Floodtide

by Judy Nunn

  'Are you punters?' he asked. 'I've got a couple of good tips for Belmont tomorrow.'

  'Oh yeah?' Tony raised an eyebrow.

  'Too right. Whack a fiver on Lightning Ridge in the fourth for starters, he's a dead cert.'

  'You reckon, do you?' Bobbo, too, appeared sceptical.

  'Yep, a fiver on the nose and you'll be laughing.'

  'And you'd know, wouldn't you.' The kid was a cocky little bastard, Tony thought.

  'It's my job to know, mate. I clerk for Big Bet Bob Wetherill.'

  The men dived into their pockets for pen and paper, and five minutes later they had a list of red-hot tips – 'Straight from the horse's mouth,' as Spud said.

  Tony and Bobbo were still writing down the last of the tips when the taxi pulled up. Spud gave Cyrenne a wave as she stepped out of the car.

  'She's a friend of mine,' he said to the bouncers. 'She left her invitation at home, I've got it right here.' He took the gilt-edged invitation from his pocket and handed it to Bobbo. 'We've got a surprise lined up for my mate, you know what I mean?'

  A tall platinum blonde sashayed towards them on six-inch gold stilettos, her belted trenchcoat flapping open to reveal a healthy expanse of silk-stockinged thigh.

  'Right.' Bobbo and Tony shared a grin. The kid had hired a stripper – where was the harm in that? But wouldn't it just get right up the nose of that pain-in-thearse Pemberton bitch.

  Bobbo checked the invitation. 'Seems to be perfectly in order,' he said, and Tony shrugged agreement. The stripper would be gone before the Pembertons returned, and even if word got back to the harridan of the house, they couldn't be blamed. They'd collected the invitation, which was perfectly legitimate. How could they have known?

  'Great.' Well, that was easy, Spud thought. 'G'day, Cyrenne,' he said. 'Come on in.'

  'Hello, Spud.' Cyrenne greeted him, and then, with the sublime confidence of one used to men drooling over her, she winked at the bouncers. 'Hi, boys,' she said as she walked through the gates. Tony's and Bobbo's heads swivelled, eyes ogling the wriggle of her backside.

  A minute or so later, they heard the band strike up a raunchy introduction and the kid yell 'Surpriiiise!' Tony said to Bobbo, 'My turn for a bit of a recce, I reckon.'

  Ian Pemberton's jaw dropped the moment Cyrenne walked onto the dance floor, the others clearing the way and yelling their approval. He knew who she was. Cyrenne was no stripper. She was one of the top hookers from the Sun Majestic Massage Parlour. Spud had introduced him to the brothel over a year ago, and he'd been there several times since. But Cyrenne had always been booked in advance – it seemed she was a favourite amongst the high-flyers who frequented the place.

  'Happy birthday, Pembo.'

  Spud appeared beside him and started clapping along with the others as the band launched into 'Hey Big Spender', and before Ian could comment, Cyrenne's trench-coat landed on his head. He struggled out from beneath it and stood gawking.

  For a non-professional, Cyrenne's performance was extraordinarily competent – in fact, it was far more seductive than the average stripper. But then she'd had a great deal of experience on more intimate occasions. Beneath the trenchcoat she was dressed in a bright red satin miniskirt and matching braless halterneck top. The skirt was split to waist high on one side, displaying black silk suspenders and stockings, and the top was low cut, exposing voluptuous breasts.

  Cyrenne herself had requested the band play 'Hey Big Spender'. It was the highly suggestive number the chorus of hookers sang in the new Cy Coleman musical, Sweet Charity, and the girls from the Sun Majestic had proudly adopted it as their own. They knew the lyrics off by heart.

  The minute you walked in the joint . . .

  She took Ian by the hand and led him to a chair beside the dance floor, where she dangerously placed a stilettoed foot on his crotch while she divested herself of her shoe.

  I could see you were a man of distinction . . .

  When her other shoe had been removed in the same manner, she threw them both to Spud, who deftly caught them, then she proceeded to circle the chair, gyrating to the music and whispering the lyrics huskily to Ian. She was no singer and didn't pretend to be, but the way she said the words was a personal come-on.

  Good looking, so refined . . . The band was into the second chorus by now.

  Positioning herself legs astride in front of him, she thrust her pelvis at him with the obvious invitation that he undo the miniskirt.

  Say, wouldn't you like to know what's going on in my mind . ..

  A cheer went up when the skirt dropped away to reveal perfect buttocks, enhanced by a G-string and suspender belt, and everyone started chanting a countdown as she teasingly released each suspender, her foot once again in Ian's crotch.

  So let me get right to the point . . .

  When both silk stockings were removed, she draped them around his neck, then snapped off the suspender belt.

  I don't pop my cork for every man I see . . .

  It was the third and final chorus and the crowd was going wild. 'Get it off,' they yelled.

  She sat on his lap and whirled the suspender belt about her head like a lasso.

  Hey big spender . . .

  When that, too, had been hurled to Spud, it was time for the top. Cyrenne stood, kicked a leg high over Ian's head and sat straddling him, nose to nose, arms about his neck, G-stringed crotch grinding against his now healthy erection.

  Hey big spender . . .

  She wriggled her pelvis in time to the music. The number was reaching its crescendo.

  Hey big spender . . .

  Slowly, she untied the halterneck top.

  Spend a little time with me.

  Then she stood and, as the top landed at Spud's feet, she thrust her glorious breasts right into Ian's face.

  'Hey Big Spender' was over, as was the strip, and Cyrenne, clad in only her G-string, took Ian by the hand, raised him to his feet and bowed to the crowd, who madly applauded.

  The band struck up 'Happy Birthday', everyone joined in, and Spud, having collected Cyrenne's gear, returned it to her. She donned the trenchcoat and pocketed the rest of the para-phernalia – the show was clearly over. Everyone went back to their partying, the band embarked on an Elvis bracket, and Cyrenne winked at Spud as, hand in hand, she led Ian towards the verandah and the back door to the house.

  Shit, Tony thought, watching from the shadows by the rockery, the kids weren't supposed to go inside the house unless it rained – those were the Pemberton bitch's orders. But what the hell, the kid was her own bloody son. And there'd been no trouble, had there? He and Bobbo had kept guard by the gate – how could they possibly have known that the party boy had snuck inside for a quick root? Tony returned to the gate.

  Inside the house, the caterers, who had permission to use the kitchen, were far too busy with the constant replenishment of food platters to take any notice of the young couple quietly sneaking upstairs.

  From the garden, Spud watched as one of the upstairs bedroom lights went on, then very quickly went off again. He smiled. He hadn't had to pay a penny for Cyrenne. She'd been a present from Ruby. He'd sent any number of big punters Ruby's way and she'd owed him a favour. Now Pembo did too. Spud liked doing things for his mates, but he also liked racking up favours. You never knew when they'd come in handy.

  It'd been a bloody good night, he thought, grabbing a Coke from the tray of a passing waiter. He poured half of it into a pot plant and drained the last of his flask into the glass.

  The Pembertons senior arrived home a quarter of an hour earlier than expected, but their premature return posed no threat. Cyrenne had left a good twenty minutes previously. She'd brought the kid on quickly, no mucking about, she had a client booked in for one o'clock.

  The band was playing 'As Time Goes By' when Cynthia walked through the house to the back garden – the bouncers had reported that the Bentley was pulling up in the front driveway.

  But the music was drowned out by the raucous screech o
f voices.

  'A smile is just a smile . . .'

  Cynthia was appalled when she stepped onto the verandah and was confronted by the sight of two dozen students in a drunken sing-along, arms linked, swaying unsteadily on the dance floor, some barely able to stand. And amongst the shadows of the garden, she was sure she could see some highly suspicious activity. She stepped back inside and turned on the burglar deterrent switch by the door.

  The whole of the garden was suddenly and starkly floodlit. The band stopped playing, those on the dance floor shielded their eyes from the glare, and, amongst the previously darkened nooks and crannies, couples sprang apart startled, in various states of disarray. It was certainly the way to end a party.

  The students, drunk and stoned for the most part, lurched out into the night. Cynthia did not stand by the gates farewelling them as she had intended. But she did have a sharp word with the security men.

  'What on earth's been going on?' she demanded as she took them aside.

  'There's been no trouble, ma'am,' Bobbo reported. 'The kids have been on their best behaviour.'

  'But they're all drunk!' she said furiously.

  'Can't stop them drinking, ma'am,' Tony said. 'The alcohol was provided.' And by you, his tone clearly indicated.

  Ian said much the same thing when everyone had gone and she accused his friends of being drunken reprobates.

  'Well, you've only got yourself to blame,' he said accusingly, swaying on his feet, none too sober himself.

  'I beg your pardon?' Cynthia wished Gordon would give her some back-up, but he'd gone to bed, apparently unperturbed.

  'All that Taittinger ...' The remark dripped sarcasm, he'd known it was local bubbly. 'What else can you expect? They're common, aren't they? They're not used to it. If you feed them vintage Taittinger it's bound to go to their heads.'

  Cynthia was shocked. Ian was mocking her. Why? His friends weren't common at all. Most came from excellent families – she knew the parents of many of them. Why was her son attacking her?

  'You shouldn't have done it, Mum,' he said, starting to slur his words a little. 'You shouldn't have turned the lights on.'

  'Good heavens, Ian, I was only doing what any decent mother –'

  'You shouldn't have done it, that's all. I'm going to bed.'

  He couldn't be bothered taking the confrontation any further, he was too far gone. And besides, he'd had too good a time. She'd killed the night, certainly, but it would have been over the moment she got home anyway. His mum was just being his mum. She couldn't help the way she was.

  'Great party though,' he said, resisting the urge to add 'before you fucked it up' – he'd hurt her enough, he could tell. 'Really really, great great party. The best night of my life, in fact.'

  Cynthia watched in dismay as her beloved son weaved his way upstairs. What had she done that was so very wrong? He'd never in his life spoken to her in such a manner. She was more than hurt. She was cut to the quick.

  *

  It had been the best night of his life, Ian thought as he switched on the bedside lamp and collapsed into bed fully clothed. He gazed up at the ceiling, still seeing the halo of Cyrenne's silver-blonde hair reflected in the glow from the garden's lights as she straddled him. It hadn't lasted long, he'd been as randy as hell – she'd been bringing him on ever since she'd started playing with him during the strip – but the experience had been amazing nonetheless.

  Strangely enough, it hadn't been the sexual act itself which had been the biggest thrill. He'd had hookers before, although perhaps none quite as impressive as Cyrenne. Indeed, he'd lost his virginity to a hooker – just over a year ago, when Spud had taken him to the Sun Majestic. He hadn't told Spud he'd been a virgin at the time. It was obvious that Spud regularly introduced new clients to the Sun Majestic – in fact, Ian suspected that he scored freebies in exchange – and it had all seemed so worldly that he'd been too ashamed to admit that at nearly twenty years of age he'd never slept with a girl. He'd been back to the brothel a number of times since then – he'd become quite a regular. He liked buying a woman. The process was less complicated than trying to chat up the girls at uni. When he paid, there was no need to try and win favours, nor was there the fear of rejection.

  But tonight had been something new and exciting. Cyrenne had been here, he thought, here in this very room!

  He looked about at the past of his childhood. At his sporting trophies from school and university where they sat on their shelves, silver-plating kept buffed and shining by the cleaning lady upon Cynthia's instructions. They were all there, from his first junior track and field medal at Guildford Grammar to the hundred yards hurdles cup he'd won last year at UWA. He looked at his posters of Elvis, which had been sticky-taped to the walls for a number of years now. They hadn't met with his mother's approval, but she'd allowed them anyway. Sticky-tape didn't do too much damage, Cynthia had declared, and she'd decided that he'd get over the teenage need for posters eventually. He had. But he kept refreshing the sticky-tape and the posters remained, either as a gesture of defiance or a declaration of his personal space, he wasn't sure which.

  Hell, he thought, and laughed out loud. He'd had one of the top hookers in Perth right here in his room. It was mind-bogglingly exciting. The secrecy, the daring of it! What would his mother say if she knew? That was the thrill – far more than the sex. It was the highlight of his life.

  Spring arrived, hot and early, and third year was coming to its conclusion with exams on the horizon. For Mike and Ian it was the culmination of their basic three-year science course, although following second year Ian had decided upon a new direction. He'd tried to persuade Mike to join him.

  'Geology, mate, that's where the money is. Nickel. The hunt's already on – it's only a matter of time.'

  Ian had done his homework. Nickel, the new wonder additive in the production of improved high-tensile steels, was in heavy demand, and the recent strikes at Sudbury in Canada had had a huge impact upon the global stock market. The search was now on in the mineral-rich state of Western Australia.

  'Half the lecturers are already doing side-line work consulting,' he urged. 'There's a shortage of qualified geolo-gists in WA – in the whole of Australia for that matter. We'll be able to write our own ticket. A double major in Geol 30 and 31, that's what we need. You're mad if you don't make the switch.'

  Mike shrugged. 'Then I'm mad. I'm sticking with zo-ol.' He had no interest in joining Ian on his get-rich-quick campaign. His commitment to the field of environment and marine biology remained unchanged.

  At the moment, however, his commitment seemed to be taking a back seat as the weather, hot and welcoming, beckoned him to the beach. Often on the weekends, instead of studying, he'd lair off down Stirling Highway on his motorbike to throw himself into the surf at North Cottesloe before joining the gang of his like-minded mates for a quick beer at the Ocean Beach Hotel.

  Occasionally Jools would nag him into taking her along. She'd ride pillion, refusing to wear the safety helmet, her cropped brown curls riotous in the wind. She loved the bike. Mike found her company no hardship; he was fond of his little sister, and besides, he was between girlfriends at the time. Not that he had any wish to reserve the pillion seat. He preferred to play the field, and did so openly and unashamedly.

  Jools loved their days together at North Cott. They'd go body-surfing and eat dagwood dogs – frankfurters on wooden skewers battered and dipped in tomato sauce. Jools always complained loudly about the way the sauce ran out after the second bite. 'Have a pie instead then,' Mike would say every time. But she never did. North Cott wouldn't be the same without a dagwood dog. Then, in the beer garden at the OBH, she'd sit with her lemonade – at eighteen she was still underage – while Mike and his mates would slip her a beer on the sly. Finally, they'd lair back to Claremont on the bike, Mike taking the corners at breakneck speed, just the way she liked it.