Wife on the Run

by Fiona Higgins

  Why didn’t I bring an umbrella in monsoon season? And why didn’t I wear a bra?

  It had seemed like a natural choice as she’d changed into her dress, the same one she’d worn the evening before, but now she was getting nervous. Wishing she’d followed her usual routine, worn a little more make-up, packed a raincoat. Everything was damp; her skin, her clothes, her feet. Her hair would be wild, too; she reached up and tried to pat it into place. As she did, she spotted the water fountain beyond the wrought-iron gates of the garden.

  Marcelo stepped out from behind the gate. He held his leather jacket over his head, but was still soaked through. He’d obviously been waiting in the downpour.

  ‘We are wet,’ he called, grinning at her.

  ‘Yes.’ She laughed, walking towards him.

  He moved forward to hug her.

  ‘I missed you, Pow-la.’

  She pulled away from him. ‘What happened, Marcelo? Why didn’t you call me?’

  ‘I am so sorry,’ he groaned. ‘I lost your number at the hospital. The doctor gave me some tablets and told me to go home, but I couldn’t find the piece of paper you’d given me. I pulled apart my backpack and it wasn’t there.’

  ‘What was wrong with you?’ Paula asked.

  ‘Food poisoning.’ Marcelo looked embarrassed. ‘Not my appendix.’ The Norseman pub’s counter meals weren’t the freshest, as Paula recalled.

  Marcelo shook his head. ‘I didn’t know where you were staying, so I caught a taxi to the nearest caravan park. I remembered you saying that was the plan but I couldn’t remember where.’

  Paula sighed. ‘I probably didn’t tell you.’

  ‘Then I went to another caravan park, then another. Then I thought, this is stupid. There are too many caravan parks in Perth, I won’t find them here. But if I keep going, maybe I will see them on the road? So I hitchhiked north, stopping in bigger towns like Geraldton, Port Hedland and Broome. I waited four or five days in each place, looking out for you, but I didn’t find you. When I got to Darwin this morning, I came straight here to scatter my mother’s ashes.’ His eyes were shiny. ‘And you know what? Suddenly, your number was there again, stuck under the urn’s metal casing. It just fell out, like a gift from her.’

  She saw the pain and joy inscribed across his face.

  ‘Oh . . . Marcelo.’ She wrapped her arms around his waist.

  They stood in the rain, their arms entwined, her ear pressed against his chest.

  Suddenly he lifted her up off the ground.

  She squealed as her thongs slipped off her feet.

  He buried his face in her neck, sending goosebumps down her arms.

  Slowly, he let her slip down the front of his body, until her feet touched the ground again.

  His eyes found hers, vivid and searching. Then he bent forward and, gently, kissed her.

  She let herself melt against him.

  ‘Come,’ he said suddenly, smiling at her through the rain. ‘Or we will drown.’

  He took her hand and they ran along a path into the gardens. Past bedraggled floral displays, a deserted playground and a barbecue area, and on through a small administration precinct. A dilapidated tin-clad café stood next to a plant display centre, neither of which looked occupied. An Aboriginal man in a green ranger’s uniform emerged from the display centre as they ran past.

  ‘How ’bout this rain, eh?’ he called. ‘Where’re you goin’?’

  Marcelo only waved and pulled Paula along faster.

  She was panting by the time they reached the signs to a track marked Rainforest Loop.

  ‘Best place to take shelter from the weather is in a rainforest,’ said Marcelo. ‘My country has the best ones.’

  He pointed to a narrow wooden bridge straddling a stream. They crossed it, then continued along a boardwalk that led into dense, green foliage. Broad leaves arched above them, dripping in the wet.

  To Paula’s surprise, Marcelo stepped off the boardwalk. They began to pick their way over lichen-covered rocks and around the buttresses of sprawling trees draped in lianas.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  Marcelo held a finger to his lips. ‘I know a secret place.’

  They walked further, until her dress was sopping at the hem and her perfect coral-coloured toenails were covered in mud.

  ‘Marcelo, I . . .’

  ‘We’re here,’ he said, motioning to an enormous, gnarled fig tree.

  She tried to compose herself; wiping the beads of sweat from her upper lip and wringing out the hem of her dress.

  ‘Look,’ he said. ‘This tree is very old.’

  He lay his leather jacket on a low branch and took several steps towards the bulky trunk. Then he crouched down and disappeared into a cavity at its base.

  ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘I’m inside.’

  ‘Oh, shit.’ She slipped a little over the leaf litter, then dropped onto her knees and crawled—first on her hands, then down on her stomach—into the tree. The front of her dress was muddy now, but she didn’t care. She was so pent up, she’d follow him anywhere.

  It was dark inside, except for some speckled light filtering through the cracks in the trunk.

  She stood up. ‘Marcelo?’

  Her voice sounded strangely high-pitched. Nervous. For almost all of her adult life, her sexual experiences had been exclusively with Hamish. Whatever else she knew, she’d pieced together from her brief relationship with her first boyfriend and Hollywood films.

  Paula’s eyes began to adjust to the dimness.

  ‘I’m right here.’

  Marcelo had managed to move behind her.

  Suddenly she felt his hands around her waist and he drew her to him, pressing his face into her neck.

  She smiled, then almost laughed aloud.

  I’m standing inside a fig tree, with a Brazilian . . . and a Brazilian.

  His hands moved over her stomach then cupped her breasts, and his mouth closed over her earlobe.

  She arched against him.

  His hands roved over her neck and shoulders, then down her arms. His fingers brushed her nipples through the thin fabric of her damp dress, making her shiver.

  He moved a hand to her leg, inching up her dress until he found the soft flesh of her inner thigh. His other hand fondled her breast, his lips nuzzling at her neck. She hooked her arm behind his head, running her fingers through his thick hair.

  He slid the strap of her dress off one shoulder, and then the other, peeling the dress down to her waist. She moved her hips, letting it fall to the ground, then kicked it away.

  ‘You are perfect, Pow-la,’ he whispered.

  She pushed back against the hardness beneath his jeans, making him groan.

  ‘Pow-la . . .’

  His fingers moved across her stomach, tracing the curve of her waist and her bottom, then gripping the points of her hips.

  He pushed his erection against her, harder now, before turning her around and kissing her fervently.

  The sweet delirium of his taste, his smell, his tongue probing hers.

  Their bodies writhed together, pelvis to pelvis, weaving and tilting.

  She moved her hands under his t-shirt, touching his smooth torso. Daring to caress what she’d only ever secretly admired.

  As she lifted his t-shirt higher, he pulled it up and over his head.

  Even in the shadows, she could make out the muscular outline of his shoulders.

  She heard him unzip his jeans.

  Then he was moving one leg between hers, pressing against her, kissing her deeper still.

  Her hands roamed to his trunks, pushing them down off his hips.

  She sensed him stepping out of them and reached for his cock, moving her hand up and down its shaft to the silken head.

  He kissed her hungrily now, his fingers working their way beneath her knickers. Light feathery strokes against skin still tender from waxing, exploring the moist warmth between her legs.

  He murmured so
mething in his own language, then wrenched her knickers off.

  ‘Marcelo,’ she moaned.

  ‘You are such a woman.’

  She pressed her naked body against his, guiding his penis between her thighs.

  Suddenly he lifted her off her feet and pushed her against the tree.

  His fingers glided across her collarbone and breasts, drawing a soft line to her navel, then downwards in long, languorous swirls. He took her nipple in his mouth, fondling the other with his fingers.

  A moment later, she felt his breath against her stomach. His lips played across her skin, teasing her, tasting her, lower and lower.

  And then he was kneeling before her, his lips and tongue and hands pleasuring her, until her breaths became ragged.

  As her ecstasy began to build, he stood up and gripped her hips between his hands, lifting her leg over the crook of his arm.

  She’d never wanted anything so much in her life.

  His teasing was almost unbearable as he came close to pushing inside her.

  Then he seized her hips and pulled her onto him.

  He paused for a moment and she whimpered, unable to stop herself from grinding against him.

  Then he began moving inside her, and the intense, rhythmic pressure was overwhelming.

  ‘Pow-la.’

  He grunted with each thrust, a raw, primitive sound.

  Her moans matched his as he plunged in and out of her, pushing her closer and closer.

  The sweat slid off their frenzied bodies.

  For a moment she floated on a dark cusp, feeling nothing but Marcelo.

  Her climax exploded as he erupted into her.

  Wave upon wave of pleasure, their bodies heaving and twitching. A sticky, sweaty annihilation.

  The world was reduced to the sounds of their breathing.

  Eventually they found her knickers, but they couldn’t locate her dress.

  How could it have disappeared inside a tree?

  They looked harder, scrabbling around until she found it; trampled underfoot.

  ‘Oh, no . . .’ she groaned, feeling how muddy it was. She couldn’t tell the back from the front, either.

  ‘I’ll have to put it on outside,’ she said, leaving Marcelo hunting for his own underwear.

  Paula dropped to the ground and exited the tree the way she’d entered. Inching backwards out of the hole at the trunk’s base, she felt light drops of rain on her bare legs and back.

  Then she stood up and, feeling a little self-conscious, turned around.

  ‘G’day.’

  The Aboriginal ranger they’d passed earlier stood no more than two metres away.

  Her hands flew up to her chest.

  ‘You know sex in a public place is illegal?’ His eyes were mocking. ‘Although I don’t know if inside a tree is classified as public, exactly.’

  Marcelo practically burst out of the base of the tree. Wearing nothing but a pair of trunks, now streaked with dirt, and holding the rest of his clothes.

  He stood between Paula and the ranger.

  ‘Have you been outside listening the whole time?’ Marcelo demanded.

  ‘No, I just saw your leather jacket hanging there a minute ago.’ The ranger pointed at the branch on which Marcelo had left it.

  Paula tried to put on her dress, mud and all, but it was difficult to do, with an audience.

  ‘Well, what do you want then?’

  The ranger seemed to take umbrage at Marcelo’s tone. ‘I was just sayin’ to your girlfriend, mate, that you both put on quite a show. And I’m within my rights to call the police about it.’

  Marcelo passed Paula his leather jacket and jeans.

  She grabbed them gratefully, forcing her feet into the legs of his wet jeans. They were a better option than her dress right now.

  ‘Got your clothes all dirty with the gymnastics, did you?’ the ranger asked, his eyes still dancing. ‘Serves you right.’ Then he reached for the walkie-talkie clipped to his belt.

  ‘Please,’ said Marcelo, taking a step forward. ‘I’m sorry. Don’t call the police. We were just having a bit of fun.’

  ‘Ever heard of a bedroom?’ the ranger asked.

  Paula grimaced, mortified, as the man looked her up and down.

  ‘Get going, you two.’ He jerked a thumb in the direction of the path. ‘Get outta here, before I change my mind.’

  They scrambled off into the rainforest, like guilty adolescents: Marcelo in his muddy trunks, carrying his t-shirt and sneakers; Paula swimming in Marcelo’s jeans and leather jacket, slipping about in her thongs.

  By the time they reached the gate, they were both laughing.

  They bolted to the ute through the rain, heavier now, and lunged into the front seats.

  ‘That was close,’ said Paula, still giggling.

  The best sex I’ve ever had and I could’ve ended up in court for it.

  ‘We should leave,’ said Marcelo, his bare chest heaving. ‘In case he does change his mind.’

  Paula started the engine, pleased she’d had the presence of mind to hide the key under the tyre. Otherwise she might have lost that in the fig tree too.

  As they moved out onto the road, Marcelo slipped his wet t-shirt over his chest and pulled on his sneakers.

  ‘There,’ he said. ‘Much better.’

  They looked at each other—damp and dishevelled, smiling like besotted teenagers—and burst into laughter again.

  20

  They drove with no particular destination in mind.

  After a while, Paula glanced at Marcelo.

  He was gazing out the window—a little broodily, she thought.

  ‘Marcelo, are you okay?’ she ventured.

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  ‘Where are you staying?’

  ‘In a backpackers.’

  ‘Do you want to get your things and come back to the caravan park?’ It seemed like a natural suggestion.

  ‘Sure.’

  His response didn’t seem all that enthusiastic.

  Her inner critic began to berate her.

  You didn’t turn him on enough.

  You weren’t hot enough.

  You weren’t tight enough.

  ‘Marcelo,’ she blurted, ‘did I do something wrong back there?’

  She focused on the wide, flat street in front of her, gripping the steering wheel too hard.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Of course not.’

  She wanted to know more; to understand how good it had been for him. Her own experience had been cataclysmic.

  ‘I got a Brazilian,’ she faltered.

  ‘I noticed.’

  ‘I thought you might like it.’

  She felt his hand on her thigh.

  ‘Pow-la, you’re a sexy woman,’ he said. ‘You’re beautiful natural.’

  Paula wasn’t sure what to make of this, having spent her adult life trying to badger her body into submission; waxing, tinting, streaking, exfoliating, moisturising, fake tanning. An endless treadmill of treatments designed to combat the natural.

  ‘You are perfect, Pow-la,’ he said. ‘I’m the one who’s . . .’

  He suddenly pointed at a junction ahead. ‘This is the turn-off. Right here, please.’

  She veered into Acacia Avenue and immediately spotted the hostel several hundred metres along. They pulled up outside a deserted tyre yard and a dilapidated-looking office block.

  ‘I won’t be long,’ said Marcelo.

  ‘Okay.’ She smiled at him.

  He opened his door and then, as if changing his mind, closed it again.

  Leaning across the front seat, he cupped a hand under her chin. ‘You are perfect, Pow-la. Trust me.’

  Then he pressed his mouth against hers, moving his hand beneath the damp leather jacket, tracing a line from her collarbone to her nipple.

  Suddenly she was breathless again.

  ‘I have been swimming, I think?’ he said, pointing to his still wet trunks.

  She giggled as he climbed out
of the car.

  She watched him stride up the path to the hostel, quite a sight in his trunks and t-shirt.

  The man who’d inadvertently helped her tackle Hamish’s question—Isn’t my penis big enough?

  Now she knew the answer.

  Paula shifted in her seat, noticing some tender spots. Something lumpy was pressing against her buttock, too. She reached into the back pocket of Marcelo’s jeans and removed the offending item: his leather wallet.

  Flipping it open, she caught sight of the large lettering of his driver’s licence: Republica Fedarativa Do Brasil. She removed the card to look at the photo: Marcelo looked good even in a mug shot. She squinted at the name underneath.

  Gabriel Gustavo Pereira.

  Everything contracted to those three words.

  Not Marcelo Fernandes, born on 25 December 1980, blood type AB negative.

  Someone named Gabriel, with entirely different personal details.

  Paula struggled to breathe. Who is this man?

  The man to whom she’d just abandoned herself. Her charismatic, multi-talented travelling companion.

  She felt her stomach heave, like she might be about to vomit.

  Who have I just made love to?

  Without any protection, she suddenly thought.

  Oh, God.

  She needed to get out of the car, now.

  But as she opened the door, she saw him walking towards her in a fresh change of clothes.

  She froze, her hand gripping the door handle.

  He tapped at the window.

  ‘Please, pass me my wallet? I have to pay.’

  She passed it to him, her hands trembling, then watched him walk back up the path.

  Leave now, she thought. Just close the window and go.

  But he was back a minute later, throwing his backpack into the ute and climbing in next to her.

  He moved across to kiss her.

  She pressed herself against the door.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked. ‘Who are you really?’

  His face was expressionless.

  ‘I saw your driver’s licence.’

  His jaw tightened. ‘Okay. Pow-la, let’s drive. I will tell you.’