Not far from Palm Beach, just past Avalon, he saw the Mustang again. It was pulled over on the side of the road. One of the occupants – the passenger – was standing next to it, speaking on a mobile phone. He was leaning against the Mustang’s hood with his back to the road. The driver was still behind the wheel, but it was hard to make him out because the car’s windows were smoked.
When he turned into Andrea’s street he noticed – with some disappointment – that as well as her British-racing-green Range Rover there was another car in the driveway – a gleaming, cadmium-yellow Porsche Boxster. It had never occurred to him that she would invite someone else, and even though it was a perfectly reasonable thing to do, he felt aggrieved. Why should he have to share her, especially with a rich bastard?
Andrea opened the door the instant he thumbed the bell, as if she had been watching him approach through the curtains. ‘Right on time for lunch. Perfect. How are you?’ She hugged him; they kissed, somewhat demurely, then inspected each other up close. She was a smart, horny piece of work, even in old, worn-out gear. Somehow that just made her more desirable. She had on ragged denim shorts that were cut almost as brief as a bikini bottom, a sleeveless cotton top and a pair of sneakers that had seen better days. No make-up except for lip gloss. Discreet gold drop-earrings, abundant hair carelessly held in place with tortoiseshell combs. When she asked how he was, it was not said as a casual, throwaway greeting but pointedly, with real interest, as if he were a client. He understood that.
‘I’m fine, Andrea. How about yourself?’
‘Terrific. Glad to see you, though.’ She took his hand and led him inside, and there was the competition – if indeed that’s what he was.
Andrea said, a trifle uncomfortably, ‘Ah … Duncan Murray, this is a good friend of mine, Barrett Pike.’
The two men pumped hands firmly, the way they invariably do in front of an attractive woman.
‘Pleased to meet you, Barrett,’ Murray said in a cultivated, rather plummy voice, ‘but I’m afraid I have to be terribly rude and love you and leave you.’ Was that a thoroughbred English accent, complete with lisp – or an Australian one trying to sound English? It was hard to tell. One thing: he was wearing a very strong, cigar-scented after-shave.
‘Oh. That’s a shame,’ Barrett said.
‘Can’t be helped, I’m afraid.’ He turned to Andrea, placed a hand on her shoulder and seemed to squeeze it – gently but insistently, searchingly, like a doctor feeling for a tender spot. ‘No, my love, I can’t stay for lunch, unfortunately, but thanks for the invitation all the same. We’ll catch up soon.’
‘Very well,’ she said, and saw him to the door.
While they were gone, Barrett was trying to work out who Duncan Murray was. He looked like someone, and he seemed to behave as if Barrett should know who he was. He was around fifty, with sandy hair and elegant, tinted spectacles, a yellow-checked cashmere sweater to go with the Porsche draped over his shoulders, matching Lacoste shirt, expensive slacks and loafers. Everything about him said Country Club. He also had an unnaturally deep facial tan of the kind normally associated with a solarium or a ski resort. Duncan Murray, Duncan Murray … Shit, not the Duncan Murray? Of course it was. How many Duncan Murrays were there in that league?
Andrea and Murray were having quite a chat in the driveway while Barrett hung fire, watching them through the curtains. Duncan Murray was a doctor, a highly successful one who specialised in vanity surgery for the rich and famous – breast implants, facelifts, scar and tattoo removal, liposuction and the like – at a time when some of these procedures still had serious question marks hanging over them. Ignoring the risks to his patients, Murray had ridden high right through the nineteen sixties and seventies, until a series of botched operations and the subsequent civil lawsuits forced him out of the profession. But you can’t keep a good man down, and before long he was reincarnated as that perfect creation for the eighties – the medical entrepreneur. He had everything, even his own exclusive nightclub in Double Bay, then lost the lot in the crash and a continuing barrage of lawsuits and police charges that eventually bankrupted him. After that he had dropped out completely. Barrett hadn’t heard anything about him for at least ten years – until now, in Andrea’s house. In fact the last thing Barrett knew about Duncan Murray was that he’d had nowhere to live and was surviving on unemployment benefits. And yet, in the manner of such people, he always managed to drip money, even when he cried poor.
When she came back inside they hugged and kissed for real, and Barrett felt good again.
‘Duncan Murray,’ he said. ‘Where the hell did he spring from? I thought he was dead.’
‘Oh, Duncan is very much alive, don’t worry. Anyway, forget about him. How are you? Or did I already ask you that?’
‘You did, and I’m … terrific.’
She placed the flat of her hand on his stomach. ‘Good to see you again.’
He wrapped his burly arms around her and gave a squeeze. ‘It’s good to see you, too, Andrea. I’ve been looking forward to it. How was the trip?’
‘Oh, wonderful. Did you get the postcard?’
‘From San Francisco? Yes, I did. How was Francis?’
‘Very entertaining. He’s a wonderful, charming man. So entertaining. You two would hit it off.’
‘I doubt if we’ll ever get the chance.’ He squeezed her a little more, touched her face, then they came apart and inspected each other again.
Andrea said, ‘I think your gut’s getting a bit … thicker.’ She gave it a pat, then held her hand there as he tightened his stomach muscles. ‘You been living on takeaway and beer?’
‘Definitely not. And for your information my weight is unchanged.’
‘Perhaps the distribution is different. It’s all kind of … sliding down.’ Her fingers wandered south, below the belt. ‘But that’s okay – I don’t mind a bit of paunch on a man, as long as it doesn’t get out of hand and start taking over the whole place.’
Barrett said, ‘You, on the other hand, look better than ever, if that is possible. How come?’
‘Hard work, plenty of sleep, and having the right genes. You have good genes.’
‘You think so?’
‘Sure you do,’ she said. ‘You look … you know, knocked around, like a well-travelled suitcase. But … your lines are straight, very symmetrical, and you have excellent bone structure.’ She traced her fingertips over his face. ‘I know guys your age who are already bow-legged, and bend over with their backsides sticking out like little old … gnomes. But you are upright – and strong. So strong.’ She came again into his arms and he held her, kissing her soft neck, pressing her firmly against him, catching fragrant whiffs of her pine-scented underarm deodorant and the light tang of salt on her skin from the morning’s racing around. They were speaking as if they had not seen each other for years, but in fact it was about eight weeks. Andrea knew men, knew how to manage and get the best out of them. She had fed thousands of them during her career as a caterer – that was how she had met her ex-husband, on location for one of his movies – and she had journeyed alone for extended periods through Morocco, Greece, Turkey, Jordan and Burma: countries where men ruled and women were appendages. She was one of those rare individuals who was not frightened or intimidated by any circumstance. Barrett had not known anyone quite like her. If Andrea were cast adrift in the Pacific she would find a way of not merely surviving, but of turning the experience into a profitable venture.
They sat down at the table. On it were plates of oysters opened to order, festooned with strands of fresh seaweed and peppercorns in brine, crayfish tails sliced into cutlets, an avocado and cherry tomato salad, rare sliced beef, cut thinly, a flour-dusted pastadura loaf, a range of chutneys and mustards. A chilled bottle of unwooded chardonnay from Mudgee, de-corked, sweated invitingly. It was the kind of lunch you could not stop eating, even when you thought you’d had enough. There was always room for more. Barrett reached a point where it seemed petty-m
inded to leave a couple of crayfish cutlets, a few oysters and whatever was left in the salad bowl. In less than an hour the food was all gone, and they were into a second bottle that was even more delicious than the first.
*
Upstairs – curtains drawn, clothing discarded – they treated each other to some teasing foreplay, made love twice and then dozed off. Andrea’s head rested on his shoulder at first, but when sleep closed in and she twitched and her breathing deepened, she drew away and turned her back to him, as was her custom. Barrett too went under, then was dragged to the surface by a dive-bombing mosquito not long afterwards. That was the end of that. His eyelids were heavy and stinging, but he could sleep no more. He turned his head and looked enviously at Andrea’s untidy piles of hair and her lightly freckled back. She was a sound sleeper. They had been friends, then lovers, for nearly two years. In fact the relationship had begun professionally, when Andrea had hired him to find out if Ivan was having it off with minors, as she suspected from the hardcore porn material she had found hidden in the house. There was even a newsletter from the US parent body, NAMBLA. She was rocked, completely blown away, when he furnished her with the conclusive evidence. She’d fronted Ivan that night. At first he’d denied everything, but then he’d became defensive, even hostile. He would not own up to having done wrong. She later learned that this aggressively self-justifying attitude was endemic among pedophiles. That was all bad enough, but during the time he had been buggering and doing Christ-knows-what with these unhygienic and possibly smack-and/or disease-ridden teenagers, he had not practised safe sex with her. ‘Ah,’ he’d said, ‘If I had done that, you would have suspected something was up.’
Barrett had feared she would go to pieces in front of him when he’d hit her with the black-and-white photographs. They were in a bar at the time. The barman was watching them, and Barrett was concerned the barman would think he was causing her this grief. After that they’d maintained sporadic telephone contact, one thing had led to another, and then one evening they’d met for dinner and ended up half-whacked in a motel room. She sure had a power of pent-up stuff to get rid of, and he was the right man for the occasion.
This affair of his with Andrea was not simple to pin down. In fact, sometimes it felt as if there was nothing there, except sex. There were unstated rules to the relationship, which neither party breached. They saw each other periodically, no more, and there was no question of ownership, or long-term plans. There was no venturing beyond the existing zone. Andrea had been seriously damaged by her marriage and was not about to go down that road again. As far as Barrett was concerned, he was still married to Karen, every woman he went out with was a poor substitute for her, and even now a one-night stand felt like an act of betrayal. But you had to have sex in your life, and who better to have it with than Andrea Fox-Fearnor?
The arrangement cut both ways, and it had only held together because neither of them pushed it. Barrett would never dream of phoning her out of turn or making extra demands on her personal life, regardless of how he was feeling. One of his problems was – and always had been – that he found it hard to have sex with a woman without falling a little in love with her. But how could you not be affectionately inclined towards someone with whom you had just orgasmed simultaneously, or who had gone down on you all the way and given you everything? Geoff O’Mara, on the other hand, was a complete and unapologetic mercenary. He prided himself on it. Understandably, perhaps: his wife of eighteen years had jumped ship at the height of the Fitzgerald inquiry, leaving him to tough it through on his own. He never forgave her for that, especially when he found out she had been making preparations to do a runner for months in advance – hiring lawyers to arrange custody and screw him financially, looking for accommodation for herself and their two daughters. Never once had she said anything about splitting up. As a result, even now his view of women was jaundiced by bitterness and distrust, which could occasionally turn nasty. His attitude was that of the slash-and-burn school. Barrett had a similar experience with his first wife at a time when he was going off his nut, when the walls were closing in on him, so he knew where Geoff was coming from there. But Barrett, for all his violent, volatile ways, could not match Geoff’s hard-heartedness, even if it was a required rule of the game. And getting older had slowed him down a notch or two.
In any case there was no room in Andrea’s hectic life for anything more than a part-time affair. At present she was putting together a big cookbook with a rustic or provincial theme, featuring the favourite recipes of celebrities from around the world. It was going to be a mega-seller in the style of Stephanie Alexander’s. The California trip from which she had just come back had not been a holiday, but research for the book. She had sent Barrett a postcard, matter-of-factly informing him she had spent the afternoon having lunch with Francis Ford Coppola – whom she had met through Ivan – and his family at their Napa Valley winery. That was so typical of Andrea. She could travel hero class with the best of them, as if it were the most natural thing – if you were in the Napa Valley, who else would you have lunch with? And in its own indirect way, the postcard had let him know where he stood in her scheme of things – at arm’s length. So be it. At least he was in the frame.
When Andrea came to she murmured, frowning as if in protest, then nestled into him, a hand straying over his midriff.
‘What time is it?’
He checked his wristwatch. ‘Half past three.’
‘Is that all? Only been asleep half an hour. Not even that.’
‘Afraid so.’
‘Been awake, haven’t you. What’s on your mind?’ she said, eyes still refusing to open.
‘All kinds of things. This and that. You, mainly.’
‘Me? Think I can figure out what that means.’
Her hand ventured lower down, and the effect on him was instantaneous. He turned towards her and placed a delicate kiss on her lips. Fingers stroked and fondled; she moved under him and helped him in, lifting herself. When they had settled into a slow, even rhythm she folded her arms around his neck and drew him gently down.
‘My God, I’ve been wanting this,’ she breathed.
He nodded, but could not speak – only gasp. He was racing now – this was going to be very sweet indeed.
‘Slow down, cowboy,’ she said. ‘I’m just getting warmed up here.’
She became more aggressive, in effect hijacking the action, fucking him fast, then faster. Within a minute she orgasmed in a mad flurry of bruising upward thrusts and a series of cracked, painful cries, as if he were battering her. When she’d had enough she flopped back and went limp all over, and that was the cue for Barrett to carry on at his own pace.
‘Don’t come inside me, lover,’ she whispered, brushing damp hair from his eyes.
‘I won’t.’ He had no intention of doing so – the understanding had always been protected sex, except in the case of a sudden outbreak of hot, uncontrollable lust, in which event good old coitus interruptus was the way to go. It had to be that way, since neither party knew what the other got up to in between these trysts. It was the way of the world now. The world was shit-scared of naked sex.
Cutting it as fine as he dared, he withdrew and let fly while Andrea watched with wide eyes. Fifty years old he might be, but the force was still with him. When he had finished he knelt between her legs, recovering. She was flat on her back, legs still wide apart, arms flung back beneath the pillow. Her eyes were closed; her face was flushed and shining, and there was a film of sweat on her forehead and upper lip, which was coated in a soft down. Fresh come was warm and sticky on her scarred stomach and the tight curls of her darker-than-blonde pubic hair. Bits of Barrett’s hair were plastered over her skin. Still kneeling in front of her he stroked the underside of her thighs, making them quiver, then he leaned over and nuzzled her mound before putting his tongue in and kissing her, long and deep. Right through it he could feel her stomach fluttering. When at last he drew away and sat up straight again, she ope
ned her eyes, surfacing from her dreamy pleasure, and smiled as if drugged. Slowly coming around, she settled back and checked him out – the beat-up but not ruined face, the full mat of body hair with a white scar on his ribs showing through, the raised section of hard tissue where his neck met his shoulder – legacy of a close encounter with a pool cue, years back – and finally, his slicked, part-hard penis.
Hard Yards Page 7