Monkey Business (4 page)

I said, ‘Give me that delicious mouth.'

He stiffened and his smile vanished. I knew he was having stupid concerns about getting too involved but I wasn't going to let that stop me. With my hand behind his head I tried to pull his face down to mine. It was like trying to move a marble statue and I had to lift myself up to force him to kiss me. But once he decided to go with it – groaning with pleasure or pain, I wasn't sure – his body relaxed; he held me against him, kissing me deep and long. He whispered, ‘God, you looked so hot tonight. You can't imagine how I panicked when I saw you.'

‘You prefer blondes?'

‘No, I prefer what's under what little you were wearing.'

‘It's the same as what's under what I'm wearing now.'

‘And therein lies the problem . . .'

An hour later we were in my bed and my head was on his shoulder, finger twirling his chest hair. From the sofa he'd swept me up and rushed me to the bedroom, then slowed everything down as we rediscovered each other.

‘I wasn't going to let this happen again,' he said.

I looked up at his perfect face, shadowed by the lamp at his side.

‘Why? It's so nice.'

‘It's
very
nice, but —'

‘I know, I know, you can't get involved.'

‘Tonight was agony for me, Erica. Even just sending you into that place —'

‘Oh, pooh, it was nothing.'

‘I'm dangerous. Unreliable. My life is complicated.'

Axle appeared and sat on Jack's stomach. Sleek and black like a tiny panther, green eyes accusing and jealous, pink tongue poking slightly out of his mouth. I think the permanent tongue-poking was caused by a car accident before I got him at the shelter.

I said, ‘You're in his spot.'

‘He doesn't need half a queen-size bed.'

‘He loves you, you know.'

‘Well, if he starts clawing me he'll be locked in the bathroom.'

I kissed Jack's shoulder. ‘I'll lock him in the bathroom now if you want.' I nipped Jack's earlobe, ran my tongue very lightly along his jaw and gently bit his chin. My hand wandered under the doona as his breathing picked up speed. ‘I mean, I know you think we shouldn't, but we're here now, and we're not wearing anything, may as well —'

Jack was suddenly upright, throwing the doona, sending Axle scampering and me squealing. He straddled me, pinned my hands above my head and told me, ‘
You're
the dangerous one, you know that?'

I smiled.

In the morning I was hoping for another day spent together, this time without the work issues. I was still thinking about strolls along the river or in the Botanic Gardens, another picnic even, but Jack said, standing there in the kitchen with water dripping from his hair and rolling off his magnificent shoulders, over those powerful biceps, that chest, getting caught in the line of hair that ran south from his navel and disappeared under the towel that sat so very low on his hips, ‘I'm sorry. I can't stick around.'

‘Hmm?' I forced my gaze north. ‘What did you say?'

He smiled. ‘I have to go.'

‘That's okay.' It wasn't really.

‘I need to do something with the information you gave me, make it worth your pain.'

‘Work calls.'

‘It does.'

He hesitated, eyes flicking over me, caught between two cravings, I knew – the one to stay a little longer and the other more sensible option. I took advantage of that hesitation, snagging the towel, which fell away, and it was another hour before he walked out my front door.

The next day I wore a smug smile all the way to work, thinking about being with Jack. The nasty business at the nightclub was now, happily, a blur. I'd called Lucy on Sunday morning and it seemed Steve had made it all better for her the way Jack had made it better for me, although she said Steve wanted to go to that nightclub and find the guy and kill him.

When I reached my desk I tried to be as quiet as possible so my boss Rosalind wouldn't hear me. It's not that I was trying to avoid work – not at all – I just wanted to avoid
her
.

My phone rang. It was Rosalind, even though her office is only three metres from my desk. I peered over the partition to see if Marcus, Rosalind's PA, was in yet and then remembered he was taking about six years' worth of annual leave. Rosalind didn't think it was necessary for Marcus to be replaced when there's ‘an entire team of people who can share his responsibilities'. Rosalind doesn't seem to think
she
should be involved in that sharing.

I picked up the phone.

‘I don't seem to have coffee yet,' she said, amazed at the very possibility that someone had not yet delivered her coffee.

‘Good morning, Rosalind. How do you like your coffee?' I asked, just to be annoying because of course everyone in the media and investor relations department knows how she takes it.

‘White with one sugar.'

‘I'll get it for you if you like.'

‘That's why I'm calling you, Erica. To remind you about my coffee.'

‘Of course.'

I hung up and my phone rang again straightaway. It was Celia, John Degraves' PA, saying that JD wanted an update on the annual report.

‘Should I bring it up?' I asked her.

‘Yes, he wants to see you.'

I took tremendous juvenile delight in telling Rosalind I had to go see JD, the big boss, and suggested I show her where the kitchen was. She said she'd get someone else, and that was pretty satisfying too.

I pulled my annual report work-in-progress folder from my drawer and headed for the lifts, pushing the button for the sixty-fifth floor, the Grand Poobah's den.

Before I joined the Team, John Degraves didn't even know my name. Well, he did, but had no real reason to remember it. That was until he decided to recruit me. JD is not only the CEO of Dega Oil, he's also the brains and money behind the Team, having decided a few years ago that Australia's defence forces needed help, especially its anti-terrorism department. So he recruited Jack Jones – ex-SAS, special ops or something – still hurting and vengeful after the loss of his wife and parents in New York on September 11. And Jack recruits all the other Team members – some ex-military people for the scary business and some civilians, like me, to help out with other stuff. It was JD's idea to get me because, at the time, it appeared I was pretty much available at the drop of a hat, had no social life, few friends, hardly went anywhere except to work and my parents', and would probably do anything for money. Oh, and I seemed trustworthy. And there was the minor fact that the Team had targeted my ex-husband, who was, and probably still is, a scumbag and the reason I was in such serious debt (which is no longer a problem, thanks to the Team's generous hourly rate).

I walked across the cavernous foyer of the executive floor, trying not to make footprints in the thick rugs or dints in the soft parquetry with my heels. Celia sent me straight in to JD's office. He looked up from his desk and indicated the seat opposite, which I took.

He smiled broadly. ‘It's a beautiful day,' he said.

I glanced out the window, nodded. ‘Yes, it is.'

JD's got a reputation in business for being pretty laid-back and easy to get along with. Originally, this made it hard for me to understand how he could have even considered employing a bunch of mercenaries to do secret nasty things. But he's also a corporate leader, one of the most admired in Australia, and I guess you need to be pretty tough to survive in that world.

I opened my file and showed him where we were up to with the annual report, but he didn't seem all that interested. He knew we were doing a good job on it. Or rather,
I
was doing a good job and Rosalind was taking the credit.

He said suddenly, ‘My wife and I are having a small cocktail party on Saturday night. We wondered if you'd like to join us.'

I blinked at him.

He said, ‘There'll be people there you know.'

‘Rosalind?' I said before I could stop myself, knowing that if she was going I'd rather spend an evening with my mother.

He smiled. ‘No. It's a work-related function, but not Dega.'

‘Oh.' It was a Team cocktail party. Which meant Jack would be there. ‘I'd love to. Thanks, Mr Degraves.'

‘Very good,' he said. ‘Six-thirty. You remember our address?' Yes, I remembered where John Degraves lives, in one of Toorak's poshest streets. How could I forget last New Year's Eve and all the cars that blew up in front of his house?

I waited until after work before I called Jack, in case someone overheard me. Most people at work think I've got a new boyfriend, which is kind of what we want so people don't wonder about my real relationship with Jack Jones, which is a work one, of course. Although I quite like the occasional extracurricular activities. I called him as I drove. I don't have bluetooth in my old car but I put my mobile on speaker and rested it on my lap.

‘Hey,' he said.

‘You haven't called! When am I going to see you?'

There was a brief silence, then, ‘I —'

‘I'm
joking
, Jack. Don't worry, I'm not going to get all clingy and demanding just because we had magnificent sex.' I sighed, remembering it.

He chuckled. ‘It was.'

‘I'm not even going to invite you to my parents' for dinner tonight.'

‘I wouldn't mind dinner at your parents'.'

‘I'll assume you're either joking or have some form of mental deficiency.'

He laughed again. Jack had in fact been to my parents' house for dinner and hadn't seemed to mind, which is the only thing about Jack Jones I find suspicious. That and the fact that he goes for Collingwood.

‘Actually,' I said, ‘I just wanted to tell you that JD's invited me to his cocktail party on Saturday night.'

He made a hissing noise.

I said, ‘Didn't you know he was inviting me?'

‘No,' he said, clearly unhappy.

‘You don't want me there?'

He hesitated. ‘It's not that I don't want you there. It's the reason he's invited you that annoys me.'

‘What's the reason? Apart from the fact that he might enjoy my fabulous company and witty repartee.'

‘No doubt.' But that's all he said and I waited through a long period of silence.

‘Sorry,' I said, ‘too many questions.'

‘Look, I'm going to talk to Degraves. Don't be surprised if you're uninvited.'

I couldn't help feeling a bit hurt by that but I was trying not to. Jack must have sensed it, probably because of the deafening silence from my end, and he said, ‘I don't want you any closer to this than you need to be. I already regret involving you.'

We said goodbye and hung up, and I continued on to my regular Monday dinner with my folks. As I whizzed by Chadstone Shopping Centre I felt a deep mournful desire for the good old days, when life's agonising moments meant trying to find a parking spot there on Christmas Eve.

I sat in my car out the front of Mum and Dad's cream-brick 1950s house. I could see Mum in her bedroom, fluffing the curtains. My old room was the next window along, with its frilly pink curtains that were a present for my fifth birthday. I thought with a big sigh how nice it would be to return to my childhood days, when everything was pink and frilly. Nah. Because that would mean I'd have to do everything again, including living with my mother until I moved out with my crappy husband. But if I knew what was coming, I could have not been at that bar the night I met my ex, and I could have definitely been at the pub instead of finding Jack Jones half-dead in my front garden. Except then I wouldn't have met him. Or I still would have met him, but he might've been dead by the time I got home.

They parted suddenly, the curtains, and Mum stared out at me. She gestured wildly for me to come inside. I gave her a wave. She stood there, hands on hips, mouth pursed, probably wondering why I was still sitting in my car, not knowing that I always do this, mentally preparing myself for a visit with her. She crossed herself – I could see her lips moving and her eyes rolling heavenward – and walked away. Poor Mum. Traumatised by her own wicked mother's indiscretions; my gran who had a one-night stand in Italy with a swarthy local and that fling produced Mum. Scandalised before she was even born. She's tried to make up for it since by living like a nun (apart from two times – I have a brother).

I got out of the car.

‘Hi, Dad,' I said as I walked in.

He peered at me over the top of his glasses. Grunted. Turned back to the telly.

I found Mum in the kitchen, got a glass of cordial from the fridge and asked if I could help. She shooed me away because, according to her, I'm useless in every kind of domestic activity. She's probably right. I sat at the breakfast bar on an orange vinyl stool that swivelled of its own accord, and watched Mum doing what
all
women should be able to do and do well: cook for a man.

‘Has my order come in yet?' she asked.

‘What order?'

‘Didn't you go to a Tupperware party?'

‘Lucy's? That's next week.'

‘It won't be the same as the good old Tupperware, you know, but I do need some things,' she said. ‘Don't forget to tell them I need a new lid for my flour container. It's got a crack!' She pulled it from the cupboard and showed me again. ‘Make sure they know it's the self-raising one.'

‘It's pretty old, Mum.'

‘But they have a lifetime warranty. If it's the same girl who sold it to me, she might remember.'

‘I've got your order. I'll make sure they replace it.' The
girl
who sold it to her was probably in a nursing home by now or six feet under.

‘How was work?' Mum asked, bustling about. ‘Did you type any letters today?'

I sighed and swivelled to the right, hanging on to the laminated bench. ‘I'm media relations, Mum, not a secretary. Besides, everyone does their own typing these days.' (Except Rosalind.)

Mum was a secretary before she had her annoying, disappointing babies. She can't imagine a woman doing anything in an office other than typing on a clackety old typewriter or making coffee for a man.

‘Surely not men.'

‘Yes, even men.'

Mum was bending low, rifling around in her Tupperware cupboard and things were tumbling out, all over the floor.

‘What are you looking for?' I said.

‘The beetroot one. Your father opened a new can and just left it there in the fridge with no lid, for all the world to see.' She was pulling out the containers that she never uses to reach the useful ones at the back.

I said, ‘Why don't you keep those ones at the front?'

‘They fit better this way.'

‘You really need a new kitchen with more storage space, Mum. Or you need to declutter. I'll help if you want.' And I could get her Tupperware hand-me-downs.

‘No, dear. I like it as it is.' She put a box on the bench and I pulled it close, opening the lid. Inside was a lettuce crisper.

‘Have you got two of these?' I said, lifting it out. I was sure I'd seen one in the fridge.

‘Yes,' she said, taking the crisper, returning it to its box. ‘I keep a spare, just in case. And it seems I might need it, too, if things keep going the way they are.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Haven't you heard?'

‘Heard what?'

She banged the beetroot container down on the bench and glared at the back door. ‘There's a thief in the neighbourhood stealing Tupperware!'

This was rich, even for my mother. But still I didn't laugh because she looked so serious.

‘Why would someone steal Tupperware?'

‘Because they just don't make it like they used to! You can't get these things any more.' She waved her hand at the ancient collection, scattered across the floor and benchtops. She narrowed her eyes at me. ‘Someone's stolen the spike out of my regular lettuce crisper.'

‘It wasn't me!'

‘Well.' She returned to her bustling, pretending to believe I hadn't stolen the spike. ‘Mary and Janice have both had some things stolen. And what's-her-name.'

‘Maybe I could look after the spare lettuce crisper?' I said. ‘I could protect it for you.'

Mum snatched up the box. ‘This one is special.' She regarded it lovingly, arms outstretched. ‘It's a limited-edition crisper. And besides, it was a gift from a friend. A shower tea gift.'