The Bonk Squad (8 page)

“
You need re-styling,” she
said. “A make-over.”

She circled around him. He looked a
bit stunned but hadn’t reacted with distress.

He simply stood frozen, sipping his
tea, maybe embarrassed, but mostly managing to hide it.

“
You’re nice and tall,
anyway. Do you have a body under those god-awful baggy
clothes?”

He shrugged. “Not really—I’m pretty
thin. Strong, though. I lift a lot of stuff at work. Bags of
fertilizer. Rocks for landscaping.”

“
It’s called
lean
, Ian, not thin.
Lean. It’s the best thing you can be.” She narrowed her eyes. “Roll
up one of your sleeves.”

He looked around like a cornered rat,
but the other writers were paying them no attention. With
noticeable reluctance, he unbuttoned one of his green shirt cuffs
and pushed the sleeve up his arm.

“
Jeez!” she yelped. “You’re
the palest man in the world, Ian. I thought you worked outside a
lot?”

He yanked his sleeve back down and
fumbled with the fastening. Liz reached over without fuss and
re-buttoned the cuff as though he was Brett’s age.

“
Heroes aren’t pale,” she
explained. “Heroines are pale, but heroes are always tanned or
swarthy or golden skinned or something like that. You need a suntan
for starters. Your hands are okay.”

He shook his head. “Can’t risk it,
Liz. I work outside a hell of a lot, but I’m always careful to
cover up. Hole in the ozone layer... skin cancer... occupational
hazard in my job. That’s how Dad went—Melanoma.”

“
I bet he didn’t bother
wearing high factor sun block.”

“
Don’t suppose they had it
when he was a young man. They say your skin gets damaged over years
and years of exposure.”

“
Careful’s one thing, but
you’re being obsessive. There are lots of good specials on offer
now summer’s here. The tanning clinic I go to does ten sessions for
seventy bucks. That’d improve you out of sight, as long as you
don’t overdo it.”

He continued to look
doubtful.

“
Only seventy bucks, Ian.
It’s not much.”

“
It’s not the money
Liz—that’s not a problem.” He dropped his voice to a confidential
whisper. “But I don’t like showing how hairy I am.”

Liz had his sleeve way up again in
seconds.

“
Tense your muscles up,”
she instructed. “Hey girls, is that too hairy?” she demanded,
keeping a vise-like grip on his wrist. Ian felt his courage shrivel
as at least six pairs of eyes focused on his unlovely
body.

“
Bit pale,” Meg
said.

“
See
,” Liz crowed at him. “You need a suntan.”

Vi looked at him with astonishment.
“My husband Brian was much hairier than that, Ian. Although I
gather some men are going for the smooth look these
days.”

“
I met a lovely man last
night who shaved his legs,” Meg contributed. Their eyes left Ian
and fastened onto her instead. “He’s a serious cycle racer,” she
added. “They all do it.”

“
For aerodynamics? To go
faster?” Romy asked.

“
So they don’t get hair
caught up in their scabs when they fall off their bikes,” Meg said
with all the authority of the newly enlightened. “Anyway, if you
weren’t so pale, Ian, you wouldn’t look so hairy. What’s your chest
like?”

He made a defensive grab for his
shirt-front before anyone else did. “Much the same,” he
muttered.

“
Ben—come out here a
minute,” Meg called.

Ben and Tigger jumped apart and his
hand flew away from the breast that he’d been gently stroking
through the zebra-striped T-shirt. He’d thought they were well out
of sight of the others.

He caught up a large computer magazine
and clutched it across the bulging front of his jeans as he rose
and tried to saunter out.

“
Hold your arm against
Ian’s, will you dear?” Meg instructed. “There you are, Ian. You’re
not much hairier than Ben, and he’s still only
seventeen.”

Ben’s spirits plummeted. He hadn’t
wanted Tigger to know that, and couldn’t see how she’d have missed
the appalling news.

“
Is that it?” he demanded,
furious and embarrassed.

“
Yes dear,” Meg said. Ben
stumbled back to the bedroom and flopped down beside Tigger again,
all hope lost.

“
Seventeen?” she asked.
“Are you really still seventeen? You’re so tall I
thought...?”

“
Six-two,” he snapped. “And
now you know, that’s the end of things, I suppose.”

“
Seventeen,” she
murmured.

“
Don’t rub it
in!”

“
A toy-boy,” she whispered,
sending him a mischievous glance and raising her
eyebrows.

“
So what are you going to
do about it?” His face flamed. He’d rather be anywhere but
here.

“
I might...do this,” she
said with a small smile, stretching her neck up and capturing his
sulky bottom lip between her own. She pulled away so that her mouth
slipped slowly and deliciously off his. “I’ll get us some coffee,
shall I? Black?”

He nodded, mute, still registering the
warm sliding caress of her flesh over his. Sparks flashed and
crackled all through his body.

Tigger breezed out amongst
the others, sending Ian a cheeky grin. “I like hairy men,” she
said. “I’m not hairy, so it seems right that men are. Lions and
lionesses for instance...and he’s got the hair. I am
so
not into waxed
chests.”

“
I saw a documentary about
that recently,” Vi contributed. “And not just chests, either,” she
added with a dark expression. She clammed up, and Liz took
over.

“
You mean the old back, sac
and crack? The Bastard had that done for his new girlfriend. I hope
it hurt heaps. He never bothered for me.”

“
So you do prefer smooth
men?” Ian persisted.

“
No—I’m just glad he went
through some really intense pain as well. Because he insisted I had
a Brazilian.”

Beads of sweat popped out across Ian’s
forehead. His face flushed a sudden deep pink.

“
A what, Liz?” Vi
asked.

“
It’s called a Brazilian.
When they deal to your…er…hair down there.” Liz nodded at her
crotch.

Vi’s mouth became a perfect ‘O’ of
surprise as the full implication hit home. Far worse than a Batman
tattoo!

“
With those wax strips you
see on telly?” Ian asked, plainly fascinated.

“
Well not with tweezers,
hair by hair, that’s for sure,” she snapped, grabbing her coffee
mug and turning for the kitchen to escape further
interrogation.

It took about five seconds for Ian to
join her.

“
Refill?” she asked in a
crisp tone to make it clear the subject of her pubic hair was now
closed.

He tipped the dregs of his tea away
and switched the kettle on again. Liz tweaked a teabag out of Meg’s
pottery caddy and tossed it into his damp mug. It lay there looking
dejected until he drowned it with boiling water. They both watched
the color flood out of the bag.

Damn, I shouldn’t have
mentioned the Brazilian. I’ve shocked Vi and got Ian off the
subject of him. How do we get back there?

“
So—clothes,” she
continued, as though there’d been no fascinating diversion in the
conversation. “You dress so conservatively, Ian. That’s a rather
awful shirt, if you don’t mind me saying so, and your jeans are far
too big. We can’t tell if you’ve got a tight little butt or a saggy
fat one inside all that fabric. Look at the folds around your
waist, for heaven’s sake. All gathered in on that belt.”

“
Not a saggy fat one,” he
said with a hint of pride.

“
Good. So show it off.
Women like men’s butts.”

“
Men like women’s butts,”
he shot back.

“
See,” she said, slapping
her own trim bottom. “It works both ways. Flaunt
yourself.”

She passed him the sugar basin. He was
one of those maddening people who took three sugars and stirred
forever. She gritted her teeth and waited. Finally he set the spoon
down.

“
We could do a shopping
trip together, if you like?” she offered. “Book the suntan sessions
and get you some decent trousers and T-shirts to show off the tan
and the butt. Are you up for it?”

Ian sipped his scalding tea and nodded
with slow deliberation.

“
And some strong sun
block,” she added, inspecting his face. “And some moisturizer and
lip balm. Your lips are flaky. No-one wants to kiss flaky lips,
Ian.”

He licked them. Felt the hard little
edges of skin. Looked at Liz’s smooth kissable mouth.

“
You use lip balm, do
you?”

“
Aloe Vera gel,” she said.
“Twice every day.”

He made a silent vow to do the
same.

“
So when’s a good time for
you, Ian? I can do it any afternoon one-till-three except
Wednesday, which is tennis.”

Her short skirt flipped in
the breeze. Her long golden legs tensed for action. The ball flew
across the net and she leapt high, smashing the racquet down in
triumph. The ball shot across the court again, bounced just inside
the line and beat her lumbering opponent.

“
Love thirty,” an
officious voice announced.

He watched as she strolled
back to the baseline, bouncing the bright new ball several times as
she sized up the other player. Again the flirty breeze lifted her
skirt, exposing smooth thighs and a quick glimpse of high-cut
panties.

She stretched, and slammed
the racquet down without mercy. Somehow the serve was returned, and
she raced over the court, chasing and connecting, volleying hard.
Her breasts bounced, her legs tensed, her chestnut ponytail flipped
from side to side.

“
Love forty.”

That was him. Just on
forty, and aching for love.

The game concluded. He
waited on the sideline with a fluffy towel to wipe the beads of
perspiration from her brow—and if he was lucky, to mop it gently
from her heaving breasts. He followed her to the changing rooms,
carrying her racquet and sports bag, ready to perform any task she
required. He’d willingly enter the shower stall and wash her down
like the thoroughbred she was, soaping and massaging her long
elegant arms and legs...sliding his strong fingers over her hips
and across her neatly pruned pussy. She would—

“
So Monday-Tuesday or
Thursday-Friday, Ian? Ian?!”

He wrenched himself back to the
reality of Meg’s cheerful blue kitchen.

“
Sorry—thinking about
tennis. Love forty and so on. I’m thirty-nine—turn forty at New
Year. Let’s hope the love turns up too. But I think it’ll take more
than a suntan and new trousers...”

“
Oh, I’ve got lots of other
things we can try as well,” she said.

He thought of several as he polished
off his tea.

The phone rang just after she’d
stacked the final mug into the dishwasher. The writers’ meeting had
gone on longer than usual. Five o’clock had just ticked
over.

“
Meg? It’s Al.”

She shot a guilty glance down at his
love-bite.

“
Al—hello,” she said,
suddenly flummoxed and clumsy. Her fingers roamed without purpose
across the control pad, eventually settling on a long extra hot
wash for eight mugs, three plates and a few teaspoons.

“
Bearing up?” he
asked.

“
That was some hangover,”
she said. “I’m fine now, but I wasn’t worth knowing this
morning.”

“
Are you worth knowing this
evening?”

“
What did you have in
mind?”

Hell, Meg—that sounds
terrible. What do you think he has in mind???

“
Wining, dining, back to
mine.”

Was he a smooth operator, or
what?

She plunked herself down onto one of
the kitchen chairs while she searched for a suitable reply.
“Wining, dining, and we’ll see?”

“
How
much
will we see?”

“
About as much as you saw
last night? How did you manage that love-bite?” she demanded,
braver now she’d had a few moments to recover her
composure.

His deep, rich chuckle made her
grateful she was sitting down. “Pick you up at seven?”

“
Presumably not in cycling
gear?”

“
Hmmm...black trou, white
shirt, charcoal linen jacket?”

“
Uh-huh...taupe jersey,
gold chains, black skirt?”

“
The jersey doesn’t sound
as much fun as last night’s blouse?”

“
Nice low
neckline....”

“
Much more like it. See you
Meg.” He rang off, leaving her worried she’d sounded too available,
too eager, too much of a pushover. Oh well, he’d made the approach,
so he sounded available and eager too. So much for her plans to get
back to Carlo the Italian billionaire and Angela the nanny. The
nanny would be keeping her underwear on for another evening. Meg
wondered if she’d be doing the same.