As Far as You Can Go (20 page)

‘Eh?’ she says. She stands up and takes off her shorts and knickers – slight rattle of pills from the pocket. He watches her, eyes hazed. ‘Eh?’ she says again.

‘Yeah,’ he breathes.

‘Take off your jeans,’ she says. She watches him kick out of them and and sit back on the bed, puffing at his fag. His beautiful cock rises as she leans over and puts her lips to it but he smells wrong. Not suckable today. Instead she sits astride him, takes his fag away and puts it on the jar-lid ashtray. She pulls her T-shirt over her head. Given up wearing a bra in this
heat. A gritty trail between her breasts. She cups them in her hands and lifts them towards his face. He blinks, long dusty lashes, eyes darkening.

‘Fuck me then,’ she says.

‘Is that an order?’ His voice is husky but he looks
sad
almost. He lifts a hand and touches each of her breasts, gently, reverently almost, stroking as if he’s never seen them before.

‘Your skin is amazingly fine,’ he says.

‘Come on.’ She gets off him and lies down. She unbuttons his shirt, kisses the skin on his neck and chest, the familiar taste, the vibration that passes between them still there, stunning. More passionate than for ages; he sinks his teeth into her shoulder and sucks on her neck so there will be blossoms there tomorrow for everyone to see but that’s OK, why shouldn’t they make love and why shouldn’t they have love bites? She bites him back, bites and sucks at his throat as he jerks, shuddering and groaning into her, then his hand comes down and he touches her until she rises up under his hand and as she comes the roof crashes down, crashes and reverberates. She lies in a soft, dazed trance, then giggles.

‘I think the earth just moved.’

‘I love you,’ he says.

She breathes in sharply. ‘Me too,’ she says, smiling into his precious peppery skin. A faint foreign oily smell from Mara’s shed. But this is
it
. She simply cannot lose him.

She can almost hear Patsy’s voice. ‘What is it about
him
? There are so many other lovely guys. Lovely
grown-up
guys.’ More or less what everyone has said. But lying here beside him she knows why. Because she will
never
fancy anyone the way she fancies Graham; because she will
never
find a better lover than him; because she really
likes
him (most of the time) and because when she imagines the children she wants to have, they are
his
.

It’s not a choice. That’s simply how it is.

His knuckles smart. He’s drained, feels like some kind of husk. What is going on? Cassie’s gone to cook the pizzas, he should follow her but he’ll just have another smoke first. How’s he going to face them? He rolls another cigarette, clicks the lighter and holds it in his palm, sees his tiny bleared reflection. His mind goes back to when Jas gave it to him. It was his birthday, she’d said nothing about it. No big deal, he assumed she’d forgotten. Fair do’s. He never remembered hers. They were in the pub. She’d lit his fag with it. ‘That’s nice,’ he’d said, taking it from her. A chunky chrome Zippo, heavy in his hand. ‘Oh, have it,’ she’d said and then laughed. ‘Happy Birthday, you prat. Bought it for you, didn’t I? Don’t lose it.’ And amazingly he hasn’t.

He pulls on his jeans, a clean T-shirt. His other one, screwed in a ball on the floor, is covered in body paint. He kicks it into a corner. What’s he meant to do? Waltz over? Oh yeah, shag the wife, deck the husband and then sit down and have dinner with them. What a situation. Could sound funny. When he tells it. When he gets back. If he tells it. But this is
now
. His stomach growls. He
is
starving. He hears a car drive up. Fred maybe. Thank Christ for that. That’ll help. Maybe a bit. He puts his hair back with a rubber band, sticks his feet into his sandals and goes.

The wind blows dust in his eyes and he puts a hand up to shield them, dust drying his mouth. Fred’s there in the kitchen when he gets in, bags of stuff on the table, salad, a warm smell of pizza, bottles of red wine.

‘You’re in the nick of time,’ Cassie’s saying to Fred. ‘If I get them out I can shove some cheese on and shove them back for five minutes. Hi, Gray.’ She smiles at him, her sexy, gappy, gut-scrunching smile. He’s almost floored by a surge of guilt, goes over to kiss her or touch her or something but she shakes him off. ‘Want to clear the table and set it?’

‘All right, mate?’ Graham says to Fred.

‘Yeah. Hear you’ve been having a punch-up! Good on ya!’ He roars out a laugh, gold back tooth catching the light. Graham looks at him with surprise.

‘I’ve poured you some wine,’ Cassie says, bringing him the glass. ‘You look like you could do with a drink.’ She watches him drink it, her face anxious. He glugs it back. Good stuff.

‘Got the post?’ Cassie says, handing Fred a beer.

He shakes his head.

‘Why?
’ Cassie almost wails, her face crumpling.

‘Some sort of mix-up,’ Fred mumbles. He looks down. ‘I’m sorry, love. Next time, hey?’

‘Mix-up?’ Cassie says. ‘What kind of mix-up?’

‘Sorry, love,’ Fred says again. ‘Where’s Mara?’ He nicks the top of his beer and takes a swig.

Cassie sighs. ‘Oh, apparently she’s indisposed again.’

Thank Christ for that and all. Graham breathes out, knocks back the rest of the glass.

Larry comes in. Clean white shirt, swollen nose. ‘Fred,’ he says curtly, ignoring Graham.

‘Nearly ready.’ Cassie looks between Larry and Graham. Pulls a face at Fred. ‘Fred arrived in the nick with the cheese.’

Graham lifts stuff from the table. Puts down knives and forks. He pours wine into some glasses.

‘I take it,’ Larry says, sitting down at the head of the table and unfurling his napkin, ‘that after today’s debacle you’re thinking about resigning?’ His voice is stuffy and thick.

Resigning?
Graham thinks.
The ponce
.

‘We’ve been talking about it –’ Cassie begins.

‘Yes?’ Larry looks at the stove. ‘Shall we eat?’

Cassie picks up the oven gloves. ‘Can you help me, Gray?’

He touches her arm as they stoop down to get the oozy pizzas out. ‘Hey,’ he whispers, ‘anyone ever tell you, you are
gorgeous.’
She smiles and blinks at him. Her face is still flushed from before, or maybe just the oven’s heat, and her hair is all wispy, slipping out of its ponytail. She looks perfect to him, perfect. Ten out of fucking ten. He puts his hand on her arm to say something, what? But she shakes him off.

‘Come
on.’
They get the two big pizzas on to the table. ‘Dig in then everyone,’ she says, sitting down. He sits opposite her, slides his foot across to nudge hers under the table, and takes a long slug of wine.

‘I have a proposal,’ Larry says. ‘But first,’ he holds up his glass, ‘a toast to our cook.’

Cassie laughs, her foot slips away from Graham’s. ‘It’s not much!’

‘Pizza and a half, love, by the look of it,’ Fred says.

Graham can’t bring himself to look at Larry. Sitting there kind of triumphant and wounded. He takes a mouthful of pizza. It’s hot, great, bits of anchovy and chilli. Sees Cassie giving him a look, should have waited.

‘Proposal?’ she says to Larry.

‘Perhaps if you had a break, the two of you, a trip away, a night or two?’ Larry says. ‘See how you felt then?’

‘Really!’ Cassie’s eyes brighten. ‘That would be
fantastic
, wouldn’t it, Gray?’

No two ways about that. He nods. Last thing he expected.

‘That’s settled then,’ Larry unfurls his napkin. ‘Fred, you’ll take them?’

‘Where?’ Cassie says. ‘Perth?’

Fred shrugs, stuffs his face with pizza.

‘When?’ Graham asks.

Larry touches the end of his nose and winces. ‘Day after tomorrow suit you?’

‘Where?’ Cassie asks again.

‘The mountains?’ Larry says.

‘I’d like to go to
town.’

‘We’ll discuss the finer details later,’ Larry says. ‘Graham?’

‘Yeah, that’d be – cool.’

‘Cool,’
Larry repeats, his eyes lingering on Graham. He holds up his empty glass. Graham refills his own then leans over to top up Larry’s. Cassie has hardly touched hers. Stuffy in the kitchen, flies snarling, but the idea of somewhere else, a
pub
maybe, pint of beer, new faces –

‘Couldn’t we go tomorrow?’ Cassie says.

‘Mara’s expecting a session with Graham in the morning,’ Larry says. ‘Can’t disappoint her, eh Graham?’

Graham chews too hard and bites his tongue. Behind his eyes goes red. Taste of blood mixing with anchovy and cheese. Can’t look anywhere but his plate.

Fred snaps open another bottle of beer. ‘Couldn’t see a flaming thing driving here, dust storm. Have to wash the bloody ute tomorrow,’ he says, nervously.

There is a silence. Graham looks up and meets Cassie’s eyes. She’s lost her flush, looks at him apprehensively, eyes wide. He shoves a wad of pizza into his bleeding mouth though his gut is clenched up like a fist.

‘Very nice, Cassie,’ Larry says. ‘Afraid it hurts to eat though. Been in the wars, as you see, Fred! I’m going to go and see to Mara if nobody minds.’

He goes to the door. ‘Wind’s dropped,’ he says as he goes out.

‘Thank the flaming crows,’ Fred mutters.

*

Cassie stands in the kitchen. No one up yet. Least, Larry’s been up, his napkin is on the table. She put it away last night. White roll of linen in a bone ring. On washdays there is so much white: his shirts; towels; face cloths; napkins; his underwear, old-fashioned white Y-fronts. Seven pairs a week. Much as she can do to get Graham to change his twice a week. Tomorrow would be washday but they’re going. She hopes they can go to a town, shops, a chemist, cafés, maybe even a garden centre. Normal everyday things. And she’ll be able to phone Patsy, hear her voice. Her heart lifts. And then they’ll come back refreshed. Make another go of it.

She stands crunching into a bit of cold pizza, wondering what to do. The washing? She could, she supposes, make a start. Might as well. Graham’s waiting for a cup of tea. She’ll have to prise him out of bed for Mara’s lesson. She spoons tea into the pot. Gets a couple of biscuits from the tin. Puts two mugs on a tray. All the time something pressing against her hip-bone. Something in her pocket. No side effects. If all it does is make him
calmer
, more
reliable
. What could be the harm in that? She gets the pills out; opens the lid.
Easily soluble
. She tips one into her palm.

She feels a twinge, like a string tugging in her belly. So
randy
. What’s up with her? Rather nice though. She’ll take the tea and go back to bed with him. Just for a quickie. It’s like she’s on heat. Must
be
the heat. And now they’ve got all that Jas stuff out of the way. Worry about washing later. A green mug, a blue mug. Rough pottery that Fred bought when she said she hated the tin mugs. The pill falls off her palm into the blue mug. She pours the tea. Adds powdered
milk and stirs. White scum in both. She picks up the tea-tray and goes out of the door.

*

He wakes again as Cassie pushes open the door. ‘It’s a scorcha!’ she says.

‘For a change. Tea, ta.’ He hoists himself up on his elbow. His hand feels stiff. Oh yeah.

She sits on the edge of the bed. ‘Just think,’ she says, ‘tomorrow – won’t it be
wonderful
. Wonder where we’ll go? We’ll be able to phone people. Maybe there’ll even be a cyber café, we can email everyone. And then when we come back we’ll feel better. Ready to start again.’

Her hair is down. He puts his hand up to touch it. The ends are crisped almost to white, the roots their usual corn-gold.

‘Yeah. Listen. I was thinking, we could not come back.’ His heart beats with excitement at the thought.

‘What?’ She hands him his mug of tea. Too hot. He puts it on the box beside the bed.

‘When we go off tomorrow, take our stuff and just piss off out of it. Wherever Fred takes us, just tell him we’ve decided – He’s a good bloke, he’ll be OK.’

‘Hmmm,’ she says, wrinkling her nose. ‘We
couldn’t
– could we? He’d know, wouldn’t he – Larry – if we took all our stuff?’

‘Not take much then,’ he says. ‘Money, passports, the other stuff doesn’t matter much.’

She looks round. ‘No, I suppose not. But –’

‘What?’

‘Oh – nothing. It’s just that it feels like giving up. I don’t like giving up on things.’

‘We’d
still be together,’ Graham says. ‘I want to be with you. I want to be. We can have a baby.’

‘Yes?’ She gives him a searching look.

‘Yeah. Why not?’ He reaches for his tea.

‘Wait,’ she puts her hand on his arm, ‘don’t drink that yet.’

‘Why?’

‘I dunno. Hey, I’m feeling really randy –’

‘Not again!’

She runs her hand up his leg under the sheet, cups his balls, rubs him, till the sheet starts to rise up like a tent though his heart sinks.

‘You’re gonna wear me out. Let me drink my tea.’ He takes a sip.

‘No!’ she yells suddenly and knocks the mug from his hand so the tea splashes and soaks hotly through the sheet.

He jumps up, scalded.
‘Ow
, what the
hell
?’

‘God, I’m sorry, are you all right? Come here.’ She picks up the jug from beside the bed and splashes cool water over his front, his scalded belly and thigh. Not too bad, but it smarts like buggery. And the bed a swamp.

‘What did you do
that
for?’

‘I thought I saw a – a thing.’

‘A
thing
?’

He stares at her, red in the face, hair all over the place. Has she completely lost it?

‘Sorry,’ she says again. She bites her lip. ‘Look, you drink mine.’ She thrusts the other mug at him.

‘No, it’s OK. Think I’ll get up now,’ he says. ‘Sooner we get away from here the better, eh?’

Her shorts are wet. She peels them off, stands in her black knickers, she looks good in knickers. Couldn’t spend his life with a woman who didn’t. The thought startles him.
Spend his life
. Did he think that?

‘Yes,’ she says. ‘You’re right.’