Be Mine: Valentine Novellas to Warm The Heart

by Nicole Flockton

  I blink rapidly. I can feel my frown wrinkles move as I ponder this. Am I the only woman left on earth with a natural face? Even I sometimes wonder if I should be doing at least Botox. Everyone seems so happy with it. But I can’t make myself. It seems so horribly intrusive.

  But maybe it’s all just new. After all, I moisturise, use sunscreen, deodorant, and they were all new-fangled once. But flying internationally? For major plastic surgery. The cost must have been astronomical. I open and shut my mouth, but nothing is coming out.

  ‘Shocked, darling?’ Tori laughs, that social laugh that people with money do. ‘You are very sweet.’ She leans over and rubs my upper arm. I can feel my face stiffening, without any Botox.

  ‘Hmmm. Have you thought about trying lip injections? Your mouth is already shaped like a plump little bow. With a little more plumping, you’d be attraction dynamite.’

  My heart is sinking by the second. My hairdresser and beautician, both only in their twenties, have had lip plumping done. They were already gorgeous, and now of course they are stunning. The reality is, against gorgeous things like that, I don’t have a hope.

  ‘What am I even thinking?’ I ask Tori miserably. ‘Harry can have his pick. And he probably will pick one of those gorgeous twenty-somethings, with extra lip plumpers and what not.’

  ‘Well, Zara did want to stay very youthful-looking. Harry must have wanted it. Some men are into that you know. As fake as possible. Gets them going. Big fake tits. Huge lips.’

  I gulp a huge gulp of pink stuff, but now it just tastes like a bad thing to be doing.

  Tori was still talking. ‘Zara didn’t have her own career, like fabulous you. She was his social hostess.’

  ‘I suppose she was great at that too?’

  ‘Yes darling.’

  She studies me. ‘You are totally gorgeous, of course.’ She leans over and tickles my top lip. ‘Maybe just a smidge of extra pout here?’ She taps my forehead, between my brows. ‘A tiny dot of wrinkle reduction here?’

  ‘It’s not me, Tori.’ I feel the bubbles hitting my brain in dizzy swoop. ‘I just hate the whole notion of freezing your face and enhancing your lips. I don’t know why. And once you start getting work done, it gets addictive, women tell me.’

  ‘Alright Natural Nancy! You are a total Goddess anyway, believe me, darling.’

  Tori’s voice is gentle. I can see amused pity in her eyes. Enough.

  I peel myself out of the chair. ‘I’m going for a brisk walk around your estate, Tori, and then I must be off. No, don’t come – it will be fast!’

  As I walk around until I am sure I am under the limit and can drive legally, I berate myself. Why tell Tori all that stuff? She has just made me feel stupid. An onlooker to the world of money and sophisticated sexual relationships.

  When I finally get back into my ute, I am resolved: this is not my world. No way am I going to get any of that plastic surgery. No way am I hostess material. I shudder. It would be a nightmare, all that insincere, fake hilarity, social crap.

  No thank you.

  As I drive home, I remember: all the women with lip plumpers who can hardly talk properly. All the ones with Botox who look great, until they are telling you something in an animated manner. Then, their eyelids crease and pucker weirdly, their lips can’t shape the words properly.

  That’s up to them.

  Not for me.

  13

  In two days time, Harry rings me. I stare at my phone for a long moment.

  Tori’s stories have gone around and around in my brain. The Harry she described, Zara’s husband Harry, is not a man I want to know. He sounds dreadful: controlling, unsympathetic, demanding, unrealistic. Wanting his wife to be a doll of some sort.

  I don’t answer the call.

  It’s another two days before I listen to the voice message, which is an incredible feat of willpower on my part. I think I checked my phone, looked at the little voice message symbol, at least every half an hour.

  It’s Friday night.

  Harry’s voice says: ‘Hi Lilac! Hope you are well. Don’t worry, this is not about the Grandchild Project, although I am sure a creative thinker like you will have dreamed up a few more crazy ideas which I would love to hear.

  ‘I’m ringing for your professional help. I need a commercial size landscape design for a project in Melbourne. It’s for a big new client. If we deliver under budget and on time, it’s likely to generate lots more work here and interstate. This one needs a landscape design which will boost worker productivity, through offering them recreational space and nature at lunch time and breaks. I’m lost, and I’m reluctant to risk the designer who got the palm trees so wrong.

  ‘Interested? Please give me a call. Actually, I’d love to hear from you, even if you aren’t. See ya.’

  Am I interested? Hell yes. Worker-centred landscapes. Gardens softening and enriching a space or a walking track so that staff can grab a little fresh air and sensory beauty in their day. What a great opportunity to transform people’s daily lives! I’m so in love with my choice of career, it seems right to help others have a tiny burst of nature at lunch time every working day.

  I’m a big fan of our Melbourne city’s fathers and mothers, who established giant parks in the early days, which people still enjoy now, almost two hundred years later. I struggle to understand modern developments, with their tiny gardens, or no gardens, over many hectares. Just looking at them as I drive along the freeway makes me feel suffocated. But for many people, it’s a start, I know, or the place they call their own. And that makes up for almost everything.

  Part of me leaps with delight at the prospect of working with Harry. A fleeting fantasy of us talking, poring over designs, discussing and laughing together flashes through my mind. A sharp longing besets me.

  But – who is Harry? An unfair, controlling, dominating man? Or the kind, funny, humble, clever man I’ve seen? I’ve always had a rule. Listen to others, but judge for yourself. Time to listen to your own gut, Lilac.

  I take a breath. Dial. Listen to the phone ringing. I think he might have picked up just as the message kicks in, but I put the phone down, and walk away. For some reason, I’m shaking. And I don’t like that, at all. My independence is very hard won. And I’m not giving it up, for anyone.

  A vision flits across my brain, of me being so enamoured of Harry that I get Botox, lip plumping, hand plastic surgery. I go crazy, googling all the different types. Cheeks plumping, eyelid lifts, butt lifts, foot surgery to get rid of bunions. And none of it will be good enough.

  I will never be beautiful enough.

  Then I google all the plastic surgery fails, which are so awful my eyes can’t stretch any wider.

  I close down my computer. I feel sick.

  14

  Meeting Harry at the cafe the next day: of course, he is not the monster he has become in my mind. He is the same warm, kind, friendly, interested human he always is. I kick myself for my wild imaginings.

  Harry invites me to his home to view the concept plans for the new commercial development: a new Children’s Hospital branch which will also provide space for a large garden and walking track. The garden will be available to patients and their drained and distressed parents and carers, as well as the mentally and physically exhausted staff. He wants me to design this special landscape and oversee its implementation.

  ‘Don’t be mad at me, Lilac,’ he tells me at the cafe. ‘I did a bit of googling and asking around about you and your landscape business.’

  ‘Of course!’ I respond.

  Harry says, ‘You are very well regarded! I think your kind of garden design is perfect for what I have in mind. Pardon me if I have it wrong, but I would describe your style as a ‘strong underlying design structure overlaid with texture and whimsy’?’

  I think my eyes must be stars as I smile at Harry. I’m a little overcome as I respond. ‘How insightful of you. I am discovering that because you are an architect, you understand how design and peop
le interact with each other. Yes - gardens must have a strong design structure to support all that colour and sensory detail, texture and whimsy, as you so delightfully put it. A well-designed garden can refresh and delight people, entice them to explore further, to be fully present in the moment. It’s a small thing to add to large commercial development, but which can make all the difference to how people experience work and how they live their lives.’

  Harry has a look on his face: I can hardly describe it, but it is making me melt inside and feel as tall and beautiful as a Magnolia grandiflora tree.

  I agree to meet him later to view the concept plans and discuss potential ideas for the garden and walk.

  Harry’s house is one of the new mansions around Lake Wendouree, the gorgeous lake close to the centre of town for which our regional city is justly famed. Joggers and cyclists are on the lake track. Swans and ducks waddle and swim in the sunshine. The sun gleams and sparkles on the water. My spirits lift. It’s a beautiful area.

  I dawdle up the driveway of Harry’s mansion Windermere and give a professional once-over to the landscaped gardens which line the path. Very manicured. Very ‘Helvetica font’, that is, extremely tasteful, extremely bland. A bit of summer colour, but not much. A lot of green. A lot of professionally trimmed box hedges in square shapes. A lot of texture: leaves, pebbles, concrete. Completely irreproachable, and utterly soulless.

  It’s like being exhorted to write using only a small part of the English language: the plainest words, no adjectives, no adverbs. The rest can die.

  Harry meets me at the huge wood and stained-glass front door. My breath catches in my chest. I can talk about him and think about him, but then I see him, and it’s an instant blow to the belly. Visceral.

  ‘Lilac,’ he says, and his voice seems richer, deeper, like the best quality plum pudding. His eyes are bluer. At home, he radiates a kind of contentment I haven’t seen before. He is always relaxed, but with a busy ‘need to be somewhere else soon’ kind of vibe.

  Now, he’s so relaxed it’s as though he is wearing metaphorical pyjamas.

  He steers me through to the giant kitchen, then up a winding stair to a smaller kitchen and lounge room which overlooks the lake.

  A covered balcony has cane furniture, not the sort which catches on clothing. Original art hangs on the walls, including two stunning Aboriginal works.

  One shelf is displaying a large photo of a beautiful, smiling blonde woman. You can see she is tall, lightly tanned, with very white teeth, laughing into the camera.

  A pang of jealousy spikes me, so fierce I gasp. Harry comes over, solicitous. ‘Lilac, you OK?’

  ‘Is that your wife?’ My voice sounds strange in my ears. I curse myself for letting too much show. This could be embarrassing for all.

  ‘Yes,’ says Harry, and I can’t read him at all.

  ‘A friend of my client, Tori’s, I hear.’ I can’t stop myself. Shut UP, Lilac!

  ‘Yes.’ A cool tone now. ‘They enjoyed travelling to America together.’

  ‘Tori says...Tori says...’ SHUT UP, Lilac. ‘That she was gorgeous, and a fabulous hostess,’ I amend.

  Harry shoots me a sharp look. ‘I hate to criticise one of your clients, but what comes out of that woman’s mouth isn’t always the truth. I can only imagine what you aren’t saying.’

  I step back, really shocked now.

  ‘Sorry! Lilac, sorry, I don’t mean to criticise your client. It’s only that … she may not have been the best influence on Zara.’

  I’m pressed back against the kitchen bench. Harry comes over. We stand there, so close I can smell his good-man smell, of clean male, natural fabrics, a bit of fresh sweat. He slowly, slowly, raises both his hands. They hover there, in the air, and then he lightly places them on the top of my shoulders. His gaze burns into mine. His two index fingers slowly stroke either side of my neck.

  I am frozen in place, the gentle warmth of his hands on my shoulders and the light touch of his fingers taking all of my consciousness, filling all of my mind and emotions and body awareness.

  His blue eyes are dark and intent. His lips are set and firm. I want to stroke the dark bristles with their sprinkling of grey that define his strong chin. I want to rip the buttons off his shirt.

  Voice quiet, filled with remorse and a kind of tight pain, he says, ‘Zara had a few problems.’

  Gently, I push him and step away. I have a strange surge of anger and I’m fighting myself. I want to scream at him, but a lifetime of holding in my emotions is like a physical lock. I swallow a few times. I must speak. I hear the weird strangled sound of my voice, but I am incapable of moderating myself further. ‘Yes, Tori told me.’

  He doesn’t respond. He stands there, looking at me, rather helplessly. His hands dangle by his sides. His expression is not angry. There is an old pain. Confusion. He looks weary, like a man worn past endurance. I calm a little.

  Time to confess what I think I know. ‘Tori told me that you positively hounded Zara to have a child. That you were never happy with her appearance. Look at her! She’s totally beautiful!’

  ‘Lilac, I don’t really want to talk about Zara, but the truth is a little different...’

  ‘You told me that she didn’t want to have kids!’ I stop, mortified. ‘Harry, this isn’t very professional of me. We should be looking at plans. I’m sorry. Your private life is your business, and I don’t want to intrude.’

  ‘Lilac,’ Harry says. ‘I wish I could...’

  He stops. Takes one, two, steps back towards me. I’m pressed back against the kitchen bench. He puts a strong brown arm on either side of me, taking hold of my upper arms.

  And then, he kisses me. He kisses me softly, right on the lips. Warm, firm, man lips on mine. He stops, pulls back and looks at me. His blue eyes are so close to me, I can see his long, black curled lashes, his strong, black brows. And their expression. It’s intent. It’s focussed. It’s full of desire.

  He kisses me again, harder this time, pressing his lips on mine, licking with his tongue around the shape of my lips. He kisses me like a drowning man, like he is aflame with passion. He is holding me tighter, tighter still.

  ‘Mmm,’ he says, a croak in his voice. ‘Mmmm. Real woman. Real lips, real body, firm and warm from working hard.’ He puts a hand up, rests it on my left breast for a long instant which makes my breath come faster, then gently squeezes. ‘Real breasts.’ His voice has a husk that is stirring things below – in both of us. He is pressing so close, I can feel his desire. And it’s BIG.

  I’m coming awake, coming alive with a rush of heat and flame. It’s been too long. I’d almost forgotten. But my body remembers. It’s shivering with desire, getting hot and wet, soft and ready.

  ‘Lilac,’ he almost whispers. ‘I hate you thinking of me like this. I hated her obsession with body image, with plastic surgery. I don’t understand. It must have been a failure on my part – too busy working, took her too much for granted, didn’t pay her the attention she craved. The truth is, in the end, I almost hated her.’

  ‘Hated...?’

  ‘Do you mind if I explain later? Right now, I have an armful of a warm, living, breathing, real woman, all heat, and muscle, and honest lovely face, and it’s causing the most extreme reactions...’

  He kisses me. Strong pliable lips. Insistent tongue. Warm hands, holding me against the bench. The long, lean length of him. His hands, moving now, feeling, caressing, his fingers sliding into my hair, cupping the back of my neck, running across the top of my chest and down my sides. Probing shape and hollow, bone and muscle, surprising sweet reaction from hidden places.

  A rumbling moan, deep in his throat, vibrating through me. My mind is whirling from his revelations. My body is clinching tighter to his. Thoughts are exploding into fragments. My whole self is softening, my skin super-charged and ultra-sensitive, my fingertips and palms greedily absorbing every sense of Harry they can.

  I am melded to him. Our mouths are hot furnaces, our tongues lashing
each other into more heat.

  Years of denial slam into me. ‘Wait!’ I pull away. ‘Harry, I want you. You...you are an amazing man. But...I must be too used to saying no to myself. No to Italian sweet cakes. No to spending money, because I needed it for the kids’ uni fees. No to staying up late and binge-watching Netflix, because I have clients in the morning and there is only me to drive the business. No, no, no to everything, because I cannot allow myself to stuff up.’

  I’m shaking. With want, with need, with a kind of sensory shock because I want him, physically, so very much. And my sensible self, the one who has driven me to success, is still unsure.

  All the different Harrys revolve in my mind. Tori’s evil Harry. The public hard-driven construction giant Harry, and the one who tries to save everyone by being on Boards for everything. The Harry I have coffee with, and laugh with, and feel so...new with. Like a funnier, more sensuous and more alive Lilac.

  His eyes are blazing blue and fixed on me. I see his want and need, a deep vulnerability in those eyes, which contrasts with his strong, capable persona. I think, if his version of Harry is true, if his wife was cold and self-absorbed, maybe it’s been a long time since he knew warmth and laughter, and love...

  I reach out a hand, stroke those bristles lining his chin, shiver with the delicious rasp.

  ‘This isn’t no,’ I say, my voice soft. ‘But please, give me a bit of time to process. I see how beautiful your wife was. How magnetic you are. Why would you want someone like me?’ He opens his mouth and I stop his words with a fingertip. ‘Can we talk about the project?’

  He nods, his gaze still hot and wanting. Clears his throat. ‘Lilac, if you don’t want me, if I have no hope, please, tell me now.’

  I’m even more shocked. The man seems positively desperate. A well-honed act? A fabulous seduction technique he has perfected over the years? My instincts are spinning and alternating. Say no! Harry is amazing! Say yes, now! My sensible self is advising caution, and that is the part that has ensured my survival all these years, even though it acts like a bunch of dusty, disapproving aunts.