Heather Falls in Love Pt. 05

'Sorry,' she said. 'He's not an acquaintance.'

Her rescuer had another quick study of her legs and boobs then told her he was off to "get my mate, the boss-man".

While she waited a young guy with a sneer and oily overalls came over and looked at the campervan with contempt. 'I don't know why yer bothering,' he said. 'It's fucked.'

She glared at him and bit her tongue, but he wasn't finished. Looking at her with the same contempt he'd given the van, he went on: 'Being a sheila, and a Pommy sheila at that, you won't know what I mean, so I'll tell you. It means . . .'

Heather had heard enough. She cut him off. Speaking in that cut-glass accent they had tried to drill into her at The Manor, she said: 'I am English and bear no resemblance to a pomegranate. Oh, and as an afterthought, I know very well what "fucked" means. If you can actually read, I am sure you will find we invented the word centuries before your great-grandfather got transported. Personally, I like fucking and being fucked. But I do not like someone who's not even shaving yet, taking one glance at my campervan and telling me the fucking thing is fucking-well fucked.'

'And I don't like you upsetting my customers,' a new voice added. 'Piss off round the back and find something useful to do.'

The newcomer . . . Boss-man . . . a scowling, barrel-chested bloke was accompanied by Bluey, who was still grinning broadly.

'She swore at me,' the young guy said.

'Don't fucking blame her,' Boss-man replied. 'Now piss off like I said, yeah?'

The young guy slunk away, vainly trying not to look like a beaten cur.

'Sorry,' Heather said, a little shamefaced herself. 'He really wound me up.'

'The shirt-lifting little bastard winds me up as well,' said Boss-man. 'I'd sack him if I didn't think he'd have a go at me for discrimination. Bloody city's full of them. I don't know what things are coming to.'

Normally Heather would have leapt to the defence of a persecuted minority. Right now she pictured the guy's sneer and let it go. There was no excuse for an attitude like that.

Meanwhile Boss-man had a quick examination of the engine then scratched his head in the way of mechanics the world over.

'This old girl's done a lot of miles. What more have you got in mind for her?'

'Cairns,' Heather said. 'Then maybe back here again. I've got buyback, if that helps.'

'She needs to be alive for anyone to buy her back.' Boss-man suddenly beamed at her. 'No offence, but she's nearing the end. It might be best if I do some running repairs so you can get rid.'

Heather was shocked by the rush of sadness. Ingrid, Rod . . . now the campervan. She wasn't going to have anything left.

'Oh,' she said. 'I see.'

So did Boss-man. 'Tell you what,' he said kindly. 'I'll service her and patch her up. Make her good for the round trip. But you've got to promise me: it's four thousand miles and no more. And no farther than Cairns. I don't want to read about you breaking down in the GABA and getting cosy with a bunch of crocs.'

She promised and, when he told her he'd have the van ready for two o'clock the next day, piled a few essentials into a rucksack and accepted a lift from Bluey, back to a more salubrious area. She tried to give him something for his trouble but he wouldn't take anything, couldn't even stop to let her buy him a drink.

'Just say hello to Queen Lizzie for me when you get back Home,' Bluey said. 'Tell her she can rely on my vote next time the Republicans try to rat on her.'

Alone and on foot she followed the old "Ingrid routine" and had a long walk around, getting a feel for the city before even thinking about finding a hotel. When she did finally select a swish-looking place (and knickers to the budget!) her clothes and baggage drew disapproving looks. But then the platinum AmEx card worked its usual magic. Before she could say abracadabra she was on the tenth floor in a luxury suite, running her second bath in two days . . . or her second in two years, depending on how she looked at it.

Scrubbed as clean as she had ever been, she checked the time. Six thirty-five. Sydney was lying out there, waiting to be had. But she didn't really want to have it on her own. And, while she could feel a certain horniness coming on, it felt much too soon to go out on the pull.

There was an ice bucket with a complimentary bottle of champagne waiting in the wings. Leaving that for now, she went to the rucksack and took out a small parcel that Claire had given her as they kissed goodbye. Claire had written ONLY OPEN IN A DIRE EMERGENCY on the plain wrapping paper, in her very neat, bold black letters. Heather opened it to find an expensive-looking vibrator and at least a year's supply of spare batteries. There was also a card from Claire which read:

IF ROD LETS YOU DOWN THIS

LITTLE BEAUTY WON'T.

THINK OF ME EVERY SO OFTEN

WHEN YOU USE IT. I'M OFTEN

GOING TO BE THINKING OF YOU.

LOTS OF LOVE CLAIRE.

Heather tested it, quickly turning it off again. It was so LOUD!! No way dare she use it in here. Okay, the idea of champers and multiple orgasms was very alluring, but this was definitely more of a toy for lonely nights lost in the outback.

Still, it had given her a better idea.

She grabbed the champagne and, not half an hour later, stepped out of a taxi back at Shane's place. The door was unlocked and she could hear music playing, so Rod must be in there, somewhere. She hunted down the music (something light that she didn't recognize) only to find the lounge and kitchen deserted. The doors to the bathroom and guest bedroom were open and they too were deserted. That left just the master bedroom. She smiled to herself as she popped the top three buttons of her clean white blouse, letting her boobs burst most of the way out. Rod really liked her boobs. With any luck he'd be pleased to see them.

Ready now, she threw open the door. 'Hi Rod!' she cried, 'surprise!'

And then she clapped a hand to her mouth to stop the scream.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

(May 2004)

Ingrid wasn't alone in being surprised; it seemed as if everyone in the restaurant was agog, watching to see what happened next. The background chatter had died off completely. The place had turned into a mausoleum.

Close to panicking, she looked at her dining companions. Claire and Brett were grinning, obviously in on the secret. Lauren and Leigh weren't so easy to read. Seated beside their dates for tonight (a pair of similar-looking guys, who may or may not be on the best promise of their lives), they revealed little more than mild curiosity.

'Please,' Bradley repeated, 'Ingrid Cooper, will you marry me?'

She turned back to him. He was down on one knee, a tiny box in his extended hand.

There was a collective sigh when she didn't immediately respond. Not that silence was a tactic; she'd been rendered speechless. Part of her wanted to shout yes . . .

But a bigger part of her couldn't.

'Please Ingrid,' Bradley said again, suddenly less self-confident, 'will you be my wife?'

Tears filled her eyes. 'I'm so sorry,' she blurted, 'I don't know if I can.'

*****

Heather opened the champagne and sat at Shane's kitchen table, still kicking herself for her reaction.

Grow up, girl, she told herself. Who are you to be shocked by anything that goes on in a bedroom?

But she had been shocked. It had never occurred to her that Shane might have got home early. And it had certainly never occurred to her that he was such a special friend to Rod.

She chuckled a little raggedly as she tipped Pink Blush into her glass. It had been obvious that Rod had been pleased to see Shane. Rod's skinny ass had been bobbing away like the world's fastest nodding donkey. And so vigorously . . .

That's what shocked her. It was like walking in on a rape.

The champagne was going down quickly and she could already feel its buzz. She also felt doubly embarrassed. She'd stood there a moment, watching Rod pounding into his boyfriend then actually turned to flee, wanting to get out of there and maybe ring the police. If Shane hadn't called her back she would have been long gone.

She heard a door open and Rod joined her, his hair wet from the shower.

'I'm sorry,' he began.

'No, I'm the one who should be sorry.' She held up a restraining hand. 'I had no right barging in like that. I should have asked for the number. So I could phone you first.'

'I expected you'd be halfway to Brisbane by now.' Rod smiled weakly. 'Otherwise I'd have locked the door.'

'I wish you had locked it. Even more to the point, I wish you'd told me. All the things I told you about me!' Heather laughed. 'And you only go and keep your thing with Shane a secret!' 'You bloody men and communication skills! At least I now know Aussies are as hung up as Pommies.'

Rod started to look a little less troubled. 'You don't mind then?'

'Of course I don't mind. You came here to be with him, didn't you? And I'm supposed to be headed up north. Why should I mind?'

A thought struck her.

'Does Claire know?'

'About my sex life? No, I sort of keep Sydney separate from Albany.'

'Bloody men!' Heather finished her glass and got to her feet. 'I'll make my apologies to Shane then go back to the hotel. You two can share the rest of the bottle.'

'No,' Rod said quickly. 'You'll only fluster him.'

She was about to argue the toss when a swarthy-looking guy with curly black hair came out of the bedroom. As Rod had predicted, he looked flustered.

'Shane,' she said before Rod could stop her, 'I am so sorry.'

The swarthy-looking guy looked behind him.

'Who is "Shane"?' he said. 'I am Spyros.'

For the second time in what seemed like no time at all Heather clapped a hand to her mouth. Wide-eyed, she looked to Rod, whose face had gone an interesting brick-red.

'Look,' Spyros said into the ensuing silence, 'I don't need this domestic shit. Just give me my thirty dollars and I'm out of here.'

Heather noticed the plague of needle tracks on his arm as he took the money from Rod and, without another word, left.

Now she really was shocked.

'Shane doesn't need to know about this,' Rod said tentatively.

'About what? About that rent boy who was practically crawling with AIDS?'

'Come on, Hev, very few gay men have AIDS. You must know that. You were cool with the idea of me and Shane just a few moments ago.'

'I am cool with the idea of gay men in a relationship,' she snapped. 'And I'm cool with single gay men having no-strings sex. It's the idea of a two-timing rat fucking diseased rent boys that makes me spit. Good grief, you couldn't wait, could you? Twenty-four hours between me and Shane and you couldn't wait. And you paid for it. Or is that part of the thrill?'

'Heather, what can I say? I'm sorry. Okay?'

'Okay? No it is not okay. Never mind loyalty to Shane, you might be endangering his life.'

'Now you're being ridiculous.'

'Am I? All right then, look me in the eye and tell me that's the only time you've ever done it.'

Rod couldn't even look at her, never mind go eye to eye. Somehow refraining from thumping him, she used Shane's land line to call a cab then, before going outside to wait, gave Rod a final glare.

'Have you had a test?'

'An AIDS test? Yeah, I was clear.'

'When?'

'Two, maybe three years ago.'

'How many rent boys since then?'

'Two or three,' he confessed.

'And you've never even once used a condom, have you?'

'You told me you had that covered.'

She shook her head. 'I don't believe you said that.'

'Look Heather, chill won't you? There's practically zero chance I had anything to infect you with. And Spyros is clean. He told me he has checks every other month. Just pretend tonight never happened and everyone will be happy.'

Following Spyros's example, she left without another word.

*****

There was no way she was going to be able to sleep that night; none at all. Heather got the taxi driver to drop her off at a cyber café near the hotel. Ten minutes on the Internet was sufficient for her to find what she needed: a local clinic selling HIV/AIDS tests on personal application, with results guaranteed inside fifteen minutes. The clinic (maybe not entirely reputable, but lots better than nothing) opened at nine the next morning, almost twelve hours away.

Twelve hours that stretched out forever and ever.

Heather spent most of that endless night in the hotel bar, drinking beer and idly watching South Africa walloping England at cricket. It was only towards the end of the TV coverage that she realized that the match was in Leeds (at Headingley, no less), and felt a huge and unexpected pang of homesickness. Being walloped in Johannesburg or Bloemfontein wouldn't have had anything like the same effect.

Well, not quite . . .

Back in the hotel room she alternated black coffee with cold showers before dressing in clean shorts and a slightly less revealing T-shirt than yesterday's. It took her two minutes to pack then, casting a final glance around, she spotted Claire's present on the unslept-in bed. At that very moment she didn't care if she never had any form of sex ever again. But just leaving it would be too much like giving up, so she stuffed the vibrator and all the spare batteries into her rucksack before checking out.

The supposedly fifteen minute wait in the clinic seemed at least ten times as long as the night she'd spent in purgatory. In fact it was worse than purgatory, more like being chained to a rock, waiting for the eagle to come pecking out her liver. Finally she was called in to see the doctor. She entered deep in trepidation then immediately relaxed. She could tell from his smile it was good news.

'Narrow miss,' he said. 'Do you need practical advice?'

Heather graciously declined and, after snatching a few hours' kip on a park bench, collected the campervan promptly at two. Driving north, she watched Sydney shrink in her rear-view and didn't breathe easily until it was gone altogether.