It was insane to expect him to call the next day. Especially after a non-date. However, he had mentioned he might come over and measure the garden.
It didn’t matter. She was on a roll with her book.
Erotic images of Emily and her stablehand were pouring into her laptop on the kitchen table.
Frederick feigned shock when Emily refused to ride sidesaddle. Galloping through the forest, she revelled in each thrust of the black stallion between her thighs. Keeping pace on the white horse she’d lent him, he was mesmerised by the rhythm of her breath exploding in gasps. At one with her mount, she sailed a ditch. Her hair struggled loose of its net and tumbled over her shoulders.
‘You certainly know how to ride, Miss Brontë,’ Frederick said, flashing his crooked canine tooth.
She checked her phone. Not even a text.
Their horses stopped at a stream and dipped their noses in the pool. Frederick dismounted and caught her in his arms as she slid to the ground. She took his hand, so large in hers, and led him into a stand of pines. The trees were perfectly formed, their sturdy trunks prodding the sky . . .
She wondered if she should call him. Basic manners, some would say.
Trees kaleidoscoped through her head as they kissed. Her thighs oozed desire. Frederick pressed her onto a bed of pine needles, his warm spicy breath . . .
Or just text. But then he might think she was chasing him.
Lava flows of desire coursed through Emily, stirring parts of her body that had been dormant for years.
Lisa sighed and kicked off her ugg boots. Her feet were in agony.
Frederick dug into her corset and fished her breasts out into the dappled light. Perfect breasts, the nipples compact and brown . . .
‘But my dearest,’ Frederick said, stepping back in alarm. ‘You are fading away! Could you not eat more?’
Something damp nudged her toe. A fly must’ve wafted in through the back door. She flicked her foot. The creature withdrew.
Breasts.
If she’d granted Scott an opportunity in that department he would’ve recoiled in revulsion. Or worse, pretended it was okay.
A strip of sandpaper rubbed her big toe. She peered under the table. A single eye gazed at her through a mess of orange fur.
‘Mojo!’ she cried, offering her hand.
He flinched and studied her fingers with suspicion.
‘Come on, I’m not going to hurt you.’
Maybe it was the tone of her voice, but the cat moved towards her and nudged her knuckles with his forehead. She couldn’t believe it. He was inviting contact.
She tickled his chin, carefully avoiding the matted lumps. She’d never dreamt they’d get this far. To her amazement, he took another step forward and let her run her hand over his back. Lifting his tail, he turned around and let her stroke him again—and again.
Mojo was starting to trust her.
‘There’s a boy.’
The cat emitted a soft, melodic purr. The patting was going so well, she reached over and tried to pick him up. Mojo yowled. He tensed, wriggled out of her grasp and scurried towards the door. Biting her lip, she tried to imagine how it must feel living inside that shaggy coat. Having someone pick you up would be like having your hair pulled in different directions at the same time.
She waited for him to leave. He sat beside the door, arranged his broom of a tail over his front feet and considered the situation.
Keeping well clear of him, she stood up and moved like a mime artist to the bench top. He watched as she opened a can of Kitty Treats and spooned the contents into a saucer.
She returned to her seat and pretended not to take any notice of him. After what seemed a very long time, he padded across the bluestone and ate ravenously.
She was beginning to understand Mojo. He was a cat who operated on his own terms. When he wasn’t initiating contact, he preferred to be ignored.
Sighing, she turned her attention back to Emily Brontë’s nipples.
‘You did what?’
Lisa leaned into the computer screen. She couldn’t tell if the patches on Portia’s neck were shadows or love bites.
‘I went to a dance with someone. It was a social thing.’
‘Oh my god, Mom!’ Portia was reacting as if Lisa had just announced a post-menopausal pregnancy. ‘Is he hot?’
She had a vision of Scott striding godlike through the garden centre. It was quickly erased by his chimp at a tea party performance with Aunt Caroline.
‘An acquired taste.’
‘Did you hook up with him?’
Lisa had no idea what the term meant. Portia and her friends were always ‘hooking up’ with people. They referred to it as though it was just cuddling, but hooking had a biological intonation.
‘Heavens no!’
Portia flicked her hair. She was clearly bored. Any moment she’d change the subject back to her failed audition for Blanche in Streetcar.
‘But there was a moment in his ute afterwards.’
‘You didn’t try to kiss him?’
‘No!’
‘Thank god. Kissing’s political. Some girls I know make the first move, but that’s giving their power away. I prefer things to happen more . . . organically.’
This was the same little girl who’d run to her room and slammed the door when Lisa had tried to explain the mechanics of menstruation?
‘You can’t get up to much in the front seat of a ute, anyway. Those things are damned uncomfortable. Did he put his arm across the back of the seat?’
Lisa had long suspected her daughter’s sexual experience surpassed her own. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Did he put his arm around your waist and try to work it up to your boobs?’ Portia was warming to her subject.
‘God no!’
‘So what did he do?’
‘He . . . breathed on me.’
Portia was deflated. ‘Some old dude in a ute breathed on you?’
Lisa couldn’t take the humiliation any longer. ‘Are you coming to Australia for Christmas?’