Sister Pact

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Sister Pact Page 15

by Ali Ahearn


  She swallowed. ‘Already have.’

  ‘Good,’ he murmured, backing her up until she bumped gently against the hard trunk of a nearby tree. ‘Then you won’t mind me doing this.’

  His head swooped and not even the bite of the bark registered as the buzz exploded inside her, transforming her entire body into a giant erogenous zone. A quivering, whimpering erogenous zone. His lips took control and Frances hung on for dear life, sucking up every smoky nuance. The orgasm that had threatened earlier hovered closer.

  His tongue pushed into her mouth.

  Close. So close. Just a few more seconds …

  ‘Nick? Nick?’

  They broke apart like they were fifteen-year-olds, instead of responsible adults. Frances whimpered and reached for the trunk to stop from falling.

  ‘Nick? Where the farking hell are ya?’ The voice was coming closer.

  They stared at each other, their harsh breath the only other noise in the suddenly still jungle. The distinct screech in Cheryl’s voice even managed to frighten the insects into silence.

  ‘Coming, Cheryl,’ Nick called, his gaze not leaving Frances’s. ‘Are you okay?’ he whispered. Frances nodded. She probably wouldn’t drop dead from orgasm interruptus.

  Probably.

  Nick ran his thumb over the plump moistness of her mouth and pointed to the sun. ‘Go.’

  Frances nodded, brushing past him, stopping only to pick up the water bottles before scurrying back in the direction she’d come.

  Back to sanity.

  If an addict, an ex-addict and a maudlin wandering minstrel could be classed as sane.

  Joni leaped on her the moment she returned to their temporary camp, and Frances felt a twinge of guilt that she’d been snogging for England while her sister was dealing with the Gallagher brothers.

  Luckily, Daragh had recovered sufficiently to be able to walk and revived further after some pure mountain water. But he was weak and the going was slow.

  Four hours later – hot, sweaty, starving, and generally sick of the sight and smell of each other – they stumbled into camp.

  Nick was the first person Frances saw; he was sitting around the fireplace, shovelling food into that sinful mouth. His smoky kiss had been on constant slow-motion replay in her mind, sustaining her as she’d trekked along. He winked, causing a riot in her knickers that not even the knowledge they were now up for Banishment could quell.

  The second person she saw was Takahiro, who gave her a smug smile that caused neither glow nor riot but did summon images of ancient samurai warriors slitting the throats of invading infidels.

  The third person was The Stapler. ‘Come, sit, eat.’ She greeted them with a smile.

  Frances regarded The Stapler as cautiously as she would have a pet crocodile.

  ‘Gotta fatten you up for your trip down the chute.’

  ‘So, here we all are again. Gathered around the Trapdoors of Truth.’

  As Darryl waxed on, recapping the week in all its gory detail, Joni and Frances stood lashed together side-to-side, their bare feet resting on the steel of the trapdoor. At the other side of the fireplace, Colm and Daragh were similarly constrained.

  Please, let it be them. Let it be them. Let it be them.

  Frances felt dreadful, wishing this on them. Having shared what they did. Knowing what she knew. But it would be better this way. Colm was going to get Daragh professional help with Pick Me Up. And the sooner it started, the better.

  Somebody moved to her left, and Nigel, dressed like Captain Stubing from The Love Boat, came into view. He’d arrived via the company yacht a few hours ago – for due diligence or some such rubbish – and wasted no time in alienating Sally, demanding to inspect his charges’ living quarters, their food rations and the most recent footage.

  Frances didn’t need to be a body language expert to know Nigel was going to be swamp food if he kept poncing around like a city toff.

  She appreciated that Nigel had a job but it didn’t stop her wishing he’d bugger off.

  Darryl’s drone continued. ‘Seventy million viewers watched the overnight trek. Our highest number yet. But how many voted? And who did they vote to save?’ Darryl paused and shot the camera his best General Hospital stare. ‘And now, the moment of truth. Who shall be cast asunder and who will live to fight another day?’

  He paused again and Frances wanted to smack him.

  ‘Thanks to Go Low Mobile, the couple to be banished tonight is –’

  Nothing happened for a while. Frances knew that the viewers at home would be seeing flashes of each of their faces in full close-up as they waited for the trapdoors to open.

  It was called dram-cam, according to Joni, queen of soap operas.

  Apparently, you do learn things from sitting on your arse all day, not working.

  Time stretched – sadistic bastard – and Frances got an inkling of the terror Joan of Arc must have felt waiting for the fire to be lit.

  Joni turned her face slightly towards her sister. ‘Hold my hand, Frankie.’

  A metal thunk that sounded like hell’s doorbell rang out and she grabbed Joni’s hand. For one insane moment, Frances’s equilibrium tilted and she thought they were the ones who were gone.

  And then Colm and Daragh disappeared from sight.

  ‘Right then,’ Sally boomed across the editing tent. ‘Looks like we got ourselves a competition. Potato Fookin’ Poets are history, thank Christ. If I heard one more bloody Sinead O’Connor song, I would have pushed both of them off the nearest cliff.’

  ‘Joni and Frances are still polling exceptionally well with focus groups,’ Lex mused as he perused the latest figures.

  Sally shook her head. ‘Fook the focus groups. Bunch of moronic, sappy, happily-ever-after do-gooders. What we need is something to really put this comp on its ear. I want eighty mil next week! I need something big.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘I don’t know … one of the contestants drowning or being taken by a crocodile. Maybe one of them absconding from this shithole.’

  ‘What about sex?’ asked a skinny tech.

  Sally turned around to skewer the voice’s owner with laser-like focus.

  ‘What about it?’

  The tech pointed to the footage from the secret cameras that had littered the area where the trek had taken place. It had taken Sally days to look at it. And been boring as bat shit.

  ‘I just found this.’

  Until now.

  Everyone turned and watched the screen as the tech rewound the film. There was no audio and, at first, there was nothing but grainy darkness. Then, suddenly, in the bottom of the shot, Nick and Frances appeared. And, just as suddenly, they were kissing like horny teenagers.

  Sally slapped the tech on the back. ‘This is exactly what I mean. Well, well, well. The Shearer and the Heiress, huh? Randy little sheep-fooker.’

  Lex paled as Sally rewound the footage. ‘You can’t seriously want to use this?’ He hoped that not even Sally could be that calculating.

  ‘You bet your Balliol arse, I do, Lex old boy.’ The Stapler shot the tech an evil grin. ‘I wonder what would happen should that slapper ex of his find out about this little tête-à-tête?’ She licked her lips. ‘I think this is one to keep in our back pocket. For now.’

  Chapter 10

  Joni, later that evening

  As Joni made her weak-kneed way back to the shelter for some much-needed sleep after their narrow escape, Lex emerged from the editing tent, holding aloft something furry.

  ‘Safe, my dear? Lovely. And here’s the Archferret himself.’

  Joni exhaled in relief, clasped Des to her bosom like a long-lost child and grinned. ‘Oh, Lex, thanks so much for looking after him. I just couldn’t put him through that, you know, if we had been banished. I’m sure the drop would be the end of him. He’s had –’

  She covered his tiny quivering ears delicately.

  ‘– a very rough life.’

  Lex cooed sympathetically and g
ave Des a last scratch on the head.

  ‘Well, now I have your imprimatur, perhaps Des and I can hang out again? It’s terrifically lonely at the top, you know.’

  Lex’s wry smile made Joni laugh, and she noticed how white his teeth were in that self-deprecating smile. The smile made him look younger, less jaded.

  Nigel had appeared unnoticed, sparkly and freshly pressed, from the editing tent, looking the tiniest fraction put out as he took in Lex ministering to Des like the poster boy for foster parenting.

  Joni smiled at Lex cooing at Des as Nigel hissed in Joni’s ear, ‘No-one says “imprimatur”. What is this guy on?’

  ‘Bit of everything, I think,’ she responded, unperturbed by the thought, and feeling warm and tingly as she continued to watch Lex and Des.

  Frankie, who had just appeared from the direction of the beach and had said some pretty sarcastic things about Lex herself in the past, looked like she wanted to murder Nigel. ‘I know I’ve asked this before,’ she sighed, without a trace of good manners, ‘but what in God’s name are you still doing here?’

  ‘Ah,’ Nigel sighed back. ‘I thought I’d explained that, before the Banishment? Which was super telly, incidentally. I was watching the live feed from the tent. Amazing what they can do in such primitive –’

  ‘Cut to the chase.’

  ‘The firm is very keen to ensure there are no irregularities. So, I’m required to ensure you are both coping and there are no … irregularities.’ He lowered his voice to a dramatic whisper. ‘The partners have been watching the show, and are extremely worried about their potential … exposure … for orchestrating this aspect of your grandmother’s will.’

  ‘Huh?’ Joni didn’t have a clue what Nigel meant.

  Frankie, on the other hand, had been married to a lawyer for way too long.

  ‘They’re covering their collective arses,’ she supplied bitterly. ‘This will be great publicity for the firm … provided there are no disasters. Isn’t that right, Nigel?’

  ‘Well, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt,’ he agreed. ‘I would be lying if I said the partners didn’t have a degree of interest in the ratings.’

  Frankie and Joni looked at each other, and a thought buzzed between them like a harking back to the telepathy they had shared as children.

  Why were the producers allowing this?

  Nigel continued. ‘Mr Schuster arranged to have the firm briefly visit to ensure all is above board. The producers agreed.’

  Frankie enquired, ‘I don’t suppose there’s any point asking why “The Firm” has suddenly become so concerned? What the hell are they showing back there?’

  Nigel replied, ‘Oh, Frances, you know I can’t tell you. I’ve signed a confidentiality agreement that I divulge nothing about events or coverage back home. Consider me a mere observer. A … silent friend. With your best interests at heart.’

  Frankie looked like she wanted to murder him, again. And then chop up his body. Joni was torn. As much as she’d been pleased to see Nigel a few hours ago, Lex made him seem less attractive, less substantial somehow. It didn’t seem right. What had seemed posh and sexy in London seemed a bit silly out here. And she wasn’t sure she could trust him. Which was mad, really. She’d hardly ever been able to trust anyone, and that hadn’t stood in the way of her forming relationships in the past, had it?

  Joni wondered what Lex, who had remained beside her, casually petting Des while the conversation took place, was making of Nigel’s explanations. There was something about Lex that made her believe he told the truth. Like G. And truth was one commodity that had been in short supply in Joni’s life. She remembered Lex, honest and self-deprecating on the beach. He hadn’t been trying to pretend he was anything other than disinterested in the show. Not like their father, whose life had been an extended job interview. Or their mother, whose life had been a gala performance.

  ‘Come on, Frances,’ Nigel encouraged her. ‘I can assure you it’s all tickety-boo. Now, how are you two preparing for the water challenge?’

  Day 12

  It had been two days since the conversation with Nigel and, almost every waking hour since, Frankie had, under Joni’s tutelage, been facing down her ocean demons.

  Frankie had always been a good-enough swimmer, but few of their father’s postings had been to the kind of places that had piers and beachside cafés.

  One summer, Lizzie and Carter had decided a holiday at Brighton might be the antidote for their troubled marriage. The girls, dimly aware of the wild currents of another kind involving their parents, had nevertheless been beside themselves with excitement at the prospect of swimming in the sea.

  Although she’d only been thirteen, the highlight of Joni’s holiday had been a boy with a dragon tattoo, and an unknown source of income that supplied seemingly limitless funds for buying Joni ice-creams and tempting her to go under the pier.

  It was during one of these forays that Joni had heard her sister screaming.

  As she had stumbled out from under the dock, the high-noon sun had outlined the beach, like in one of those paintings they sold in shops for tourists. Joni had begun to sprint towards the sound of Frankie’s terror. Within seconds, she had spotted her, dripping and dishevelled, limping out of the sea and spluttering furiously at Joni.

  ‘I got dumped …’ she hiccupped. ‘And … and pinned. Pinned under. I thought I was going to die. And where were you, you little …’ She searched for the right word. ‘… derelict. With that bloody –’ Frankie hiccupped again ‘– bloody drug dealer.’

  Joni had not been able to keep from laughing at Frankie’s extreme reaction, even as she said, ‘He’s not a drug dealer.’

  But she’d felt terrible. And she’d understood that for Frankie, the sea was just like a storm. Wild and uncontrollable.

  Not to be trusted.

  Suffice to say, the whole incident had also not done Frankie any favours when it came to confidence in the surf. And so, now, on Endurance Island, they practised.

  Every hour Frankie and Joni survived another training session without killing each other, they rewarded themselves with a HobNob from the precious stash they’d won when Frances had eaten a live witchetty grub during Tuesday’s food challenge.

  They’d started on the beach, Joni getting Frankie to lie on her belly while she worked on her swimming style, making sure she paid attention to her stroke and kick positioning, as well as talking to her about the right way to breathe.

  Today, as previously negotiated, they’d removed their mike packs and moved into the shallows. At the end of the session, Joni looked at Frankie and gave her a round of applause. ‘That’s great, Frankie, you’re really getting there!’

  ‘Really?’ Her sister looked dubious.

  ‘I swear.’ Joni crossed herself. ‘You’ve got the prettiest stroke I’ve ever seen.’

  Before closing her face down again, Frankie looked like she’d won the lottery. ‘You’re just trying to build my confidence.’

  Joni crouched next to her on the sand. ‘Frankie,’ she insisted. ‘There’s no person on earth who ever thought you needed a confidence boost.’

  Frankie nodded, looking mollified, and Joni smiled. Then she cleared her throat and took a deep breath. ‘It’s happening Friday, Frankie. That’s three days away and all they’ve told us is that it’s a water challenge. Kinda suggests swimming is going to be required. Technically, you’re a fine swimmer, but you are going to have to get in the ocean, properly, at some point soon.’

  ‘Of course. Just not yet.’ Frankie’s eyes were pleading.

  ‘When? I need an undertaking.’

  Frankie’s shoulders slumped as she sat in the shallows. ‘It’s not the same,’ she moaned.

  ‘The same as what?’

  ‘The same as Kensington Baths. It’s so …’ She peered out at the vast expanse of ocean. ‘Wild.’

  Joni nodded sympathetically. ‘Yes,’ she said gently. ‘But it’s Endurance Island, Frankie. Not Kensington.’


  ‘I know, I know.’

  The two women had been trying desperately to ignore the little party of onlookers who had taken to watching their practice sessions. Yesterday, as Joni had tried to manhandle Frankie into the water, The Stapler had arrived with mobile video units so quickly that she hadn’t even let Camera One do up his fly. Today, Nick and Lex, along with Takahiro and Kazuki, enjoyed the unfolding saga.

  ‘Get in the water, you reediculous British princess!’

  Takahiro shook his fist in the gesture that had become so commonplace that Joni and Frankie had started to wave cheerily at him in response.

  ‘You bring shame on your country, pretending to sweem in the sand like crab.’

  Frankie had had just about enough and hauled herself out of the shallows, then stalked up the beach towards him, past an appreciative Nick and an amused Lex.

  ‘If you do not shut the bloody hell up, I will tear your throat out, you snide little nob!’

  Joni, frozen, felt sure she would.

  Before she could reach her target, two things happened. First, Kazuki leaped manfully in front of his elder, prepared to risk his life against the wailing banshee descending upon him. He held up his hands, in the universal language of karate.

  Next, Nick sighed and strode briskly towards the fray, reaching Frankie before she could immolate Kazuki with the sheer force of her rage. He plucked her from the sand like she was an unwilling ewe and strode down to the water. At first too shocked to struggle, by the time they hit water, Frankie was kicking and flailing like a madwoman. But Nick appeared barely to feel her blows.

  He strode out until they were waist deep, at which point he tipped Frankie from his shoulder, held her fiercely with one hand while she flailed ineffectually, and used his other hand to effect the kind of whistle, Joni imagined, was used to call sheepdogs.

  ‘Joni,’ he commanded, like a Roman emperor. ‘She’s in now. Come and finish your lesson.’

  When Joni reached him, and took hold of Frankie, who, by this stage, had stopped struggling but was repeatedly opening and closing her mouth in shock, he grunted, ‘You’re doing a good job, love. You make a great teacher. She’s lucky to have you.’

 

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