Eighty Days Amber (Eight Days)

by Jackson, Vina

  She had been just as bad, she knew – probably worse – a few months ago when she’d been working non-stop on her New Zealand-inspired album, spending night after night in the studio and moaning that getting each note exactly right was agony and so much harder than she had expected because of all the memories of home that had come flooding back and drowned her bow instead of energising it.

  But these long islands of time where they inhabited their own worlds entirely gave them each a chance to be solitary, and that made the coming together again even better.

  Hours later, night had fallen across the Heath and Summer had returned from her evening jog and was standing under the shower head and luxuriating in the hot running water that pooled over her body and soothed her aching limbs. She didn’t hear Dominik leap up the stairs two at a time and pull open the bathroom door. She remained lost in the fabric of a waking dream until he slid naked into the shower cubicle with her and dropped to his knees, burying his face in the refuge between her legs.

  Taken by surprise, Summer moaned, and tangled her hands in his thick hair, holding his head in place, enjoying the rising sensation that was slowly saturating her, and the building excitement burning through her sex with each forceful lick.

  She had once worried that he might drown like this, and she would be responsible, but she consoled herself with the memory of the time she’d confessed her fear to Dominik and he had laughed and told her he could think of no better way to die.

  He rose to his feet when he could no longer stand the ache in his knees and the water running into his eyes, and spun her around so he could rest the hardness of his erection against the cleft of her arse. Dominik took a moment to watch it sitting there, marvelling at the vision of her firm cheeks and the jut of her backbone and the inward curve of her waist and the way that she so easily relaxed and allowed him to move her about as he wished to with no thought to comfort or practicality. He leaned forward and turned the water off, cupping her wet breasts in his hand and squeezing her nipples before leading her into the bedroom.

  Still damp, she knelt on the bed on all fours and stretched lazily, bending her spine like a cat and pushing her buttocks towards her heels and into the air, presenting herself to him. Dominik pushed her legs apart gently and observed the expectant pinkness of her vagina as her labia unfurled like the petals of a flower blooming.

  It was the singular beauty of these images that made the pornographer’s heart inside him skip a beat. Dominik had never been the sort of man who read lads’ mags or watched X-rated film clips in all their predictably airbrushed tedium. He far preferred the purity of real life and the way that Summer so openly and intimately displayed herself to him.

  He stretched out his hand and ran his fingers against her slit, testing her wetness. She sighed with all the pleasure of familiarity and pressed herself against his palm.

  Dominik leaned forward to whisper in her ear.

  ‘Kiss me,’ he said, tilting her face with his free hand and pressing his mouth to hers.

  The first thing that I noticed when we landed in Darwin was the heat. We’d arrived in the middle of the wet season, having first made port in Sydney and then travelled the remainder of our journey to Australia’s Northern Territory by plane.

  I had expected a sky as bright and blue as a computer screen and empty of so much as a single cloud, with red mountains lining the horizon like the postcard pictures that dotted the racks of newsagents through the airport. Instead, when the terminal doors opened, we were trapped between a plain as flat as any I had ever seen and the heavens as grey as an elephant’s skin and seeming to drop lower and lower to the earth with us squeezed in the middle like a sandwich.

  The air felt heavy and cloying, pregnant, as if the atmosphere might burst and suffocate us or tighten around my neck at any moment and leave me strangled. We were here now though, and I made up my mind to make the best of it. Chey had selected Darwin after careful research, feeling that the Russians, should they not have swallowed the saga of our deaths hook, line and sinker, would expect us to choose a major city with a large population that we could lose ourselves in, and probably somewhere in the US or Europe. In the top end of Australia we would stand out like sore thumbs and therefore no one would bother to look for us here.

  It was a quiet time of year as many of the city’s inhabitants had left for more moderate climes and the tourists would not begin to arrive in their droves until the dry season began in April or May, so we were able to take our pick of the empty apartments available using our cash as a deposit.

  Chey still had money left, and I had built up a fair sum during my dancing years. Having always been in fear of the law and also eager to evade the taxman, I had ensured that the Network always paid me in cash directly after each event. I’d been keeping my profits the old-fashioned way, sealed in envelopes under the mattress in Viggo’s guest bedroom, and in combination with Viggo’s gift we had enough money to keep us going for a few years.

  We rented a small apartment in Nightcliff. It wasn’t much. We didn’t want to attract attention to ourselves, and in any case I’d grown weary of the trappings of wealth. Thinking of the sumptuous hotel rooms and the beautiful gowns that had been part and parcel of my employ with the Network left me feeling a little ill. So I was happy beyond measure with our little flat with its tiny veranda that overlooked the ocean, a view that would have cost a million in California, but was taken for granted by Darwinians. Like them, I grew used to seeing the sea from nearly every direction, to the noisy air-conditioning unit and thick protective screens on all the doors that kept out not just the flies but all manner of brightly coloured lizards with ruffs on their necks that puffed out like Dracula’s collar when they were angry or frightened.

  At ten past four each day for weeks the heavens opened, dousing the city in a flood of rain. Big, heavy droplets, the sort that soaked you to the bone in two seconds flat if you got caught in it and left behind a feeling of relief, cleanliness and the sweet smell of the eucalyptus trees, a little like the scent of damp fresh wood shavings. I began to love Darwin, even in the wet season. It was so different from anywhere that I had lived before and with all its weird animals and crazy weather conditions it had a vibe about it that was so vital, so alive.

  We spent the rest of February and most of March making love indoors with the air con blasting at full pelt, only venturing out to walk along the beachfront after the sun sank casting a stream of pink, orange and violet ribbons into the sky in its wake. Chey laughed at the care I took to remain a few paces back from the waves that slapped lightly at the shore, always convinced that salt-water crocs were lurking beneath, ready and waiting to snap me up and swallow me whole at the slightest provocation. I might have been paranoid, but my fear was not unfounded. The local paper was full of stories about the latest croc sightings and tourists getting themselves into trouble.

  After a few weeks of leisure time we began to get bored, and Chey rented a small shop in the Smith Street Mall where he sold precious stones and jewellery to the tourists. It was too dangerous yet for him to make enquiries about the import of amber, but we covered costs and made a small profit selling South Sea pearls and Australian opals.

  Chey, who had always been a natural salesman and had cut his teeth in similar circumstances when he was still a teenager, manned the shop most days and I helped out by managing the stock and accounts, and when I decided that I needed more variety I took a jewellery-making course and began to work on minor repairs and stringing a few necklaces and earrings together. The work was precise and detailed and it appealed to my natural sense of order and minimalist aesthetic. I made sure that nothing with even an iota of tackiness was allowed through the doors and before long we had developed a reputation for taste and quality that set us above the neighbouring stores that flogged joke tea towels, fridge magnets and novelty soaps along with their silver and gold.

  I bought a bicycle and for a few days cycled the half-hour journey from Nightcliff to Smith Stre
et, but after having the wits scared out of me when a lightning storm descended without warning, I asked Chey to teach me to drive and we purchased a second-hand Mazda, painted as bright blue as the sky in the dry season and I subjected the city to my frequent stalling and engine revving before I finally got the hang of it.

  In May, when the rain disappeared, the clouds cleared and the touch of the breeze on my skin was like the lightest velvet, we set up a stall at the Mindil market two nights a week. I wore brightly coloured flowing cotton dresses and sandals and chatted to the endless variety of folk who stopped to watch me carefully beading a necklace or quickly piecing a pair of earrings together to match a customer’s request.

  Darwin was a strange place, full of people who were running from something or had never quite managed to leave. There was a quotient of military people who inhabited the local army barracks, a bevvy of scientists and doctors who were attracted by the ever-changing meteorological conditions and the tropical diseases, a stream of Irish and English backpackers who landed by the busload, staffed the local bars and partied until October and left when the rain came, and then the hippies who stayed all year round attracted by the hot weather and the slow pace of life and the sweetness of the mangoes that I consumed in such great quantities I was left with a rash on my hands from the sap.

  Amongst this hotchpotch of life Chey and I fitted in as easily as two peas into a pod. For the first time in my life I made friends, and felt as though I had a purpose besides dancing.

  A year passed and we did not hear so much as a peep from anyone from our chequered past. I still danced, but only in the living room, or on the porch in the cool of the evening, like a pagan welcoming in the night under the glow of the enormous tropical sun.

  There was still an evening left until the New Year and Edward and Clarissa were sitting at a table at the beach cafe, sipping cocktails and enjoying the relaxed atmosphere at the boat club. They had no particular plans for the evening. Their world cruise had been ongoing for three months and the following week they were returning to the US.

  As they reminisced about the good times and the bad times, they agreed they had led a full life already, and whatever happened to them next would just be a bonus, more butter on the bread.

  There had been wild parties, epiphanies and a joyous breaking of taboos, once they had gracefully grown into middle-age and had begun to ignore the opinion or judgement of family and conservative-leaning offspring, and they had lived for themselves and no longer had to adhere to the conventional strictures of society.

  This had meant a prolonged involvement in the world of BDSM and they had witnessed its dark side and its dyonisiac aspects, and had wholeheartedly enjoyed both. How could one truly appreciate life if you hadn’t tasted its extremes? They had no regrets.

  They had reached the plateau in a couple’s relationship where silences had become as important and significant as words and they wallowed in the peace of their happiness. The waitress brought them another round of brightly coloured cocktails.

  The terrace with its ring of palm trees and thick white sun umbrellas looked over the vivid blue of the ocean, almost deserted but for a handful of windsurfers riding the modest waves.

  ‘It’s really peaceful, isn’t it?’ Edward remarked.

  ‘That it is,’ Clarissa agreed.

  ‘I was thinking,’ Edward continued, ‘rather than seek out a fancier restaurant back in town to spend the festivities, why don’t we just stay here? There’s a lot of seafood on the menu, I see, and it won’t be as crowded . . .’

  ‘Such a pleasure to be so casual,’ Clarissa added.

  ‘We’ve certainly dressed up enough for a few lifetimes, haven’t we?’

  She nodded, her eyes clouding over as so many parties and past ceremonies came rising up from her memories.

  ‘Let’s do it, then.’

  They went back to sipping their drinks with not a care in the world.

  When the sun began to disappear below the marine horizon and the light slowly faded, Edward perused the menu.

  ‘What do you think? Coffin Bay oysters to start with?’ he suggested.

  ‘I’d love that,’ Clarissa replied dreamily.

  ‘Nothing but the best for you, my dear.’

  He took hold of the wine list. The young waitress from earlier had finished her shift and had been replaced on the terrace by an older waiter with a Greek accent and a mellifluous manner.

  Edward made his choice and ordered.

  Life was good.

  Their coffees had just been brought to their table and the empty plates from the meal whisked away, when the beach restaurant’s sound system was switched on and strains of soothing music began to lullaby the customers spread across the two dozen or so tables.

  ‘It’s a waltz, Ed,’ Clarissa said. ‘Maybe we should dance.’ She pointed at the improvised dance floor made of bamboo matting that extended all the way into the sand.

  ‘Maybe later, when it’s actually New Year?’ Edward said. ‘Let me digest a bit before that. A concession to our advancing years?’

  Clarissa smiled, noticing a couple rising from a nearby table and making their way to the dance floor. They were younger, holding hands all the way. Both tall and athletic and casually dressed, she in a simple and modest white cotton dress that fell to just below her knees and flat ballet shoes while her partner wore denim jeans and a white shirt. The woman was blonde, her hair cut short, and there was definitely something Eastern European about her face, Clarissa reckoned. She walked, and then danced with grace and composure. Her partner was also quite distinctive in his looks, although she was unable to pinpoint his background. Both displayed wonderful golden tans, as if they now spent their whole days lazing on the beach. The young woman’s nails were painted emerald green and the only jewellery she wore was a pair of elaborate amber earrings.

  They came together on the improvised dance floor, their eyes never leaving each other, and both Clarissa and Edward felt a gentle thrill buzzing through their hearts as they watched the young couple glide across the floor like birds in flight. Both had the same thought and winked at each other. The two dancers reminded them of their own youth.

  It was a pleasure to just watch them and note how oblivious they were to their surroundings, each bathing wholeheartedly in the other’s glow.

  There was an elegance about the young woman’s movements, surely the result of ballet training at some stage in her past. Her long legs solidly carried her gentle frame along as her partner’s hands held imperceptibly to her waist, guiding her movements along, leading invisibly but firmly.

  Clarissa realised she had seen the young woman once before, although her hair had been much longer then. She gazed at her again and it confirmed her intuition. It had been in Paris when their son had played in the brass section for the group that Viggo Franck was sponsoring. Yes, she had been in the post-gig dressing room. It was definitely her. She racked her brains to remember whether the young woman was one of those present who had then followed them to the riotous and somewhat debauched evening that had ensued at Les Chandelles. Clarissa concluded that if she had there had not been any interaction between her or either Ed and Clarissa. And recalled, with a sigh of relief, how their conservative son had also declined to join the throng. The man she was dancing with had certainly not been present on that faraway evening.

  ‘Are you thinking the same thing as I am?’ Edward whispered to her as the young couple untangled as the slow Tennessee waltz faded to an end and was replaced on the sound system by a jollier, faster melody.

  ‘I am,’ Clarissa said.

  ‘It feels like a world ago, doesn’t it?’ Edward told her.

  Clarissa nodded.

  ‘For a brief moment, I had the idea we could invite them over to join us for a drink.’

  ‘You’re right, Ed. Let’s just leave them alone. We’re just old rakes; we’ve done our part a hundred times over. Surely they can find their own path in life without our interference.�
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  Midnight was approaching. Other couples were now treading the dance floor.

  ‘The next slow dance is yours,’ Edward informed Clarissa. ‘Even if we have to wait for the New Year.’

  ‘Do you think there’ll be fireworks?’ she asked him.

  ‘There are always fireworks at the stroke of midnight,’ Edward said, settling his arm around her.

  At the other table, the young couple had returned to their seats and were kissing.

  Just a stone’s throw away, sitting on a high stool at the bar, another young woman sat. She was small, with jet-black hair cut in gothic style with a razor-sharp fringe line. She was alone and had been so all evening, one step removed from all the celebrations. She watched with such sadness in her eyes, Clarissa thought, as Luba and Chey kissed. And for a minute, Clarissa thought she was crying, but then realised that below her left eye, she had a minuscule teardrop tattoo.

  The lonely girl with the unusual tattoo was watching as the kissing couple rose again, hand in hand, oblivious to everyone but each other, and made their way to the sand for one last dance.

  Acknowledgements

  As the Eighty Days series continues, the authors have had to call on the patience and generosity of many people whose involvement was invaluable. First and foremost, our respective partners who – although they cannot be named here as we seek to retain our mysterious anonymity – have had to keep on enduring our neglect during the long writing hours and have done so with equanimity and good humour. Sarah Such at Sarah Such Literary Agency, our editors Jon Wood and Jemima Forrester, Rosemarie Buckman at the Buckman Agency, and all their colleagues have been instrumental in the success of the series and cannot be thanked enough.

  One half of Vina would also like to thank Scarlett French of www.scarlettfrencherotica.com whose leather-bound books and reading of Shoe Shine at Liverpool Street Station sparked an interest in both erotica and riding boots that is likely to last a lifetime. Finally, she would like to thank her employer for her unending support, and Verde & Co. who have unwittingly fuelled a number of the adventures contained within the Eighty Days series with the provision of a cosy spot to sit and type, the occasional chocolate, and an endless procession of the best flat whites in London.