by Clare Naylor
“Actually, I’ll give fat a miss, Alex.” Liv smiled, secretly wondering whether Ben still had those legs that she’d fantasised about through many an applied maths lecture or whether . . . ? Well, she supposed he did still have his legs. At least, she hoped so.
Chapter Seven
The Stripper Wax
When she woke up in the cottage on the beach the next morning it was all Liv could do to stop herself from galloping into the ocean in her nightie as Alex lay flat out on the water bed. It looked so cool and inviting as the sun rose and a huge tractor trailed across the sand preparing the beach for the hordes who’d descend on it later with their factor 25 and bottles of Volvic. Liv managed to restrain herself for the poor tractor driver’s sake and put on a swimsuit first. She pulled an ancient Missoni one from the back of the laundry cupboard in the bathroom and squeezed into the string bottom and crocheted top. In fact, she might have to borrow this for the boys to copy as a Greta’s Grundies prototype; there was no reason on earth why they couldn’t launch a swimwear collection, too. They’d be on the market stall now without her, she thought guiltily, then remembered that according to Fay and Alex she was meant to be one of life’s doers rather than an observer, so banished the regret and ran across the sand hiding her bottom with her hands.
The water was fantastically cold and, apart from a cluster of surfers farther out, there was nobody else to be seen. The air was milky and warm and Liv just lay on her back and let the waves bob her up and down, her hair plastered wet to her shoulders and her toes peeping up out of the water. Last night she’d gone to sleep thinking that she would never be able to lean over and run her fingers through Tim’s blond hair again. But this morning she knew there was absolutely nowhere else in the world she should be right now. She even took time to remember how full Ben Parker’s lips were.
“You might think that looking at the sky is a bit soft, Alex, but I tell you it was awesome.” Liv shovelled her hips into a cerise shift dress that Alex had demanded she wear.
“It sounds great. Now we have to work out how we’re going to get Ben Parker’s phone number,” Alex said as she cast off her bathrobe and stepped into her linen dress.
“Like I said, he’s probably married.” Liv didn’t want to get her hopes up just yet. “And I’m not really over Tim. The last thing I need is some rebound fling.” She poured herself a glass of mango juice from the fridge and felt the warm sun trapped under her skin and realised that even though she’d only been on the beach an hour she’d managed to burn slightly. But right now she didn’t care. Worrying about an ageing neck and wrinkles was not her bag today, she decided, and reached into the fridge for a bite of cold pizza.
“It’s ten o’clock, by the way. What time were we meant to be at the racecourse?”
“Oh, not for ages. Which is perfect, because I’ve got a bit of a treat lined up for you,” Alex said as she picked up her handbag. “Come on; let’s go.”
“No way. Nope. Nope. Not on your life,” Liv hissed under her breath as Alex took her seat in the waiting room of the beauty salon.
“It’s the most wonderful thing you’ll ever do to your body. Once you’ve had one you’ll be hooked; I swear,” Alex said as she shoved Liv towards a woman in a white coat who was wielding a little display card with pretty pictures on it. Until Liv looked closer.
“Choose one of these for me, darlink.” The woman handed Liv the laminated card. On it were six different pictures, which were not pretty . . . six bikini lines in various states of undress, the Mohicana, alias the Stripper Wax, and a multitude of others that Liv was just too prudish to spend more than a second studying, but one was undoubtedly called the Japanese Porn Star and would have made for a very chilly time inside anyone’s knickers. Blimey.
“Erm, that one please.” Liv lay back on the couch and kissed good-bye to her curls as she pointed to the one that looked most au naturel.
“Okay, darlink. Here we go.” And there followed a good twenty minutes of snipping and yanking and yogic-type positions and gynaecological scrutiny that left Liv pink-faced and full of hatred for her bloody friend who was probably sitting in reception flicking her way through In Style magazine without a care in the world save whether she should go to a new aerobics class designed to give her the buns, but not the bank account, of Jennifer Lopez or just carry on with her Sports Fucking and hope it left her with an equally toned bum. Sports Fucking was actually Alex’s preferred choice of exercise at the moment and, like all the best crazes, originated in LA. All you had to do was be especially energetic during sex, incorporate a few press-ups as part of the usual bump and grind, and try to keep it up for at least twenty minutes for maximum aerobic impact.
“Don’t you think it’s really erotic, though?” Alex asked as the girls climbed the steps of the main pavilion of Randwick Racecourse.
“What? Sore pink skin that makes me look like a bald eagle? No, I don’t think that’s particularly erotic and neither do I find it amusing going to the loo and not recognise myself anymore,” Liv snapped as she tried to walk normally. To put it bluntly, she’d been scalped. “In fact, I’m bloody glad I haven’t got a boyfriend, because I’d be really embarrassed.”
“Trust me. By Monday you’ll be thanking me. It’s all smooth and sexy. Men will be transfixed by it.” Alex steered Liv towards the members enclosure flashing the stewards with badges and smiles on the way.
“Which ones exactly?” Liv wondered, failing to spot the queue of admirers forming behind her.
“We’ve been waiting for you,” Charlie said rather soppily when Alex sauntered into the upstairs lounge. “I put a few bets on for you.” He handed over some tickets to Alex, who kissed his cheek tenderly. Charlie actually wasn’t anywhere near as Rumplestiltskin-like as Liv had imagined he would be. And he reached out and shook her hand perfectly politely and without staring either scornfully or lustily at her. This made a huge change from all Alex’s other men, who generally spent any conversation they deigned to have with her looking over her shoulder at the new arrivals or cornered her on her way to the loo and put their hands on her boobs.
“So, Liv, can I get you a drink?” Charlie asked.
“Champagne would be lovely.” Liv nodded, thinking that even though she was wearing cerise and looked like a boiled sweet, she might stand a chance of getting to know and maybe even like Charlie. And as she looked around she thought she might even get to know and like one of his friends. She knew Alex condemned them one and all as shits with money, but they were definitely better-dressed than most of the men Liv came across and if, just if, she were ever in the market for a nameless, blameless fling to make Tim jealous then at least she’d be able to identify him by the designer name in his underpants. She downed the chilly champagne until her ears popped like those of a deep-sea diver.
“He seems nice. And his ears aren’t that big,” Liv whispered to Alex, who had flipped into professional mode, smiling winningly and forgetting she had a brain.
“Sweet, isn’t he?” said Alex with a little pout. “Come and meet some people.”
And with that she swept Liv into a survey of the room. Liv was used to the scene and wasn’t sure if she recognised most of the people from magazines or the odd time she’d been with Alex to the Met Bar. Mostly, though, they had those generic Smart People looks. All the girls had buttery chunk highlights and approximately no hips and the men worked out and then splashed on Creed aftershave. The conversation was generally just . . . la la staying at the Hempel; la la holiday in Harbour Island; ho hum, she’s put on a lot of weight. Not particularly inspiring, but then Liv decided not to judge so hastily. If you lured a whole load of accountants into one room it might not be an appealing sight, but individually they might all be as fun-loving and adventure-seeking as Liv hoped to become.
Certainly by the end of the afternoon she felt like she was the most fun that could balance (but only just) on two legs. But then by the end of the afternoon Liv was atrociously drunk. Still, if she did say s
o herself, she was in sparkling form and keeping everyone amused. In fact, she was feeling so insouciant that she decided that she was going to practise flirting. Perhaps it was the bikini wax kicking in or merely the effects of so much champagne that she couldn’t even pronounce Tim’s name, let alone have time to lament his passing, but she was feeling a bit saucy. And she’d never really had much cause to flirt before, having been with the same man for so long. She’d occasionally tittered helplessly and run her fingers through her hair when confronted with a ticket-wielding traffic warden, but she was absolutely hopeless when it came to holding the gaze, slowly stroking the stem of her champagne glass, making double entendres out of innocent remarks, and laughing wantonly. Flirting was as alien an art to her as jujitsu, but she’d picked her target and wasn’t going to let her lack of skill stand in the way of her Labradoresque enthusiasm.
“So I’ve won enough money to buy what?” Liv leaned over and intimately burped in the face of a man called Robert. “A share in a racehorse?” Liv had decided that Robert was not necessarily the most attractive man in the room, but he had sympathetic freckles and seemed like a good start for her to study her new art. She was also less intimidated by Robert than the Cartier-watched Mr. Smoothie Chops types, as he looked more like a groom than a racehorse owner in his moleskins and denim shirt with scuffed brown boots. She knew the Smoothies had all been out with at least one model in their lives, and though she told herself she had a good brain and a passably pretty nose, she didn’t want to have to deal with rejection at this early stage of her Awakening to Womanhood.
“You wish. I can let you have a bit of his mane if you like. That’s about all a hundred dollars’ll get you.” Robert laughed and hit not only his thigh but also her arm and the table. He was proving an appreciative audience for her inebriated lechery, so it was just as well that she didn’t really fancy him; otherwise she’d have a lot to regret the next morning.
“Oh well. Did I tell you I was a lingerie model?” asked Liv, not looking very much like Elle Macpherson.
“That’s great. Your mate Alex mentioned it, actually. Nice girl.” Robert leaned over and smiled.
“You should come and buy some of Greta’s Grundies from my stall. For your girlfriend,” said Liv, proud of the clever and subtle way she was drumming up business and managing to find out if he was available at the same time. Clearly the secret of successful seduction was to remain one step ahead. If he was hung up on someone else she would expend her not inconsiderable skills elsewhere.
“I would if I had a girlfriend.” He smiled and his freckles smudged into a splodge. Sexy if you like the schoolboy thing, she thought. In fact, Robert was very lovely. He hadn’t once leered at Liv, yet he was still chatting away to her and let the fact that she was clearly a pathological liar for passing herself off as a lingerie model pass unchallenged, which was the pinnacle of sweetness. Or stupidity.
“I live in the country. Don’t get much time for women out there.”
“The country? You’re not a jackeroo, are you?” Liv asked, wondering if fate had led Robert into her path, jackeroo being the next-best thing to Cowboy and the Gus of Fay’s dreams.
“Not exactly. I ride a lot, though. Got a few horses out there today. One of them won, actually,” he said.
“Congratulations. All that training and getting up early must have paid off then. But no girlfriend. That’s a bit sad,” said Liv, who was actually just reflecting her own concerns about being a sad single.
“Maybe.” He smiled enigmatically. “I’ve sort of got my eye on somebody, actually.”
Liv was a bit taken aback at her early success in flirting. He means me, she marvelled to herself. She couldn’t be so bad at all the lip licking and erotic eyebrow raising as she’d imagined. In fact, she was suddenly sober enough to feel a bit mean for leading him on. Until a second later, when Liv realised that she could not have been further away from being his object of desire if she had major cosmetic surgery, a limb extension, and head transplant with Claudia Schiffer.
Walking towards them was a girl who, although more casually dressed than any other woman in the room in leather pants and a slim-fitting white shirt, still managed to look a million times more captivating than anyone had a right to be. She had the boyish blond crop of a twenties flapper and the kind of figure that not only would make a bishop kick in a stained-glass window but also might cause the pope to develop Munchausen syndrome and start bashing himself over the head. She smiled at full wattage and leaned down and kissed Robert on the cheek, her hair skimming his cheek and undoubtedly smelling of orange blossom. Not two kisses as an acquaintance might, but warmly and only once.
“Robbie, don’t have a light, do you?” she asked, smiling fleetingly at Liv, just long enough to acknowledge her presence but not so long that she’d have to engage her in conversation. Obviously impeccably bred.
“Where’s that bastard bloke of yours, Amelia?” asked Robert, glancing the end of her cigarette with his lighter as she inhaled.
“He’ll be along later. Got things to see to.” The gorgeous Amelia winked at Robert, nodded again at Liv, and went back to join a group of men who were slapping one another’s backs, celebrating their wins. And smoking. Each and every one of them with a cigarette or cigar of his own. And not a light among them? Liv found that very hard to believe. Obviously Amelia had made the special trip over here to make sure Robert was behaving himself. Though it seemed she had her own boyfriend. So what purpose did lovely, freckly Rob serve in Amelia’s life? Liv wondered.
“Well, Robert,” she teased, after they’d both caught their breath, “I think I know exactly who you’ve got your eye on.”
But instead of keeping up the jovial spirit of their conversation, Robert turned quickly to Liv and blushed. “It’s not what you think. Really.” And he drew heavily on his cigarette and looked the other way across the room where Alex was practically catatonic with boredom. Liv dashed Robert off her list of men to flirt with but decided that she’d keep him as a friend and then could use him for target practise whenever she wanted to try out a new flirting technique. And she hadn’t had a male friend in years. Well, not a straight one, anyway.
Later, as Liv and Alex lay in a crumpled heap on a sofa and the party continued around them, with various dissidents vanishing to the loos in pairs to get high, Liv observed Robert by the bar as he talked intently to Amelia. She was nodding seriously at him and occasionally blowing smoke from her lips, to one side. A paragon of consideration. Liv thought how sad for Robert. Robert the stable hand who was clearly in love with Lady Chatterley but didn’t stand a chance. Even if they were having a rampant affair, Liv didn’t imagine that Robert would last long.
“Who’s the blonde?” Liv asked Alex, pointing towards Amelia.
“Amelia Fraser. She’s a friend of Charlie’s. Her father owns a lot of property in the Western Districts. Best catch in Sydney if the boys are to be believed. And I guess that’s her perfect boyfriend,” Alex added as a tall, broad man walked up to Amelia and kissed her wallop on the mouth. Even with his back to Liv and Alex they could see he cut a formidable and very fuckable figure. With one arm draped casually over Amelia’s slender shoulder and the other patting Robert on the back, he seemed relaxed and confident in his white T-shirt. His damp hair was straight from some Calvin Klein universe of nice-smelling men on beaches.
“Well, he looks pretty all right to me.” Alex smiled, admiringly.
“Hmm, not my sort. I prefer them a bit less obvious,” Liv said, and downed another glass of water, feeling sorrier than ever for poor Robert.
“Well, I’m going to find out. Coming?” Alex smoothed the creases in her skirt and stood up.
“Nah, I think I’ll sit this one out. Take a moment.” Liv grinned. She and Alex had a mutual obsession with cheesy-speak and loved taking moments and having alone time.
“Sure thing,” Alex drawled and did her panther prowl over to the bar to investigate.
But Liv didn’t
have even a moment of alone time to worry about poor Robert or even feel inadequate for coexisting in the same room as Amelia, because no sooner had Alex clasped the mystery boyfriend’s hand warmly than there was a low whisper in Liv’s left ear. “Can I get you a drink?” it asked.
Liv turned to see a small, slightly pudgy man with a raised eyebrow smiling at her. “God, no thanks,” she said, then in case he thought she was being superoffensive about his clear lack of handsomeness, chimed, “I mean I’ve drunk so much this afternoon that it’s a wonder I’m still standing. Which is probably why I’m sitting, in fact. So . . . no thanks all the same.”
“Do you mind if I sit here?” he asked, sitting there anyway.
“Not at all.”
“You’re English,” he observed as he put his gin and tonic down on the table.
“Ha. You’re right.” She smiled, half wanting Alex to come and rescue her but also half feeling so unthreatened by him that she didn’t mind engaging in a bit of small talk with someone normal-looking.
“I’m Will.” He held out his hand.
“Liv.”
And it was another two hours before either of them drew breath again. Liv discovered that Will was a foreign correspondent for one of the Australian news networks and so spent a lot of time abroad and roaming war zones, and though he didn’t look as though he was exactly born in khakis and could flee dangerous scenes in a sexy manner, she was beginning to detect a certain something in his eye.
“We’ve got a connection, Liv. I mean is that a really weird thing to say or do you know what I mean?” he asked as she paused before launching into her dreams of leaving accountancy behind for a more scintillating career and telling him why she thought Apocalypse Now and all those boy movies were basically just a wank in the bath. Things she’d never have dared say to Tim for fear of being thought a philistine.
