by Karen Botha
‘Oh, you’ve never said that before, you must be serious about him?’ I don’t need her answer. I will have to do my foraging about Giles Harrington undisclosed from now on.
‘Well, you’re a good judge of character, after all you’re friends with moi,’ I press my right hand against my chest as I bow my head. She shakes her head, a grin spreading across her face.
‘Oh, what’s his house like?’ I remember.
And she goes on to tell me about his new build property.
‘It’s totally fine, it’s compact, but not small. There’s three bedrooms, so it’s perfectly adequate. It’s got a double garage on the side, so one of the bedrooms is over that with a roof light. It’s nice, the best thing is though, it’s actually quite clean - for a guy.’
‘Excellent,’ I wouldn’t expect less from Giles Harrington. I deliberate as to whether he has a stash of ‘how to get away with murder,’ books somewhere, or whether they’re all at his mums place.
Instead of saying any of this, I ask, ‘Is it tidy too?’
‘Yeah, it’s tidy, but he doesn't have a lot of stuff. It’s quite sparse, but men are like that aren't they? Men think if they’ve got a couch that’s interior design done.’
Our food arrives, and it smells delicious. I immediately tuck into an edamami bean, swilling it in the warm dip, closely followed by salmon massago. I enjoy the different textures as they take a spin around my mouth.
‘You have to go for sushi with a friend,’ Lucy notes as she bites into a nigri, expertly held between two chopsticks.
‘Yeah, not easy to eat is it,’ I still manage to finish off my piece.
‘You should really learn to use chopsticks,’ she chides.
‘You're right, I used to be able to, but honestly, I stopped caring enough.’ She’s unsure quite what I mean, her forehead is scrunched, she chews slowly.
‘What I mean is, it used to matter to me what people thought, so I made an effort. But now, I care less, so I use my fingers, way easier all round,’ and she nods, she gets it.
‘I’ll keep on with the traditional cutlery,’ she smiles at me, taking a sip from her wine glass.
LUCY
‘We should be moving in next week,’ my client says.
She’s been married for two years, but being Asian, she has been living with her husband's family. It’s all become too much for her, so against all odds, she has stood her ground and bought a ramshackle old place and is in the process of gutting it. She is not a natural project manager, hence her weekly one hour of solace with me.
‘Can’t wait to move out of my Mother-in-Law’s spare room and to have sex with my husband wherever and whenever I want.’ We giggle, memories of living with my ex's Mum cascade forth, unchecked. It was not a fun period. I painstakingly knuckle her shoulder, breaking down the sticky chords of muscle fibre. The clock on the wall ticks slowly, indifferent to my eagerness for my free time to commence.
‘Are you busy today?’ It’s a fairly standard question. I haven't figured out if clients like to be exclusive or whether they want to come and see someone that is flat out, validating their choice of therapist.
I answer regardless, ‘Ah, well, funny you should ask. You’re my last client today.’
‘Oh, why, what do you have planned?’
‘I’m going to a track day with my boyfriend,’ my voice raises from the gentle whisper, growing loud and shrill. My excitement bubbles over the lid I use to repress my energy when giving the illusion of being calm to my clients.
‘Oh.’ That’s it. Oh. A sharp pain kicks my stomach, I’ve been anticipating her response to my announcement and had expected more, ‘Do you like cars?'
‘Well, I’m not particularly into them, but I enjoy different things, and my boyfriend got the opportunity through work, so I’m off.’
‘What will you be doing?’
‘I’m not entirely sure, but there will be roadsters speeding as fast as possible around a race track that’s for sure.’
‘Oh...’
‘I’m hoping I’ll be able to access the pit lanes where all the mechanics work on the engines, but he hasn’t said. He’s not one for giving me a lot of information, likes to surprise me.’
‘Ah that’s nice.’
‘Well, it can be, but he does still get it wrong sometimes. I’d much prefer to be informed, but these men; they’re a work in progress. They can’t be perfect right from the off I don't suppose?’
‘Oh no, I remember when I first met my husband. I was lucky because at least I got to choose him rather than it being an arranged marriage, but even then he has still needed modifications.’
‘Yeah, they’re similar to cars themselves. Maybe that’s why they like them so much.’ When we chortle our amusement at the failings of our respective men, the sound from my mouth is a little goofy. My excitement about this afternoon, burning through my professional exterior.
When the hour hand finally indicates her time is up, I can’t get her out quick enough. I have to rinse off the sticky residue that comes from giving a good massage, then change. I’ve already laid out my outfit including some new lingerie and done my hair and face. As long as I’m careful not to splash in the shower, I’ll be ready in ten. Giles is due to collect me in fifteen.
When he pulls up on the drive my heart flips. I love that feeling, I don’t want it to ever end. My fresh panties stretch tight, transparent, encouraging his exploration. I swing the door open and stand leaning with one arm on the frame above my head, an unspoken promise for later.
‘Hey gorgeous,’ he grins as he jumps out of the sports car to kiss me.
‘Hey,’ I whisper back midway to his mouth, ‘you smell good.’ He does. It’s a bit of a shame that time is so tight, but that’s the downside with my job, always on call, appointments buffering my social life. I never complain though, I’m grateful. There was a time when socialising ranked a low second to an invasive role with few perceptible rewards as a trade off.
It’s about forty minutes round the motorway, to the track, but at least with my late start, we’ve missed the traffic. It seems even quicker, as we chatter about nothing, non-stop.
We drive straight through the open barriers and into the parking area. The track is behind a chain mail fence to our right and as we get out of the car, the ground rumbles. A group, of what I am reliably informed are road ready coupes, hurtle past. It lasts no more than a few seconds but it's tremendous, I’m hooked: already. My mouth forms an oval and my eyes sparkle.
‘Wow, that was pure thunder!’ I scream even though the noise has passed. I leave Giles and head towards the towering mesh fence.
‘Come on, that’s nothing,’ Giles hurries me along.
I catch a glimpse of matching excitement in his face. I begrudgingly prise my fingers from the mesh and follow him down the dirt path, under a tunnel that passes below the race track.
‘Who was that, are they special racing drivers?’
‘They are, yes. We’ve hired them for the day to show what a range of our cars are capable of. It’s amazing some of the results you can get out of standard vehicles when they’re driven properly. There’s professionals actually participating in races, like you’ve just seen, but we'll also experience racing first hand too.’
‘Ah cool,’ they're still rumbling through my chest, ‘it’s amazing. I know they’re sports cars, but I would never have thought they would burn up the road like that. And the noise…’
‘It’s the engines being pushed to the limits. I have that all day long at work. We have these kind of hard perspex booths, I suppose describes them best, and we test the motors in them. We have quite a few running at any one time so it's noisy.’
‘I bet.’ How can this be the first he's mentioned this? He’s so difficult to get to open up sometimes.
Once out of the other side of the tunnel, we’re immediately at the end of the pit lane. Each car has its own garage where mechanics busy themselves with what I assume are pneumatic tools. Comp
ressed gas fizzes high speed power through any number of screwdrivers, wrenches and drills. As we pass one, a rapid hammering causes me to place my palms automatically over my ears.
‘Would you like to go in a car? If we mark our name down, we can race round the track with a professional driver…’ Giles nods involuntarily.
‘Oh I’m not sure about that…’ then all of one second later, ‘would it be possible?’
‘Yeah, of course, we just need to reserve our space now that’s all, before it gets booked up.’
I agree swiftly before the opportunity is lost.
‘There’s not as much demand for the rally driving so we can go for that soon if you’d like?’ Giles is hunched over the booking schedules.
‘Cool, rally driving aswell?’
‘Sure! We sell so many different kinds of cars we need to showcase them all.’
‘Sorry to sound like an idiot, but rally driving is the off-road stuff, right?’
‘Yeah, but you don’t drive, these guys are really skillful, instinctive about how far to push the car. You’ll be a passenger, it’s fun.’
In less than a nano-second, I find myself also committing to this adventure, and so we head straight over to the outpost at the back of the circuit in the middle of the bushes. After a quick safety briefing which basically says, don’t touch the steering wheel, fasten your seat belt and enjoy the ride; we’re kitted out with helmets and paired with our drivers and mid sized hatchbacks. There’s no glass in the windows - but there are some fairly substantial looking roll bars.
‘This must mean business…’ I say to myself, but Tim, my driver, hears.
‘Yeah, but the engine and the chassis are the same as a standard road car. What this baby can do is the same as the hardtops you’d buy from a dealership - adjusted slightly in case we tip over.’ Tim, grabs the roll bars. He’s not what I would have expected had I thought about it prior to coming today. He’s quite short really, only about five inches taller than my small frame with dark, thinning hair. And he’s thin. Not the sort you'd expect to be able to handle this mean machine.
‘OK…’ I secure the chin strap under my helmet.
‘Don’t worry, I’m experienced and this is a reasonable path, anyway.’ With that, he hops in to the drivers side. I follow his lead.
I wave to Giles out of the space where a window once existed as we head off down the dirt track. Before I’ve had a chance to get my arm back in, I nearly lose it on a branch overhanging from a nearby tree.
‘Guess that should have been in the safety briefing,’ notes Tim, I agree giddily.
‘We’ve picked speed up quickly,’ I shout trying my best not to let out a massive ‘whoop’ as we drift round a muddy bend, bouncing on the ridges left by previous cars.
The back end slips out, like we’re about to career through the next bend sideways but right at the last minute, Tim manages to realign. We hit a straight. Tim floors the pedal; my head jostles from a combination of speed and uneven road, the loose hair below my helmet flies in all directions. We speed on for some time, snapping branches and twigs, leaving them in our wake. I’d expected to be thrown around, but I wasn’t prepared for the sound, the engine squeals, the breaks burr and there’s a constant fracturing in our path, it’s really quite aggressive - and I love the sensation as my heart keeps pace.
The pressure suddenly releases off my neck as we slow for a corner that sweeps round to the left. Tim cuts the swerve down to a minimum by ridging the side of the car off the dirt track and on to the grassy sides. It tilts the car and with it my confidence that we’re going to get around unscathed. It’s only a momentary blip though as the road straightens and we once again pick up speed, rampaging over the grooves formed by earlier thrill seekers.
‘You’d be a natural at this, you have no fear,’ Tim is nearing the end of our route.
‘I’ve never done anything like this before, but I’m definitely a convert,’ sad as I see the finish approaching.
‘You should give it a go!’
‘Yeah, maybe,’ and then I remember reality, ‘the problem is, if I break something, I can’t work; I’m a massage therapist, so we’re not terrific without arms or legs.’
‘Yeah, I can see how that might be an issue.’
‘And no work, is no pay…’ I pull the sad face as if I were an emoticon.
With that, I hop out of the car and try to straighten my raggy hair before Giles skids round the last bend. As he gets out, his wide smile matches mine; total elation.
‘Enjoy that?’ he shouts at me, over the racket of our engines.
‘Totally, but did you expect different?’
‘Nah, but you can never be sure.’
‘What now?’ I’m getting greedy. It’s still a few hours until our track test so we have some time to kill.
‘I’ll show you,’ and he pulls my the elbow and leads me off over the grassy mounds at the side of the paths where the public have pulled up all manner of deck-chairs and picnic blankets. We pass a burger van which is the best food we’ll get today so both grab a lukewarm cheeseburger.
‘This thing has never seen real meat,’ Giles complains as he bites into his. He’s right, it’s grim, but we’re hungry, so it goes down fast enough as we walk on.
‘As we’re heading in the direction of those signs,’ I point. ‘I guess our next trip is to try some skid testing?’
He takes my hand and we head over, both smiling after our earlier successes. There’s no queue.
‘Lunch time helps,’ Giles pulls my arm eagerly towards the front. In contrast to the often excruciating noise everywhere else today, here, it’s quiet.
A few hose pipes' gush water over a patch of smooth black tarmac on a sizeable run-off area. A series of orange traffic cones mark a slalom through the perilous man-made flood. We arrive at a pair of everyday family saloons. From what I can tell, they are no different to the ones we see on the road. My heart skips a little - the rally car at least looks like it’s been adapted to minimise injury. These don’t even have a number, they are just, so ordinary.
‘Which one do you want?’ my gallant knight asks.
There’s a line of four cars, each exactly the same, other than their paintwork; a long five door family car with a boot. I gaze at them in silence. The tyres are all new, with well defined wide ridges. If the only thing differentiating them is the colour, it’s not too much of a choice.
I play along choosing the black option, I imagine it being more evil against the glistening tarmac. Giles is in the neon blue ride which is far too happy a hue for this mean test. The red and yellow cars are left to race against another timer.
I know the drill now, so I’m belted in before my driver has chance to give me instructions, and we’re off.
‘Is this drifting?’ I grip the grey leather of the seat, my knuckles instantly melting to white.
‘Yeah, kind of.’ His face puckers as he presses the gas, lining up the first turn.
‘Cool, I used to work with a guy who did it, he was obsessive, so we heard all about it; regularly.’
‘Yeah, we tend to get a bit like that,’ it occurs to me I haven’t asked this chaps’ name. It turns out to be Dave.
The back end slips out as we accelerate around cone number one and without pause head directly towards cone number two at a right angle. The tyres slip and the car moves on its own, but Dave doesn’t panic and lets it ride until, I guess, he senses he can take control again, and we rampage towards the next neon beacon. This experience is designed to show off how well this particular vehicle handles, but I beg to differ.
‘That was great Dave, but put me in charge, and we'd be off the road.’ I breathe out slowly as we pull to a stop.
‘Ah it only takes a little practice. This baby has a state of the art, all wheel drive functionality, which means it can sense when you’re either under or over driving it and balances the torque accordingly.’
I have no idea what he is talking about. It sounds impressive s
o I nod, hoping he doesn't catch the fog of confusion floating behind my eyes.
‘Yeah, OK, but it’s more about driver skill than the car, I’m sure,’ Dave’s chubby face colours all the way up to his fair hair. I decide to leave it at that and wait quietly for Giles before we head back towards the pit lane.
Different cars are up on the ramps now, tyres are being changed and drivers are hanging about signing autographs. If I knew who any of them were, I may be more inclined to join in. As it is, I can’t be bothered to fight through the throng of people, to get to the front. Maybe in years to come I’ll regret this if I learn a bit more about this fantastic sport.
‘My shoulder is burning,’ I notice and slip my spaghetti strap low for closer inspection.
‘Are you OK, would you like to go?’ Giles asks, concerned.
‘Are you joking? Not before the main event.’ He laughs at my childlike enthusiasm as I grin back up at him, face tilted towards his, asking for a quick peck on the lips. He delivers, then moves his mouth swiftly to my hot shoulder, brushing my skin with electricity. He groans in my ear as acid heat sears my flesh. We both take a moment, my panties become uncomfortable, digging in, begging to be removed. I twitch, blowing out an intense sigh.
Our eyes meet, and we spend a second drinking each other in. I pull at the loop on his waistband, dragging him over to the corrugated toilet block.
'What are you doing?'
I laugh, there it is again, that high pitched tone signalling he's out of his comfort zone. I shove open the heavy blue door and after a hasty recce drag him into a cubicle. I grasp his belt buckle, uncuffing his restraints as he wraps both his large hands around my neck. My hair tickles, he raises his fingers, his thumbs in-front of my ears grasping either side of my face. I tip my head backwards exposing my throat. He nuzzles into it, moving upwards, trailing quick kisses. He reaches my mouth and grazes his teeth against mine, opening me wide. We explore the nooks of each other's mouths, tongues hard with desire, mutual need feeding greed.
