Apartment 255

by Bunty Avieson

  CHAPTER 7

  He told me today I had hit my plimsoll. What the flying fuck is that? A worn-out sneaker? Where does he get these from? He just announced it today as if it was the most natural thing in the world. He loves using wheelbarrow words that no-one else understands, then explains them to you like he is the only person in the world with a brain and you are an idiot. Wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Ha. I got a dictionary and looked it up. Plimsoll mark – a nautical expression designating the line placed around the hull of a ship to indicate how heavily it may be safely loaded and retain enough surplus buoyancy to withstand the added stress of storms. So now I’m an unseaworthy boat.

  I’ve got to get out of here. They are sending me mad.

  *

  Sarah stretched luxuriously in the bed. She felt liquid from her toes to her scalp. She listened to Tom singing in the shower. It was a silly TV advertising jingle but he sang it like grand opera. Sarah smiled happily as she recalled their night of lovemaking. She arched her back and pointed her toes.

  She noticed her photograph lying face down. Frowning, she reached over and set it upright. The bedside clock was flashing at her. ‘Power surge,’ she thought, but she was too happy to let it annoy her this morning. She spotted Tom’s navy jumper, neatly folded on the chair and smiled to herself. When did he do that? She felt a surge of tenderness. He really was the most wonderful man.

  Tom came into the bedroom, a towel around his waist and his trim, naked torso glistening with droplets of water.

  ‘Are we shopping today?’ he asked.

  Tom had no intention of joining Sarah in the supermarket queue but he figured once he got there, he could find some excuse to head to the hardware store and be finished just in time to meet her at the car.

  It was their regular fortnightly ritual. He would suggest shopping, feign interest all the way to the shopping centre, then at the last minute – just as they approached the supermarket entrance – he would suddenly remember something he needed urgently from Bill’s Hardware and go off to spend half an hour chatting about drill bits and widgets to Bill.

  Sarah was well aware she would be shopping alone and it suited her. She preferred shopping on her own. She liked to read every label before she bought anything, ever on the lookout for a stray fat molecule. She knew she was obsessive but she tried to keep her obsession from Tom. She kissed him, slowly and deliberately.

  ‘I’m quite fond of you, you know,’ she told him as she headed off to the shower.

  Tom dried himself and dressed. He looked for his rugby jumper on the floor, where he knew he had left it, but it was gone. He called out to Sarah.

  ‘Where’s my blue jumper?’

  He hoped she hadn’t taken it on herself to wash it. He would be annoyed if she had. She knew it was his favourite jumper and he liked to wear it on weekends. And after Sarah’s outburst the week before, he was now all too aware that its position on the floor had become some kind of barometer of their relationship.

  He spotted it folded neatly on the chair and smiled to himself.

  Sarah reappeared.

  ‘Did you want me?’

  ‘Just to tell you that I think you are wonderful.’

  They smiled stupidly at each other.

  ‘We’re in love again, aren’t we?’ said Sarah.

  ‘Always have been,’ said Tom.

  *

  Ginny picked up the binoculars. There was no-one home. The apartment was deserted. They must be out shopping. She dialled Sarah’s number, just to be sure, and hung up when the answering machine picked up the call.

  Ginny connected her new mobile telephone to the amplifier and the speaker in her bedroom. She dialled the car phone, concealed in the ceiling. It rang twice in Ginny’s ear then the line clicked open. Ginny felt excitement surge through her. She was in … in their apartment, in their lives. Now she wouldn’t miss a thing. She lay back and looked at the ceiling and waited for them to come home. Kitty was curled up asleep on the bed.

  A currawong flew onto the window sill. It looked in the window, seeing only a currawong looking back. It cocked its head, puzzled, then tried to peck at the other bird. Its beak hit the glass. Frightened, it flew off.

  Ginny counted the fleur-de-lis loops that circled the ceiling. She lost count halfway through and started again. How long could they be? She looked across the bay at the pretty white boats, heading out for a day on the harbour. Ginny hated boats. She liked them to look at but didn’t ever want to go on one again. The motion made her seasick. She hated the feeling of the water beneath her feet, moving, uncontrollable, unsteady, unpredictable. Ginny liked her life ordered.

  She had gone out on a boat just once in her life. She hadn’t really wanted to. Boats had never interested her, but Tom had a mate with a new boat and they had invited her along. It was about two years ago. Sarah had been in her element, standing on deck, arm draped over Tom’s shoulder, calling him captain. She had looked gorgeous, wearing navy blue and white. Ginny had started to feel ill as soon as she was on board. The combination of Sarah poring over Tom and the motion of the boat had made her nauseous. She had thrown up all over the anchor, coiled neatly in its hatch. Tom had been so understanding, throwing buckets of water over it and making light of the dreadful smell that had lingered all day. Sarah hadn’t been very helpful, thought Ginny, leaving the messy stuff to Tom.

  ‘Wouldn’t want to mess up your yachtie look, would we sweetie,’ thought Ginny nastily. She looked across at their quiet balcony. Where the hell are you? Buying more chocolate for greedy guts Sarah no doubt. Or coffee. Oooh yes, we don’t want you to run out of coffee now, do we? Ginny wished they had left a radio on, or the television, anything so she could check how well her system worked.

  The answering machine. Of course. Their answering machine was turned up loudly so they could screen their calls when they didn’t want to be disturbed.

  Excited and chastising herself for not thinking of it sooner, Ginny picked up her bedside phone and dialled Sarah’s number. She jumped as the ringing sounded from the speaker in the corner and filled her bedroom. Then Sarah’s lilting voice floated through the room.

  ‘Hi, this is Sarah. Tom and I can’t take your call at the moment but if you leave a message we’ll call you right back. Have a lovely day.’

  Ginny bounced on the bed with excitement. She held Kitty’s paw aloft and gave her a high five then punched the air like Rocky.

  *

  Sarah couldn’t sleep. The bedside clock read 5.00. Tom snored heartily beside her. Sarah gently nudged him with her foot, then harder. He slept on, oblivious. She tossed and turned for another five minutes, then got up. She made a coffee and took it out onto the balcony. The bay looked eerie, bathed in mist. She could just make out the apartment building opposite. The harbour was engulfed in fog. The only sound was the muffled foghorns of the distant ferries, already at work. Sarah was restless. She decided to go for a bike ride. She dressed in the dark, being careful not to wake Tom. He snored on happily. She felt annoyed. She hunted around in her shoe cupboard for her running shoes, dropping one loudly, hoping he might stir. She watched him as she tied her laces, propping one foot on the bed near his legs. His mouth was open, his chin disappearing in the folds of his neck. A stream of spittle dribbled down his cheek. He gasped with each inward breath then chortled and grunted with each outward breath. She marvelled that he didn’t wake himself.

  Sarah headed for Centennial Park. Few cars were on the road at that hour. They loomed out of the mist and were gone. The streetlights cast a ghostly halo. It was nearly dawn and the sky was filling with flocks of plump fruit bats leaving the fig trees, where they had spent the night feeding, to return to the Botanic Gardens, where they would spend the daylight hours upside down in the trees, their wings cloaked about them as they slept. Sarah rode through the gates, building up to a comfortable rhythm. The park seemed deserted. The huge fig trees – hundreds of years old – formed a menacing canopy above her head as they emerged
from the mist. An ethereal figure jogged past. He was swallowed up by the fog almost as soon as he appeared. Sarah started to feel nervous. Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea at this early hour. She had covered enough police stories to know what went on in this park at night. People were just coming home from clubs and parties and God knew what else. For them it was still night.

  Sarah could hear noises behind her. The leaves rustled as she rode over them, then rustled again not far behind her. She looked over her shoulder. She could see a bike headlight behind her, its light refracting in the water droplets of the mist. Sarah increased her speed. She was powering along and could feel the strain in her calf muscles. She looked behind her. The bike was keeping pace. She couldn’t see the rider. Fingers of fear clutched her heart. He was a madman, chasing her. Paranoia overtook her sense of reason. A rush of adrenalin pushed Sarah’s aching legs onwards. An exit gate loomed in front of her. She hurtled through, over the kerb and onto the road. The unexpected drop jolted her and she gasped as it travelled up her spine. A car appeared suddenly from nowhere, saw her at the last moment and swerved violently, missing her by millimetres. Sarah felt the air rush past her and struggled to keep control of her bike. She veered across the road, mounted the kerb and landed with a dull thud sitting upright against a tree.

  A twisted root rammed against her coccyx. She lay still as the world swam about her. She started to moan. She sat up. A spot low down on her back hurt. She stretched her legs, then her arms. Everything seemed to be working.

  She looked after the car and yelled angrily: ‘Thanks, mate, I’m fine.’

  Then she burst into tears, loud howling sobs that wracked her whole body.

  *

  Sarah limped in the door, her T-shirt torn, scratches on her arm. She appeared in the doorway of the bedroom. Tom was sound asleep. Sarah whimpered and crawled over the bed to him.

  ‘Tom,’ she wailed. ‘Tom.’

  Tom stirred. ‘Sarah, what’s wrong?’

  He took in her dishevelled appearance and felt his heart lurch.

  ‘Whatever has happened to you? Where have you been?’

  ‘I fell off my bike. I was being chased and then this man deliberately drove into me on the road.’ Sarah collapsed sobbing onto Tom’s chest.

  ‘Are you okay? Are you hurt?’ He was instantly awake and alert.

  ‘No,’ wailed Sarah.

  Tom inspected her bleeding elbow. It was minor. She had a few shallow scratches on her cheek, but otherwise she looked okay. Her T-shirt was torn and dirty. She reeked of sweat.

  ‘Who chased you? Who hit you?’

  Sarah gave a highly colourful version of events. As she told her story it sounded weak to her own ears so she exaggerated it. Her voice had an unfamiliar ring of hysteria that worried Tom. He decided probably half of what she told him was true. Once he realised there was no danger and there had been no mugging, he was annoyed at being woken.

  ‘Sarah, it’s barely 6 am, what were you doing out so early anyway?’

  ‘I couldn’t sleep so I went for a ride,’ she sobbed.

  Tom looked at her with disbelief. ‘In Centennial Park? Are you mad?’

  ‘Don’t be angry with me. Lots of people go there before work for a jog.’

  Tom wasn’t angry. He was tired and wished he could go back into the cosy world of sleep. He tried to ignore the stench of body odour that was assailing his nostrils.

  ‘Not without a trained Doberman. Sarah, honestly, sometimes you do the stupidest things.’

  ‘Thanks for your concern, Tom,’ said Sarah coldly, slamming the bedroom door as she stalked off to the shower.

  Ginny heard the door slam and rolled over in bed giggling to herself. She didn’t mind being woken so early. Her eyes were dancing, like a little girl with a new toy. Kitty was curled up, a tight, warm fur ball against her back. Ginny climbed out of bed, flung the bedclothes over her and padded naked to the front door to collect the morning’s newspaper. In the kitchen she poured herself a glass of orange juice and a fresh saucer of cream for Kitty. She took her juice and Kitty’s cream back to bed with the newspaper. Kitty was unimpressed at being covered in the bedclothes and stood on all fours wailing at her.

  Ginny opened the curtains to radiant sunshine and climbed back into bed, placing the saucer carefully on the crumpled bed in front of Kitty. Kitty ignored it and cuddled up to Ginny’s bare thigh. Ginny looked down her naked body at the bundle of black, white and ginger fur, a startling contrast against her own mass of dark pubic hair. She looked at the front page. The sun warmed her naked body. Kitty snuggled contentedly against her thigh, nudging gently with one paw, then the other. She purred happily. Ginny could feel the vibrations radiating throughout her body, travelling along each nerve. She shifted her hips. Kitty continued to pummel her gently. It reminded Ginny of her aunt kneading dough. It was soothing, with a hypnotic rhythm.

  Ginny scooped a dollop of cream onto her fingers and offered it to Kitty. She lapped at it, her tongue soft but abrasive. Ginny shifted her hips a bit further. Kitty pummelled her pubic bone. It sent waves of pleasure up Ginny’s body. Ginny scooped another dollop of cream and dropped it amongst her own curly black hair. Kitty lapped at it hungrily, her tongue darting in and out, seeking more. Ginny spread her legs a little further apart and tipped all the cream over her crotch. It dripped through her hair, down her thighs. Kitty lapped at it, sending out ripples of pure bliss. Ginny felt a warmth emanate throughout her body. ‘Tom,’ she moaned softly, as she abandoned herself to rolling waves of pleasure.

  CHAPTER 8

  The empty yachts, sails tied down and fastened for the night, swayed gently, their masts nodding to each other like wise old men. The water shimmered, different currents clashing and changing directions. The high-rise towers reflected the setting sun brightly, blindingly before the sun moved on.

  Ginny arrived home juggling bags of groceries. She set them down on the kitchen bench, opened the pantry and removed two heavy-bottomed crystal glasses.

  ‘I think we both need a scotch,’ she said. Her eyes were unnaturally bright, the pupils dilated.

  She fetched the bottle and splashed liquid into the glasses. She put one down on the coffee table and took the other back into the kitchen, placing it on the bench while she rummaged in the fridge.

  ‘I hope you like Thai noodles,’ she called, laying out vegetables, strips of lean beef and noodles by the wok. She set about chopping and slicing, humming to herself.

  ‘I’ll just change out of these clothes,’ she called. ‘Make yourself comfortable.’

  Ginny opened the cupboard and removed a long black satin sheath. She slipped out of her jeans and jumper. She unhooked her bra, fumbling clumsily in her excitement, and pulled the sheath over her head. It fell about her body in sensuous folds, lightly skimming her breasts and hips. In the bathroom she brushed her hair, smiling seductively in the mirror and pouting at her reflection. She applied bold red lipstick and heavy black mascara. She felt wanton as she floated back into the kitchen, her movements graceful and sensuous.

  ‘Your glass is empty. Let me get you another,’ she called, picking up the bottle and gliding across the room. She topped up the untouched glass on the coffee table then looked across at the twinkling lights. Kitty watched her with bemusement.

  ‘That’s Toft Monks,’ she said. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen it from this angle.’

  Ginny returned to the kitchen. She bustled about happily, tossing the vegetables in the wok, adding a dash of oyster sauce and a hint more soy with a flourish.

  She climbed the stepladder in the pantry and pulled down a canteen of silver cutlery. It had been a present from her aunt in Perth when she turned twenty-one. It had been such a shock when Ginny received it. She had not had contact with her aunt since the day when, as a bewildered eleven-year-old, she had climbed the stairs to the plane bound for Sydney and boarding school where she was supposed to be turned into a refined young lady. Ginny had never used the cutlery. I
t represented many things to her, all of them unhappy. But tonight she wanted the best for her special guest. She laid two places at the dining table, with two wine glasses of fine-cut crystal. In the centre she placed a lit candle. She served dinner on two large white plates.

  ‘Please come and sit down,’ she said to the empty apartment.

  Ginny took her place at the head of the table, pouring herself a glass of wine. The flickering candlelight cast a muted glow over her face, softening her angular features. Kitty, attracted by the interesting smells of cooked food, moved under the table, being careful to keep clear of Ginny’s legs. Ginny ate with her head cocked to one side as she chewed, nodding occasionally toward the empty chair at the other end of the table.

  She swallowed and replied ‘… oh, Tom, how kind of you to say so … Really, I’m flattered … It’s just a stir-fry, but I’m glad you like it … Tom, you are sweet … Of course I will.’

  Kitty leapt up onto the empty chair, expecting to be shooed away.

  ‘Oh, Tom,’ Ginny breathed, rolling the name around her mouth sensually, like a sweet. Kitty, pretending not to be interested in the food, raised her hind leg, examined it carefully then, ignoring Ginny, started to lick her fur. She was tense, wary, expecting to be reprimanded. But Ginny was in another world.

  ‘Do you remember the Nosherie Café at Sydney University, Tom?’ asked Ginny.

  Kitty placed a tentative paw on the table and waited. Ginny continued chatting, absorbed in her imaginary conversation. Kitty moved up on her hind legs, taking her weight on her front paws. Her nose was just centimetres from the plate. Delicious aromas of meat juices and other smells wafted across Kitty’s palate. She licked her lips in anticipation.