The Bonk Squad (21 page)

Liz nodded. It seemed fair enough to
her.

“
I’ve got a racy Regency on
the go. It’s good. It’s better than anything else I’ve done. I want
to really get stuck into it.”

Liz made soothing noises.

“
I’ve been long enough with
ADverts. They’ve more than had their pound of flesh from me.” Romy
shook her dark curls in annoyance.

“
And Neill’s against it?
That’s not like him. He’s always been wonderful.” Liz had often
compared Neill’s competence and obliging nature with The Bastard’s
inflexible behavior. Paul did nothing unless it suited him—Ingrid
would no doubt twig to that before too long. Even Brett and Rosie
knew that Daddy could be a prickly customer.

“
He says I can give up my
job and write all day. That’s not the problem. But he’s dead
against a permanent job for himself. He just slops about picking up
fix-it jobs and getting recommendations from neighbors. Sometimes
he works in the same street for weeks on end.”

“
So is it his lack of
ambition that bothers you?” Liz asked with caution. “What did he do
in Scotland?”

“
Worked on an oil-rig. Made
good money and then came travelling.”

“
If he’s fine about you
writing all day, what’s the worry?”

Romy aimed the remote at her expensive
little car and beeped it unlocked.

“
I can’t live like that,
Liz. What if the next book doesn’t sell? I’ll feel unsafe. If you’d
grown up like me, you’d be the same.”

Her Romanian parents had struggled to
set up their business in a new country. Her father had spoken
English with difficulty. Her mother not at all. Yet they’d somehow
thrived. And they’d pushed hard work and planning and contingencies
into Romy with the baby food. She was organized, a stickler for
detail, a strategist. ‘Spontaneous’ was not in her
vocabulary.

“
You’ve cracked it, as far
as I can see. Three books published already.”

“
Yes, but he’s not acting
straight with me, Liz. He’s being...devious. He’s hiding something.
I don’t like it. I’m getting very, very nervous. Sorry to dump this
on you.”

Liz shrugged. What could she say that
would help? Nothing maybe. She changed the subject. “Here’s
something to take your mind off Neill for a moment: Ian. I’ve got
him having suntan sessions and made him buy some decent
clothes.”

Romy’s jaw dropped. “Ian?”

“
Absolutely. The Invisible
Man. Tony’s attacking his hair on Thursday. I’m going to unveil him
at the Christmas meeting.”

“
Ian? Dear old Ian? You
must be joking?”

“
No—he’s quite hot under
those awful clothes. Heaps better than I was expecting. He does a
lot of hard physical work. A totally ripped body.”

“
Our Ian? Ian
Haroldson?”

“
And I think a decent
haircut will make a huge difference. He’ll be my Christmas treat
for you all.”

They laughed a little unkindly. For
the last couple of years Ian had been an object of affection and
gentle ridicule, although the girls had tried never to make either
too obvious to him. He was so earnest about his Irises—showing his
catalogue around with pride, reeling off incomprehensible botanical
names to the group as he did so. They treated him rather like a
lovable scruffy mongrel. He was harmless. He was devoted. He was
simply there.

Romy opened the car door and tossed
her bag across to the passenger seat. “If he turns out well, maybe
you could use him to bait Paul? Instead of my car and Neill’s
shirt? A little favor in return for the make-over?” She sent Liz a
wink as she belted herself in.

Liz opened her mouth and snapped it
shut again. “Just wait until you see him.”

Romy’s car snarled into life and
pulled away.

Liz stood staring after her, tapping
her teeth with her car key. Ian as bait for The Bastard...was it
possible?

While Meg and Romy and Liz enjoyed
lunch, and planned who was bringing what for the pot-luck Christmas
meeting, Al and Ben and Michael laid siege to her spare
bedroom.

Ben’s birthday present for her was a
respectable computer desk which he’d spotted at a charity sale down
the road.

“
Thirty bucks—fantastic!”
he’d enthused. Al had hidden it in his garage for a week, and he
and Michael had roped it somewhat precariously into the Audi’s
trunk for the ride to Meg’s home that morning.

“
Watch the wall,” Al
warned, wincing as the two boys lurched up the staircase and around
the tight bend at the top. The two nosy cats skidded by.

“
We need to push the bed
over the other way,” Ben panted, heaving the spare bedroom’s heavy
old single around at right angles. “See—it’s great.”

He grinned in triumph as Al and
Michael slotted the desk beside it.

With much subsequent cursing, the old
computer from Ben’s room was untangled and re-installed upstairs.
Meg had her writing space at last.

“
She’s familiar with that
one,” Ben said.

Meg used the modern library system at
work for checking books in and out, chasing reserves, and the like.
But the old home computer was where she did all her writing. And
this salved Ben’s conscience no end, because he was now the proud
owner of some cast-off equipment from Al’s office. At a very good
price. Well, almost no price, really. As the boss, Al could swing
these things for friends and family.

It was even newer and faster than Ben
had expected. Not as good as Tigger’s of course, but
still...

He stood his birthday card on Meg’s
old keyboard and pulled the door to the spare bedroom half shut. He
didn’t expect she’d look in there for any reason tonight. He knew
Al had asked her to a movie after dinner.

And she was unlikely to glance into
his downstairs bedroom where the old tea trolley from the garage
now held some extra gear. He pulled that door shut, just in case.
He didn’t want his birthday ‘surprise’ unveiled until the next
morning.

Meg trotted down the stairs at eight
o’clock. Ben heard water running in the kitchen as she filled the
kettle and clattered mugs from the cupboard. He groaned and swung
his long legs out of bed. It seemed she really was serious about
working at the computer all day.

He shook his head to clear it.
Tigger’s parents had gone away for the weekend, and she and Ben had
enjoyed the luxury of a real bed in total privacy, and with great
vigor.

What did it feel like? Fantastic! But
he was fed up with having to provide a running commentary for her
all the time.

“
Hot. You are soooo....hot
inside. Jeez, that’s amazing. Lean over a bit further. Further?
That makes you as tight as...um...tight as...?” A fistful of steak?
The neck of a Coke bottle? What on earth could he say next
time?

“
Happy Birthday, Mom,” he
said, yawning and stretching as he staggered through the doorway,
wearing faded old blue pajama pants and one sock.

Meg handed him a mug. He put it on the
kitchen bench so he could give her a quick kiss on the cheek
without slopping coffee over her.

They stood together in the blinding
sunshine, Meg sneaking admiring glances at his maturing body. He
was beautiful—her own creation—and so close to being a man. Well,
no longer a boy, that was for sure. And with scratches on his
shoulder she thought it wiser not to enquire about.

“
So are you really going to
write for most of the day?”

She sipped her coffee and nodded.
“That’s my idea of a huge treat. Do you mind if I kick you out of
your room? You want to get dressed first?”

Ben grinned and tried to stifle his
glee. “You won’t bother me at all. But you’d better come and see
where the computer is now. Won’t be a mo.” He ducked into his
bedroom, grabbed something which he mostly concealed in his hand,
and then beckoned her up the stairs.

Meg put her coffee down and followed.
He seemed very pleased—and goodness, someone had been having a real
go at his back. She had no doubts those parallel scratches had been
made by female fingernails.

He reached the spare bedroom and
showed her the label he’d made. Then pressed it onto the door until
it held. Not quite straight, but it was the words that captured
Meg’s attention. ‘Meg’s Den’.

He pushed the door open and waited for
her reaction. “We could see about getting you a proper office chair
for Christmas?”

She stayed silent. At last she drew a
deep breath. “But what about you, Ben?”

“
Sorted. Al’s work was
updating some of their gear and he grabbed some of the old stuff.
We got it going yesterday. This is all yours now—if you want
it.”

“
If I
want
it?” Her eyes shone.

“
Well, do you?” he
demanded.

“
More than almost anything.
You can’t imagine how much. You’re a darling boy to think of
it.”

“
So the desk is your
birthday present, if that’s okay?”

She ran her hand along it. “It’s the
very best thing you could have given me.”

“
It’s only second
hand.”

“
I should hope so, Ben. And
it’s in very nice condition for second hand. Or ‘pre-loved’ as they
seem to say these days.”

“
I found it at that shop
next to the church.”

“
And now I’ll be in
heaven.” She bent over and switched the machine on. The old printer
did its familiar ‘getting ready for you’ buzz and
rattle.

Meg gave him a proper hug, holding him
close and rocking from side to side. “This will be my best birthday
ever,” she whispered. “And a chair will make a wonderful Christmas
present, but only if you can get one second hand as
well.”

He flinched as her hand brushed over
the scratches on his back. She noticed he stayed facing her as he
sidled out of the room. Definitely guilty.

He bounded down the stairs to retrieve
their coffees and set hers on the desk.

By then she’d settled onto the bedroom
stool, eyes glued to the screen. She murmured a wordless thank you
to him as she groped for the mug.

The warm Italian sunshine poured down
on Carlo’s palazzo. The nanny walked out onto the balcony of the
nursery. Carlo watched, unobserved, as she stretched luxuriously
and the sun silhouetted her breasts through her flimsy
blouse.

“
Ms Rutherford! Ms
Rutherford!”

Someone bashed hard on the door. Not
polite knocks. Hefty thumps. A dog yelped frantically,
nearby.

Bobbie swam up out of a deep sleep.
She had summer flu. She’d taken pills. She was dopey and
aching.

The assault continued. “Ms
Rutherford!” A crash of splintering timber signaled someone had
broken down the door. That brought her properly awake in a hurry.
She pulled her old mohair cardigan around her and staggered up from
bed, heart pounding.

Her landlord stood just inside the
hallway, wrecking bar in hand, peering into the gloom.

“
Fire,” he yelled as she
appeared. “Grab your most precious things and get out
quickly.”

Bobbie saw the flicker of flames and
heard a fire siren wailing in the distance. Not a bad dream then?
Because of her totally blocked nose she couldn’t smell the smoke.
She stared at Jim McArthur through her haze of flu pills, and
slowly made sense of the situation.

“
Fire?” she
repeated.

“
Yes. Grab your things.
Now.” He raced away. The dog continued its strident barking and
whining.

Her things… Her things… The old family
photo album from the bookcase. She threw it onto the bed. Piled the
contents of her underwear drawer on top. Wrestled a few clothes off
the wardrobe rack and added them to the heap. Grabbed two pairs of
shoes from under the bed.

The first fire truck screeched to a
halt outside and the deafening siren died. Its lights pierced the
smoke, blinding and bright.

A hulking black shape darkened
Bobbie’s doorway, silhouetted against flames and flashes. “Come on,
out straight away,” the fireman yelled.

She made a frantic grab for her Kindle
and a box of assorted computer stuff, and bundled everything up in
the quilt. She struggled toward the tall figure and thrust the load
at him.

“
Out NOW,” he yelled.
Numbly she followed, racked with coughs from the smoke and whatever
bug was laying her low. She bent double for a few seconds to regain
her breath and then ploughed on. A few steps had never seemed so
far.

Her frizzy hair sizzled and stank as
she dashed through the flaming doorway, and she screamed as it
caught fire. Someone dragged her old cardigan up over her head. The
combined smell of singed hair and cardigan caught in her raw
throat. She hacked and wheezed in terror.

“
Hold on, hold on!” her
unknown rescuer bellowed in her ear, half-carrying her away from
the flames. She was bind from the cardigan, and still far from
alert, but at least the heat against her face had been short lived.
Then strong arms released her and she stood, wavering, in suburban
hell.