Mad Men, Bad Girls

by Maggie Groff

Laughing, I told her that I’d call her after the weekend.

  There was a short message from my mother, sending parental love and saying all was well. Glumly, I registered there was nothing from Rafe, not that I was expecting anything. We hadn’t made any plans and I didn’t even know if he was on duty this evening. Or, for that matter, where our foreplay was leading, or if it was leading anywhere at all.

  I pulled back onto the motorway and conjured up the chess scene from The Thomas Crown Affair. Rafe was Steve McQueen and I was Faye Dunaway. Unsure of the exact details, I improvised and Rafe and I were drinking Napoleon brandy, the lights were low and Pachabel was playing in the background. Captivated by the idea, I wondered how long it would take me to learn to play chess.

  The storm hit as I crossed the border into New South Wales. It started as thick drops of rain splattering the windscreen and quickly intensified to monsoon level—like a sheet, straight down and lots of it. The noise was deafening and visibility was poor. I ditched the chess game, slowed down and turned on the headlights.

  By the time I pulled off the highway at Byron Bay, the rain had eased from torrential to steady. I stopped at the supermarket on the outskirts of town to stock up as Sam had eaten the entire contents of my kitchen, and then I picked up a couple of Wagyu steaks from the butcher. If Rafe did happen to drop in, I wanted to be able to produce an impromptu gourmet dinner. As you do.

  Chairman Meow was waiting for me at the top of the back steps, meowing loudly. I dumped the shopping bags in the kitchen and picked him up and we made a big fuss of each other.

  After unpacking the groceries, I showered, pulled on shorts and a black tank top and made tea. Then I poured two cups and took them both down the back steps, called through Fandango’s kitchen door to Miles, and sat on the steps and waited for him.

  Miles poked his head out of the door and smiled at me.

  ‘Hello darls,’ he said. ‘I’ll grab a fag and be right back.’

  Miles sat on the step above me so the smoke didn’t go in my face, not that I cared too much. He gave me a friendly punch on the shoulder.

  ‘Susie called and told me what you two are up to,’ he said. ‘I think it’s great. She didn’t tell me any names, so don’t worry.’

  I looked up at him. ‘I think we may be saving someone’s career. And marriage.’

  ‘So Susie said. Have you heard from Toby?’

  Crikey! I hadn’t thought about Toby since . . . since . . . I couldn’t remember when.

  ‘He called and asked me to send something to his parents,’ I muttered.

  ‘I’ve seen Rafe here,’ Miles commented dryly. ‘He doesn’t usually come around when Toby’s away.’

  ‘Mm,’ I said.

  We were silent for a while, drinking tea, thinking, watching rain drip from the verandah.

  ‘Do you think it’s wrong?’ I asked Miles.

  ‘You’re a grown-up,’ he said. ‘It’s what grown-ups do.’

  We fell silent again and I watched a couple of dogs chase each other along the lane.

  ‘And it’s very French,’ Miles said, and when I glanced up at him he was grinning from ear to ear.

  Chapter 47

  The monsoonal rain returned with a vengeance at six o’clock. I’d done a futile search for news of our GKI activity and I was sitting at my desk, alternating my attention between the mind map on the whiteboard and the rain blasting the windowpane when the phone rang. It was Rafe.

  ‘Nice weather for ducks,’ he said, and his soft deep voice somehow made the innocent words sound exciting.

  ‘Mm. Any news on my car?’ I asked.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Are you working tonight?’

  ‘No, off duty.’ Rafe laughed. ‘Do you want to catch a ceiling fan that’s playing locally?’

  His laughter was giving me a way out, I realised, an opportunity to dismiss the suggestion as a silly tease and steer our conversation back to the weather, my car and work, the brief flirtation over and done with. This realisation, however, fell on stony ground.

  I swallowed. ‘How about dinner?’

  Rafe hesitated. ‘Okay, do you want to eat out?’

  There it was again. With unexpected chivalry he was giving me another way out, the safety of a restaurant and public eyes, another chance to consider the repercussions of what we intended to do.

  For me, and I suspect for Rafe, this was my last chance to show fortitude and moral courage and end this. But my longing for Rafe was so strong that I couldn’t do it. I had no resistance and the principles and loyalty I thought I had to Toby had deserted me. I tempered this awareness by telling myself that two lovers to date didn’t exactly mark me as a fallen woman, yet that didn’t make my intention less dishonourable.

  I took a deep breath. ‘We can eat here,’ I said. ‘I have provisions.’

  ‘For how many days?’

  ‘Just the one,’ I said, captivated by the suggestion behind his words.

  ‘I’ll be there in ten,’ Rafe said. And he hung up.

  Ten minutes! Thank goodness I’d already showered. Makeup first. Hair rebrushed. Loose or plaited? Plaited. Underwear? New purple bra and black French knickers. Clothes? Fitted ankle-length black Capri pants and a black lace shell. Purple bra’s not right. Take off the top. Change to new black bra. Put top back on. Repair scuffs on toenail varnish. Seven minutes. Take deep breaths.

  I spritzed Mitsouko on myself and the pillows, changed the bulb in the bedside light to a forty watt, lit the candles in the living room, threw on a Norah Jones CD, put Charles de Gaulle (the French koala) and Rudyard (my teddy bear) in the bedroom cupboard and cleaned up the bathroom.

  Chairman Meow followed me around as I searched the whole apartment for any evidence of GKI activity. Satisfied that there were no stray bits of wool or discarded knitting needles, I went back to the bathroom and tested my blood sugar level, which thankfully was stable.

  It was rare for me to get in a slather about my diabetes, but there was no way I was going to allow it to dictate the evening. However, I couldn’t contemplate any . . . err . . . strenuous activity without having eaten or my sugar level could take a dive. And if I was going to have a meal with Rafe, like a real dinner date, I’d need to take insulin before eating. Things, I realised with annoyance, would be a bit of a juggling act and timing was everything.

  I was washing salad greens in the kitchen when Rafe arrived at the back gate. Quickly, I dried my hands and rushed to let him in out of the rain. He looked sensational in a fitted black T-shirt with a white splash design on one side, black jeans, a black belt with a Harley Davidson buckle, and a black bomber jacket. And boots, I noticed—RMs. Rafe took off the jacket, shook it, threw it over the back of one of the outdoor seats and ruffled fingers through his dark curls, shaking out the rain.

  ‘Do you want a towel?’ I asked.

  He grinned. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I meant for your hair,’ I said, grinning back.

  ‘I’m not too bad. I took a cab.’

  Rafe came towards me, placed his hands on my shoulders and gave me a friendly kiss on the cheek. I closed my eyes, expecting more, but he stood back and held me at arm’s length. Opening my eyes, I watched as he slowly and quite blatantly ran his eyes from my head to my toes, lingering over my breasts. With difficulty, I tried to remember to breathe.

  ‘You look gorgeous,’ he said, moving away from me. ‘Smell nice, too. What’s for dinner?’

  Unable to speak, I just stared at him. There have been men like Rafe in all times, in all places. Raw sexuality seeps from their bones—the urchin curls you long to touch, the strong neck, the defined jaw. The wondrous searching eyes that blister away your clothes, and the full and tender mouth, a harbinger of erotic pleasures. Ever since Cleopatra first laid eyes on Mark Anthony, these men have broken through our defences and stormed our ramparts.

  My vocal chords seemed to have paralysed with lust so I indicated for Rafe to follow me into the kitchen, where I sipped water an
d willed myself to calm down.

  Recovering, I asked, ‘Would you like a drink?’

  ‘I’ll get them,’ Rafe offered. ‘What are you having?’

  ‘White wine, please.’

  Rafe had been in my kitchen many times with Toby. He went to the fridge and selected a bottle of Taylor’s Clare Valley riesling and held it up for inspection. I nodded and he poured a glass, then grabbed a beer from the fridge for himself. He handed me the wine.

  ‘To us,’ he said, and we clinked drinks and smiled at each other. And, if it wasn’t for the wanton lasciviousness behind our smiles, we could have just been two friends preparing dinner.

  We moved around each other in the kitchen, making salad, grilling Turkish bread, sipping drinks, avoiding touching or any mention of Toby. Every so often Rafe’s eyes would move lazily over my body, and he didn’t attempt to hide the fact. On the contrary, he’d grin with amusement each time I caught him looking.

  After turning on the gas barbecue on the verandah, Rafe returned to the kitchen with Chairman Meow in his arms. ‘What do I give the Great Wally of China for dinner?’ he asked.

  ‘You’ll have to open another tin,’ I said, indicating the cupboard, and I couldn’t suppress a snigger of amusement. This domestic masquerade was terribly House and Garden.

  It was too damp to eat on the verandah, so while Rafe fed Chairman Meow I set the kitchen table. Handing Rafe the steaks to cook, I excused myself to go and inject my insulin. Rafe put the steaks on the table and took my hands.

  ‘Bring it in here,’ he said. ‘I want to give it to you.’

  For a moment I was taken aback. This was something private, intensely personal. I went to the bathroom and stood holding on to the sink for a long time, wondering what to do.

  Oh, what the hell!

  Trembling, I took the syringe and alcohol wipes back into the kitchen and, with more difficulty than normal, drew up the insulin and handed the syringe and an alcohol wipe to Rafe.

  ‘Where?’ he said. His voice was thick, crackly.

  Indicating a place on my belly, I stood by the kitchen table, hardly daring to breathe.

  ‘Wipe with the swab, pinch up the skin and stick the needle in quickly. Then push the plunger slowly,’ I told him.

  Rafe put the syringe on the table, knelt on the floor and gently lifted my top. I rested my hands on his shoulders. He stroked my belly with his fingers and then made little butterfly kisses around my navel. As he kissed my skin his hands crept slowly upwards and he moaned softly. I closed my eyes and touched his hair, yearning for him to go further, but he didn’t.

  Gently wiping my skin with the swab, Rafe took the syringe from the table and quickly thrust the needle into my belly, slowly pushing the life-giving insulin into my body. He withdrew the ­needle and tenderly kissed around the injection site. Then he stood up and softly kissed my lips and gave my mouth a playful bite. It was a moment of almost unbearable intimacy and I felt faint with longing.

  ‘My God,’ he said, ‘that was sexy.’

  I smiled at him. My hands shaking, I took the syringe and put it in the sharps box in the kitchen drawer.

  ‘We have to eat now, don’t we?’ he said.

  I picked up the plate of steaks and handed it to him.

  ‘We do,’ I said. ‘Off you go.’

  Chapter 48

  Watched by Chairman Meow, Rafe and I ate at the kitchen table. The steaks were tender, the wine was good and the conversation suggestive. Just for the hell of it I did the Faye Dunaway trick, using the pepper mill instead of a chess piece.

  ‘That’s not helping,’ Rafe said, watching my hand and shifting visibly in his seat.

  We talked for an age, so long that I considered he might have changed his mind. Rafe had hardly eaten anything and I was wondering if I’d said something to quell his ardour when he suddenly stood up and walked out to the living room.

  ‘I’d love a brandy,’ he called. ‘And you should probably get rid of the audience.’

  With a nervous laugh, I swept Chairman Meow into my arms and carried him out to the verandah. I settled him on the wicker chair and then shut the door, locked the cat flap and returned to the kitchen.

  I poured a glass of brandy and carried it into the living room. The room was softly lit by candles and Bob Dylan was singing ‘Just Like a Woman’. Rafe was sitting at one end of the sofa, lounging with a lazy insouciance, one arm draped along the back of the chair, like he owned the room. His pose reminded me of the entitled arrogance of British officers, relaxing after dinner at the Bombay Yacht Club. He looked incredibly sexy, salacious.

  I handed him the brandy.

  Rafe breathed deeply, took a sip and looked at me. ‘You have no idea how long I’ve dreamed of this moment,’ he said, his voice thick as molasses and almost a whisper.

  My senses were electrified and my body ached for his touch, any last-minute thoughts of Toby completely abandoned. I no longer heard the music but felt it, deep and primal as though the rhythm had taken over the regulation of my own heartbeat.

  Rafe drained his brandy, stood up and walked behind me. Gently he placed his hands on my hips and pulled my body against him, moving in rhythm with the music and my swaying hips. He nuzzled my neck and moaned. He kissed my shoulders and made small bites at the base of my neck. It was like nothing on earth and I thought my heart was going to stop.

  As the last vestiges of my clothing hit the floor, my knees buckled and Rafe lifted me into his arms and carried me to the bedroom, laid me on the bed and stood looking down at me.

  ‘Aren’t you going to take off your clothes?’ I said.

  He shook his head.

  ‘Not this time,’ he said. ‘I’m to pleasure Milady with my boots on, remember?’

  Afterwards, we lay in each other’s arms, our bodies spent, our limbs tangled in the sheets. I’d long ago torn away Rafe’s clothes and we’d explored each other’s bodies first with fevered intensity, then later with care and tenderness. Our breathing was deep and laboured, our bodies soaked.

  Rafe stirred.

  ‘I think I’ll eat my dinner now,’ he announced enthusiastically. Pulling aside the sheet, he untangled his legs and went into the bathroom to shower. Intoxicated by the feel of him, the smell of him, I watched Rafe walk away from the bed, the strong lines of his body, the dark shadows, the way he moved. He was beautiful.

  Wrapping a sarong around myself, I padded out to the kitchen and made a pot of Earl Grey. I was pouring a cup when Rafe casually sauntered into the kitchen with a white bath towel wrapped around his hips. I chuckled wickedly—my fantasies had been spot on.

  Rafe took another beer from the fridge, sat down opposite me and we talked while he finished his meal. There were no awkward moments—I told him about Harper’s school, about Mary and the bullying, and Robert Arnold. Then I told him about Marcia and Tildy, and Heavenly Brother Excalibur.

  Rafe was quiet for a while, eating the remains of the salad.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ I asked.

  ‘About nuns,’ he said.

  ‘Forbidden fruit?’

  Rafe laughed. ‘No, not that way. I was thinking about the similarities between entering a convent and joining a cult.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Individuality is taken away and replaced with a uniform, though not all nuns wear habits these days. They lose their own names and are given another, and every part of their day is controlled. Sometimes they’re not even allowed to speak. They confess sins in front of ­others, and they embrace blind obedience to a master.’

  I stared at Rafe. Since the start of this cult investigation I’d had trouble differentiating between mainstream religions, cults and sects. Maybe they weren’t so different.

  ‘Go on,’ I said.

  ‘Nuns enter convents seeking commune with God. But I imagine they also seek nurturing, safety, happiness and companionship. To keep those things they stay. I don’t think that aspect is too dissimilar to what happens in a cult.’<
br />
  ‘So you think mainstream religion and cults work the same way?’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ Rafe said. ‘There’s a major difference.’

  ‘Which is?’ I asked.

  ‘The client base.’

  I frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Mainstream religion, including nuns, take care of the poor, the needy, the sick and the dying. And they seek no rewards. Cults have no interest in helping the poor, the needy or the sick. Every member must serve the host in some way that is beneficial to the cult. The poor and sick would be a liability, not a benefit.’

  I stood up, walked around the table, buried my face in Rafe’s curls and kissed his head.

  ‘Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses . . .’ I murmured.

  Rafe hesitated. ‘Emma Lazarus, “The New Colossus”?’

  I nodded. ‘Thank you. I’ve been trying to figure out the difference between religions and cults for over a week.’

  ‘I was just trying to understand why people joined groups,’ he said.

  Removing Rafe’s empty plate I said, ‘For the reasons you listed—seeking nurturing, safety, happiness, companionship. You can probably add to that a sense of purpose. People like to belong to things, it’s just that some people join the wrong organisations.’

  Rafe suddenly stood up and headed for the bedroom.

  ‘Come with me,’ he said. ‘I’ve something to show you. I think it was all that talk about Colossus.’

  Chapter 49

  The phone rang at 6 am. I was dozing and leaned across Rafe and picked up.

  ‘It’s me. Marcia. Tommy’s gone missing!’

  My heart sank and I shot upright. Rafe, sensing bad news, sat up, pulled the sheet over his body and looked at me, concerned.

  ‘Toby?’ he mouthed, and I shook my head.

  ‘Oh my God, Marcia,’ I said. ‘Hold on while I wake up properly.’

  Rafe got up, wrapped my sarong around his waist and went out to the kitchen. He returned with a notepad and pen and then left again.

  ‘I’m listening,’ I said, when I’d composed myself.