‘It’s late,’ she whispers.
‘Sorry.’
‘How is Darcy?’
‘She’s with her aunt.’
Her hand seeks me out, with resolute determination; making a ring with her thumb and finger. She bends and takes me in her mouth. And when I’m ready she rolls on top, straddling my waist, trapping me beneath her.
Her thighs are open. She slides backwards, taking me inside her, inhaling sharply. She guides my hands to her breasts. Her nipples are hard. I don’t have to move. I watch her rise and descend, inch-by-inch, accepting my surrender, seeking her own release and summoning mine.
It doesn’t feel like make-up sex or new-beginning sex. It’s like a quiet sigh drawing colour from the embers. Afterwards Julianne rests her head on my chest and I listen to her fall asleep.
An hour passes. I slide her head onto her pillow and slip out of bed, tiptoeing to the study. Closing the door before turning on the light, I look for the hotel receipt from Rome. Taking it from between the pages of a notebook, I rip it into small pieces that flutter into the wastepaper bin.
34
I can understand why a man might lavish affection on a machine instead of a human being. Machines are more reliable. Turn the key, flick a switch, step on the gas and they do the business when it counts.
I have never owned a sports car- never desired one- but I have one now. It belongs to a futures trader who lives in one of the luxury apartments overlooking Queen Square. You can’t steal a Ferrari F430 Spider off the street- not without disabling the alarm, ripping the guts out of the steering lock and circumventing the engine immobiliser. It’s far easier to steal the keys of the rich bastard who owns it. He left them on the radiator cover, just inside his front door, next to the secure parking key and his leather driving gloves.
The one thing I can’t get around is the ‘vehicle tracking system’. Once he reports the car missing I’ll have to say goodbye to my wet dream on wheels.
Steering the Spider through the streets on a Monday morning, I watch the reactions it produces, the looks of admiration, awe and envy. It doesn’t even have to be moving to draw the eye.
A lot of guys I knew in the army were obsessed with cars. The poor bastards spent their careers rumbling along at sixty k’s an hour in an armoured personnel carrier or a Challenger, with six forward gears and two reverse. So on their own time they went for something with more finesse and speed. Sports cars. Some of them were in hock up their eyeballs but they didn’t care. It was all about living the dream.
I park the Spider in a quiet street. The dew-slimed footpath is beginning to dry and sunlight filters through the branches of plane trees. I take a map and spread it out on the bonnet. The engine is ticking as it cools.
I wait. He’ll be along soon. Here he comes now, shuffling through the leaves, dressed in a blazer and dark grey trousers.
He’s seen the Ferrari. He pauses and studies the lines. His hand is drawn towards it, wanting to touch the gleaming paintwork and run a finger over its curves.
‘Nice wheels,’ he says.
‘Oughta be.’
‘Yours?’
‘I’m holding the keys.’
He does a slow circuit of the Spider. His schoolbag hangs off one shoulder.
‘How fast?’ he asks.
I fold the map in half. ‘Let’s just say I could be a quarter of a mile from here in twelve seconds.’
‘That’s if you weren’t lost.’ He grins.
‘Yeah, wise-arse, maybe you could help me with that.’
He crouches and peers inside the tinted driver’s window.
‘Where you going?’
‘Beacon Hill. Seymour Road.’
‘Beacon Hill isn’t far. I’m heading that way.’
‘Walking?’
‘Catching the bus.’
I show him the map. He points to his school and shows me the route. I can smell toothpaste on his breath and glimpse a younger version of myself, ripe with potential, ready to take on the world.
‘Can I take a look inside?’ he asks.
‘Sure.’
He opens the door.
‘Get behind the wheel.’
Dropping his schoolbag in the gutter, he slides into the seat, gripping the steering wheel with both hands and settling himself. Any minute he’s going to start making revving noises.
‘This is awesome.’
‘You could say that.’
‘What’s her top speed?’
‘A hundred and ninety-three miles an hour. She has a 4.3 litre V8 483 horsepower engine with 343 pounds of torque.’
‘What’s the most you’ve had her up to?’
‘You’re not a copper, are you?’
‘No.’ He laughs.
‘Hundred and eighty.’
‘No shit.’
‘She was purring like a kitten. But the real rush is the acceleration. She does nought to sixty in 4.1 seconds. Like shit off a shovel.’
I’ve hooked him now. It’s more than curiosity. It’s red-blooded male longing. It’s like the sex dream a boy has before he’s tasted a woman. It’s speed. It’s an engine. It’s love at first sight.
‘How much did it cost?’ he whispers.
‘Didn’t your mum ever tell you it’s rude to ask a question like that?’
‘Yeah, but she drives a Ford Astra.’
I smile. ‘Not really a car person, huh?’
‘No.’
‘When do you get your licence?’
‘Nine months.’
‘You going to get a car?’
‘I don’t think Mum can afford one. Maybe my dad could help.’
His fingers close around the gearstick. With one hand still on the wheel, he peers through the windscreen and imagines taking the corners.
‘What time’s your bus?’ I ask.
He looks at his watch. ‘Shit!’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll give you a lift.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. Get in. Buckle up.’
35
It’s after nine. I lie in bed staring at the ceiling. Downstairs I hear footsteps, laughter and the sound of
