by Clare Naylor
Chapter Seventeen
Best of Breed
Fantastic. You’re going to be agent provocateur. You’re going to be Mata Hari.”
It was Saturday afternoon at the market and Liv was tidying up the lingerie on the front of the stall—now that she was the owner she didn’t want a bra strap out of place. Alex was sewing silver Greta’s Grundies labels inside the underwear. Dave had come by to throw his shareholding weight around.
“I thought I was supposed to be Barbara Woodhouse. Anyway, I’m not Mata Hari. Clearly. Because he hasn’t called back yet. Did calling Mata Hari back score so low on men’s lists of priorities? Somewhere beneath darn my football socks and get my ears syringed?” Liv asked. Could she have finally bored Ben to death by running out on him once too often? Drumroll—here she is, the Incredible Buggering Off Girl.
“I’m so glad you didn’t just leap at the invitation and go home with him. So much better that you catch him off guard when he’s all naked and vulnerable and then make him suffer.”
“Dave, you’re really sick, do you know that? What has poor Ben ever done to make you so cross?” Alex asked.
“Oh, you’ve just gone all fluffy bunny because you’re preggars, haven’t you? I haven’t forgotten the days of hard-bitten cynicism when you’d have revelled in some wanker being taken down a peg or two.”
“Dave just likes to imagine Ben naked, that’s all.” Liv laughed. “Anyway, I don’t want to make him suffer so much as have my ego massaged by knowing that he wants me and that it’s my call. So, Saint Alex, when are you going to do the dirty deed and dump Charlie?”
“Soon enough.” Alex concentrated on her needle threading so she didn’t have to talk about it.
“Do I detect denial?” Dave asked.
“He’s having an affair with some soap star now. I’m just waiting for her to leave a long dark hair in his bed and then I can confront him.”
“Sounds like an avoidance tactic to me. The baby’s going to be seventeen before you know it.” Dave picked up a G-string. “Can I have this? I’m Miss Pussy Whiplash tonight and need a bit of a charm to wow my boys with in the Albury.”
“All yours. Is James coming to the party, by the way? I haven’t heard a peep from him.”
“Too right he’s coming. He’s been raiding my CD collection all week. You do still want him to DJ, don’t you?” Dave pocketed the G-string.
“We’d love him to.” Liv broke off to serve a customer. They only had to sell one more vest top and they would have broken even today. And it was only ten-thirty. Business was looking good.
“Okay, sweeties, I’d better get home before my pain au chocolats start to melt in the heat. Livvy, I’m on standby for you. Call me the minute anything happens. And, Alex . . . do the decent thing, honey, before it’s too late.”
No sooner had Dave left with his G-string than the only other person in the entire city who would look as good in it as he did strolled up to the stall.
“Ah, girls, just thought I’d put in a personal appearance.”
“Amelia.” Liv and Alex looked up at precisely the same moment.
“Oh, and Ben. Hi,” Alex added because she knew Liv wouldn’t.
“Hi,” Ben said, and looked slightly cowed and shy.
“Actually, we were just shopping for a wedding present for a friend and started discussing marriage. Wondering what vows we’d take.”
Liv could have sworn that there was something pointed about Amelia’s delivery, but it was hard to tell with her superfashionable science-goggle sunglasses obscuring most of her face. “I told Ben I’d absolutely want him to obey. Wouldn’t you say, girls?”
“Oh yeah, you should always go for the old-fashioned full complement of vows. And then some,” Alex said. “Love, honour, cherish, obey, adore, worship, spot of reflexology.”
“Oh, I get all those anyway,” Amelia roared like a drain as though Ben weren’t actually standing next to her. “So who needs marriage, eh? Wouldn’t want some bloke ripping me off. I’d insist on a prenup for sure.”
“Me either,” Ben chimed in. “There’s no way I’d let some scheming bitch get her hands on my collection of two-thousand-year-old Vietnamese shrunken heads.” He raised a sardonic eyebrow and Liv couldn’t help but laugh—poor guy, he didn’t look like he was exactly enraptured by Amelia’s company. More like a jaded, roughed-up man who was resigned to his horrible fate.
“Now can I have one of those bodices?” Amelia picked up a hot pink satin number and checked the label size. “Ben and I are having a lovely romantic dinner tonight, aren’t we, sweetie?”
Was that another glare in my direction? Liv wondered.
“Well, we’re going to Moncurs with six other people. But I guess that’s pretty quiet and romantic for us, hey?” He smiled at Amelia and she ran her hands through his hair like an indulgent mother might do to her five-year-old.
“Have to be off. You guys can just whack this on my account or something, can’t you? Ciao.”
And with that Amelia was gone. Leaving Ben to pick up her corset, which Liv was wrapping up. He moved his face close to hers and whispered urgently, “Liv. Come away for the weekend with me. Please. Next Friday.”
“What?” Liv looked around to make sure Amelia was out of earshot. She was—stroking the ostrich skirts in the next stall.
“Please. Say yes.”
“No.”
“You have to. We need to talk.”
“Once bitten. Sorry.”
“I’ll call you.”
“Ben, do you think this yellow would make me look like an Easter chick?” Amelia turned around and demanded to know.
“No, you’d look fabulous in it,” Ben said quite truthfully, and strolled over to Amelia’s side.
“What the hell was that about?” Alex asked excitedly. “God, those two couldn’t be less suited if they tried.”
“Was I imagining that or did Ben just ask me away for the weekend?”
“I know he’s really a dirty, scheming, cheating rat, but he’s pretty convincing. I mean if he hadn’t already dumped you on your bum once and done the same to Laura Train Wreck I wouldn’t believe he was a bad cad.” Alex was still watching in disbelief as Amelia persuaded the Stall Slime to part with an ostrich skirt for nothing more than the glory of having Amelia Fraser wear it to Moncurs that evening.
“Yeah, well, I’ve seen both sides of his Jekyll–Hyde thing.”
“So are you going to go?” Alex asked excitedly.
“I thought you didn’t approve of me being mean to him.”
“Well, you’re not going to be too harsh, are you? I mean you’re just going to let him know that what he did wasn’t very nice and he should think twice before doing it again.”
“Pretty much. I think it’s more of an ego thing for me. If I can just get him to the point where I’m able to reject him—where I have the power—then I probably won’t fancy him half so much anymore.”
“Hang on a minute. You still fancy him?” Alex put down her needle.
“Well, I think maybe I do. I’m not going to do anything about it so it’s completely irrelevant, but . . . well, he is pretty sexy, isn’t he? And when there’s no sex involved—like when we were at the museum and talking rather than fucking—well, he was as lovely as you can imagine. Why is it that the second sex is involved normally sane people go all weird on you?”
“Not all people, Liv. Remember that. If I can be a worm that turned then there’s hope for everyone.”
“I guess. I just have to find the only sane, well-adjusted, balanced, nondoglike man on the planet other than Rob then.”
“I’ll keep my eyes peeled. So in the meantime are you going to make do with a spot of nookie with Mr. Parker?”
“Well, a weekend away might be fun, mightn’t it? Do you think I should pack my lucky silver knickers?” Liv laughed as she watched Ben trail Amelia with another three shopping bags out onto Oxford Street.
“I don’t think you’ll need t
hem, judging by the look in his eye earlier.”
As it was, Liv didn’t actually pack her lucky silver knickers, because she was trying to give the impression that she travelled light. Ben had called her every day twice a day for the last week and finally, on Thursday, as planned carefully and for maximum effect, she capitulated and agreed to join him for a weekend in the Hunter Valley. But only if he could promise her that they would have separate rooms. She wasn’t giving a thing away this time. He promised, and Liv packed. However, while Liv’s luggage looked like she was an easy breezy travelling-light type, it was in reality a deceptively vast bag that could have comfortably housed a football team—while looking as though it contained only a toothbrush and a couple changes of underwear, in fact, it harboured fashion collections for every eventuality: wellies for flash floods, bikini for sunbathing but swimsuit in case of adventuresome water sport, pairs of shoes for day to evening and flopping around on beach, something to wear while breakfasting in bed that wasn’t a prosaic T-shirt, but also a prosaic T-shirt to wear on way to the bathroom that looked very Calvin Klein casual-sexy and not too try-hard. In fact, she only stopped short of taking Alex’s mink-lined Drizabone in case she was clubbed to death by any well-intentioned animal rights protesters who might be lurking in the shrubs outside the hotel. How would they know that the mink in question had belonged to Jane Russell and was bloodily slaughtered so long ago that it was no longer a cause for moral concern? And if she bothered to explain it to them would they see the glamorous side?
Thankfully Laura was still away on tour for a few days with Hedda Gabler when Ben came round to collect Liv. Though Liv had fortified herself and strengthened her dog-handling resolve by taking a long, hard look at Laura’s bookshelves before he arrived. The poor girl, there must have been at least seventy self-help manuals stacked up, and those were the weighty shrinky ones and didn’t even begin to include the ones about Fluffy Little Happy Thoughts to Ponder on the Loo. Yup, poor Laura had been turned into a human catastrophe because of this man. She’d provided half the psychotherapists in New South Wales with hubcaps for their Ferraris. She’d been utterly destroyed by Ben the Bastard. Liv could not let him off lightly.
“Do you want to come in a second?” Liv asked as she realised that Ben was actually quite nervous about being in the house. Obviously he was remembering his past misdemeanours, too, and wondering whether Laura was about to launch herself out of the cleaning cupboard wielding a machete.
“I’ve left the car running.” He looked around hastily. “Best just get off, hey?”
“Okay.” Liv grabbed her cardigan and let him carry her bag. She was tempted to yell out, “Bye, Laura!” just to freak him out a bit, but he was already halfway down the front path. Besides, she didn’t want him to be so scared that he’d decide against taking her away after all and run back to the shelter of Amelia’s clavicle. This was, after all, Liv’s first dirty weekend away in about a hundred and fifty years and she’d even had her bikini wax renewed, so she was not about to bottle out lightly. Even though she’d decided that she mustn’t have sex with him again, as that would cause a power shift, she still hadn’t ruled out a little fooling around.
“So here we are,” said Liv as she belted up in the passenger seat—ever on the nose with her observations.
“Thanks for agreeing to come, Liv. I know that you didn’t want to really and you have every right not to want to so much as share the same planet as me right now, but I hope we can sort things out this weekend.”
“So where’s Amelia?” Liv asked disingenuosly. It also made her feel stronger if she reminded him that he was being a fugitive boyfriend. Not bad that he should squirm a bit.
“She’s gone to a spa for the weekend. That’s one of the things I want to talk to you about—Amelia.”
“Okay.” Liv knew that it was just going to be an “I love Amelia and can never leave her, but in an ideal world I’ve decided that you are cheap and worthless enough to be the girl whom I shag when I feel like it and then ignore in the pub the next day. How about it, darlin’?” And if that was the romantic declaration she was meant to be waiting for then she could wait just a bit longer before she politely declined. “But why don’t we talk about it over dinner tonight, perhaps?”
“Fine by me. Let’s just enjoy the drive. God, it’s good to have you sitting there, Liv. You’ll never know.” He smiled as he fiddled with the tape recorder and unearthed an old Cole Porter album.
“ ‘Something Stupid’ . . . how perfect.” Liv sighed meaningfully.
“Me. Totally stupid for letting you go all those years ago.” He patted her knee and let his hand rest there, gently stroking her leg. Wow, that was almost sweet. She thought he’d be crass and treat her like a hooker and expect blow jobs en route, but this was almost romantic. They slipped along the Pacific Highway, the shimmering blue of the harbour on one side, the sunlight bouncing off the high-rises on the other.
“Couldn’t really have worked out more perfectly, could it?” Liv smiled with her head resting back and her eyes closed. “I needed to get away for the weekend, preferably with a man, and there was one I road-tested earlier just hanging about waiting to be taken for another spin.”
“Jesus, Livvy, I wish you’d give up on the heavy emotional stuff. I mean you’re backing me into a corner with all this talk of commitment and marriage and kids.” He laughed.
“Does it bother you that I clearly care so little for you?” Liv asked, quite getting into the swing of Mata Hari. Liv Hari. Perhaps she’d missed her calling as Alexis Carrington in Dynasty. Perhaps she could be the evil one in Alex’s lingerie empire dynastic saga Knicker Lace—the one who yells, “Which one of you bastards deserves a good slapping?”
“I know you better than that, Liv. I know you’re not so hard—that you do care.”
God, step forward the arrogant prick on wheels with his sunglasses on and one elbow resting out of the window. You’re the bastard that needs a good slapping. And he was so goddamn cool—the way he drove with one hand, the way he smiled easily. He was as calm as a swimming pool at dawn. And it was all alarmingly sexy. He took a bend, turned up the radio, and began to sing. Liv thought about two more hateful thoughts and then remembered how fantastic it had felt when he’d kissed her neck. So she joined Ben and Frank at the top of her voice, their tunelessness vanishing into the afternoon heat.
Four hours later, after Frank had been replaced by Anthony Newley, who had given way to Ella Fitzgerald, and they’d made a pit stop at McDonald’s for a couple of extra-large ice-cream sundaes with hot fudge topping, they arrived in the Hunter Valley. They pulled up outside a small sandstone house and tumbled out, Liv dying for a pee and Ben unable to find the keys. He searched under flowerpots, in a small shed at the side, beneath a million bricks.
“I’ll go and see if any windows are open.” Liv ran off around the side of the house, hopping from side to side in a bid to appease her bladder. The cottage was surrounded by scrub and eucalyptus trees. It wasn’t until she’d peeped in a few dark windows to little avail that she realised that they were on the top of a hill, and as she rounded the back of the house she looked down and saw sprawling acres of vineyards dotted with tiny dwellings and the occasional meandering red dust track crossing a property. A light aircraft spraying the vines hummed gently in the still afternoon. Liv closed her hands around her face as she put her head to the sun-warmed glass of some French windows; she could see the flagstone floors and a large dining table inside the shady house—but little else. And certainly no sign of keys among the ants at her feet. She turned the door handle in a futile move, and to her surprise it edged open.
“Ben, round here. I’ll come up and open for you!” Liv yelled as she made her way into the cool darkness. The ride up had been easy and relaxed and she’d decided to put her meanness back for a few hours. Wait until he started his “come live with me and be my bit on the side” speech and then she’d give him what for.
She fumbled through the
house until she found what she assumed was the front door and opened it. After a second of blinding sunlight she was confronted with not Ben and their luggage but the overpowering whiff of damp and a huge green swimming pool under the shade of a jungle of green plants and overgrown orange trees. In the water a few spiders lay inanimate on the surface, and what was probably a summer’s worth of oranges had sunk to the bottom of the deep end. “Wow,” Liv uttered as she made her way back into the hallway.
“Did you find a key?” Ben came towards her through the dark, his car keys jangling in his hand.
“Who does this place belong to?” Liv asked, diving into a downstairs loo and regaining her composure. When she emerged she realised that it was so dark because the windows were shuttered all through the house, so she moved through the rooms opening them. Each time, the light fell upon a room more surprising than the last, beautiful bedrooms that were more Louis XIV than Aussie farmer—huge satin quilts graced the carved French beds—and in the kitchen a rustic table was set with silver for two, including two swillingly huge silver goblets and a fruit bowl with an ancient array of mouldering quinces.
