My Books:

'Hurry, Wife Sleeping', came about through my role as manager at one of Queensland’s first legal brothels and is a work of non-fiction.
Seven years ago I discovered time (namely age) coupled with a lack of any kind of credentials can be a very cruel place to find oneself, and with a pile of ever mounting bills hunting down any form of legitimate work became a nightmare when I realized I had nothing but life experiences to offer any prospective employer. The idea of scrubbing toilets didn’t appeal, so one day when I noticed a position for receptionist for a brothel in New South Wales being offered in the local paper I took the bull by the horns and applied - after much soul searching I might add.

While at my initial interview I quickly decided scrubbing toilets to be preferable than the seedy den of inequity I found myself perusing, but for some reason (not clear at the time) fate, in the guise of a dear old man and the timely departure of a receptionist conspired to throw me in head first and before I knew it I was in the brothel and had begun training.

I trained in that brothel for a year and then moved to head up one of the first legal brothels in Queensland.

During the early months a friend asked about the antics that went on in the brothel and I could only remember a few incidents. It was then that I decided to write these stories down if for no other reason than to liven up the odd dinner party. As a consequence, I filled many journals and when I retired from life in the brothel I put all the good, bad, sad, ugly and funny tales together to form this account.

However, I haven’t written about the working girls per se. It’s about the men who visit brothels; their interaction with me, their quirks, their behavior, their explanations to me as to why they visited us, and finally a personal reflection of conclusion brought about through my capacity as manager/receptionist.

The world of prostitution has always held me in fascination. No so much about the sex workers – I figured they were in it for the money. Not that I’ve ever been a sex worker. I’ve had plenty of sex in my life, just never got paid for it – well not directly. And yet while it is commonly recognized that women can and do use their sexuality to get a man to do almost anything they want, I’ve always wondered about what attracts a man – especially those married or with partners, to the working girl and why. Why would they actively pay for sex and hence the majority of them risk so much.

My life on the other side began firstly as a receptionist in a brothel situated just over the border into New South Wales, before graduating to become a fully fledged manager for more than five years in one of the first legal brothels in Queensland, and while I never originally intended writing about it I did keep journals of my experiences. Names of the two brothels, receptionists, managers and girls where I worked are fictional as are those of clients although for the celebrated/acclaimed clients I’ve used a series of dots……… An accepted code of secrecy exists within the industry and it wouldn’t be seemly for me to openly compromise the privacy of these particular clients. You the reader can guess at who they might be. And to further protect the client’s privacy their stories are not necessarily in order of time.

It should also be noted that while each of the accounts are exactly as they happened, these stories were not peculiar to the client/clients mentioned. Unfortunately, space prohibits the tale of each client that came my way, but with slight variations every story can be applied at least thirty fold.

Life behind the brothel door is graphic and so, to retain authenticity I make no apologies for the common-place descriptive language. Nor do I apologize for what might appear to be the over use of the words penies, bastard, cretin, moron and feral.

This is not about working girls in brothels – that’s a whole other story. Nor is this about the politics of running a legally recognized Queensland brothel – again, a whole other story. Apart from the first five chapters that cover my initial training, I only mention the girls or brothel politics when pertinent to this tale or when in direct reference to the clients.

This is about men who visit brothels as seen by an inside outsider.

This is a factual account.

Here are a few excerpts from: 'Hurry, Wife Sleeping'.

A young spunk cruised in around midnight one night. He had the cool gear, smooth looks, single gold earring, gold choker-chain and black slicked back hair, apart from a thick strand that fell over his right eye.
“Hi,” I said when he walked in. Out the back in the girls’ lounge a loud ‘yahoo’ echoed when all eyes captured the spunk. “Been here before?”
“No, but I’ve heard some really good reports on this place. Like all your girls are hot.”
I smiled at him. “I’ll pass that on. I’m sure the girls will appreciate the compliment. Just take a seat in the lounge and I’ll send them in.”
After the girls had completed their intro, the spunk came back to my desk. “They turned me down,” he said.
“Oh? Why?”
“None of them would do what I want.”
Am I about to hear something that’s going to gross me out? “Outside of the basic service only a few girls provide extras and of those -” I began.
“I don’t want the basic service,” he cut in.
“They charge extra for extras.”
“I offered more. Heaps more but none of them would lick my balls,” he said so openly.
Oh, God, I really didn’t need to know that. I tried not to cringe. “Sorry.”
“What about another night with different girls?”
“I don’t think anyone here provides that service.”
“But I went through a shit load of agro today getting prepared for this,” he complained.
“Agro?”
“Yeah, I had the boys professionally shaved and a wax around the cock. Have you any idea how painful that is?”
Try having a Brazilian, buster!

First time client at Pompeii. It was one of those quiet Sunday nights. The girls had already had a booking each but with the quietness taking over, they’d settled down in their lounge to watch The Green Mile. Thirty minutes into the movie the doorbell rang and in wandered an older, unattractive scruffy man with an ego designed or cultivated to mask his unfortunate appearance.
Can certainly understand why you’re here. “Hello. Been here before?” I asked.
“Now do I look like the sort of person who would need to pay for sex?” he cockily asked.
Ah, yes? “I’m not sure looks have anything to do with paying for sex,” I said.
“I’m guessing most of your clients have to pay.” And you don’t? “But I don’t. I’m here from choice.”
Whatever. I ran through the rates. All five intro’d and all five came back grizzling. “Yuk,” seemed to be the popular description. “What a loser. I could feel his eyes boring into my arse when I left the room. Perv.”
“Yeah. The creep asked me to do a twirl,” said another.
“Oh, is that all?” another complained. “He wanted me to; hoist my skirt so he could check out the growler. His words!” Everyone groaned.
In the main lounge, I found the scruffy man stretched out on the sofa in the far corner giving him the best vantage spot to watch the girls come in and check them out when they walked away.
“Okay, which lady?”
“Mm,” he said. “This is very difficult for me. They’re all so beautiful – what a choice.”
Take your time.
“I’m not sure.”
No hurry.
“They don’t make it easy do they – looking so glamorous.”
Sooner rather than later!
“So tempting.”
Anytime now would be good.
“I feel so bad doing this.”
Okay, now I’m becoming impatient. “Doing what? Being here?” I asked.
“Goodness no.”
Then what?
“I’m not happy about having to choose one,” he continued to labor.
Just choose one for God’s sake! “Would you like two then? I’m sure the girls would be happy to do a double.”
“Oh, no,” he said quite horrified. “I could only cope with one.”
Then forking choose!!! “Can I help you make a decision perhaps?”
“Mm, I don’t want to upset the other girls by choosing one. I wouldn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings.”
I’m going to hurt your feelings in a minute and I won’t feel bad about it! “I can assure you, you won’t. Now which lady will it be?”
“But I feel so mean,” he kept on. “I don’t want to disappoint the others. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for causing a rift between them.”
Oh, please! Get real! “This is their job. They expect one of them to be chosen. Trust me; you won’t be causing any rifts, arguments, disruptions, jealousy or suicides among the girls by choosing one of them.” In fact I would bet fifty dollars they’re all out the back praying; not me. “Nothing personal, but honestly it’s just a job to them.” You’re just a mound of money to them – and not a very attractive mound at that.
He released his body from its stretched out position and slumped into a deflated heap, and sounding quite dismayed said, “Oh, really?”
I nodded. “’Fraid so.”
“Then I’ll have the first one.”
“Good choice, sir!”

We had one new client that quickly became a house regular after his initial visit. In his early thirties, pleasant yet quietly unassuming and married he told me. After meeting all the girls, he came to my desk and said, “I have a request.”
Here we go. “And that would be?”
“I’d like to spend half an hour with Holly. Can you come in and watch?” he asked quite unashamedly.
This is new! “Sorry. I don’t participate in any way other than manager.”
“But I’ve done it before with other receptionists,” he said.
“Not here.”
“No, but other brothels don’t seem to have a problem with it. I’m prepared to pay you twenty dollars to watch.”
You can’t be serious. “If you’d like a spectator, one of the other service providers would be happy to oblige – for a fee of course. I doubt twenty dollars would be enough though,” I gabbled. “You’d have to discuss the fee with them.”
He shook his head. “No, I want you to watch. Just for the last five minutes. You know, when I-”
“Sorry, sir. No way.”
Begrudgingly he went off on his half hour booking with Holly and without the benefit of a voyeur. Next visit we went through the same routine but this time he upped the anti to thirty dollars.
“Sorry, sir,” I said again.
Next time he arrived I was ready for him. “Hello, here to see Holly? And please don’t offend me and embarrass yourself by offering me money to watch.”
“I’m prepared to offer you fifty dollars,” he countered.
Are you deaf? “No-”
“Okay, a hundred dollars,” he interrupted. “That’s my final offer.”
Good! “Look, I’m not trying to get more out of you. It’s not a question of money.”
“Then what is it a question of?” he argued. “Why won’t you do it? Is it because you disapprove? I’m only asking that you watch. Is that so much to ask?”
Okay, buddy, I’ve had enough of this. “My job is to manage – not to have sex with clients, not to judge and not to actively indulge in clients’ fantasies,” I began. I’m trying very hard to run a professional business here and even if you offered me ten times the amount I still wouldn’t do it. It simply wouldn’t be appropriate.”
“Is anything in here appropriate?” he asked.
I sighed. Good point.

Clients asking for, not the norm services weren’t that uncommon. Like the guy that crept in during the early hours one morning. He would have been in his mid forties, reasonably tidy and average in looks but lifeless, yet he seemed nervous when he approached the desk and hesitated for a few minutes before asking for a liberal lady.
A liberal lady? “It might be helpful if you gave me a clue as to what sort of service you’re looking for,” I cautiously asked.
“I feel funny talking to you about this,” he said, shuffling his feet.
I’m sure I’ve heard it all, Buster. “If you really can’t tell me then be sure to make your intentions clear to the girls when they intro,” I advised. “It’s just that not all the girls are given to special services.”
He shuffled a bit more. “It’s not that I want them to do anything kinky, well not sexually…” he trailed off.
Then what? I stared at him expectantly, waiting for him to give in and divulge the reason for a liberal lady.
“Would they be affronted?” he asked.
“No, probably not, but if you gave me some idea what it is you’re looking for then I could eliminate the girls that wouldn’t be obliging. Or,” I added, suddenly thinking he might require something bizarre that I knew on-one would do, “I could ask the girls on your behalf before you meet any of them.”
He nodded. “That sounds like the go.”
I waited and waited and waited. The man stared at the wall, shuffled his feet again, scratched his head, rubbed his hands together, turned to me and finally said, “I want a golden shower – sort of.”
What’s a ‘sort of’ golden shower? “Oh?”
“Yes. But I don’t want it over me.”
Odd. This is getting odd! “Okay,” I said slowly. “So where exactly do you want it?”
He dug into his pocket and pulled out an empty glass jar with a screw-top lid. “In here.” The man put the jar on the desk top.
Oh, Lord! “I’m going to have to ask why, because the girls will want to know before they agree to this.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. It may only be urine but…” I stopped. What the hell did he want to do with it? Drink it?
“I’ll pay whatever they want,” he quickly said. “Whatever they want.”
I raised my eyebrows. “I can tell you now it won’t be about the money.” Liar, liar, pants on fire. By this time I was so curious I wasn’t letting him go until he’d told me.
More shuffling, more agitation, more nervous head scratching. “Okay. It’s for my wife.”
What? “Your wife? Your wife wants a jar of urine from a working girl?”
“No, not really. I want her to get it,” he said, his eyes lighting up. “I want to pour it in her underwear drawer. The piss from a hooker that I’ve just fucked!”
Needless to say, none of the girls were interested.

‘Slipstreaming’ was created out of the realisation that there is very little written about the lifetime fantasies and perhaps missed opportunities of the 50 plus year old woman. Most of those post WW2 baby-boomers were born on the edge of the female revolution; starting it, yet not quite enjoying it – well, not like their younger sisters seem to be doing. All the smart and snazzy gals out there flashing their wares and coming to grips with their sexuality are only thirty-something. Even the forty-something’s are flinging themselves around and are still considered somewhat trendy. But fifty-something’s? Apparently not. Are they supposed to just shrivel up and die or disappear mysteriously into long bloomers and flannel nighties from there on in?

Is it not permissible or seemly for the ordinary menopausal woman to have a full Brazilian (of the waxed variety), wear a g, or, heaven forbid, rekindle all the passions of her girlhood and throw herself recklessly into an adventure (which could possibly be her last) with a much younger man unless of course she has the celebrity status of Joan Collins? The mother, the wife, or even the ex wife, but most assuredly the woman who has devoted her life to her family only to find herself at the other end of the spectrum, emotionally alone and, recalling all the years of her life she wonders what the hell it was all about. And knowing how time is running out for her, she dreams of meeting that special someone who transports her right into the middle of her fantasies where she wakes one morning, turns to that special person beside her and says, ‘Now I have everything I’ve ever wanted

Slipstreaming is set in New Zealand in the late 90’s and tells the story of Laura Jackson who is given as a birthday present from a friend at her 50th birthday party, a 20 minute tour on the back of a Harley-Davidson with the young and free-spirited Joshua Taylor. Inexplicably, the ride ignites a restless yearning for Laura and sets in motion a new course that she struggles to ignore but eventually feels compelled to embrace. Josh and Laura meet again six months later and despite the yawning socio-eco gap between them, she allows herself to be cajoled into taking the ride of her life with Josh when he suggests she swap her cushy lifestyle for a taste of unconditional freedom, and travel with him to explore the lushness and spectacular beauty of the South Island on his Harley.

To give you a sneak preview, the first chapter follows after this...

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Chapter 1.

The teacher arrives when the pupil is ready - Zen

Joshua had eyes the colour of goody-goody-gumdrops ice cream. In fact getting to know him was like being let loose in an ice cream parlour - he was twenty-seven flavours and then some. There was just this surrealism about him, an indefinable presence of intrigue that seemed to linger in his wake and from the moment I laid eyes on him I found myself captivated. The first time I recall noticing him he was holding a brunette in his arms. As I watched him mince around the dance floor I thought he had the yummiest rear end I'd ever seen on a male, and I dared to wonder if a man with such a sashay could possibly be straight.

"That's Josh Taylor," my friend Bill casually mentioned when the cute one glanced our way. "He's the guy you see flashing around town on that grunty Harley. Now wouldn't he make an interesting character in one of your novels?"
"Mm," I mused and considered the idea, especially as Joshua Taylor didn't appear to fit the accepted pre-conceived image of hell-on-wheels. My eyes waltzed the room with him until he came off the floor, and even though I lost sight of him within a smoky haze of pool players, for the rest of the evening my thoughts were plagued with delicious visions of nipping playfully at those tight little cheeks he'd flaunted.
And then three weeks later, on a warm afternoon in early April at our home, Summerhaze, where my ex-husband Cooper Jackson hosted a party for friends and family to help me celebrate my fiftieth birthday, that tight little butt roared his Harley up my driveway.

"Remember Josh?" Bill said, leading me outside. I think I nodded but can't be sure. Until his reason for being there became clear, I was paralysed with the most horrifying fear that Josh was actually a beefcake employed to get his gear off in an attempt to bolster the supposedly ailing sex life of this half-centenarian, and while the idea of drooling over the man as he disrobed held all manner of tasty concepts, the thought of my aging parents watching me slip twenty-dollar notes into his G-string terrified my fantasy straight back to the big bang of black-holes era.

"Well, I've organised a ride for you," Bill continued. "The only thing is, you have to go now. Happy birthday, Laura." Relief overwhelmed me, and when I gazed upon this creature swathed in a black leather jacket and scruffy pale blue jeans circling the courtyard and beckoning me to climb on board, I swear I thought I'd been swept away in a thirty-second TV promo for an upcoming romantic drama. Someone suggested I'd need to change clothes and shoved me back inside the house.

I found myself standing between the racks of my dressing room trying to decide what to wear - for some reason my mind had gone into shock mode and refused to co-operate, but when that same voice reminded me that my pressie awaited I abandoned my party attire with the efficiency of a hooker at a stag night. It took only seconds before I'd scrambled into jeans and a T-shirt and after absently selecting a leather jacket, which due to the looseness of cut wasn't going to be in the least fit for Harley riding, I floated outside to where, surrounded by the majority of my guests, the man in black waited patiently for me.

"Giz ya mitts," Josh commanded as I stood trembling with excitement beside his bike. He slid fingerless leather gloves over my clammy paws and I looked up into his face, which was when I noticed the speckled colours of green and taupe resembling slivers of gumdrops that flecked those creamy aqua eyes.

"Is she really going to wear that thing?" another voice said from behind when Josh unstrapped a spare helmet from the backrest. My hair had always been an identifying personal statement and I hated having it messed up - my four adult sons had long since decided that when the time arrived for my big trip to the salon in the sky they would grace my coffin with a hairdryer instead of the usual floral wreath.
I swung indignantly around to the crowd. "Of course!" I barked, and meekly allowed Josh to crush my coiffed hair with the helmet. While he secured the chin-strap I glanced across at Bill and became momentarily puzzled by the look of glee on his face and the dismal expressions and muffled utterances of my guests. After a couple of basic instructions from Josh like, "Stick ya feet on there," and "Hang on to me," I mounted the Harley and engulfed myself around the man's waist. When I gave my party revellers a cheesy wave they responded with the clicking of cameras, and then Josh and his throbbing beast whisked me away.

We'd only motored a couple of kilometres when he slowed down and said, "Ya don't really have to hang on, ya know. There's a backrest ya can lean against."
"But you told me to," I protested.
"I only said that to make ya hubby jealous," he smirked.
Coop's my ex, I wanted to say, and wondered why I suddenly felt the need to clarify my domestic situation. A few more metres and again Josh leaned back into me and said, "You've done this before, haven't ya?"
"Yes, in my teens I had a boyfriend with an old BSA, or was it a Norton?" I shouted, pondering the make of bike but not actually expecting the delivery of a reply.
"I've no idea," he laughed. "But I bet it wasn't a Harley."
I grinned. "Why?"
"Not many young fellas could afford Harleys, especially in them days."
"No, I mean why do you think I've done this before?"
"'Cos ya ride well," he drawled. It was just the way he said it. Ya ride well. I shivered and decided to ignore the inference. We cruised into town and did a slow crawl up the main road. "Let the locals see ya," Josh said.
"But no one will recognise me under this helmet," I moaned.
"Oh yes they will. That silver hair poking out belongs to only one person in this town, and we all know who."

His cheekiness lulled me so I sat back and soaked up my fifteen minutes of fame. We left the village and travelled out towards the East Coast, and as we thundered down a long sweeping hill Josh instructed me to, "Put ya arms out and pretend ya flying." Briefly he let go of the handlebars to demonstrate, and I found it quite un-nerving to have the man indiscriminately fly.

"I see you're a bit of a movie buff," I remarked.
He grinned. "Just do it." A quick squiz behind and I obeyed, and after a few moments I began to feel as though we were airborne, a feeling that left me with a developing thirst for adventure, and just before we turned for home I was overtaken with a crazy desire to lean over his shoulder and suggest he just keep going. Where to I had no idea, and reluctantly I doused my impetuousness by visualising my family and friends all congregated around my birthday cake later that night watching the candles burn down into the chocolate icing, blaming an avalanche of mid-life crises for me running amok.

Fancy Laura doing such a thing, my friends would say. I thought she was happy, didn't you? Wonder where we went wrong? my mother would muse. Must have lost her mind, my father would offer up. Be a woman thing, my ex would sneer. Can't believe she'd take off without her hairdryer, my sons would say in astonishment.

By the time Josh and I returned to the party any temptation I had to desert had subsided, and they disappeared completely as sixty or so excited people converged upon us. Before I went inside to salvage what was left of my hairstyle I turned to Josh and said, "That was just great. I simply can't thank you enough." I grinned at him and waited for a reaction. When none came I patted the Harley, and as he took hold of my hands to remove the gloves I blundered on with, "What an awesome machine. That whole experience was right up there with orgasmic."

I'd intended my flirtatious verbalising to challenge his earlier brazenness, but when he raised his eyes to meet mine I melted right into him and felt so embarrassed I wanted to retract that stupid word but of course I couldn't, so instead I pathetically offered, "Can you stay for a drink?"
"Shouldn't. I'm riding."
"Something soft?" God, I've done it again, I thought.
Josh's brow knitted slightly.
"Please do, I'd really like you to." I turned to the present giver.
"Convince him to stay, Bill. Gifts shouldn't be allowed to leave," I commanded, and dashed for my room to begin restorations.

When I returned to the party some ten minutes later I scanned the hordes for Josh, spotting him on the far side of the marquee engaged in what seemed to be light-hearted conversation with my elderly aunt. Even from that distance I could make out the grin creases either side of his mouth and all the fine lines that smiled along with his eyes. He sparkled and joked and I could see my aunt swinging off his words. I tried to make my way to him, but my efforts were constantly foiled by my hostess duties to all and sundry, either accepting tributes on attaining the age of fifty relatively unscathed, or welcoming the arrival of new guests.

My eldest son, Marcus, grabbed me for a whirl around the deck as the five-piece band blasted out a thumping rendition of "Walking the Dog", and when my eyes caught sight of Josh in the background the vision of him and his cute little butt on the dance floor at the club flashed through my mind, although instead of the brunette in his arms it was me he held. The band played on, and four or five times I looked across dozens of heads and caught Josh's attention. He'd grin and wink at me, and I thought the way his sun-kissed sable-coloured curly hair caressed his shoulders to be excruciatingly attractive and I blushed, imagining what it would be like to bury my face in the ringlets of his groin. When eventually I managed to persuade Marcus to swap me for his girlfriend I became side-tracked by another relative, and drifted inside the house where I totally lost touch with Josh for about forty-five minutes, until he appeared before me escorted by Bill.

"The boy's off now," Bill said.
I turned to Josh. "Oh, must you?"
He nodded. "'Fraid so, I've got another tour."
"Come back afterwards," I suggested, far too eagerly.
Josh grinned. "Maybe."
"I'm really sorry I wasn't able to spend any time with you."
"No sweat," he said, moving towards the front door. I followed him out to his bike and watched as he dressed himself for riding. Bill's idle chitchat faded as Josh's eyes captured me and I felt my body heat up.
Hot flush, I told myself. "Thanks again, Josh," I said, hoping my voice sounded placid. God, how I wanted him to stay, and prayed my skin wasn't on fire.
He smiled and said, "The pleasure was all mine." Then out of nowhere he just leaned over and kissed me. Not on my cheek as I might have expected from someone other than a very close friend, but on my lips, and while it certainly wasn't a provocative kiss, I was stunned by his forwardness.
"Happy birthday," he grinned.
"How old is he?" I nonchalantly asked Bill while we watched the Harley chug down the driveway.
Bill shrugged. "He's married," he said flatly, instantly dispelling my wonderment as to Josh's sexual orientation.
The party continued on well into the night. Josh didn't return, and long after those who were leaving had left and those who were staying had either passed out or were asleep, I ventured outside to the deck with a glass of champagne, sat on the boards and gazed over the treetops to the stillness of the water below. Out of the darkness, my old tabby cat stealthily crept along the very edge of the cantilevered deck, her ample undercarriage swaying freely. She mewed a feeble little squeak and walked straight into my lap with an aristocratic haughtiness I'd come to expect from her. We had this ritual where she'd paddle any part of my body she could lay her paws upon, and I'd have to stroke her five times before she'd settle. Not nine or twenty, but five. The boys had adopted her sixteen years before when she turned up on our doorstep emaciated and flea-ridden, and reluctantly I agreed to let them keep this scrap of matted feline, only to eventually inherit her when one by one the little toads left home and none of them had room for her in their backpacks. They had room for my linen and cutlery, food from my pantry, any shampoo bottles left loafing, even a bed or two, but no room for the cat.

"You're a mangy old thing, aren't you?" I said. She purred for a few minutes then curled up. Across the bay a lone light flickered into life when a car with a rowdy exhaust arrived in a driveway, and the noise prompted thoughts of Josh and his Harley and Bill's comment about him being an interesting case study for my book. Movement from the other end of the deck startled the cat and I looked up to see Stella, my best friend and number two in our circle of four, padding her way to join me.

"What are you doing out here all alone, birthday girl?" she asked. Our quartet had met at college and travelled through our teens together. Three of us had even married within twelve months of each other. When my teenage marriage collapsed and I descended upon Stella with a six-week-old Marcus she helped me rebuild my life, and when a drunk driver killed Steve, her husband of less than three years, I was there for her. Then, when my second marriage ground to a halt, Stella again helped me pick up the pieces, but by that time I had four little ducklings in tow.

Stella sat down beside me. "Hey there, Mummy's Pretty Pussy," she said and gave the cat a stroke. "That really is the worst name ever for a cat."
I grinned. Stella lit a cigarette and blew the smoke into the night sky, and grumbled when her silk lounging pyjamas snagged on a splinter of decking timber. So like Stella to wear silk on a deck. She was tall and lean and sassy, and wore her thick black hair sleekly cropped to suit her professional image. "Such a neat party, Laura," she said, "and how about that Harley ride?"
"Yes, how about that?" I agreed.
"You looked right at home sitting there behind him."
"Did I?"
She nodded. "Who was he?"
"Joshua Taylor," I said, trying to sound off-hand. "He's a local. Not that I know him of course. I've only ever seen him once, and that was at the club one night when I was there with Rosie and Warwick."
"Did they arrange the ride?"
"No, Bill did. Why?"
"Oh, so that explains it," she said mysteriously, and after I prompted her she proceeded to tell me about the bets that had been taken over whether or not I'd actually mount the bike due to the requirement of wearing a helmet.
"What?" I said, feeling dismayed that my friends actually saw this as a hundred-to-one chance of picking up some easy cash. Stella wriggled and swore when her pants snagged again. "And Coop, how did he bet?" I asked.
"Against. In fact he held the purse."
"That is so typical of Coop," I said, shaking my head in disgust. Cooper Jackson was my second husband and the biological father of my three youngest sons - although he had always treated Marcus as one of his own. Coop and I had been divorced for nearly twenty years but had somehow miraculously maintained a closer-than-friendly relationship - no doubt helped by the lengthy stints at sea his career afforded him. Originally our reasoning for staying connected had been for the sake of the children, and over the ensuing years Coop had leisurely sailed in and out of my life; a few days here and a few days there, like some sort of erratic menstruation. And like an erratic menstruation, as time passed the gaps between his visits grew longer and longer, until eventually I'd find him in my bed for a few days only once every six months or so. And while it was always evident Coop needed me in his life as much as I needed Coop in mine, it was the living together we couldn't handle.

"Come on, Laura, be fair. He knows how you feel about your hair - we all do!"
"Oh puleeease," I said. "The man just bought me a convertible for my birthday. He obviously wasn't thinking about my hair when he did that, now was he?"
Stella shrugged.
"It's so typical of him," I repeated. "Just goes to show how little he knows me. Didn't anyone take a chance on me?"
"Bill did, and the guy riding the Harley."
"Really?"
"Why should that surprise you? After all, you and Bill go way back."
"I wasn't thinking of Bill," I said, but realised then why Bill had seemed so pleased when Josh put the helmet on me. "And you? What about you?"
"Well," Stella pouted. "I was in two minds."
"And you're supposed to be my best friend; the person who knows me better than anyone. Thanks for the vote of confidence."
"I bet on you." The unmistakable Melanie Griffith voice of Delyse, number three in the chain of friends chipped in. I smiled as she wedged herself between us. Mummy's Pretty Pussy stretched and decided Delyse's lap looked far more inviting than mine and changed places.
"Where's Robbie?" I asked, peering around for the last of our little quartet.
Delyse rolled her eyes. "Where else?" she sighed.
"Ohhh," Stella and I chorused. I envied the thrill of being so blissfully in love as Robbie was with the new man in her life.
"She deserves to be happy," I added, thinking about her dark days after her cretin of a husband shot through with his secretary the very week poor Robbie discovered she was pregnant with a mid-life baby that she subsequently lost. "We should all be so lucky."
The others nodded in agreement.
"Yeah, well, at least you've got Coop - albeit from time to time," Stella said. "The only house guest I ever seem to have these days is occasionally minding my neighbour's motley old cockatiel. Bastard of a thing. It has this real vicious pecker."
"What?" I exclaimed.
"He has a nasty habit of trying to beak everyone to death!"
I laughed. "Well, you can have Coop if you like, Stell."
Both Stella and Delyse scoffed. "He does love you, Laura," Stella said forcefully.
I screwed up my face as if to say, Yeah, right, and she hurriedly added, "In his own way, of course." And when I still didn't respond, her eyes widened. "Laura?"
Ignoring her reference to Cooper, I turned away. "Maybe I should just get another dog," I said.
"Where the hell did that idea come from?" Stella asked, looking amazed.
"I don't know. Just thinking about stuff." It had been nearly two years since I'd lost my canine friend, yet I still missed her company and undying loyalty.
Stella peered at me. "Do you really want to get another dog?"
"Yes, get another poodle," Delyse chirped, and covered the cat's ears with her hands. "She was such a sweet little thing."
"Or something bigger and more of a dog. Like a Rottie or a mastiff," Stella offered, still watching me closely.
"No way," I declared. "I'm a poodle girl through and through. They're smart, they don't cast hair all over the place, and they don't smell like dogs either."
Stella's face contorted. "Being a bit picky, aren't we?"
"Perhaps, but she was the only one that ever did cartwheels when I arrived home," I said wistfully. "Now she loved me." I'd directed my statement at Stella in response to her Coop observation but she appeared to have missed my point. I patted the sleeping cat in Delyse's lap. "Even my pretty pussy seems to have deserted me." The women laughed.
"How's the book going?" Delyse asked.
Thinking of the manuscript being lovingly created on an old computer I'd named Martha brought the smile back to my face. "Ah, my novel," I purred and stretched my arms above my head. "I've completed the first draft and I'm about to start the second."
"You haven't told us what this one's about," Stella grumbled. "And why aren't you writing a book based on my rubber gloves case? It has the premise of a fantastic story."
"It has," I agreed. "Next time I promise." Through Stella I had access to a cesspool of files diligently gathered over her twenty-five years as one of Wellington's leading barristers.
"I still think you should do the rubber glove case first," she protested, stubbing her cigarette out and flicking it over the fence and into the paddock beyond us.
"One of my leads is a lawyer," I said, hoping to placate her.
"Really? Like me?"
"Well, he's a man actually."
"Oh, wonderful! That's just what I need - to be upstaged by a man!"
"Sorry, Stell, but he had to be a man - otherwise that would make my heroine gay."
Stella shrugged. "What's so important about this story that it couldn't wait?"
I shook my head. "Nothing really. In fact I was sitting here just before you came out, wondering about my main male character in Part Two."
"Part Two?" Stella queried. "How many parts are there?"
"There are three parts with three leading men and one lucky woman."
"Sounds fascinating. So what's wrong with stud number two?"
"Won't he do what you want him to?" Delyse asked, widening her eyes and pursing her lips.
I smiled and turned to look back across the bay, and when my eyes rested on the glittering water my hero took on the appearance of a young man with long, sun-bleached curls, his body swathed in black leather, riding a blue-black Harley-Davidson.
"Laura?" Delyse prodded my thoughts while she scrunched her hair up and trapped it in a butterfly clip. A large spray of straight honey-coloured hair escaped the clip and fanned out over the top of her head, and with her generously proportioned body she looked amazingly like a chubby little chook. Stella and I caught sight of the impersonation at the same time and smiled.
"Come on, tell us - is he misbehaving?" Delyse persisted.
"No, it's not that," I said. "He's boring and he won't respond to my heroine. I can't seem to find what really brings him alive."
Stella laughed. "Would you have us believe there are men out there who are actually alive, and not clones of Attila the Hun?"
Delyse shrieked and sprawled back on the deck. "Oh, come on, Stell, you know that's not true. What about Jason Blackmore? What a guy he is!"
"Jason Blackmore's not real, you twit!" Stella blurted. "He was a character Laura invented!"
Delyse sat upright and shuffled her bottom around on the deck. "Maybe, but I thought he was wonderful," she said. "I'd have him any day."
"God, help us!" Stella moaned.
Their banter continued, but faded out of my consciousness as I felt the burgeoning of a new image for my second hero. Instantly my brain changed gear and flew into overdrive when I realised I wanted him out of the truck and on that Harley! It wouldn't mean changing the plot, just how I went about implementing it. A twenty-something, guitar-playing, recovering drug-addict riding a Harley-Davidson sounded far more inviting than a fifty-five-year-old impotent tanker driver. And anyway, manoeuvring a Mac truck up a bush-lined pathway to a bach in Piha didn't quite do it somehow. But a wild child on a Harley thundering around the rugged West Coast hills of Auckland certainly got my juices going.
"Yes," I said loudly, causing both Stella and Delyse to jump. "I've got it! I'm going to change everything about my second hero and especially his name. Phil the pill is such a dill!"
"Your hero's name was Phillip? Now that is boring," Stella agreed, lighting another cigarette.
"So what's his new name then?" asked Delyse, her eyes dreamy.
"I can't tell you. It'll jinx the story."
"What a lot of rot," Stella scoffed. "Just tell us, come on."
I hesitated.
"Come on, Laura, don't be so precious. Tell us," Stella impatiently ranted.
I pushed my fears to the background. "I'd like to call him Joshua," I said confidently. Already I was in love with my hero.
"Oh, what a nice name," Delyse cooed, and wrapping her arms around her chest she started rocking backwards and forwards softly singing, "Joshua, Joshua, nicer than lemon squash you are."
"But I won't."
Stella's eyes narrowed. "This'll be an interesting tale. And by any chance would he ride a Harley?"
"Maybe."
"And do we need to research our reborn hero?" she asked, quick as a flash.
I looked over the top of Delyse's fanned hair that was wafting about as she sang her Joshua song, and caught Stella's smugness. She had a habit of being able to see right into me - something to do with her training as a barrister, I guess. Feeling as though I'd been caught in one of her cross-examinations, I casually answered, "Only marginally." Even though I'd returned to the view of the water I could still feel her staring at me. I ignored her. I needed to get on my computer. It didn't matter that the lounge room clock had just chimed three, I wanted to start immediately with my new concept, but my office housed at least two people snoring on the pullout couch. Damn it, I thought, even my notebooks are trapped in there.
"What's Coop up to, then?" Stella broke through my irritation.
"He'll be at sea four months this time. He said something about doing the Bahamas cruise."
"When does he leave?"
"Um, he flies to New York Monday morning - early."
"My flight to Wellington leaves on Monday too. At seven a.m."
"Good, I can drop you both off at the same time," I offered, realising the party was all but over. "It's been fabulous having you here this weekend, Stella. Thanks for coming up - and you too, Lyse." We wrapped our arms around each other as we'd done since college days, with Delyse in the middle, although it felt strange not having Roberta there to complete the circle.
"Guess we'll have to get used to just the three of us now that Robbie's going to Canada," Stella said quietly, as if she'd read my thoughts.
"Either that or we'll have to fertilise our arms," Delyse quipped. Stella and I grinned at her.

When I slipped into bed beside a peacefully sleeping Coop he stirred and slid one arm under my shoulders and pulled me close to his body.
"Hi," I whispered, "sorry to disturb you." Coop mumbled about the time and apologised for not staying awake. He took my hand and laid it against his groin.
"Might have to leave it till the morning," he groaned after a few minutes when nothing happened. "Not sure I could make it just now." I patted his arm and told him to go back to sleep. It didn't matter to me. What I really wanted to do was get on my computer. I turned away and Coop followed, but instead of cuddling up to my back he took over the bed and his elbow dug into my kidney. My eyes refused to close, and the nightlight gave off just enough glow for me to stare longingly at the charcoal impression of The Lovers hanging on the far wall. An aura of passion surrounded the naked couple, and as always their sublime desire provoked me to tears of envy. By the time I eventually joined the rest of the household in slumber my brain had already rewritten the first three chapters of Part Two.

When Coop roused me with his ardour the next morning I tried to ignore the conjugal-duty feeling I'd developed for the man, hoping his lovemaking would bring about a meaningful conclusion. It didn't, so I faked it. "You're always a great lay," was Coop's compliment to my Oscar-winning performance. I grimaced inwardly but smiled at him as he slid out of bed. He pulled back the drapes and surveyed the estuary, and when he scratched his rear end my attention returned to the portrait.
I'll bet she never needs to fake it. I sighed and kicked back the duvet. My head was giving me strict instructions about wanting to stay on the pillow, but I could hear rumblings in the house and knew I had to see to my remaining guests.
Coop pulled on a pair of cut-off jeans and an old T-shirt. "I'm going fishing," he announced. "Want to come?"

I sighed impatiently. "If it roughs up you know I'll get sick. Besides which, I have guests here. But take the boys, Coop." He dilated one nostril and the corner of his lip curled. "Go on," I said, "don't be mean. You've spent very little time with them since you arrived here, and how often is it that we're all together?"
"They're probably still unconscious," he grumbled.
"Rubbish! They have girlfriends with them."
"Except Pryce."
"True," I agreed.
"What is it with that boy?" he growled. "He never has a bit of skirt tagging along. Is he a poof or something?"
"Don't be ridiculous, Coop. The boy's still finding his way in the world. I think he wants to be settled in his career and have his own home before making any serious commitments." "Yeah, well, shacking up in a poof-pad above a knock-shop in the middle of Oxford Street in Sydney doesn't exactly dispel the rumour now, does it?"
"What rumour?"
"All those pin the condom on the donkey parties I've heard about," he said, totally ignoring my question. "It's no flaming wonder he can't decide whether to inhale or exhale."
"Inhale or exhale?"
Coop snorted.
"And anyway," I kept on, "who cares? So long as he's happy that's all that should matter. He's a thoroughly nice person and a great son. You leave him alone."
"Spoken like a true mother." Coop turned and headed out of the room.
"And it's gay, not poof!" I yelled.
He stopped and poked his head back around the door. "Is the barbecue still planned for this afternoon?"
"Yes," I replied, thinking, God, I'm not sure I can cope with another day of party mode - I want to get on my computer! I stumbled into the shower, and ten minutes later followed the aroma of freshly brewed coffee teasing at my nostrils. When I shuffled into the kitchen Stella was chatting to Coop while he poured black liquid into two of the blue-and-yellow ceramic mugs that Aunt Minnie had given me as a birthday present. He looked up when I walked in.
"Coffee?" he asked.
I nodded. "Morning, Stell."
"Yes, and isn't it a great one too?" Stella picked up her cup and walked towards the ranch-slider.
"How do you want it?" Coop asked.
Stella stopped and turned back towards Coop. She grinned, transferred her eyes to me and flicked her head in Coop's direction. I looked to my ex and realised he'd been talking to me.
"Coop, Coop, Coop." I glared at him. "You never fail to amaze me."
"Why?" he said, seeming perplexed.
Stella laughed. "How long have you two been together now?" she asked.
"Too long," I said. "Or maybe not long enough."
Coop thumped the glass perc down on the bench top so roughly I was surprised it didn't shatter. "Okay, so I don't always remember how you take your coffee," he defended himself. "But it usually depends on your mood!"
"It's black, Coop."
"What? Your mood?"
"I take my coffee black - always have. How difficult is that to remember?"
He handed me the cup. "I'm going fishing and yes, the boys are coming with me!" he declared and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
"Come and enjoy the morning sun with me." Stella grinned and continued to the deck. "I know I've said this before," she said once we'd been sitting quietly for a few minutes, "but he really does love you."
"Oh, Stella, please! The man can't even remember how I take my coffee! Now what does that tell you?"
"You've spent too much time apart, that's all."
"Well, that's why we're divorced. Coop can be really difficult when he wants to be, and after all his time at sea we've lost any togetherness we might have once had, so seeing him in small doses now is about my limit. It's little things like this," I said, holding my cup up, "that just irk the hell out of me."
Stella put her arm across my shoulder. "Now, Laura, don't be so ungrateful; you're a very lucky woman. How many other exes do you know that are this well looked after?"
I ground my teeth together and shrugged.
"He's so good to you. Look at your party for instance - and he brought all the boys and their partners home from the four corners of the earth," she said, as though I needed reminding.
Did she have to make Coop out to be so pious? "He'll have his reasons, believe me," I said.

"Reasons? What reasons other than to make your birthday one of the most memorable you'll ever experience. God, Laura, he must have spent mega bucks." She waved her hand around at the remnants of the party and at the staff Coop had employed, now in the process of cleaning up and dismantling the marquee. "And he's asked you to join him next year when he does that six month cruise through the Mediterranean. So what reasons, Laura?"

I grumbled incoherently and sipped my coffee.
"He's leaving tomorrow morning and he won't bother you for months. You have the platinum-plastic, you get to travel to wonderful places, you drive a natty new sports car, you live in style in this beautiful home and all this allows you to chase a long-held dream to write!" Stella's eyes blazed. "True?"
My shoulders involuntarily shrugged again and I nodded.
"So what reasons, Laura?" she repeated, "other than that he loves you."
Of course everything Stella said was absolutely right, although I wasn't sure about the love thing. Coop's affections had always been governed by his need for control, but lately it was beginning to feel more like convenience.
I sighed again and looked out over the bay watching Coop and our sons launch the runabout. With the minimum of fuss the boys had the boat in the water and I shook my head in wonderment at how well-adjusted and capable they had become considering their lack of male parenting. And it saddened me to think how little Coop knew the boys and how he would probably go through the rest of his days never fully appreciating what great people they had grown into.
Within a few minutes the men in my life were underway and I watched them cut a path through the mill-pond-calm water as they headed for the open sea, until all that remained were ever widening ripples and the distant whining of an outboard motor.
"Laura? I'm waiting for those reasons."
"I'll accept that he cares about me. But love me? I don't think so."
I knew Stella was on the verge of verbally attacking me again and was relieved when Marcus's partner, Emma, slid her lithe young body outside and joined us. She lounged in a chair, lit a cigarette and offered one to Stella.
"Great party, Laura," Emma grinned and wedged the base of her cigarette between the slats of the timber table top, freeing her hands to scrape her long blonde hair back in a ponytail, and then plunged into a conversation with Stella about her very successful modelling career in Europe.

"Marcus and I are heading for Melbourne this arvo," she said, explaining about a photo shoot she had there for the following morning. "We'll be back in London in a week."
The ten o'clock sun brought to life my second son Jarrod's girlfriend, along with James' partner, and for the next hour or two we women tolerated the blistering sun as it climbed high overhead, threatening to turn my early afternoon barbecue into a steaming sizzle. Stella never got the opportunity to press me any further on Coop's motives, and by the time the men had returned from their fishing expedition our earlier conversation had been lost amongst the new party taking shape.

When I later stood with the rest of the family saying goodbye to Marcus and Emma, I caught the sound of a motorbike thundering along the road that curled around the bay at the bottom of the drive. Large poplar trees fringed the boundary and hid the roadway and I couldn't see the rider, but images of Josh chugging up my driveway to whisk me away flashed into mind. No, not me, you stupid woman, I chastised myself; he'd be whisking my heroine away!

"Mum, are you listening to me?" Marcus impatiently shouted from inside the taxi. "I said, I won't ring until we get back to London. Okay?"
I nodded, and while I watched the taxi rumble down the drive I felt Coop's arm slide around my shoulder. And as we turned to walk inside - the rest of our brood ahead of us - Coop leaned closer and asked, "Fancy an early night?"

When I eventually slipped quietly into bed Coop was sleeping soundly and I wanted him to stay that way, but to no avail. He stirred and eased his body into mine. After a few rather mechanical minutes he rolled over and lifted me on top. He knew from years of experience I liked to make love that way, yet still it wouldn't happen for me, and as I played out the scene for Coop, from the corner of my eye the woman in the portrait continued to remind me of the lie I was living.