Falling Into Queensland

by Jacqueline George

  A young girl with a name tag that said Tracy came up. “Can I help you? What are you looking for?”

  “Everything, I guess, love,” said Marilyn. “I need the

  works.” She passed her folder to Rupert and followed Tracy into the

  maze.

  It took a long time before Tracy was satisfied, and they could return to the cash desk to pay. Rupert had found a stool and

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  was sitting in a corner, still clutching Marilyn"s folder. She left the store with two large carrier bags, and they went looking for coffee.

  Rupert had been thinking as he waited for Marilyn. They sitting on high stools in a compact lunch bar, looking at the street through a steamy window. “Marilyn, why are you going out with Mr. Bradley-Smythe? Shirley said that you don"t like men very much.”

  Marilyn chuckled to herself. “You"ve got that right! Still, you have to do these things sometimes. Call of duty.”

  “But the underthings... I mean – you know.”

  “Don"t you think they"ll suit me? I"ll tell you what, mate, when I get Jeremy alone, he"s going to think he"s died and gone to heaven. I"ve met him before, you know. At least, his Melbourne brothers. They"re just the same, „cept they don"t talk as if they"ve got a mouthful of peanut butter.

  “I worked in a cathouse down there for a while. As a

  bouncer, not in the rooms. It was a class joint and I learnt a lot. Not a bad job either, except the girls were so stupid, or drugged to the eyeballs, or both. I had to throw out the drunks, and search the girls for drugs. And control the condoms. If any of the girls got a bareback artist, she"d just threaten to call me and the john usually rolled on the rubber straightaway.

  “They used to let me watch sometimes. Most of the rich old farts like Jeremy go for the kinky stuff, and once they"ve got their hoods and blindfolds on, you could have a football crowd watching and they"d never know.

  “No, it"s easy enough to get guys like that off, and send them home so happy they"re back for more next evening, along with their mates. I expect I"ll manage.”

  Rupert did not reply. Perhaps the idea of Mr BradleySmythe in a brothel was just too painful. Marilyn gulped her coffee and stood up. “Now, we"re nearly done. I need a pair of fuck-me heels, and you"d better find me a hardware store. Oh, I want a small camera, and I"ll need some make-up. Then we can go home and crash for a couple of hours. He"s not picking me up until seven, but it"s going to take me a couple of hours to get all tarted up.”

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  Marilyn walked up and down Rupert"s tiny living room. In the background, a football match was running quietly on the television but Rupert was watching her.

  “I knew there was a reason I had none of these fucking things in my wardrobe,” she said. “They"re going to kill my feet, if they don"t break my neck first.” She stopped and looked down at the shiny black points emerging below her leathers. It had not been easy to find what she wanted. Sure there were plenty of elegant shoes in the shops, but London was not big on shoes for women who spent most of their lives in bare feet. Eventually they found something wide enough, even if the heels were higher than she wanted. She thought they looked stupid on her. She could see where they might be fun on a dolly bird, but her? “What is it with you men, anyway? Heels turn you on, Rupert?”

  “Er – no. Not really. I mean, I think it"s the way you stand in them. And walk.” He looked embarrassed.

  “You mean they make my arse wiggle?”

  He reddened and blurted out “I think you look very beautiful like that. Honestly!”

  “Jeez, Rupert. You too. Never mind, keep it up and you might be a partner one day like Jeremy.” She might have hurt him, so she patted him on the shoulder and said. “You stick with Shirl, son. You don"t want to be in Jeremy"s shoes tonight. If he doesn"t get us what we need, I"m going to feed his balls to those fucking pigeons you have everywhere.

  “What"s the time?”

  “Five to, but he"ll probably be late.”

  “Oh no. That"s not the way the game"s played. I might be late, but he"d better be on time. Or early.”

  To emphasise the point, the door bell rang. She bent to Rupert"s ear and whispered. “Don"t let him come in. Keep him at the door, and I"ll be out in a few minutes.” She grabbed her leather jacket and hurried to the bathroom.

  In the brightly lit room, the mirror over the sink reflected a different woman. It was the make-up that made the difference.

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  That"s all it took. Carefully dressed hair, subtle lipstick and then the eyes. Looking back at her was a handsome woman. She stood back and struggled to see more of herself in the mirror. The black leather trousers did not look too bad, and beneath the silky white polo neck, there were dark, sexy shadows. The corset had given her a bit of a figure.

  She turned and tried to see her bum. Rupert was right; even that looked better with the help of her underwear and heels. There were male voices outside, but she took her time and ran the comb through her hair once more. Then, bored with waiting, she put on her jacket and went out. She did not have a handbag. Instead, Rupert had lent her a small holdall in black canvas. It clinked as she picked it

  up.

  “Hey, Jeremy! You"re looking good.” He was wearing a classic navy blazer and slacks, and had changed his tie for a silk cravat with a paisley pattern.

  “My dear, you look wonderful,” he said, bending to kiss her cheek. “Let"s go and eat.”

  She followed him up the steps. He was a tall man, and fairly fit. He looked as strong as her.

  A large black Jaguar was waiting at the curb, and he opened the passenger door for her, before going around to get in the other side. The rear seats were separated from the driver by a smoked glass panel. Marilyn could see the silhouette of the driver wearing a peaked cap. Without an order, the car pulled away.

  “Where are we going, Jeremy? Somewhere flash?”

  He smiled at her. “Arbutus. A small place in Soho. If you want to eat well in London, you go to small places where they know you. The flash places are all glitz, noise and second-rate food. I guarantee you will like this one. You"ll thank me for it.”

  “Maybe, Jeremy, maybe. What have you been doing today, between meeting colonials with suitcases of money?”

  “Meetings, dear girl. Meetings. Friendly, I suppose, but they do drag on. Just as well I"ve got Stephanie, or I"d never get anything done.”

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  “Nice looking chick, that Stephanie. Where does she come

  from? You ever take her out to dinner?”

  “Stephanie? I think she comes in from Hertfordshire somewhere. And no – I can"t take her out to dinner. Not that I"d mind, but she"s the daughter of a friend. It wouldn"t do. Anyway, I think she has a fiancé tucked away.”

  “That"s the way. All the best ones taken. Story of my life. What about you, Jeremy? No wife tucked away? No kids?”

  “Oh yes. Well, not exactly tucked away. She has a place in Switzerland, and I don"t see her very often. I suppose we were never very close. The children have gone their own way too. Jason"s working in Canada, and Melanie is helping with orphans in Rumania, bless her heart. Terrible job.”

  Marilyn was fascinated by the busy streets they were following. Many shops were still open and the pavements were full of people in a hurry. “So this is London...” she said half to herself.

  “Yes, this is it. You know, tired of London, tired of life. Most foreigners are surprised at how small it is. You can walk around the interesting parts quite easily.”

  “How far are we going?”

  “Oh, I don"t know. Two miles? Probably less. We"re nearly there.”

  The car pulled up outside a Victorian shop window. Small panes of glass set in black painted woodwork, and an old fashioned door. Jeremy leaned forward and pressed a button behind the driver. “Abou
t nine, I should imagine, Roberts. Perhaps a little later, but I"ll call five minutes before.”

  “Thank you, Sir.” came the driver"s voice over the intercom.

  “I suppose I shall leave my bag here, Jeremy? We won"t need it until later.”

  “Ah,” said Jeremy. “Yes. Later.”

  The driver had opened the door to let her out, and she smiled at him. She could get used to living like this, but only if she could choose her own shoes. Jeremy opened the restaurant door for her, and she stepped into a brightly lit room with small tables set

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  against the walls. At first sight, it looked cosy rather than elegant. A young waiter wearing a black apron ushered them to a table below a wildly surreal photograph of a blue salt pan, and took Marilyn"s jacket. She slipped into her seat and looked around her.

  The restaurant was still nearly empty. Scattered around the room, couples were eagerly enjoying themselves, eating or raising wine glasses. It was a simple place, but simply smooth. The furniture fitted. The pictures were quietly elegant. The colours were subdued, but somehow just right. Marilyn was impressed.

  Jeremy also fitted. He was in his element, and the place knew him. He was a handsome man, she decided, just at his best time of life. Sophisticated, rich, a man who knew how to enjoy himself in town but hinted at outside interests as well. That would be

  the yachting, she supposed. Marilyn had never been on a racing yacht, although she had steered her tinny around cruisers moored in Port Bruce. Racing yachts must be much more expensive and only a man with Jeremy"s money would own one. She wondered what he would make of her down-at-heel boat with its second-hand

  outboard.

  The waiter appeared with a small carafe of white wine and poured a little for Jeremy. He sipped, and waved the waiter on to Marilyn"s glass.

  Jeremy raised his glass to her and smiled. “What do you think of that, Marilyn? It"s from Alsace, an André Thomas gewürztraminer. Delightful, don"t you think?”

  Marilyn left her glass on the table. She was not here to enjoy herself, and it was time to start drawing lines. She leant forward and, looking him straight in the eye, said “Jeremy, considering our relationship this evening, it is „Miss Marilyn" or I"m walking out of here.”

  Her attack shocked him. He reddened and stuttered “Er,

  Miss Marilyn.”

  “That"s better, Jeremy.” She sat back and raised her glass to him before sipping. Again, she was out of her depth. She knew what she liked at home, but nothing of wine from Europe. This one was

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  pleasant - very pleasant. That"s good, she thought, here am I drinking expensive wine in a swish London restaurant, and enjoying it. I must have a natural talent.

  The waiter had returned with two menus, but Marilyn waved hers away. “What are you giving me this evening, Jeremy?”

  He had still not regained his confidence. “Well, would you like to start with beef tartare? And then I was going to have bouillabaisse... if you"d like that?”

  She recognised the word beef, but the rest passed her by. She nodded. If it was good enough for Jeremy, she was sure she would survive. In the meantime, she would have to get him talking. “Tell me about your yacht, Jeremy.”

  The chance to talk about his boat relaxed him, and soon he was describing his sailing in the south of England, the Atlantic, and lazy summers cruising in the Mediterranean. A small carafe of red wine appeared with new glasses, along with their starter. It was a patty of decorated minced beef, and it was raw. Marilyn followed Jeremy, and gave it a try. The meat was highly seasoned and very tasty. By her second mouthful, she had got over her reluctance and admitted that this was exciting.

  The wine changed again, a rosé this time, and rich and complicated seafood soup appeared, with its fish and vegetables served separately. Port Bruce fishermen prided themselves on their fish, but she had never eaten anything like this at a barbie. She was so absorbed with her food that she almost forgot why she was eating with Jeremy.

  They waived dessert and instead rounded off the meal with

  port. She thought Jeremy looked nervous. He knew his evening

  would soon be starting.

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  Chapter 16

  The car slid to a halt outside a small, modern apartment block, and the driver hurried to open Marilyn"s door. She nudged her holdall towards Jeremy, and stepped out. The night was cold, and the street lights glistened on the roadway. The buzz of traffic hung in the air, but nothing was moving on Jeremy"s street. He unlocked the door and led her inside.

  Once they reached his apartment, Marilyn felt his uncertainty return, and she took advantage of it. She let him take her jacket from her shoulders, but then claimed it back and carried it with her into the living room. It was a sterile, tidy place, with a black leather sofa and arm chairs. On one side stood a wide flat screen

  television, beside a cabinet that might hold a stereo and DVD player. A photomontage of yachts and smiling crewmen filled the opposite wall, but apart from that there were no ornaments. Jeremy was a neat freak.

  She threw her jacket onto an armchair and turned to him. “Time to lose the clothes, Jeremy.”

  His hand went to his blazer buttons and he paused.

  “I think you were going to say „Yes, Miss Marilyn"”

  He stuttered “Yes, Miss Marilyn,” and began to strip. As his body emerged, he looked very white, apart from the redness of his neck and face. A sailor"s tan, she supposed. He untied his shoe laces, and started to push his trousers and underpants down his thighs.

  Marilyn watched him critically. For an older man, he kept himself well. No flab, no paunch, just the wiry, muscled frame of a runner or athlete. His sex stood rigidly out in front of him, its swollen head half covered. He stood looking at her, waiting.

  “Well? I think you were going to offer me a drink.”

  “Yes, Miss Marilyn. What would you like to drink?”

  She pretended to consider. She had drunk enough wine for the moment, and she would need a clear head. “Bring me a tonic. Ice and lemon.”

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  “Yes, Miss Marilyn.”

  He started for the kitchen and she called after him, “And get yourself an apron. I don"t want to stare at that thing all evening.”

  She set her bag on the sofa and sat beside it. Now, what would she use first?

  Jeremy returned with a single glass on a tray. He was wearing a denim apron, which did little to hide his excitement. He set the glass beside her and waited.

  “Very good. Now, Jeremy, do you know what this is for?” She was holding a long fly whisk of artificial horse hair. She turned it around and held it by the root of the hair. The handle protruded from her fist, a gnarled post of black plastic.

  “Yes, Miss Marilyn.”

  “Very good, Jeremy. And you know what I"m going to do

  with it? If you annoy me, if you don"t do exactly what I want, I"m going to stick this right up your arse. That"s right, and you can walk around wearing this horse"s tail. Would you like that?”

  “Er, no, Miss Marilyn. Only if you wanted to, Miss Marilyn.” From the expression on his face, Jeremy would not be too upset if he had to try it.

  “Very good, Jeremy. Now come here and take my shoes off. My feet need a rub.”

  He knelt before her and slipped her shoes off, setting her feet on his apron. He cradled one foot in his hand, and Marilyn sat back to enjoy the massage. It felt relaxing. She started to wonder just how much Jeremy had paid for this flat and its elegant furniture.

  Her mind was wandering, and she called herself back. “That"s enough. Now, take my shirt off.” She moved forward to the edge of her seat so he could take the hem of her top and lift it up over her head.

  She hurried to get her right hand free, grabbed the horsetail and jammed the handle under his chin
. “You were looking at my breasts,” she accused him, lifting his face up. “You have no right to stare at me like that!” Her fury was only half pretence.

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  “I"m sorry, Miss Marilyn. I didn"t mean...” She let him pull the other arm free without lowering his head. He looked uncomfortable and frightened, but his excitement was still obvious .

  Marilyn stood up. “Now, I want you to take my trousers off. Can you do that?”

  “Yes, Miss Marilyn.”

  “Look at me. I want you to take them off, but if you dare to peep at me, I"ll make you wish you"d never been born. Understand?”

  “Yes, Miss Marilyn.”

  “Good. Take them off.”

  He was kneeling at her feet, looking earnestly at her face. She laid the handle of the horse tail against his cheek and said “That"s right, Jeremy. Just keep looking up.” He fumbled at her waist, trying to undo the buckle of her belt. “That"s it, Jeremy, now the zip. That"s right. Now push them down.” She felt his hands trembling as, without breaking eye contact, he started to ease her leathers down over her hips.

  He struggled with the unfamiliar position he was in, and her trousers began bunching up as they reached her thighs. She felt his fingers trying to sort out the mess, and grabbed his hair with her free hand. “Did you try and touch me?”

  “No, Miss Marilyn. It was an accident, I promise.”

  “You"d better be right. Now, push them all the way down.” She still held his head back as she stepped out of first one trouser leg and then the other.

  “Good. You managed that. Now I want my shoes back on.” Without freeing him, she sat on the sofa again. He reached for her shoes but he could not find them. She sat forward with her legs together, and let him go.