hung, and taut muscles she couldn’t name framed his waist. “Ah, please don’t say it’s me.”

He nodded and a hunk of shiny hair fell over his face. He tossed his head and flicked it back. It was easily long enough to tuck behind his ears. “Until the old gossips get the lowdown on you—you’re it.”

“The lowdown?”

“The John Dory. The story. Who you are, why you’re here, that drift.”

“Oh my God!”

He pushed away from the sink, and he was the biggest thing in the whole house. “Hey, hey, sweetheart, I’m joking. The only scandal around here is the one that sticks to me. Why did you think I meant you?”

She shrugged and poured the tea. He stood beside her and she could feel warmth radiate off him like an open oven after she’d heated a Sara Lee. He could probably warm the whole house. How hot would he be to touch, to run a finger down the centre of his chest all the way to...

She pushed a saucer across the sink towards him. It made a rat-a-tat-tat sound on the runnels of the corrugated draining board. “I guess people will know soon enough.” If his brother was a single parent, he might be sympathetic. She took a deep breath. “I’m separated from my husband. He wants a divorce. He has a new girlfriend and she’s pregnant and he doesn’t love me anymore.” She put her hand over her mouth. Too late. She’d just blurted out her entire sordid situation to a finger-sucking stranger.

He reached out and stroked her arm. “Baby, that’s heavy. What a deadshit your old man is. You’re a fucking gorgeous woman.”

Gayle dropped her head as a flush of heat roared through her body. She was embarrassed. She was, she was... “Why did you suck my finger?” Another blurt. But he was rubbing her arm like he wanted to comfort her. She hadn’t lost that much blood to have become so unhinged in front of him. She should ask him to leave.

“Sweetheart, I’d suck—”

A bright voice called, “Hello, hello,” from the front door.

Steve’s head shot around, “Haze, we’re in the kitchen.”

A girl with hip length autumn coloured hair, an embroidered denim mini-skirt and cork platforms appeared in the doorway. She wore a blue and green tie-dye t-shirt that looked homemade and she held a cake plate in her hands.

“You started without me. Hi, I’m Hazel.” She came forward and put the cake plate on the table. “My parents live at number 24. We thought you could do with afternoon tea.”

Hazel was exceptionally pretty. She had green eyes and unlike other redheads, she wasn’t pasty or freckly, she had a golden tan. Gayle felt frumpy and unfashionable beside her. “That’s very nice of you. I’m Gayle Matthews.”

Behind her Steve was ferreting around for another cup and saucer. “Milk, right,” he said. Gayle jumped when his hands came down on her shoulders. He was peering over her head at the cake. “You make that?”

“Yeah. Milk. It’s an apple teacake, it’s still hot,” said Hazel.

The hands were gone. He was pouring a new cup of tea. Gayle’s face felt hot. “So you’re neighbours?” Oh God, of course they were.

Hazel smiled. She took hold of the saucer Steve held out. He’d put a mismatched cup on it. “I grew up in the street. Steve is a blow-in.”

“Like me.”

“Ray’s been here for nearly ten years now,” said Steve.

Hazel leaned back on the table. “Wow, that long.”

“Kim wasn’t even born when they moved in.” Steve slurped his tea. “Jesus, how long have I been here now?”

“Four years,” said Hazel.

Steve put his saucer down on the sink. “Is it four?” His brow creased. He passed a hand through his hair. All the sunshine fell out of his face and he looked irritated. Gayle watched him, fascinated by the mood change.

Hazel nodded.

“Four.” Steve shook his head. “Deadset.” He spat the word out like you would a stray tealeaf. He looked out the kitchen window as if he was looking for those four years and missed them terribly.

Gayle turned to Hazel. Steve had made her nervous enough when he was taking charge and touching her, now that he looked downright annoyed he was thoroughly rattling her. “You live in number 24?”

“Not anymore. I moved out when I started college.”

Gosh. Hazel was beautiful and she was smart. “What are you studying?”

“Teaching. This is my last year.”

That would make Hazel around twenty-one. Only three years younger than Gayle, but with her bright blue eye-shadow and her armload of bangles she seemed like a different generation. The taste of regret coated Gayle’s throat like the recurring symptom of a virus that attacked every time she realised how her marriage had ended her youth.

“If you hadn’t gone to London you’d be done now. You’d be working,” said Steve. He was facing into the room now, leaning back on the sink.

Oh, this was worse. They were about the same age, but Hazel had been to London and she’d soon be a teacher, a professional. Gayle was a single mother with boring clothes and no prospects. Hazel had blue skies to match her eye-shadow and Gayle had a fondue set that symbolised everything about her married life. It was briefly fashionable, fiddly to use and left you hungry. She picked it up off the bench and put it back in the box. It could go to St Vinnies.

Hazel brought the cake plate over to the sink. “I’m not sorry. I’m thinking of going to Hong Kong before I take a permanent job.”

Gayle rumbled for plates and a knife to cut the cake.

“Asia. Bet the olds won’t like that,” Steve said.

Hazel grinned. “Nup. I told them I was thinking of doing Peace Corp work in Vietnam. That made Hong Kong a lot more acceptable.”

Steve grunted. When Gayle looked over his eyes were closed and he was gripping the edge of the sink as though he was the one about to faint.

“Oh God, Steve. I’m sorry. That was—”

“Shit, Haze.” Steve looked at Gayle. “Excuse me while I teach this young lady some respect.” He lunged for Hazel and she tried to dodge him, but he caught her around the waist, pushed her backwards until she hit the fridge, and started tickling her. She shrieked, and tried to bat his hands away. She was calling for him to stop, but she’d wrapped one arm around his neck and her eyes were crawling all over his face and chest. This was not a woman who minded being pawed. Gayle felt like she was intruding, especially when the tickling stopped but Steve didn’t move away, he kept pressing Hazel into the fridge with his hips and hands. She turned away to rinse the cups and saucers.

“We should get moving if we want to have you all stowed away tonight, ‘eh Gayle,” said Steve.

Gayle looked over. Hazel’s fingers were tangled in the hair at the back of Steve’s neck, but Steve was looking at her. “There’s no need for you to stay. I’ll be fine.”

Steve straightened up. “Got a radio.”

“I’ve got a stereo. But it’s not—”

“Where?” He was already moving into the lounge room where the movers had dumped it.

She called after him. “You don’t need to stay. I’m right.” She got no answer. She looked at Hazel who smiled back.

“What can I do?”

Gayle shook her head. “No really, you don’t need to help.”

Hazel shrugged. “I’m not doing anything else. If I go home I’ll get the third degree about what I’m up to.” She peered into an open top box. “Linen, for the linen press in the hall?” Gayle nodded and Hazel hefted the box in her arm. “Welcome to Middle Street.”