by Helen Brown
It didn’t matter. She was on a roll with her book.
Erotic images of Emily and her stablehand were pouring into her laptop on the kitchen table.
Frederick feigned shock when Emily refused to ride sidesaddle. Galloping through the forest, she revelled in each thrust of the black stallion between her thighs. Keeping pace on the white horse she’d lent him, he was mesmerised by the rhythm of her breath exploding in gasps. At one with her mount, she sailed a ditch. Her hair struggled loose of its net and tumbled over her shoulders.
‘You certainly know how to ride, Miss Brontë,’ Frederick said, flashing his crooked canine tooth.
She checked her phone. Not even a text.
Their horses stopped at a stream and dipped their noses in the pool. Frederick dismounted and caught her in his arms as she slid to the ground. She took his hand, so large in hers, and led him into a stand of pines. The trees were perfectly formed, their sturdy trunks prodding the sky . . .
She wondered if she should call him. Basic manners, some would say.
Trees kaleidoscoped through her head as they kissed. Her thighs oozed desire. Frederick pressed her onto a bed of pine needles, his warm spicy breath . . .
Or just text. But then he might think she was chasing him.
Lava flows of desire coursed through Emily, stirring parts of her body that had been dormant for years.
Lisa sighed and kicked off her ugg boots. Her feet were in agony.
Frederick dug into her corset and fished her breasts out into the dappled light. Perfect breasts, the nipples compact and brown . . .
‘But my dearest,’ Frederick said, stepping back in alarm. ‘You are fading away! Could you not eat more?’
Something damp nudged her toe. A fly must’ve wafted in through the back door. She flicked her foot. The creature withdrew.
Breasts.
If she’d granted Scott an opportunity in that department he would’ve recoiled in revulsion. Or worse, pretended it was okay.
A strip of sandpaper rubbed her big toe. She peered under the table. A single eye gazed at her through a mess of orange fur.
‘Mojo!’ she cried, offering her hand.
He flinched and studied her fingers with suspicion.
‘Come on, I’m not going to hurt you.’
Maybe it was the tone of her voice, but the cat moved towards her and nudged her knuckles with his forehead. She couldn’t believe it. He was inviting contact.
She tickled his chin, carefully avoiding the matted lumps. She’d never dreamt they’d get this far. To her amazement, he took another step forward and let her run her hand over his back. Lifting his tail, he turned around and let her stroke him again—and again.
Mojo was starting to trust her.
‘There’s a boy.’
The cat emitted a soft, melodic purr. The patting was going so well, she reached over and tried to pick him up. Mojo yowled. He tensed, wriggled out of her grasp and scurried towards the door. Biting her lip, she tried to imagine how it must feel living inside that shaggy coat. Having someone pick you up would be like having your hair pulled in different directions at the same time.
She waited for him to leave. He sat beside the door, arranged his broom of a tail over his front feet and considered the situation.
Keeping well clear of him, she stood up and moved like a mime artist to the bench top. He watched as she opened a can of Kitty Treats and spooned the contents into a saucer.
She returned to her seat and pretended not to take any notice of him. After what seemed a very long time, he padded across the bluestone and ate ravenously.
She was beginning to understand Mojo. He was a cat who operated on his own terms. When he wasn’t initiating contact, he preferred to be ignored.
Sighing, she turned her attention back to Emily Brontë’s nipples.
‘You did what?’
Lisa leaned into the computer screen. She couldn’t tell if the patches on Portia’s neck were shadows or love bites.
‘I went to a dance with someone. It was a social thing.’
‘Oh my god, Mom!’ Portia was reacting as if Lisa had just announced a post-menopausal pregnancy. ‘Is he hot?’
She had a vision of Scott striding godlike through the garden centre. It was quickly erased by his chimp at a tea party performance with Aunt Caroline.
‘An acquired taste.’
‘Did you hook up with him?’
Lisa had no idea what the term meant. Portia and her friends were always ‘hooking up’ with people. They referred to it as though it was just cuddling, but hooking had a biological intonation.
‘Heavens no!’
Portia flicked her hair. She was clearly bored. Any moment she’d change the subject back to her failed audition for Blanche in Streetcar.
‘But there was a moment in his ute afterwards.’
‘You didn’t try to kiss him?’
‘No!’
‘Thank god. Kissing’s political. Some girls I know make the first move, but that’s giving their power away. I prefer things to happen more . . . organically.’
This was the same little girl who’d run to her room and slammed the door when Lisa had tried to explain the mechanics of menstruation?
‘You can’t get up to much in the front seat of a ute, anyway. Those things are damned uncomfortable. Did he put his arm across the back of the seat?’
Lisa had long suspected her daughter’s sexual experience surpassed her own. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Did he put his arm around your waist and try to work it up to your boobs?’ Portia was warming to her subject.
‘God no!’
‘So what did he do?’
‘He . . . breathed on me.’
Portia was deflated. ‘Some old dude in a ute breathed on you?’
Lisa couldn’t take the humiliation any longer. ‘Are you coming to Australia for Christmas?’
Chapter 22
Mojo didn’t seem to mind being chased around the kitchen. On his second circuit, he slowed down and let her catch him. He didn’t even try to scratch. Flattered, she slid him in a picnic basket and closed the lid.
The cat emitted a couple of resigned mews. He seemed to understand that if their relationship had any future he’d have to meet the vet.
Once she’d dropped him off at the clinic she hurried home to prepare for the onslaught of the Women’s Monthly Book Club. Her plan to get to know some locals had gotten off to a rocky start. When she’d called the book club number, the gravelly voice at the other end of the line had seemed vaguely familiar.
‘You’re looking for new members?’
‘Sure are. Want to sign up?’
Every chromosome in Lisa’s body had screamed No! ‘Yes.’
‘Great! We have a little tradition where the new member hosts her first book club meeting at her place.’
‘Okay.’
‘That’ll be next Tuesday at 2.30. Oh, and you’d better get hold of a copy of this month’s book.’
‘What’s the title?’
‘You’ll laugh your tits off at this. A poncy writer’s moved into the district. I sold her a house, an overpriced heap of rubble. Anyway, we thought we’d take a look at her stuff. It’s called . . . Hang on. I’ve got a copy of it here somewhere. That’s right, Three Sisters: Charlotte.’
The phone had sizzled against Lisa’s cheek.
‘Oh, and I forgot to ask your name,’ Beverley Hogan had added.
The only thing worse than hosting a book club at her house would be a group of strange women—neighbours and potential friends—reviewing Three Sisters: Charlotte in front of her.
Lisa flung herself into a frenzy of vacuuming. There wouldn’t be any genuine fans among them, so she could relax about that. She often perceived disappointment when fans showed up at book signings, especially those who’d driven miles. The less tactful ones commented how different she looked from her website photos. They didn’t understand ‘recent’ meant anything taken
in the last twenty years.
Maybe the book club members would be the type of aggressively competitive housekeepers who expected to find flowers in the bathroom. Lisa bustled down the drive to pull wattle blossom off a tree. The Grey Army, who were painting window frames, watched on, bemused. Then she slapped together a mountain of egg sandwiches—half for the Grey Army and half for her guests. It didn’t seem enough for country appetites.
Carrot cakes brought bad luck, so she threw together her own version of white chocolate and raspberry muffins. They emerged from the oven flat and anaemic compared to Maxine’s.
Lisa glanced at her watch. There was just enough time to zip into town and collect Mojo from the clinic. She didn’t want to extend his suffering more than necessary.
The vet approached her with a cautious smile. He soothed her alarm by saying her cat was fine, if somewhat underweight for his size. The desexing operation had gone well, though he’d never seen so many fleas in his professional life. Mojo’s teeth had been cleaned, his claws trimmed and he was now inoculated against every disease known to the feline world. The vet estimated Mojo was about three years old. He encouraged her to keep him inside at nights to help preserve native wildlife.
Mojo had been upgraded to a proper carry case with breathing holes in the sides. As the vet handed her the case he prepared her for what he called a change in her pet’s appearance. ‘His fur was so matted I had to shave him,’ the vet said.
She peered through the holes and perceived a cat-ish silhouette. A sleepy eye winked back. ’You mean he’s bald?’
‘No, not at all,’ the vet said with a little laugh that could’ve been a cough. He went on to explain it was the best that could be done for a cat in his condition. Besides, it would grow out in a month or two.
The carry case was silent.
A hairdresser had told Lisa the same thing after he’d given her a mullet. But Lisa didn’t have time to interrogate further. After handing over half the deposit for the vet’s next holiday in Thailand, she slid Mojo’s case into the back of the car. Then, on the drive home, she tried to avoid bumps in the road, remembering how much her stitches had hurt when Jake had driven her home from hospital.
Dino puttered through an archway of gnarled gum trees. In her younger days, she’d dismissed the Australian landscape as ugly and barren, having seen nothing lovely in dry red soil crumpled into ancient hills, or trees with peeling bark and grey leaves as tough as leather. Even the freakish animals offended her Euro-centric pretentions. Crippled with cultural insecurities, she couldn’t have been further off the mark.
As she rounded the curve in the driveway she was horrified to see half-a-dozen figures assembled outside her front door. The Women’s Monthly had arrived early. A flash of a camera lens glinted in the sun. Zack had begged to film the book club event. Her heart sank.
Lisa parked Dino outside the stables, gathered up Mojo’s carry case and hurried towards the visitors. ‘So sorry, ladies! Please come inside.’
Familiar spikes of purple hair approached. Juliet from the garden centre presented her with yellow pansies in a pot.
‘How lovely!’ Lisa crooned. She’d been nervous around Juliet since the young woman had asked whether she and Scott were an item. ‘You must have a green thumb.’
‘Oh she dabbles in all sorts,’ Beverley said. ‘Handcrafts, and she runs the wildlife shelter.’
Lisa’s interest was piqued. ‘You rescue animals?’
‘When there’s a need.’ Juliet smiled, stepping over the threshold. ‘Come visit some time.’
In a rare casual mood, Beverley was decked out in a black velour tracksuit with a pink logo across her breast. Diamantes twinkled from the brim of her cap. ‘Sharky and I have just been for a little walk, haven’t we, darling?’ she said, addressing a shaggy white glove puppet in the crook of her arm.
Lisa leant forward to examine the creation. It lurched towards her and bared its teeth. ‘Oh! It’s real!’
‘He’s not an it! Sharky’s just an itty-bitty chihuahua-Maltese cross, aren’t you, babypie? Beverley’s tone was unrecognisable.
Lisa remembered the little dog from the fly-eating episode in Hogan & Hogan’s window.
‘He’s named after Greg Norman the golfer,’ Juliet said in a nonjudgemental tone.
Zack’s camera drifted across the Women’s Monthly. Some faces were familiar. She’d danced with June from the medical centre during her man phase. A trim, older woman in gold-rimmed spectacles introduced herself as Dorothy Thatcher, the local historian.
Another face stood out because it belonged to a man. His hair was slicked back in the manner of Fred Astaire. Spilling from the breast pocket of his tweed jacket was a paisley handkerchief of the same fabric as his cravat. The last time Lisa had seen corduroy trousers had been when one of Ted’s friends wore them ironically.
‘Dexter’s our token male,’ Beverley said. ‘He’s a brain box, too, aren’t you, Dex?’
‘Retired English professor,’ he announced, bobbing his head in pseudo modesty. ‘I’m leading today’s session.’
Lisa quailed. Academics tended to regard her books with scorn. It was hard to know if they were jealous of her sales figures, or her writing really was crap.
She led the visitors into Alexander’s room. They studied the furniture with the curiosity of creatures introduced to a new enclosure. Dorothy made a beeline for the fireplace and studied the photo of Alexander. Zack trailed in her wake.
‘My grandfather,’ Lisa said.
Dorothy turned and examined her over the rims of her glasses. ‘I know.’
‘Really?’ Lisa gasped. ‘I’d love to learn more about him. And the house too, of course.’
Dorothy didn’t seem enthused. ‘Well, you’ve heard about the terrible so-called accident in the stables . . .’
‘Not really . . .’
Dorothy glanced sideways. ‘If you want to know about your family history, you should talk to your neighbours,’ she said.
‘The Wrights?’
‘You two can have a chinwag later,’ Beverley interrupted. ‘Let’s get started.’
The Women’s Monthly settled themselves in a circle and produced their copies of Three Sisters: Charlotte. Beverley nestled Sharky between her breasts and zipped him into her tracksuit top. He wrestled his face into the daylight and growled softly at the carry case on the coffee table.
‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ Lisa announced, grabbing the pet container and whisking it down the hall. ‘Never mind, Mojo,’ she whispered, placing the container and its dozy inmate on the kitchen table.
When she returned, Dexter had already launched into a diatribe. ‘As a Brontë scholar at Bond University for many years, I have to confess I’m uncomfortable with the concept of fictionalising these young women’s tragic lives, let alone turning them into Disneyfied soft porn . . .’
Lisa stood at the doorway and crossed her arms. She thought she heard another vehicle pulling up outside the house. Unless it was the sound of impotent rage coursing through her veins.
Juliet doodled on the inside back cover of her copy of Three Sisters: Charlotte. Dorothy Thatcher studied the patch of ceiling the Grey Army had forgotten to give a second coat. Lisa heard the clatter of a ladder being shifted in the hallway. The old boys had found an excuse to find work within earshot.
‘I suppose it was bound to happen,’ Dexter continued. ‘Wasn’t there some author who mutated Jane Austen into a zombie?’
Sooner or later he was going to mention the C word.
‘Honestly, to have Charlotte Brontë toying with lesbianism. It strikes me as blatantly . . . commercial.’
Lisa mouthed the word in unison with him. ‘You’d rather I wrote books nobody wanted to read?’ she countered.
Dexter inflated like a puffer fish. ‘Without meaning to offend our hostess, I would be grateful if Ms Trumperton would tell us exactly what her motives are.’
Zack’s camera swivelled back to her.
‘P
eople need cheering up.’
‘How could you be so frivolous?’ Dexter retorted, rising to his full five feet, two inches.
‘I’m not! Life’s so grim these days. The news is unwatchable. Everyone’s on medication for something. People are tired. And sad.’
‘Poking fun at three of the world’s great writers is a cheap trick.’
She’d had enough. The Women’s Monthly watched enthralled as Lisa assumed a dominant position in front of the fireplace. ‘I’m not the first author compelled to reshape the Brontës miserable lives, actually, Dexter. You’re no doubt familiar with Elizabeth Gaskell?’
‘Yes,’ he nodded. ‘She knew Charlotte Brontë. Gaskell wrote the famous biography of her.’
‘Well Elizabeth Gaskell said that Charlotte, in her novel Shirley, based the main character on who Emily Brontë would have been, had she enjoyed blooming health and wealth.’
Dexter said nothing.
‘I’m no Charlotte Brontë,’ she continued. ‘But . . .’
Beverley’s breasts emitted a series of hostile yaps. Sharky snarled and bared his teeth at the doorway.
The Women’s Monthly followed Sharky’s line of sight. They let out a collective screech. A bizarre creature was crouched on the floorboards. It had a lion’s mane, fluffy boots and a feather duster of a tail. The rest of its body was devoid of hair. Though it was the shape of a lion, it was the size of a domestic feline. It had a crumpled ear and one eye.
‘Mojo! How did you get out?’
A pair of size-13 workmen’s boots appeared behind the cat.
Scott’s brow rippled with confusion as he surveyed the room. ‘Sorry, I knocked but . . .’
‘You let yourself in?!’
‘I was loading some gear in the stables when I heard cries for help,’ he said.
‘So you barged in and opened the pet carrier on the kitchen table?’
Mojo’s good ear twitched approval. But his eye was focused on the enemy lurking in Beverley’s bosom.
‘How come you’re always breaking into peoples’ houses?’ Lisa said.
‘He was an expert in his teenage years,’ Beverley chuckled. ‘Hello, Scottie. Looking for business?’
