 
The Fragile Castle

A Novel

David Bath

Smashwords Edition / Copyright © 2014 David Bath

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Table of Contents

Title

1

10

About the Author

Contact

1.

At midnight the dustbuster finishes charging and its blinking red light finally flicks to a solid green. Straightaway I take it up and on my hands and knees attack my guest room's deep shagpile rug. One can only go so far with a dustbuster. What I should do is take the shaggy maroon and orange striped rug-beast outside, lay it over the outdoor dining table and give it a bloody good beating. After all, people have been beating rugs for centuries, long before the vacuum cleaner's invention and its inevitable derivative the dustbuster. I won't give it a beating; I'm not sure what to use as a beater. I own nothing useful like a softball bat or a lead pipe. I guess people that regularly or habitually beat rugs own specially designed rug beaters. No, what I want to do is sleep, but that eludes me tonight.

Over the dust buster's hot whine, I hear movement outside in the pool: soft splashes, and louder ricochets of water slapping against the poolside. I sense more than see a slow moving shadow in my periphery. At first glance, I think the shadow a dog or cat that has fallen in. But it's not a dog or cat. A head surfaces and water streams off long black hair. The body attached to all this hair stands up and its hands briskly wipe water from its face and eyes. Her naked body, yes, a woman's glistening and brown naked body stands in the shallow end of my pool. She wrings water out of her hair; the brisk motion makes her pert round breasts jiggle with each tug. The dark patch of pubic hair: how carefully she must have shaved it, the attention to detail. I've left the raucous dustbuster running and lift my thumb off the button.

She profiles and faces the main living area, gazing over what I call the courtyard. That stance, her careful choreography... she knows I'm in here and knows I'm watching. She turns and wades to the far side of the pool and with one deft powerful movement propels up and out. No straddling or slipping on the edge for her. A lean body, with an athlete's formidable thighs, she must run or do pilates. A picture of poised elegance, she retrieves her clothes off the poolside tiles. With no means to dry herself and with her back turned, she bends over and steps into pastel-pink panties. Still wet, she dresses into her... Totoroa Girls High School uniform.

Totoroa Girls? Why is a Totoroa Girls High School student swimming in my pool? I resist the urge to grab a guestroom towel, run outside, and offer it to her before she catches a cold. Instead, I get up off my hands and knees, and switch off the dimmed bedside lamp. She buttons up her shirt when I carefully position myself at the windows. A resentful bulge asserts itself in my Calvin Klein pyjama bottoms. What am I doing? What aren't I doing? She's just a schoolgirl, Braithwaite. No, she is a sexy and naughty, an insanely naughty schoolgirl swimming naked in my pool, who is now dressed and walking off... where? Oh, towards the back fence. She inelegantly scrambles against the wood for a few seconds, gets a leg up and over, and drops out of sight. I hope she didn't hurt herself.

What do I do? Call the police? Run after her and catch up with her? The problem with trying that is the empty lots over the back. Multiple tracks wind through the macrocarpa and pines back there. Most of them empty onto Broad Street, but a few don't and come out over on Anglewoods Road. If I jump in my Audi and get moving, I could get round to Broad in under a minute. What if she takes the other direction, and what would I say if I caught up to her?

Her parents have to be connected. Only the city's select and precious best are accepted to attend the prestigious Totoroa Girls. Connected to whom though? To Charles Baxter, or one of the other lawyers at the firm? Is this a practical joke? It must be. Jesus, I knelt on that ridiculous rug, when I should have got out there and told her to bugger off. Excuse me, yes, you in the pool, in my pool, you're trespassing and exposing yourself.

No spine at all.

What if she comes back? She might if she lives nearby. I shudder when I imagine what she will say to her little friends at school tomorrow morning. Yeah, I was in this guy's pool last night, like, naked, I mean, helloooo, and the bloody perve just stood there and watched me.

2.

This whole thing is killing me. Two longs nights since her appearance. Will she return? I switched on the poolside lights before I went to bed. I decided that if someone sends her as a practical joke, or something worse, the bright lighting will scare her off, no matter how naughty or brazen she might be. But then other thoughts, dangerous thoughts, lead me into this line of thinking: the neighbours can't see over in here, they're too far away, and the macs and pines mostly shield the property, so why worry? Go for it, Braithwaite. These thoughts startle and disturb me, and then I'm back to where I started. This whole thing is killing me.

Despite my anxiety, it was a night to savour. A balmy endless summer evening, like a long kiss you don't want to end but you hope that when it does more deliciousness will follow; a cloud front with its promise of rain and steamy vapour wafting off concrete and tiling in a warm fresh burst of ozone and oxygen. After the rain, the trees and lawn will give up wet earthy scents that smell like thank you. When did I last experience a kiss like that? With Kelly? Yes, definitely Kelly, the personal trainer I had a thing with... well, more than a thing.

I ended up calling Kelly earlier tonight, but she didn't answer my call. I didn't leave voicemail; I'm too proud or still too angry. I worked out on the Nordic Track, a banal thing to do in summer when you can head outside for a run. Even with my arms, back, and legs pleasantly aching from exercise, I can't sleep. That's why rubbing pine oil into the custom-made dresser in the guest room, in darkness I might add, beats lying awake staring at the ceiling.

But honestly, insomnia and waiting for the girl's reappearance are lesser problems for me now.

The problem with Crema Café, a café round the corner from the firm, is the tiny amount of space around the counter. Midmornings, lunchtimes, or whenever a rush occurs, an awkward cramped queue forms. This morning most of the firm took an espresso break. The boys, Charles Baxter included, and Tina, a decent looking woman in her late forties, a new hire who power dresses in tight blouses that strain against her chest, waited for their orders in one of the booths that run along the café's far wall. They had ordered because I was procrastinating, trying to avoid the very thing that happened: finding myself queuing behind a woman in a stupid queue.

The woman wore a truly form-fitting skirt covered with sinuous flowery green and brown patterns that caught by sunlight rendered it inconceivably transparent. With cautious inspection, I could even see she was wearing a thong. Not being able to let off steam in work hours is like shaking up a can of coke without opening the tab, and in my rattled desperation I resorted to the old bump and swipe trick. I pretended to bump into her, specifically her lovely bum, and cop a quick feel during the retreat. The trick - if there is one - is to make it appear a clumsy or absent-minded accident and not a contrivance. So what did I do? I tapped her firm butt with my knuckles and grazed the silky fabric for a second.

Heaven.

What is supposed to happen is that she turns and I apologise for bumping into her, and being New Zealand, she might apologise for me bumping into her and maybe we share a laugh and small talk. I might offer to buy her coffee and we might meet another day. Or, she busts me and shouts in outrage.

She didn't turn. No shouting, nothing.

Whatever her reaction was, it made Baxter and Scotty (a wannabe Baxter-clone) glance my way and exchange troubled glances.

So here I am, rubbing oil into a dresser in the middle of the night when I'd rather be rubbing oil into something else, or just sleeping. Then I hear it, an unclassifiable noise of items hitting the ground: keys and coins, pens and empty plastic containers. A bag's detritus rattle, followed by a heavy thud. Ditching the rag, I move right up to the middle of the glass sliding doors. Here I am in clear view if anyone looks in, and there she is wearing her school uniform with her school bag slung over one shoulder. Bold as the brass at Jack's On Bridge, one of the city's most ostentatious restaurants the firm frequents, she struts right across the lawn onto the tiling, weaves through the loungers and clatters up to the poolside. No way not again. I stupidly flap my hands around to deter her.

Without looking around, she slides her bag off and drops it to the ground. She hasn't checked out the house, but I guess it's the poolside lights; she stops, takes stock, and glances over at my bedroom wing - so familiar, this isn't her second time here - then up to the dark and empty main living area. Scanning left, she takes in the guest wing, and I suppose she sees my dark silhouette. She stiffens. I place my left hand up against the glass. But she notices or senses movement. She leans forward and intensifies her gaze on the guest wing; she visibly relaxes and smiles. Big white teeth, and even from here I see they're not entirely straight. Turning back to the pool, she removes her hair tie and frisks out her ponytail.

This isn't happening, it can't be. This doesn't happen to anyone, only characters in films or books. Her skirt has lost an inch since the last time I saw her, or was it a minor detail I overlooked last time? Her navy-blue school blazer pocket and lapels are plastered with formal pins and badges she must have earned or won. Knee-high black socks pulled up against the creeping night's chill, but she keeps her white blouse opened by two or three buttons. Here is a girl that can turn an institutionally boring school uniform into somebody's fantasy, a dirty old man's, for example. I'm clueless why it seems to be mine.

She slips off the blazer and lets it fall to the ground beside her bag, then kicks off her black shoes. Her gaze stays fixed on the main living area as she unbuttons the rest of her blouse. Oh Jesus, not a striptease. I flit away from the performance and scan what I can of the boundary fencelines for out of place shapes, or lights, but with so many suggestive shadows, every second tree has a body in it. The girl loses her blouse and drops her skirt revealing standard issue underwear. Then it hits me. Her unfaltering attention stays fixed on the living area. If someone has sent her, is that same person watching right now? Is that person inside my house, watching, or filming her?

I leave her tugging off her socks. Running back through the guest wing, I tear past the kitchen into the living area where I expect to see a person standing near the sliding doors, aiming a video camera at the pool. No one. I sprint across into my bedroom wing finding only my bed's tumbled sheets and an empty room. I check the master bathroom, in case someone's hiding in there, and finding that empty check the mezzanine floor in the living area, but find no one. They couldn't even see her from the mezzanine. I resume the same position in my bedroom I had over in the guest wing, standing at the sliding doors, only now I'm on the opposite side of the courtyard. She unclasps her bra, slides it down her arms, and adds it to the pile of clothes around her. Her nipples, pointy and a darker brown than the rest of her, appear to have reacted to the night air. I don't believe what is happening even when she works off her knickers and stands starkers at the pool edge. She dives in and surfaces in the middle of the pool. She doesn't gasp or squeal at the water temperature.

If I can't go out there for fear of being seen or caught on camera, and I can't trust myself - going by the activity in my JimJams - that leaves me one option. It sits idle on my bedside table. Imagine explaining this to a Policeman over the phone? Have I gone out there and asked her to leave? Ummh, no, Officer, I haven't. Have I asked her to get out of my pool, get dressed and leave? No, no and no. Would my father, Old Ted, or Scotty and Peebles, two macho guys I work with - look; does a man hide in his own house while a naked schoolgirl gallivants in his pool? Insult to injury, she now swims slow lengths in an enviable easy freestyle.

She stops swimming lengths and starts porpoise diving towards the deep end. Water pours off her breasts and her body whenever she surfaces and stands. She dives two more times before the pool shelves away and becomes too deep. Aquatic and sinuous, she turns and heads back towards the shallow end. Each time she ducks under her arse bobs high with her hips. Then she starts a slow breaststroke. Her legs kicking out frog-style thrust powerfully each time she surges forward. Furious, I rush to the bedside and facing away from the windows sink to my knees on the floor. It only takes a few seconds after that. I don't even bother getting it out of my JimJams.

Sitting on the bed edge, I pluck away the uncomfortable pungent wet patch in my pyjamas and watch her dress. She dresses faster this time. Chillier tonight than previous nights, a breeze picks up in advance of rain. She has a large ugly bruise on her right thigh. Team sport player then, probably the team Captain. How old is she? Sixteen? Seventeen? Sixth or seventh form? Are those terms - forms - even used these days? And where do her parents think she is? What do they think she is doing? She ties her wet hair back into a ponytail, and I notice her ears turn out, slightly pointed and pixie-ish. A naughty pixie.

Post -masturbation, I trust myself to head out there and deal with this. Yes, find out who she is and why she thinks it's okay to trespass on my property. I want to know so much so badly my brain aches. For fuck's sakes, she is a cold, wet, little schoolgirl wearing a blazer that's too big for her - get out there and find out. But I stay put as she swings her bag over her shoulder and glances over at the guest wing. That's it.

I snatch the lighting remote off the bedside table and punch on the room's bright overhead light. That gets her attention. Startled, she stops and turns toward this sudden light source. I move back to the sliding doors, fold my arms, and stare out at her. She meets my gaze, daring me. I guess that's what she's doing: she isn't backing down. Then she smiles with that smile she hit me with on her last visit, a big full smile so full of wry humour and smug satisfaction I grab the door handle and prepare to head out there. But I stay put. I can't do it; I can't confront her. Apparently satisfied, she turns her back on me and saunters over the lawn. I want to scream. Why is this happening? She tosses her bag over the fence and scrambles unceremoniously before she gets a leg over. She didn't even glance back to see if I was coming after her. Jesus Christ, who is this girl?

Changing out of the sticky pyjama bottoms, a solution occurs: simple, practical, and ruthless. Cover the bloody pool, Braithwaite. What is she going to do then? Bowl indoors, grab a beer, and settle naked on a mezzanine couch in front of the big screen telly? Naked? Okay that's not helpful. I need to focus on putting her off from coming back. Cover the pool. Endgame, checkmate, pool covered. Other ideas occur. For example, I could inform the Police about potential burglars casing the house. The Police will take that seriously. Last year, my little pad earned the New Zealand Architects house of the year award. I experience a surge of pride whenever I remember that. The place needs work though, the interior especially; it's such a mish-mash right now.

Before I lose the strength of my conviction, I pad outside in my bare feet and winch out the cover. It's like a garage roller-door housed at one end of the pool. No wrestling with fading fraying canvas tarps and stupid bungee cords. The first few spots of rain fall as I finish. I hope she's walking home. I hope she gets drenched and wind blown and catches a nasty cold, tonsillitis, fever, the works. I send my dark thoughts out into the dark night, a dark curse, a scud-missile-curse homing in on its intended target; a naughty pixie-schoolgirl with a big bruise on her thigh: closing, closing, closer, closer, detonation - blank - black, like you see on telly at the moment, with the industrious American's sending scud missiles down Iraqi house chimneys.

I won't be seeing her again.

I sprint inside as the deluge starts.

3.

I've slowly come to love and hate summer Saturdays. It started last summer. The boys, Scotty, Peebles, and Stuart James, the fucked up son of the late, Eustace James, the firm's founding partner, invite themselves over, camp out poolside and get blinded. Sometimes they bring tag-alongs; friends of Scotty or Peebles', boozing cretins I've never met. Last time, I disappeared inside and read the latest Umberto Eco for two hours. The bastards didn't even call out, Hey, where's Julian? What's Julian doing? They just hung out, dive bombing sun bathing ploughing through beers from their chiller bins puffing cheap cigars to stubs and talking up past conquests and what they'd like to do with the latest temp secretary at the firm. There remains a high turn over of temp secretaries at work, a statistic Baxter isn't proud of and wants to change. I avoid the secretaries at work, but that takes everything ounce of will I have. I've never overheard any secretaries saying nasty things about me, unlike a few of the others, especially Scotty.

It's too soon to say whether I'm out of the woods with my trespassing schoolgirl. She hasn't appeared since I covered the pool a week ago. It's the right thing to do, but I'm a fool if I can't admit my reluctance, as I crank out the cover and clip it into place. Afterwards, I stand at my bedroom windows, mooning out over the lawn until the waiting becomes pathetic. If I don't remember her in my pool, I daydream about her in other places until my mind baulks and reason returns. She's a schoolgirl, Braithwaite, and wears stupid little pins on her blazer pocket and pulls her socks up to her knees. She doesn't even know what she's doing, or does she? No matter how hard I try, I can't get her out of my head. I can't figure out if I hate the girl or myself more. Or the bastard or bastards who sent her to torment me? Do I honestly believe someone sends her over that fence?

I have hunches who might and have even fingered Baxter. After all, my Dad's firm was a thorn in the side of James & Baxter for many years, with potential clients often seesawing between which firm to choose. Then Dad left for Wellington and with him a big chunk of the firm's, and the city's, legal competition. I not only stayed behind but also applied to work at James and Baxter. What a fucking coup. To appease my anxieties - I didn't want to be anyone's pawn - Old Eustace James, and Baxter more so assured me I was the quality hire, the pick of a talented bunch sprouting out of varsity. A young fella with the goods was how I overheard Baxter describe me. With hindsight, I believe they hoped I would drag over a bunch of Dad's clients, ones that couldn't or wouldn't follow him to Wellington. I convinced a few to follow me, much to Dad's chagrin, but no big fish. Haven't I landed enough fish without leaning on Teddy Braithwaite's charity? I don't know, I might be dreaming, but James, Baxter & Braithwaite has a pleasing ring to it. I guess that's part of the reason I let the boys have their summer pool parties. It shines favourably on me when Baxter asks around and compiles his Monday morning weekend report. I'm convinced the boys put in a good word. The weekend, Charlie? Yeah, great, another pool party at Julian's place, yeah, he's a good sort, eh?

Yes, the boys have a great time. So what if they ignore me, the property owner? It's a small price to pay. Today it's the three of them taking liberties, Scotty, Peebles, and Stuart. I try to throw them off by getting stuck in myself, but it doesn't work out that way. Rounds of torpedoes using Scotty's beer cans, followed by tequila shots with Stuart, and afterwards we all end up inside, sprawled on the mezzanine sofas, toking two of Peeble's fat joints. I'm not sure when the cheese fondue set makes an entrance, but we make a fantastic mess in the kitchen before moving it out to the dining table. Stuart knocks the set over and spills the entire pot of leftover cheeses and submerged bread lumps everywhere. While we roll around on the floor, hyperventilating with laughter at the sight of cheese stalactites drooping off the dining table's edge, poor Stuart, who has stayed in his chair, starts blubbing about a girl he loved once and left behind in America, of all places. We exchange glances with each other. Even drunk and stoned we all have reservations: Does Stuart James have girlfriends? I call them all a taxi, and Peebles offers to help clean up, but I'm smashed. Sleep, precious sleep. On his way out the door, Stuart places his hand on my shoulder and breathes into my face, 'If you've ever known a sexy slut like I have, Jules, don't ever let her go, mate.'

It makes me wonder if he sends the girl over the fence. Scotty questions the use of the term, slut, as it's applied to males who sleep with males.

'Shouldn't there be a different term' he suggests.

I give him a dirty look.

'What kind of bloke owns a cheese fondue set?' Scotty mumbles, weaving off along the path, and not even offering to help Peebles with Stuart. But then, neither do I. I close the door on the messy trio and crash on the downstairs sofa, but only for as long as it takes my growing frustration with the spilt cheese to spoil my attempts at sleep.

Ruining a perfectly good rubber spatula to lift hardening set cheese off my precious rimu dining table, I glance out over the courtyard. A long shadow shifts over the tiles, the outdoor furniture and cuts between the Pohutakawas. Someone's moving back and forth in front of the pool spotlights. I forgot to cover the pool and like powdered magic: add water, stir, and bang - she materialises poolside, staring right into the living area. No school uniform tonight, so that's a relief. Instead, she wears dark tight-fitting jeans, a retro-looking black jacket that looks too short for her, and black high heels. Christ, how did she get over the fence in high heels? She must have thrown them. No ponytail tonight, and with her hair out and her face made up she looks... bloody hell, she's even sexier out of her uniform than in it, and worse, she looks older than she is. She loses the jacket and flicks off her heels. Not tonight, please, I'm hungover, stoned, and too tired to go through the wringer again.

I bound down the steps and striding out between the Pohut's, head straight for the pool. No last minute detours no skulking in the fringes no perving in the dark and definitely no JimJam messiness. She has worked her jeans halfway down her thighs by the time I make it to the pool. With a sharp pang, I take in black lingerie. Agent Provocatuer? Jesus, it might be. Thank God she is across the pool from me.

'You can bloody keep those on,' I growl.

Frozen in place, bent over and working at the jeans, her teeshirt spills open. She looks up at me. Her eyes are a frightening shade of green. They're so green I don't believe them. No one has eyes that green. Freakish green. She shows neither fear nor apprehension, more the opposite; she is full of smug humour and acts like it's completely normal to be caught with your jeans down by a stranger. She asks me if I intend to spank her with my spatula.

Spatula? What is she saying? Oh. I forgot to leave it on the table before I rushed out, the black and white le Crueset rubber spatula, cheese tipped. I toss it away. Her voice is what I expect from a Totoroa Girls student - a pompous plum - as if Totoroa Girls is in England, and not in the city. She straightens. She doesn't pull her jeans up and instead she glances at my crotch and gives me a crimped smile. Her teeth are out of alignment. The bottom front teeth need straightening. Even from the other side of the pool, I notice one in particular that gets ahead of the others. How did she miss orthodontic treatment in this age of constant correction? Despite the aesthete in me, I find it endearing and oddly enticing. Why? Since when did crooked teeth become a turn on? Without using her hands, she wiggles her legs and works the jeans down an inch. She keeps glancing at my crotch. It's as if the bloody thing can feel her eyes on it. I'm caught in a sexy green-eyed snake charmer's presence. Jesus, what's going on? I remind myself of how young she is and take a deep breath. Please stop wiggling and please stop glancing at my crotch.

'You're trespassing,' I state.

'Did you have a party today?' she asks.

Why is she asking me that? And with a weird intimacy: What were you up to today, Julian? Oh, you had a party? And I wasn't invited?

'What makes you think that?' I say.

She points at the deep end of the pool.

'You have empty Stellas on the bottom of your pool,' she says.

Bloody Scotty, I bet. And there they are, little green turds lying around on the bottom of the deep end. I have a hunch the boys do this every time, but someone has the decency to fish them out before they leave. Too wasted tonight to remember or care, I suppose.

'That's no concern of yours,' I say.

'I could dive for them?' she asks. She wiggles the jeans down another inch. The bruise on her thigh presents a dullish yellow.

'You don't need to do that,' I say.

'We could do it together?' she says.

Working the jeans over her knees, she wriggles them to her ankles. The lingerie looks custom-made for her firm thighs, a perfect second skin. She kicks off the jeans, and again glances at my crotch. She grips the bottom of her black teeshirt, and coy innocence, waits for my assent. No way is she getting it from me, no way. I try to scowl.

'I want you to leave or I'll call the police,' I say, with a thick catch in my voice.

'Whatever,' she says, and tugging the teeshirt off she stands in matching lingerie, her hands on her hips, a perfect model' s moment. Her boobs are pushed so high and squashed together so tight, I doubt a lump of ice cream could melt in that cleavage. She must be confused or misled. A miscommunication? That makes more sense. Maybe she thinks I'm a professional fashion photographer? Act quick Braithwaite, or the rest will go.

'Look, you can't bloody waltz in here and go swimming in my pool,' I say.

'With no clothes on,' she adds, toying with the panties.

'Yes, exactly. With no bloody clothes. How old are you, anyway? I should call your parents. Do they even know where you are?' I say, nearly shouting.

Her green eyes widen, but I can't be sure she isn't doing that for effect. It's humiliating; she finds my indignation a source of amusement. She acts as if she is bulletproof. There's a disconnect somewhere that I can't find or see.

'They think I'm studying for exams with Becky, she's my study-buddy,' she says.

'So I'm guessing this Becky lives nearby? On Broad Street?' I say.

She nods. She keeps toying with that panty band. I'm scared she will wiggle out of them. I can't control myself if that happens.

'So I don't get it,' I say, shrugging in defeat.

When did I decide honesty is the best tactic to use? But I don't get it. How did studying at a friend's house result in swimming naked in my pool? And where is this friend?

'Get what?' she repeats, looking put out for the first time.

Jesus, doesn't she even understand how weird and inappropriate this behaviour is? It's bloody illegal.

'Okay, for starters, young lady,' I say.

'My name is Sophia and I am definitely not a young lady,' she says. She slides down the right side of the panties and exposes a delicious expanse of smooth flawless skin. I love that part of a woman's body, the hip's crest to the...

'Bloody right you're not,' I say, trying to achieve clarity.

She snaps the panties back into place.

'What's your name?' she asks.

'You don't know?' I say.

'Why? Are you famous? I bet you are, your house is amazing,' she says. Glancing away for a moment, she scans the property.

'I guess you've had plenty of opportunities to come to that conclusion?' I say.

'Eh?' she says.

'How many times have you been here before? In my pool?' I ask.

'Three times? Yeah, this is my fourth. I love your pool. You're so lucky. What's your name? You know mine now,' she says.

Her fourth? That means she made one more visit other than the times I've seen her. How did she know to come over here? Do other people jump my fence and take quick swims?

'I can see your brain working. It can't be that hard to remember your name?' she says.

'Julian Braithwaite,' I say. Why am I telling her my name?

'Nice to meet you, Julian Braithwaite,' she says.

'Listen, I want answers, smartarse,' I say.

'Answers to what? I'm getting cold, Julian Braithwaite, and I think you quite like my smart arse,' she adds, and turning performs a shimmy that shows off her derriere. A second longer and I know I can't stay put. She is such a dirty, cheeky little thing. Is this what happens to impressionable young ladies at girl's schools?

'Who told you about my pool?' I ask.

'Becky. Well, and me. I found an article about your house in a magazine, New Zealand Architects? And I showed Becky and Becky said you live over the back. We sneaked over and went for a skinny dip. You must have been asleep,' she says.

'How did you know I wasn't out of the house?' I ask. So bloody cheeky.

'Because I couldn't see you and your boner watching me from the bedroom windows,' she says.

She dives in and surfaces near my side of the pool, not far from my feet. At least she has kept her underwear on this time.

'Why don't you both join me?' she asks, looking up at me.

This isn't how I pictured the evening working out when I first rushed out here. I've gone from righteous anger to wallowing around in my underwear in the shallow end. I knew it wouldn't be this straightforward when I jumped in, but fool I am in I jumped. The pool water isn't tropical; I gasped at the shock. She doesn't mind in the least and cruises back and forth in the deep end. She has a healthy toughness I can't help admiring.

'Why don't you come and join me?' she asks.

'I'm okay here, water's warmer,' I reply.

'Let's dive for the bottles?' she suggests.

'Why don't you?' I say.

'It's your pool,' she says, with a genuine edge in her voice: Why isn't this guy down here with me, what's wrong with him?

'Do you always remove your clothes when you swim?' I ask.

'Only in private pools,' she says.

She ducks under and resurfaces a metre away. Kneeling in place, she describes lazy circles on the water's surface with her arms.

'I love the sensation of water on my skin, don't you? I hate wearing clothes when I swim. It feels unnatural. It's stupid, no one should wear clothes when they swim,' she gushes, without waiting for my answer.

I believe her. I believe she thinks swimming in clothes is stupid. Sure enough, she reaches up behind her to undo the bra strap.

'Whoa, okay, I want you to keep your clothes on,' I say.

'Why? Are you gay, Julian Braithwaite? I don't mean that as an insult,' she adds.

'No, I'm not bloody gay, and call me Julian, okay? Jesus, I don't need a naked underage schoolgirl in my pool, do I?' I say.

'Why? Expecting visitors?' she says, looking disappointed at my outburst, or crestfallen at the schoolgirl reference.

'No, but come on,' I urge.

'I'm nearly seventeen, I'm not a child,' she says, pouting.

'It's not a good look for me,' I say, regretting that choice of words.

'On the contrary, Julian Braithwaite, it's an exceptional look for you,' she says.

She stands, unclasps, and shakes off the bra. I grab the pool edge to keep myself from tearing off.

'Let's make a deal. I'll dive for the bottles but only if I can do it naked,' she says.

She thinks that's a deal? That's a stupid deal. I can't take my eyes off her. Performing that model thing again - her right hip thrust forward - she wrings water out of her hair. She doesn't look at me and instead gazes away to my right with a distracted air. She tightly twists the gathered lengths of hair and wrung water spatters on the water's surface. The whole scene creates a painfully studied and choreographed moment of objectification as if she has practised it in a full-length mirror a hundred times. But she has me on every possible front. Despite obvious objections, I can't tell her not to do it naked. Who would? Okay, someone would, but not me, not tonight. Bugger.

'So what's my part in this deal?' I ask. She has me. I can see it, and I can see she sees it. Vain triumph further brightens her bright green eyes.

'You get to reward me when I'm done,' she says.

'What happens if you can't do it?' I ask, but she ducks under. I'm glad she can't see my embarrassment at asking that stupid question.

She counts each one aloud as she reaches up and places the bottles on the pool edge. I find it such an erotic wet display that by the time she finishes and pushes away from the wall I'm reaching breaking point.

'Time for my reward,' she says, gesturing for me to join her.

I stand and wade towards her. My pool is fifteen metres long and three metres at its deepest, and here she waits.

4.

She must think I'm pulling the piss. A grown man in his formerly bulging Calvin Klein's clambering out of a three-metre deep backyard pool as if his life depended on it is worth laughing at, but what surprises me is a cynical cruel edge to her laughter.

'I'll go and get towels, back in a sec,' I call out.

'Towels? Shit, take your time, mate,' she says, not sounding Totoroa Girls-like at all.

Quickly relieved, I do it stop starting my way through the house. I try to keep an eye on her as I grab towels from the master bathroom cupboard and peel out of my wet, sticky underpants. She doesn't appear to be going anywhere; I thought she might grab her clothes and run for the fence after I rejected her. Instead, she performs slow but steady breaststroke lengths. Now dressed, I trot back through the house and head out into the chill night air.

She flawlessly exits the pool at my approach. I try to be nonchalant and keep my eyes off her, but bloody hell, she stands there naked without a shred of self-consciousness. Again, she wrings pool water out of her hair. It's hard to imagine her ever being awkward. Not one of the shy kids at the swimming club, I bet.

'I brought an extra towel, for your hair,' I say.

'Thanks,' she says, after I hand her the towels.

She wraps the towel into a complicated bun over her head and starts briskly towelling herself with the second. She ties the second towel up over her chest and retrieves her clothes.

'Are you coming inside?' I ask, feeling self-conscious. I'm standing here doing nothing but stare at her.

I realise what I've just asked and what that suggests, but what am I suggesting? I rejected her. It isn't what she thinks I'm suggesting, I'm sure of it. And I don't want her anywhere near the house, which makes it even weirder.

'Sorry, I've got to get going, it's so late,' she says, pulling her wet panties on under the towel.

'This, it's difficult for me,' I say.

'That's an understatement,' she says.

Turning away from me, she drops the towel and before she snaps the bra into place, I glimpse a side-profile of her breast.

I'm there before I'm aware I'm there. How ironic, give me an ocean I want the beach, give me the beach I want the ocean. Standing behind her, I cup her right hip and start a long caress starting from the small of her back, roaming over her tummy and up... she tactfully twists away from me and collapses onto a lounger where she struggles with her jeans. Her skin felt cold, clammy and goose-pimpled, not at all what I thought it would be.

'I thought I might reward you now?' I say.

'Sorry, that only applied when I was in the pool,' she says.

She should have added, more the fool you, Julian. Applied? Is she serious? That's so infuriating.

'Maybe we can talk about it next time?' I say.

'What was wrong with the first time?' she mutters.

I can't believe I'm thrashing this out, a spurned schoolboy rejected by his best mate's older sister. Now dressed, she slips on the high heels. Clip-clopping over, she pats me lightly on the cheek. I try to kiss her as she struts away, but this time she not so tactfully twists out of reach. I apologise before I've realised.

'You're full of problems aren't you, Julian Braithwaite?' she says.

'Are you coming back?' I ask, but she doesn't answer.

I've sunk far enough without having to add running after her to my list of shame. She slips off the high heels when she hits the lawn. When she is halfway across I shout, 'Thank you!' Without turning, she raises her hand and gives a brief wave of acknowledgment. I was right. She tosses her high heels over the fence, scarpers up, and drops out of sight. I hope she doesn't break her ankle. I listen for yelps of pain but hear nothing. Pool water murmurs against the walls; the pool lighting dapples and shimmers in the water. I turn and face the house. My long shadow stretches over the courtyard. A breeze stirs the Pohut's upper branches. The night is so loud with my shame and disappointment I wish I had a remote control to dial down the volume.

5.

A wave of panicky sweaty heat rushes over me that has nothing to do with the whisky and egg-based cocktails I've consumed tonight, or my empty grumbling stomach. We only had bar snacks at the Turkish hookah/lounge bar hybrid tucked away in the darkest corner of the Square, forgoing the usual Friday night firm ritual: a quick cheap meal at an ethnic restaurant. My hungry mind wanders through paranoia, dark eyes, and young naked girls prancing round in pools, and skipping to a different vision, I heft a big bootie; I cup and heft someone's large buttock in a public place. No wait, I did that. I hefted a bootie tonight.

The bar.

Oh my God, there was a woman at the bar tonight, a woman with dark hair, a pale face, and bloodshot staring eyes. She was drunk and what did she say? I was at the bar with someone. With Scotty? Yes, he was there. That's right, it was my round. Half-cut and squashed in towards the front of the bar queue and nearly swooning from a soporific doggy combination of heat, perfume and boozy sweat, the crush pressed me against someone. Oh God yes, a woman in a black dress and she had a magnificent booty, and I couldn't help myself, I cupped it. It was already in my lap. That's no defence, but that's how it happened. It was in my lap and I got right under and hefted the whole buttock. Did Scotty see? He said nothing if he did, but he heard what the staring woman beside me said. She looked me over and then turned to her friend (who I'm sure was more sober than her) and she snarled... what was it? She wanted to punch me in the balls? Yes, she said she wanted to punch me in the balls. And Scotty said, That's hardly cricket, and we both lost it. Balls. Cricket. Her sober friend had to drag her away, creating a ruckus. Why did she say that? Why did she want to punch me in the balls? Was it hers? The bootie? The staring woman didn't look as if she owned a big booty, but wasn't she wearing black? Did she see me and the woman in the black dress? How did the woman in the black dress respond to my shameful ministrations? Was Scotty with me at the bar then, or later? Shit, I can't remember. No, he was with me. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuck.

My panic-sweat-paranoia mounts when I imagine various people I know and others I don't finding out about Sophia. I consider what must surely be the loose-lips of a nearly seventeen-year-old schoolgirl; the prestige and notoriety it must give her swimming naked with an older man in his fancy pool. I imagine her gushing and laughing to her friends as she recounts the stylish house, and her stripteases while my boner and I watched. And more, I imagine Scotty on Monday morning, laughing as he recounts Braithwaite's scrape at the bar with a woman in a black dress. Hardly cricket.

I switch off the dvd I tried to watch when I stumbled inside and made it up onto the mezzanine. I can't even remember the title. It's a subtitled art house film based in the Mediterranean, where beautiful tiny doe-eyed women suffer under azure skies, picnic in the shade of olive trees, and are chased and wooed by laughing but often stiff-necked jealous males. I remember a scene in the film, it must have been before I passed out, where an actor in the film wades into a vivid blue ocean and floats on the surface. God, I want to do that. I want to float spread-eagled and eyes-closed on the wet blue surface of everything, dreamily letting go of my tenuous hopes and dreams, the lingering shame and pain of Mum and Dad's divorce, and my decision to stay in the city and join the firm. I imagine myself floating in my pool and letting out long slow breaths. My heart rate evens out from its battering rate and the corrosive paranoia and fear subsides.

I have to go to the toilet, all that water on my brain. From the living area, I glance outside and see a familiar shape moving against the darkness, followed by the unmistakable loud splash of entry. Sophia. I shuffle over to the pool control panel on the wall and switch the pool lighting.

'I'm tired, so bloody tired,' I grumble, but I pick up the pace as I head to the toilet.

At the pool, I hop around fighting off my work pants and struggle with my shirt buttons. She is naked. Was there ever any doubt? She laughs at me when I keep on my underwear. Her vivacity is electric; I'm positive the water temperature rises by degrees. She makes a face when I ask after her studying and exams. They'll soon be over and I experience a sudden apprehensive pang. Will she come back after exams end? I wade into the shallow end. She is in the deep end, ducking under and spraying water every time she surfaces.

'Good boy,' she purrs.

But what's different about her tonight? I stop. She has dark brown eyes; so intensely brown they're almost black.

'Where are your eyes?' I ask.

'In my head where they belong, dufus. Oh, you mean my green contacts?' she says.

Contact lens. She owns bright green contact lens. Why wear contacts that colour when she has vibrant, rich brown eyes? Born with bright green eyes, she would wear dark brown contact lens. It's all going wrong. She is a silly little girl who doesn't realise her beauty. Does she even need corrective lens? Are they corrective?

'Did you think my eyes are really that colour? Sorry, Julian Braithwaite, just good old pooh-brown,' she says.

I'm close enough to see her swaying water distorted naked sexiness under the surface. She is trying not to laugh. I've nothing to do but stand here in my sagging underwear looking stupid and torn by indecision. I must look ridiculous.

'I'm a bloody idiot,' I say, and thrash my way out of the pool.

'No, Julian Braithwaite, you're not, honestly mate, come back,' she says.

'I can't bloody do it!' I shout.

'Maybe I can help you?' she says, and for a moment, I'm overcome with wet dream visions of a long, cautious seduction. Who am I kidding? Sophia isn't old enough to know better. What if we have an accident? Who will she turn to... her bloody parents, that's who. Imagine the questions people will ask? It will be my fault; I'm the one old enough to know better.

'I'll get towels,' I say, as I gather up my work clothes.

'Don't go, please come back, oh don't look so sad, come back, Julian Braithwaite,' Sophia says. She sounds sincere, but I'm humiliated. What the fuck is wrong with me?

Back inside the house, I quickly change. I want to head back out with towels and ask her to leave because what's the point? I can't do it and I'm so bloody hungry, I can't think straight. Sophia must be hungry. How long since she last ate? I check to see she is in the pool. Yes, loudly porpoise diving from one end to the other. Energised, I bustle into the kitchen. What does she like? First things first, alcohol. I have an open bottle of wine, a smooth red from Chile. That's not coming on strong. Then, why come on at all? Alcohol? Food, focus on food. Left over pizza? Meatlovers. Great. Crackers and whatever cheeses I've got hanging out in the back of the fridge. I put it together then gather the towels and head outside. I drop the towels on a lounger.

'Can't change your mind?' she asks, but I shake my head.

Put another way, I try to shake my head. Jesus Christ, I can't believe this. Not this time. In the shallow end, on the wide dramatic steps leading in to the pool, she rests on her elbows, front down in the water, and looks at me over her shoulder. She idly kicks on the spot. Hypnotised, I watch her butt muscles flexing and relaxing. The utter frankness of her nudity, and her sheer invitational sexy excess - my voice breaks when I tell her I'm arranging food and wine in the outdoor dining area. She sneers when I say dining area and slowly shakes her head when I force myself to turn away and head back to the kitchen. She is in the shallow end, you moron, she is in the shallow end waiting for you, and what're you doing? That other devil, or angel, starts up, She's teasing you, you fool, a schoolgirl playing schoolgirl games because you're an easy target, aren't you? Panting over her.

The romantic in me, albeit, the romantic who dwells deep within me has one of his few inspired moments. I grab a decent handful of tea-light candles and small white tureen dishes. But I then have to fill a small jug of water to fill the tureens, so I start another tray for the water jug, the wine, and glasses; both for the water and wine, and I want to drop the whole bloody lot to scream. My whole body pulses from head to toes. I'm either going to faint or ejaculate, possibly both at the same time. Does she have a clue? Does the way she acts in the pool look clueless?

I safely make it outside with everything intact and arrange it on the dining table. I light and float the candles and deny I am watching her get dressed.

'I don't believe you, Julian Braithwaite,' she calls back.

There she goes with the last name again. Why?

She glows with offensive good health after her swim. Dressed casual for this visit, she wears a baggy grey hoodie and black shorts that can't hide those legs, those gorgeous legs. I can tell she is impressed when she scrapes a chair back and settles in across the table from me, so that sucks. She takes in her glass of wine with an actual cocked eyebrow and gushes over the candles placed at regular intervals along the length of the table.

'Very romantic,' she says.

I'm sipping my wine and enjoying it, both the wine and playing master of the house. I point out the different cheeses and explain the origins of the wine, origins I remembered reading off the bottle label when I bought it.

'Wow,' she says.

'Dig in,' I say, helping myself.

She sniffs the pizza before biting into it, and nibbles at the cheeses I found in the fridge. She is being tactful, a bizarre womanly etiquette: don't hoe-in to a meal on a first date, don't get caught with spinach between your teeth, and don't spill slurp or stain, but it might be something else. Jesus, Camembert and Brie cheese? Are they so exotic? Whatever hang ups she has she soon gets over it and chomps into crusty baguette bread rounds, and drips four dollars worth of olive oil over her chin. I race back inside for the napkins I stupidly forgot. What idiot forgets napkins? She doesn't even touch the wine, her excuse driving home. She prattles on about her exams. Two down with four to go. I don't ask her about the likelihood of post-exam visits, but I ask about her parents. What do they do?

She hesitates, a pause she conceals by taking another bread-round and dipping it in oil. Did she pause because of the reaction she gets from people when she tells them her Dad is a specialist surgeon at the city Hospital, and her Mum is a manager, high up the chain of command in a billing-related branch of the Health department? Or did she pause and consider for other reasons?

'I've never asked what you do?' she says.

'Guess,' I say, wondering what flank I'm exposing by doing so. This might be an opportunity, she might let her guard slip by letting on how much she knows about me.

'It's not that hard,' she says, taking a careful bite of the bread.

'I know. It's the muscles,' I say.

'Eh?' she mumbles.

'My Super-Twelve contract's up, I'm pretty sure I'll get asked to stay on another season,' I say.

'Yeah, based on your performance. You know the team finished second-last in the competition?' she says, dead-pan.

'So what do you think I do?' I ask, stung. Christ, performance? For a sickening moment, I believe I've had it all wrong, all my reservations and moral dilemmas; she is a teenage nympho who wants right royally rogered in the pool and sent home wet, and if she doesn't get it from me she will move on to the next gullible professional man. The thought stings my pride and frightens me.

'What you don't do is work minimum wage flipping burgers at Burger King,' she says.

'Why? Is that something you do?' I say. Her turn to be stung, going by the embarrassment burning on her face.

'I know you're a fancy lawyer, dufus, it was in the magazine article I read about your house,' she says.

'The architect's one,' I state. Did I include that personal info? What if I didn't? Do I have to find that issue later? Shit, I do.

'I subscribe to that magazine. I haven't told anyone this? But I applied to the Architecture course in Wellington,' she says.

'That sounds great,' I say. Great? I think I've read about that course in my design mags. Prestigious, I believe.

'But shouldn't your parents know first? Hey, I'm flattered you told me,' I say. She has told no one? Not even her study-buddy?

'They don't take much interest in my life,' she says.

'Too busy with work?' I say.

I know how that goes. My parents, Ted and Jennie, were bloody classic; suddenly remembering I exist they heaped demands and gifts on me as if catching up on their absent parenting assuaged their guilty neglect. It was different with my older sister, Lindsay. They exhausted themselves on her. Linz is a nurse and married a steady guy, so I guess they got it right.

'They think I'm a loser,' she says.

'Eh? A loser? Jesus, you don't strike me as one,' I say.

She glances down beside her chair and appears to be making a decision.

'You love swimming, losers don't swim,' I say.

Leaning over, she picks up and un-zips her backpack. She tugs out familiar looking dark blue clothing. She holds the shirt up by its shoulders. It's a 24-hour store employee uniform.

'I work at a two-four, I'm not telling you which one,' she says. For the second time tonight, she looks embarrassed. She stuffs the clothing back into the bag.

'Part-time? You must be part-time,' I say.

So she works part-time at a two-four, studies for exams, and is sporty. I suppose swimming in my pool is a welcome distraction, or an addition to her extra-curricular activities list.

'For now. I might work full-time after exams end, I haven't decided. I don't know if I want to go varsity,' she blurts.

So that's why her over-achieving parents believe she is a loser: a classic case of cop out. Rather than go to varsity, she wants to stay in the city, hold down a job with minimal responsibilities, get a boyfriend, go out drinking and clubbing in the weekends, drive out to the Point and smoke pot on Sunday afternoons with her hung over friends and catch a movie later, then back to work Monday. Sweet. It's not as if I didn't daydream about doing the same thing, especially with Ted breathing down my neck to do law, law, and nothing but the law. I had applied for a design degree before he bullied me out of it with coercive promises of financial remuneration should I graduate with first class honours, which I did. I made certain the old bastard followed through on his promises. Ted was shocked and Mum more so but what did they expect? If design school had accepted me, I wouldn't have looked back.

I don't envy her, the crossroads that arrives with the end of high school: to student loan or not to student loan? Or lean on your overbearing parents and accept their handouts and the bullshit that comes from that dependence. The constant checking up and the financial control they wield over you. Control that extends into every corner of your life: where you live, what you wear even what you eat, or how much you drink. Worse than this control is the constant defence of your actions and excesses that grinds you down until you succumb becoming a nut-hoarding squirrel: never going out, never doing anything fun... I guess a student has to do both these days, hit up a student loan, and take the parent's handouts. Or work.

'Does that work?' she says, pointing at my outdoor fireplace.

'Yeah, why, are you cold? I'd love to get it going,' I say.

I love my outdoor fireplace. After the builders completed the fireplace, I bought and stacked a cubic metre of wood and got a decent fire going in it. I'd drag up a lounger as close as I could to the flames and sit out here for hours, reading and drinking wine until I fell asleep, or the chill forced me indoors. Nowadays, it's unseemly to crank up a wood fire with the ozone thinning, green house gases, and everybody turning to natural gas heaters. Even the Saturday afternoon boys are sceptical about using it, asking me how much smoke it produces and can you build a filter into the chimney? I laughed at that one. A filter? The "chimney" is only two metres high.

She pulls her legs up onto the chair and hugs them to her chest.

'I don't need you to start a fire for me, Julian,' she says, staring over the tops of her knees at me.

Is it the sight of her splendid calves pressed against the backs of her legs? Up and out of my chair, I move around and crouch beside her. I ask her if she wants a blanket or warm clothes, and she declines the offer. Such an obvious move but she volunteered the opening if you ask me. She laughs as I stroke her thigh, but she makes no moves to stop me. Her skin has a fresh satiny finish. She must have shaved her legs today. Her skin is so smooth and blemish free I want to run the tip of my tongue the length of her thigh.

'Are you feeling warmer?' I ask.

'Yes, much warmer. Naughty boy,' she says, quietly.

I caress as far as the bunched shorts. She doesn't move. I cup under the short's material, to the buttock. I start back down her leg.

'I guess you like my legs?' she says, and raising her left leg, she rests her foot on the table edge. I accept the invitation, caressing to her ankle and across the shiny top of her foot.

'You have gorgeous legs, what sports do you play?' I say.

'I'm playing heaps of tennis this summer,' she murmurs.

'That explains the big bruise you had on your thigh,' I say.

'Bruise? You think I got that playing tennis? You don't know that much about me, do you?' she says.

What did she get it from then? A bunch of possibilities race through my mind. The obviousness of her goading infuriates me. I will not rise to the bait. I'm the lawyer here, not her.

'I guess I don't? And you don't know that much about me either eh? But I've been where you are now,' I say.

That gets a giggle out of her. On my knees, I shuffle around behind her. I try not to count how many years ago I faced the end of high school and the start of University.

'No, not like that. You know what I mean? I know what it's like, eh? Varsity applications, the future, getting a job, parents on your case, all that stuff,' I say.

'I have a job,' she says.

Now, I'm in a position to get my stroking going on.

'Is working in a two-four a good long-term career prospect?' I say.

'God that feels soooo good,' she says, and closing her eyes, she arches her head back and thrusts upwards from her hips... only to change position on the seat.

Stroking her leg, I slip my other hand under her hoody and up onto the small of her back. She startles at my cold touch, but says nothing. The skin here feels silkier than her legs, warmer and softer, and I can feel her taut lower back muscles subtly shifting underneath my fingers whenever she moves.

'Smooth mover,' she says.

I'm that intensely focused I miss any sarcasm. I start a small caressing motion and why not? I plunge my other hand between her thighs. Working it along, she has to accommodate my intentions by slightly opening her legs.

'You're not wearing any panties,' I whisper in her ear.

I've gone too far, I've even repulsed myself. I sound like a dirty old man for Christ's sakes, or someone playing at being a bad porn actor. But it's true. At least, I believe so. I believe she isn't wearing any panties.

She cooly removes my hand from her lap and then slides sideways off the chair.

'I wasn't wearing any in the pool,' she says, swiping her bag up off the ground.

'I'm sorry, Sophia, that, it sounded gross, sorry mate,' I say.

'Thanks for the food, absolutely scrumptious,' she says.

'You can always have more next time, I'll try to do better than pizza,' I say.

'Thanks,' she says, standing so close we're millimetres from touching. I last less than a second. I tuck a loose damp strand of hair behind her ear and toy with the bottom of her hoodie. Any moment now, I will...

'Sorry,' she says, stepping back, she trails her hand across my cheek.

'What? Do we have to do it in the bloody pool?' I say.

My outburst leaves a tawdriness hanging in the air and lends a crass vulgarity to the otherwise romantic setting; the tea lights cast small waving shadows over the plundered remains of the food and wine glasses. It was a lingering summer night that made you feel life is full of possibility, but I've bloody spoiled it. She looks embarrassed, but am I swimming around starkers and being a bloody tease? I remember her age. I'm supposed to be the mature one here, I'm supposed to be the one in control, and now I'm just embarrassed. She leans into me and taking my face in her hands pecks me on the cheek. Instead of feeling thrilled, I try not to laugh. The kiss is so staged, I'm sure she mimicked what she sees on American tv, or in Hollywood films.

'I'm sorry, what I said, it's not, it sounded worse than, you know?' I say.

'Anything's possible, J,' she says.

Oh great, bloody fantastic, now she's calling me, J. I hate people that condense first names into first letters. J. Bernie, my best friend that quit our fair city for Auckland, used to do it, until I straightened him out. Anything's possible. Is it? I gently brush my fingertips across her cheek and starting below her pixie ear tease along to her chin. She doesn't appear to mind.

'Good luck with exams. Will I see you again?' I ask.

'You'll see me when you see me,' she says.

I wait until she is safely over the fence. I guess I won't be seeing her for a few days. I take a mental note to buy a stepladder in the weekend.

Back inside, after I've tidied everything up and put the dishwasher on, I dig through my bins of magazines and hunt through the bookshelves until I find it. New Zealand Architects. My house, photographed from the other side of the pool, classes up the cover page. I'm so tired I drop the bloody thing. But I pick it up, flick to the article, and skim read in the dim light. I included my job. Only a moron couldn't read between the lines: I am a fancy lawyer in a prestigious firm.

Over the following days, I can't get the sight of Sophia teasing me in the shallow end of the pool out of my head. I drive round into Broad a few times. On the fourth, I spy a long thin pale creature that matches Sophia's age and wears a Totoroa Girls uniform. Enormous school backpack dwarfing her, she dawdles up a driveway into one of those respectable large comfy houses that a girl called Becky could live at. She wasn't lying. But I see no sign of Sophia on Broad Street, or any of the streets in the greater neighbourhood. It's as if the city swallows her and when it's ready, I will see her again.

6.

All I did was duck into Zion (the city's premier café) for a topnotch espresso. Even that proved beyond me. An employee sometimes works there, a youngish woman with a big gap between her top front teeth, but her interesting teeth aren't the problem. It's a known fact that Zion management - all male, I presume - makes female staff wear black teeshirts with deep plunging v-necks. In their line of work, the mostly young women constantly bend and lean over as they bus tables, place meals or cups of coffee, and all the while their v-neck teeshirts angle open.

My toothsome employee has fantastic cleavage, the best. I doubt she wears a push up bra, or even needs one. I guess I had Sophia on my mind, especially after the night she arrived dressed in lingerie. It only takes a moment to conjure up Sophia in the shallow end of the pool, looking at me over her shoulder. With erotic visions like that on my mind, I discreetly watched the employee until she arrived at my table. Can I take your cup and plate? I should have glanced away, or stared at the tabletop or sugar-crystals dispenser, but instead I stared into that approaching compressed chasm as she bent over and slowly, oh so slowly, gathered up the crockery. She gave me what I took to be an invitational toothy smirk and headed away.

I fiddled with my cell phone for a few minutes while my low level hum subsided. I was getting out of my seat to leave when I spied the splendid gap-toothed one heading into the long narrow corridor that leads out of the café to the restrooms.

Let's face it; I'd prefer to say I headed out after her hoping to bump into her, breaking the ice, and asking her out for a coffee, a drink, or a meal. Who would turn down a guy dressed in a suit like I was wearing? But when I saw her standing there in the corridor, texting on her cellphone and showing off her splendid curviness, all that barely subsided lust, desire, and blood came back in a hot rush.

I wasn't a rational human being anymore. I had regressed to a primitive state, a Neanderthal man governed by a Neanderthal's need. I slowed as I approached her and made a big deal of walking by. What that meant was, I pressed into her from behind and forced her off-balance. She made a strangled sound - like a gurgle caught by surprise - especially when I ran my hand over her bottom and her thigh. I had been inching past, but I slowed to a stop. I wanted so much more. She pushed away from me. 'Keep moving, ya bloody perve,' she said, red in the face but not from fury, and definitely not from the sudden onset of lust. I believe it was embarrassment.

I spent a long time sitting on a toilet staring at the back of a cubicle door. I had to face walking through the entire café. My only hope was the red-faced embarrassment she showed. Was she so embarrassed for me, or in a twisted way for herself, that she won't say anything about the bloody perve in the restroom corridor?

Slim hope.

All the employees; the baristas and waiters, and the gap-toothed girl standing in the middle beside an older silver-haired woman that must be the cafe manager, or supervisor, milled around the long counter when I walked past. Without exception, they wore heavy judgments of me on their faces: disgust, contempt, rage... When I made it back to the Audi (illegally parked on a loading zone in the Square) I ripped the parking ticket from under the wiper, crumpled it up and tossed it away.

And I couldn't even get to the gym tonight to blow off steam because young Stuart James bungled the photocopying on the property transfer. It's not Stuart's fault, no one can straighten the details out, or keep the paperwork together. I told poor defeated Stuart, who can't get his head around using the new photocopier, to go home. 'It will still be there tomorrow morning,' I said. Once he left, I got cracking and finished it myself. So no gym tonight, and unless the schedule has changed this week, it's Kelly's night on front desk. I was considering asking her out for a drink, or out to my place for a home cooked meal, you know, adult activities. A step up for me spending time with a woman old enough to drink legally in a bar, but that's weakness isn't it? Going back to an old flame with your desperate tail wagging between your legs? That's lame. As lame as waiting for Sophia?

I've considered putting up lengths of razor wire along the top of the fence to keep her out, the underage trespasser. It would be worth it to see her expression. Imagine her stupid schoolbag getting tangled up before she realised the wire was there? She'd just drape her blazer across the wire and clamber over.

To take the edge off I wheel out the Nordic Track and crank up loud music. Few activities are as effective as Nordic tracking for working up a sweat and working things out, literally sweating them out of your system. Rhythm and resistance, the synchronisation of opposing actions - sliding forward and pulling back - it only takes a few minutes to get lost in it. As I power away, everything recedes to a dull mental ache. By the time I finish; legs arms and lower back screaming with lactic acid, I've convinced myself to forget my recent failures, and her.

Greedily sucking at my water bottle and towelling off sweat, I swear loudly when I see her standing at the pool. This visit she wears her school uniform. She waves at me to come and join her. She slips off her shoes and removes her socks. The air of expectancy she has that unquestionably I will run out there with my tongue hanging out, strip off, and jump into the pool... I rush over to the sliding doors. Instead of shouting at her like I want to, telling her to fuck off and go jump in someone else's pool like I intend to, I slam the doors shut. For a second I worry the heavy glass panes will shatter. They warp for a split-second but resettle without cracking.

That gets her attention. She stands by the pool, staring up at the house. One of her long black socks droops from her hand. I make a point of turning away and starting my usual post-exercise rituals: drinking my electrolyte replacement and wheeling the Nordic Track back to where it lives in the corner of my office. I can't help glancing out the doors, and she calls out a few times, with good humour in her voice. What could she be saying?

My actions fail to deter her and she runs through the usual routine. Is she quicker than usual? Yes, she is. No strip tease: straight out of the uniform and into the water. I roll out my yoga mat and stretch. Fatigue kicks in, but so to does that lovely post-exercise bliss; a combination of endorphins and warm full-body circulation that shakes off the day's office induced lethargy. As always, so to does my reliable post-exercise horniness. I try to turn my focus away from watching her naked body bobbing into sight and instead deepen my hamstring stretch. By breathing out and reaching further, well over my toes, I grab the balls of my feet. What is the likelihood of her approaching the house and letting herself in? What would happen if she did?

She doesn't. At least, she hasn't yet. Too timid? That makes me laugh. Sophia timid? There must be words to describe her, timid last. I hear her again but I can't catch what she is saying or asking. Louder this time, she calls out my first letter name, 'J, J, what's the matter?' She stands in the shallow end, one hand on her hip, and waves her other hand back and forth, as good as saying, Hey, can you see me?

'Yes, I can bloody see you,' I snarl.

Oh Dear God, she looks incredible, there's no other way to describe it. It's as if every time she comes back she flourishes into a fuller physical maturity and she wears the school uniform to mock me. Amongst other things, it makes me furious. I roll and tie up the yoga mat. I have to get out of her line of sight, and once I'm out of sight I'm sure she will get bored and leave.

Halfway through my shower it hits me full force; I'm carrying on worse than a sullen teenager. I can't help laughing. Who is who here? Has she left yet, I wonder? I pretend I'm not hurrying to dry myself as I head into the dark bedroom and slip into my JimJams.

Mostly dressed and buttoning up her blouse, she is sopping wet and bedraggled. I can't let her leave this wet and miserable. What if she gets sick before an exam? What if she has an exam tomorrow? She glances over towards the bedroom, sees me, and quickly glances away. She appears peeved and dismissively shrugs as if whatever she/we had is over... whatever she/we thought it was. No big deal, J. Over? Is it? What is over? She tugs on her blazer and gathers up her bag. Sane sensible Julian knows her leaving is a good thing, knows I should close the deal by continuing my show of ignoring her. That's right, just go about your usual business, Braithwaite.

My usual business?

At this time of night that involves making cocoa with big fat marshmallows and then reading in bed until I fall asleep. Jesus, how boring is that? The not so sane, not so sensible Julian wants to know if I'm not already asleep, or worse, already old. Am I? What would you rather do during your long nights, Braithwaite? Sticky marshmallows or... I sprint to the bathroom, grab a towel, and race outside. Towel in hand, I catch up with her on the lawn.

'So now he comes,' she mutters and keeps walking.

Angry, rejected, disappointed, I read a mix of emotions on her as she stalks across my lawn.

'Sophia, Sophia, wait a sec, eh?' I say, but she doesn't stop, and prepares to toss her bag over the fence.

'Sophia, wait up a minute, mate.'

'I guess you were too busy to come out for a swim tonight?' she asks, deciding not to throw the bag. Reluctantly, she turns. I'm sure she wants to get home, get dry, and then coma.

'You're soaking,' I say, and hand out the towel for her to take.

'Considerate. Nice PJ's,' she says, accepting the towel. She leans over, drags her hair forward, and briskly works the towel.

'No feasting tonight?' she states. She straightens and hands back the towel.

I can't help laughing; a powerful electrical current just ran through her hair.

'Ha ha ha,' she says, and works her frizzed hair. Running her hands over and over the thick cord of hair, she pulls it tighter and tighter at the base until she pops on the hair tie. The ponytail pops up in a brisk little exclamation mark.

'I've had a long day and I'm in a grumpy mood, I wouldn't have been good company,' I say.

'Have you met someone? Do you have a girlfriend, Julian?' she says, quizzically cocking her head to one side.

Such a smartarse. What if I met someone? Would I have to ask permission, or explain myself to the girl in the school uniform? Again I wonder what this means to her and what she imagines we have. I'm experiencing the dizzying sensation of standing blindfolded on a cliff edge surrounded by disgruntled relatives drawing straws to decide who gets to push me.

'Okay, I'm sorry I didn't come out tonight, but I can't - Sophia, I can't, mate, and no, I don't have a girlfriend,' I say.

Why don't I tell her my personal life is none of her business? She stares at me, probing with those dark brown eyes, the wheels the wheels the wheels turning -

'It didn't work out, my girlfriend,' I say, trying to shrug it off and avoid her gaze.

'That sucks. Was it because you work long hours?' she asks.

'Not really,' I say.

Unable to meet her eyes, I try focusing elsewhere. I take a mental note: Mow the lawn in the weekend, you lazy bastard.

'You're quite challenged, aren't you?' she says, and gives me a playful shove. She tosses the school bag over, takes a position against the fence, and lifts her right foot off the ground.

'A leg up, Julian Braithwaite?' she says.

I'm about to use her last name except I don't know it. I have more important things on my mind.

'Are you going to come back?' I ask.

'Sure, you can watch me swim,' she says.

I crouch and cup the heel of her school shoe. I want to run my hands up her toned legs and up and under her ridiculous skirt. I try a quick caress of her calves but she makes a hurrying motion.

'No peeking and no photos,' she says.

'Seriously, are you going to come back?' I ask.

'I'm busy next week, J. Most of my exams are in one week, doesn't that suck? Suck exam schedule, nobody else has one as bad as mine,' she says.

'After exams then?' I say.

Now it has arrived, the inevitable end of Sophia's exams and what that entails for her: no more study-buddying with Becky down on Broad Street; no more late night walks through the pine and macrocarpa to my back fence, and no more naked skinny-dipping in my pool, I find the prospect of life without Sophia unbearable. Back to cocoa and marshmallows, reading and sleeping, and the rage I experience whenever I reach up into the cupboard and find the marshmallow packet empty broadsides me with shame. Marshmallows. What a sad sack. I want to rage at God's, or the Universe's great indifference, an indifference I've taken solace in when I suspect most people find it terrifying once it smacks them in the face. Why oh why does she torment me? What is this? What is she? A cosmic tease? Karma? A cosmic-karmic honey trap?

She lifts her foot out of my hand and squealing with pleasure throws her arms around me in a big hug. Her blazer pins and badges poke me in the chest. She is taller than I've ever realised, and stronger although I knew she must be.

'Do you want me to come back? You've been acting like a weird old Nana tonight,' she says.

'What would I do with myself at night?' I say, ignoring her Old Nana call. No one's called me that before.

Stage management free, she pecks me on the cheek with those cool luscious lips. School uniform or not, I can't stop the warm glow from spreading outwards from the moist contact points.

'Sorry J, can you give me a boost? I have to get home the Olds are giving me a hard time. Staying out late,' she says, resuming her leg-up position at the fence.

'Sweet as,' I say.

'Sweet as - you're so fucking cute. I wasn't joking, no peeking, J, not wearing my Sunday's best tonight,' she says.

I cup her heel and boost her with one easy movement. Despite her warning, I take a gander anyway and can't stifle my surprised laugh.

'You promised, no peeping,' she says.

The last thing I expected was white-bloomers with pastel blue... Care Bears? Is she even old enough to know who the Care Bears are? They can't be Care Bears they just look like Care Bears. She grips the top of the fence and swings both legs over sidesaddle style. She lands on the other side with a thump.

'Sorry I peeked. You okay?' I call out.

'A-okay, J. I'm so embarrassed. See you soon, sweet dreams!' she calls back.

'Good luck with exams,' I call out, but she runs along the track. Her thumping footfalls recede and the night's silence closes its lid. I feel cheated by feeling cheated, and I try to console myself; that cliff edge feels closer tonight than ever.

7.

Dad sometimes gives me a ribbing about my love life, or lack of one. So, are you seeing a strumpet at the moment, Julian? It's always over the phone and to be honest Dad's given up on me. Not just the meeting a girl and settling down thing, although I might be too old for that analogy now. It will be no girl I will settle down with more likely it will be a battle-hardened bitter divorcee with kids from different marriages. I guess I can relate to that. Am I not a child of divorced parents even if I was an adult when it happened?

No, Dad doesn't call me anymore. He has given up on me in every respect. The cruel blow of not following him to Wellington hit him hard; he'll never get over it. I'm not the good son. Unlike Linz, I don't call, email, or write letters, not that anyone writes handwritten letters anymore, except Mum. Happy little chirrups printed on scented stationary, I used to shake my head and giggle when I was at Uni and received Mum's letters in the post. Mum always asked who my latest was. When she wrote, which was back when the roof went on this house, it was like tearing open an invitation to the green flowery scented fields of my Mother's love. Even then I realised Mum, like Ted now, had stopped asking about my love life.

So I almost wet myself when Baxter walks into my office, eases himself into one of two comfortable chairs across from my desk, and asks me, 'How's the life-love, mate?' For starters, Baxter never does this, he never asks such piss weak indirect questions. What things? The things on my desk? In my pocket? How can you reply? Okay, yeah, things are okay, how goes it with you?

I guess I could take the neurotic's path and give the nuggety bastard a complete itemised breakdown of every fucking thing happening: work, life, the house, the car... and love life? Love life? The first time Baxter asks me a personal question, he asks after my love life? He should ask me about the Gamble's historic house acquisition, it's a disaster. The owner, the infamous French businessman, Olivier, stipulated he was taking out the induction fans, and the Gambles, thee foremost family in the entire city, thought they were included in the sale and for God knows what reason, we have two drafts with differing interpretations.

And my love life?

'Are you seeing anyone at the moment, Julian,' he asks? He gives me a kindly smile that doesn't sit well on his face, like a fried egg on a smaller piece of bread. Is that a relevant question to ask an employee?

Well, Charlie, I've been sitting up late every night this past week, waiting for what I hope has become a seventeen-years-old girl, because on paper that sounds better than sixteen-years-old, doesn't it? Yeah mate, I'm waiting for her to jump over my fence and dive naked into my pool. I don't say this to him. I distract myself with sorting papers on my desk.

'No, no, I'm not seeing anyone,' I say.

He just sits there; he isn't even going to tell me why he is so concerned.

'That's too bad,' he says, and glances round my office as if he has never seen it. It unnerves the hell out of me this glancing around; as if he's forgotten the name of this guy he has on his staff, what's-his-name? Julian? Yeah, Julian Braithwaite. What does Julian do here? His father was a big shot, but didn't he leave town years ago?

'Oh, I don't know, I'm so busy with work, it's hard to find time for romance,' I say.

'Busy? Well, we should go get a coffee at Zion sometime, eh? Get out for a walk, take a breather, you only live once,' he adds, and loudly exhaling, gets out of the chair.

Before he leaves, he gives me a quick hard look. We call it the Baxter Special, and translates as: Be on your toes, I've got my eyes on you. Until now, everyone has experienced it except me. Bloody Zion, I'm sure word has or is getting around about my dubious corridor moves. Who does that? She was standing there minding her own business. I want to throw my chair through the window, at the same time wilt and shrivel under my desk. I mean my boss has just called me out. Who told him? Who else has he talked to? Has he asked around the office, or the café scene?

'That sounds great, Charlie,' I say, but he gets up and stumps out leaving the office door open.

The ancient panes of poorly set stained glass rattle when I slam the door shut. Back at my desk, I try to compose myself. This won't do, Braithwaite, this won't do. Imagine the questions Baxter might throw around should he be bothered or suspicious enough. Is he? Nuh, it was a heads up, and the message was get a life, a girlfriend, or get laid. Yeah, it was just a heads up, no shenanigans please.

I head back to Zion later in the week to determine if Baxter has been in and asking people questions. Whether he had been in or not, the atmosphere my presence creates isn't good. The silver-maned fox that I'm sure is the manager? The dirty look she gives me when I step inside the cafe should warn me, but undeterred I take a table. When my double espresso arrives, the waitress makes a show of holding her hand up to her teeshirt and places the drink down so quickly she risks dropping it.

I don't leave.

I don't know why I don't but I don't. Even when the young employees behind the counter pincer me with dark glances and start up a loud singsong about someone (gee, I wonder) called the Hot-Handed Man, 'Have you heard the one about the Hot-Handed Man? Got caught with his hand in the cookie jar', I don't leave. At nearby tables, customers look around in bemusement. I calmly sip my espresso and just as calmly leave. When I get outside and around the corner, I allow my face to burn with shame and my hands to shake. What the fuck, they're singing songs about me? The Hot-Handed Man?

8.

Baxter always makes them out to be impromptu affairs. We know they aren't. He pops his shining nuggety head into our offices midmorning and brightly asks us if we have plans for lunch. That is, Scotty, Peebles, and me - the Juniors, as we're known - and for reasons no one ever explains, Stuart James, the office bitch, gets to tag along. To clarify, Stuart is the only child of the late Eustace James, the founding firm partner, but talk about a boy getting a free lunch. He doesn't even have a varsity degree let alone know anything about law. And Jack's on Bridge? One bottle of Malbec costs four café lunches, and the mains? For all that, I like Stuart, especially his defiant nonchalance that borders on negligence, and he is assigned to me. That is, he unofficially assigned himself.

I haven't been back to Zion since the reconnaissance. The Hot-Handed Man. Their little song keeps repeating itself in my head. Got caught with his hand... but I've heard nothing beyond Baxter's opaque warning, and I haven't seen the waitress loitering outside the firm, so that's a good sign, nor have I seen Sophia. I wouldn't put it past Sophia. Totoroa Girls' students often wander down from their lofty heights into the city's centre.

Peebles, a smooth bastard, had a loiterer for a while; a woman he jilted. She used to camp out in the front window of Grind, a café across the street, and stare up at our second story windows with tragic owl-eyes. Competitive, I guess, or proud. We used to hide behind the big filing cabinet and peek down at her. Then we sent Stuart across to scare her away. There's something inexplicably sinister about tall dark Stuart, but he ended up chatting with her over a coffee. After ten minutes, there was absolutely nothing funny about it and we drifted away. Stuart might have hooked up with her. He never told us if he did. We decided he didn't.

They're not boring, Baxter's Bridge lunches, as we call them, but they're not my idea of fun. I've a decent hunch the fine food and wine (bloody Scotty orders beer) is wasted on everyone except old Baxter, who takes the time to taste his food. What isn't wasted on anyone is the setting: plush plush plush. Brass railings and mahogany; dark leather and dimly lit booths; all that's missing is a thick haze of cigarette and cigar smoke and plain stuffed envelopes passing hands over or under tabletops. The brass polish and nutty leather always reminds me of a fancy shoe store's leathery, masculine scent that hits you at the door. Jack's is definitely the restaurant to frequent if you think you're somebody in the city.

Dad used to take me here for lunch before his big shift to Wellington. He'd pick me up at the front school gates and break nearly every law in the road code to get here early enough so he could get me back before the bell. I wasn't even embarrassed wearing my school uniform, or concerned about being late back to school. Firstly, there was no need to be embarrassed wearing a Rathven's uniform to Jack's. A Rathven Heights Boys uniform guaranteed entry. At that age, it was the next best thing to a suit, and being late back to school? Everyone at Rathven's knew my father.

I guess I'm mooning around full of memories when I notice the firm's latest temp assistant at the entrance. After adjusting to the murkiness, she scans the interior, trying to locate our table.

'Isn't that one of ours?' I say, noticing the empty place setting in our booth.

'What's she doing here?' someone mutters, either Peebles, or Stuart. Before anyone has time to answer, she presents herself.

Maya Agnew.

Aggressively overdressed in a snug-fitting women's business suit, she tries so hard to be gender-neutral the resulting effect creates a weird sexy magnetism I find exquisite and excruciating. The boys have been gossiping about her, especially these suits of hers, and her blonde hair that's so severely pulled back it takes half her forehead up with it. And there's her anatomy she tries so hard to negate. The boys take every opportunity to help her find her way around the firm. Not that she needs it. Uber-efficient is an understatement for Miss Agnew. Stuart tenses as if he is about to launch across the tabletop at her before she has time to join us. I've been avoiding her.

'Take a seat, Maya,' Baxter says, waving her into the open seat beside him, and directly across the booth from me.

She must just be old enough to be fresh out of wherever or whatever she graduated with, a Polytech certificate from a generic course that sounds like Business Systems, or Advanced Office Practises.

Baxter does his usual charming but stern best. He makes a point of stating he hopes Maya will be a stayer and gives us boys the Baxter Special. The last assistant/secretary that came over from the temp placement firm left under a cloud. Is that why Maya has joined our power lunch? One for all and all for one? Maya, demure and coy, but choking on whatever ambitions she harbours for herself at the firm, says all the right things, smiles correctly at the correct times and makes a joke about nicknames versus real names. No one remembers why Peebles is called Peebles, nor Scotty, Scotty; his real name is Matthew. Even Stuart has a nickname, Van Damn, after he once gave a karate display at a party and crashed through a closed door, but no one uses it. The nickname that is, I guess the house owner repaired the door. It must have been on her mind, my absent nickname, as halfway through the usual sumptuous Jack's meal she asks me why I don't have one.

'I've never done anything remarkable enough to warrant one,' I say, but I remember Zion, and the other many occasions I've behaved badly and wonder if I shouldn't be nicknamed, Hot Hands J.

'I'm sure that's not the case,' she says, smiling warmly at me.

Taking any opportunity for a man to put down another man in an attractive woman's presence, all the men except Baxter agree with my remark. Baxter keeps a steady gaze on me. I'm certain he's worried about my lack of a love life and curvy, power-suit dressing Maya's presence at the firm.

'It's the quiet ones you've got to watch out for, isn't it?' Maya says, winking at me.

Baxter's eyebrows shoot skyward and the others grunt.

'Yes, it is,' Baxter says, a hard edge in his voice.

That hard edge, is it intended for me, or her?

9.

Sophia yet again takes front page. It has been over a week. What if she is talking about me and gossiping to her friends, other Totoroa Girls students, and they might talk to their parents who might - round and round, the same old circles. Come on Braithwaite, damage control. Damage control? People make up singsongs about my antics. What is happening? And my reputation? I have to be careful from now on, extra careful. How I am supposed to do that when I can't control myself?

At last, she arrives, a shadow at the fenceline. Sophia, the naughty pixie. Again, dressed to kill in those same tight jeans high heels and black leather jacket, I can't suppress a low groan of excitement as I savour the sights to come - I'm certain she wears her lingerie set tonight. She clatters up to the poolside and gives me a wave. No hiding inside this time. I grab the two towels I have ready and stride lightheaded and giddy with excitement out the doors and across the courtyard. She sheds her clothes and reveals a black bikini set. What, no lingerie?

After a loud bright, 'Hi J!' she dives in and surfaces wiping water out of her eyes and adjusting the strings of material. Is it worth the effort of wearing it if one or both boobs appear at risk of popping out? Why a bikini? Why is she now wearing clothes in the pool?

'Are you coming in?' she asks.

'Not tonight, sorry. Hey, how were your exams?' I ask, crouching. I take a knee instead and lean out. I see more of her this way.

'Over! Over finished finito!' she shouts and satisfied with the state of her swimwear she ducks under again. She surfaces right below me and levering up onto the pool edge, folds her arms underneath her chest. Pointing up at me, her hard nipples protrude against the wet black fabric.

'Miss me?' she says.

'I was thinking you weren't coming back?' I say.

'What do you think? Does it suit me?' she asks, coyly glancing down at the bikini top.

I can't get my head around it. Why the sudden change in dress code? It makes sense on some level: reverse psychology? I absolutely want to take one of those rock hard nipples between my teeth, which I've never wanted to do during her other visits when she was gallivanting around naked. Maya at work has been a nightmare. Every time I leave my office, she finds an excuse - and I don't think she is doing it on purpose - to bend over in my presence.

'It definitely suits you, Sophia. So yeah, a bikini,' I state.

'I know, no nudity in the pool tonight, eh? You can call me Soph'. Most people do. Or Quinny? My last name is Quinn, but you know? Quinn, Quinny? So, the bikini?' she says.

'I thought you don't wear clothes when you swim?' I say, and I can't help myself. I just can't. I make a show of examining the fabric of her bikini and taking the string in my fingers follow it from her shoulder, brushing my fingertips along the cup's edge. Her skin is cold, and with a slight pressure from the backs of my fingers, I press her yielding but firm breast. I brush my fingers back and forth. She glances at my hand, but says nothing, either tactfully enjoying or accepting my inquisitive fingers.

'You're uncomfortable with me and my, you know, nudity?' she says.

'It's a little surprising, especially that first time,' I say.

She thinks I'm a prude? That's a first. But I have been acting a prude. My God. Laughing, she lowers into the pool and swims to the other side.

'Sure you don't want to join me, J?' she says, holding on to the pool with her arms out, and her legs kicking in front. Her breasts sway from side to side with the motion of her legs.

'Would you like to join me inside? I want to give you the royal tour, fit for a queen,' I say.

'I'm no princess,' she says, pushing away from the wall and swimming towards me.

10.

In the cookie jar, the cookie jar got caught with his hand in the cookie jar: it won't go away I can't get it out, a scratched dvd, skip skip skip. Even now, giving Sophia a VIP tour of the mezzanine, when I should bust moves, I'm singing a stupid song to myself about myself. I burst out laughing and she watches me expectantly for an explanation. The joke? Well, first, I've become a city curiosity. Second, moves. What moves? Thinking about Zion makes me wince. The incident takes on a skewed perversity. In my memory of it, I'm going to town as the gap-toothed busty one stands there blushing, moaning, and protesting. Was that really Julian Braithwaite? Moves? Why not toy with the fabric of Sophia's visible - possibly consciously visible \- panty line and caress her back? A sharp move, you couldn't miss with that one, Braithwaite. Moves? Laughable now, but I know it will happen again. It's not funny at all. How is the love life, mate? How is it?

'What's so funny, J?' she asks.

Sophia is running her fingers over the artwork Dad gave me after the divorce. It takes pride of place in the corner right beside my big screen telly. Sometimes I ignore whatever I'm watching and instead gaze at the big bronze monster.

'I was thinking about how I came to own this big beast,' I say.

'It's the most beautiful-ugliest thing I've ever seen. That's the point, isn't it? So come on then, out with it?' she says.

'It's called the Eternal Embrace, I forgot who made it, a New Zealand artist,' I say.

She can't keep her hands off it. She traces the curves of what I call the lovely side, where two lovers ecstatically embrace, and then carefully negotiates the snags and crags of the ugly side, where the same two lovers, demonised, revolting, twisted creatures pulled fresh out of Hell, either embrace or prepare to tear each others throats out, I've never decided which.

'Is it bronze?' she asks.

'Yeah, bronze, it weighs a bloody tonne,' I say.

I move up close beside her but I have that song in my head - the Hot-Handed man got caught with his hand -

'The Eternal Embrace,' she repeats. Her fingers linger on the serene face of the lovely woman and she cups the cold chin.

'My father gave it to me, it's, I don't know, a practical joke?' I say.

Impermeable wafts of the latest fad eu-de-toilette glows force field-like around her. I could be back in that Friday night press at the Turkish hookah bar in the Square. I glance down at her, immodest bastard... the cookie jar, the cookie jar, got caught with...

'A joke? Your father gave you this as a joke?' she says. I can see her calculating how much the joke cost him.

'Yeah, my parents are divorced, did I tell you that? Nuh, don't worry, they got divorced when I was at university,' I say.

'Did that make it less awkward?' she asks.

The way she said that makes me think her own parents marriage might be in trouble, with Sophia's high school ending adult life beginning crossroads caught in the middle, or most likely forgotten.

'Right after the divorce Mum bought me this gorgeous glass sculpture, it's of a beautiful women, it's in my bedroom,' I say.

'Glass? Can I see it?' she gushes.

She walks away and heads down the mezzanine stairs as if she owns the place. Pausing at the bottom, she makes an unnecessary show of pointing out the direction to the master bedroom. She makes a fine show of something else as she walks ahead of me; all I can see is her swaying derriere. By the time I head into the bedroom wing, I couldn't give a shit about the cookie jar, or my possible infamy as a city curiosity. She briefly admires the bathroom on the way past but doesn't enter. I brush past her as she waits by the bedroom door, and I experience that familiar quick shot of excitement as my forearm grazes across her chest. Smooth moves, Braithwaite. I am a lost cause. Lost. She says nothing and as I fiddle with the dimming switch, she presses up against me. Reaching over, she swivels the dial to an acceptable level.

'I won't be able to see in the dark,' she says.

She heads over to the corner where the sculpture lives on a waist high plinth. God help me if an earthquake shakes it off and shatters it into a thousand pieces on my concrete floor. I couldn't live with myself if that happened. Sophia instantly ohhhs and ahhhs over Mum's... what? I've never definitively figured it out.

'It's called The Natural Woman number four,' I say, heading over to the blinds.

'I'm afraid to touch it,' she says.

I lower and wind the blinds shut. She notices the change in light and gives me a cheeky smile.

'It made it through my student flats unscathed, it's tougher than it looks,' I say, remembering the bumps and near misses it has suffered, and a handful of tiny chips I've never pointed out to anyone. I dust and polish it every other week when I'm doing the rounds.

'She is so beautiful,' she says, again with a hushed reverence.

'I forget. She is though, eh?' I say, joining Sophia.

Her naked, curvaceous body is tangled up in vines and fine branches. One arm stretches above her head, as if fighting out of the foliage, and the other reaches towards the pubis; invitingly close, this hand rests on the bottom of her perfect tummy. She wears an expression on her face between religious rapture and Oh My God, I'm having the best orgasm of my life. I put it in the bedroom; it didn't seem right out in the main living area. Prudish, but it's creepy keeping it in here considering my mother gave it to me. It didn't make its way into the architecture mag although the photographer took enough photos of it.

'May I ask a stupid question? Why did your Mum give this to you?' she says.

'No bloody idea, Quinny,' I say, bumping her hip. That isn't strictly true and Sophia is smart enough to see that.

'Jesus, be careful, J. So your Mum gave you this, after your parent's divorce?' Sophia says.

'Correct, Miss Quinn,' I say.

'And then your Dad gave you the sculpture upstairs?' she says.

'After he found out Mum gave me this, yes,' I say.

I don't tell her that Dad came around to my flat to see the Natural Woman for himself. He stood there stewing in front of it and biting on the quick of his thumbnail for ten minutes. My babbling ran out after two minutes, so I left him to it, putting the kettle on and finding refuge with Bernie in the kitchen.

'Your parents are weird,' she says, closely examining the sculpture.

I bump her again, but harder this time. She squeals with fright and nearly loses her balance. Recovering, she shoves me back. I pretend to sway on the spot, threatening the sculpture. She laughs but restrains me from further antics by placing her hand on my arm.

'Why did your parents get divorced? Is it okay I ask?' she says.

'Yeah, it's okay. My Mum had an affair. She ran off with a dustman to Nelson,' I say.

'Does it make any difference who she ran off with?' she says. Taking her hand off my arm, she turns away from The Natural Woman and with a perplexed expression on her face looks around. The elephant in the room, it's the only piece of furniture she, or we, can sit at: my king-size bed trussed up in a chocolate-brown straightjacket. Her turning away from me is not without further problems, but I'm positive she did that on purpose.

'Have I told you how great you look in those jeans tonight?' I say.

It must be the mention of Mum's affair. Just the word is enough for me: affair. Steamy guilty sex is the first thing that comes to mind when I hear the word even if it's my mother's affair on my mind. For people who have them I suppose it's lies butcher blood red lies.

Mum ran off with a kindergarten teacher.

Should I tell Sophia that? Dad repeated this forever on the phone after the affair came out, or whenever we saw each other, which was usually at Jack's. In the middle of a sentence, he would stop and stare off into a middle distance, or grind his way through an expensive meal, chewing on disgust I imagined tasted like wintergreen-soaked rotten meat. A kindergarten teacher, he'd say. It started as a question: A kindergarten teacher? Before it became quieter, a sigh of resignation. Someone has to teach the little rotters, good on him, I said during one such bitter session. He didn't talk to me for a week after I made that observation.

'I look great in them every night, J,' she says, the grinning imp, my naughty pixie. Instead of sitting on the bed she bends over and smoothes the top sheet.

'Are these satin sheets? God, they're silky,' she says.

I can't remember. Are they satin? Bending over, she runs her hand over the sheets in wide-semi circles. That isn't enough for her. She kicks off her heels, climbs onto the bed, and on all fours glances over her shoulder at me. I'm losing control. A voice in my head, my voice, thee voice, tells me to go fuck the cookie jar, the cookie jar, go fuck the cookie jar. I speak her name but I choke on it, and it comes out half name-half swear word \- the cookie jar, the cookie - I'm moving to the bed, a horny out of body sleepwalker.

I try to spoon her, but she squeals and flips over onto her back. She props herself up with her elbows. Following her, I grab her legs and part them wide enough to lie between them... I stop. She hasn't frozen; it's too complex for something as simple as that. I'm holding her legs, cupping them under the calves. I lower her legs back to the bed, crawl up, and lie beside her. She rolls over onto her side and faces me with an unapologetic smile. But she lets me trace with my fingertips the long muscle that extends the length of the neck. I forget its name. Kelly told me once, back when she was my personal trainer, sterno-something-something. I freely trace the muscle to the hollow at the base of her throat, soaking in her scent and warmth. I run my fingers back up, following the ridge of muscle up up up, up behind her ear. I stroke the earlobe and giggling she moves her head away.

'I find it hard keeping my hands to myself,' I say. I hold my hand up in front of my face, turning it over and back.

'Unless you're asked not to,' she says.

'Behold, the instrument of Julian's doom,' I say in my best theatrical voice, ignoring her pertinent observation.

'Doom?' she says.

Taking my hand in hers, she interlinks her fingers with mine.

'They get me into trouble,' I say, without thinking.

She snatches her hand away and springing up, kneels beside me.

'What does that mean?' she says with a cute wide-eyed expression, but there's seriousness behind it even suspicion: What trouble, what kinds of trouble?

At a loss and put out by the intensity of her curiosity, I again wonder how much she knows about me, or what she may have heard or guessed. Schoolgirls hanging out at the mall in the Square, sharing gossip or spreading it around, are always the first to find out about fresh city curiosities. And don't they have coffees, or hot chocolates, in Zion? I bet they bloody chant my singsong at Totoroa Girls now, at every high school citywide, the Hot-Handed Man.

'The bloody things have a life of their own sometimes,' I say. I roll over onto my back and hold both my hands above my face, turning them over as if I've never noticed them.

'But what exactly does that mean?' she says.

She knows what I mean; I've tried to have my hot hands on her often enough. She stares at my mitts as if green slime drips off them. Contempt is there but I'm used to that. Most people hold lawyers in contempt anyway even if they don't understand what the lawyer practises. No, especially when they don't, and especially when they find out where the lawyer lives and see his house. Green blooming algae slime-hands. And fear peeps out through her growing confusion. She may be afraid where this might go and what ugly truths may out into the night. She is alone in a large, empty, dark house with a strange and getting stranger by the minute grown man. I find it gratifying that she may ask herself what the hell she was doing when she swam naked in my pool.

I'm losing her.

Crap, just go all the way. That's what Mum told me after the divorce. She told Dad everything even though she was aware he cheated on her. She wanted to give him the chance to accept and understand what she did and why and then forgive her.

He didn't.

'My hands,' I say, but now I've the opportunity for full disclosure and a way to get rid of this... messiness, I'm trying to dislodge a grapefruit stuck in my throat.

'You like using your hands?' she offers, with that same mixture of humour and contempt.

'Touch women with them stores and cafes, public places,' I blurt, and jump up off the bed.

I sprint out of the bedroom, pass the bathroom, and stop in the middle of the living area. Why am I running away from her in my own house? For a second, I entertain running up onto the mezzanine and burying myself under a pile of cushions until she leaves, but how insane is that? She calls after me, but stays behind in the bedroom. I'm too embarrassed to go back and face her. I told her I touch women in public. What next? I'm so undecided, I don't even notice when she sidles up and stands right beside me.

'How bad is it, J? Do you... attack women?' she asks, taking my hands in hers.

'Shit no, it's not like that, I say, but how imbecilic does that sound? It makes her laugh. Aren't my approaches an attack? As aggressive and predatory?

'It sounds bad, J, touching women in public is definitely bad,' she says.

Jesus. Of course it's bad, it's not bloody good is it? Get your head around this mess, Braithwaite.

'You know, how I, I want to touch you? I'm always trying to touch you?' I say.

'Unless I'm in your pool with no clothes on, you big weirdo,' she says.

'It's so hard to explain it sounds so bloody creepy. It's like, it's like it's not me, except it is me, you know? But I want it to be someone else? Do you understand, Sophia?' I say.

She doesn't understand, not from her expression. I don't blame her. I don't understand myself. She doesn't nod or bother to make a small gesture if only for etiquette's sake. I'm sure she understands the part about wanting to be someone else, and I guess preferably somewhere else.

'People are finding out. My boss. It's not a good look,' I add.

'Can't you get help, J? I'm sorry, who am I to talk? But you need to talk to somebody. A therapist? I talk to the counsellor at school, well, I used to, I can't anymore,' she says, mournful.

'I've tried... three times now?' I say.

That's everybody's answer though, isn't it? Dump a wad of cash on a dumpy, frizzle-haired woman's lap and suffer a bunch of intrusive questions about your relationships with your family members, your older sister especially. The counsellor's colossal task reminded of the little boy in the Dutch fairytale, sticking his finger in the dyke to avert the flood. I soon stopped going. It saved me a bunch of money. In ancient cultures, I might have had my hands cut off by now. Chop chop, problem solved.

She keeps stroking my hands, turning them over, inspecting them for the slime, evidence, or suggestion of their indiscretions. She glances up at me and I see the questions she is dying to ask, the why, how, where, and what I touch. Where on their bodies do I touch them and how do I touch? And then she gives me something I never expected: her pity. I'm not prepared for it. I want to rip it out of her eyes and fling back in her face. I take a moment. My brain launches an offensive: She is not without her problems. Naked swimming? Consorting with older men? What the hell is wrong with her?

'You don't, like, you don't insert?' she says, holding her index finger up with an embarrassed laugh.

'No, Jesus, Sophia, no, I,' - I say, but can't continue.

Letting my hands go, she pokes me in the chest. She has been on the receiving end of my moves.

'Oh J, my legs are so cold and my shorts are so short,' she says, hugging herself as if she were freezing.

'Okay, okay. Can you understand how embarrassed I am?' I say.

'Can you understand how violated these women must feel? God, sorry, but you know what I mean, right?' she says.

Violated? Of course they'd feel violated. Have I ever considered it from the women's point of view? No, to be honest, I haven't. What does that make me? What is the term? Pervert? Molester?

'I better get going. I'm sorry you feel like shit, J,' she says, and gives my arm a consolatory rub.

How can she feel sorry for me? What if I were in her shoes?

I leave her to it. I watch her head towards the pool and I hope, no, I want her to turn and wave, or at least give me a sign she will return. She continues past the pool and merges into the shadows.

11.

She looks up and flashes me a Maya heart-stopper, not that anyone in the firm will tell her that to her face. Even other women on the staff refer to her smile as the Maya heart-stopper. More than a glimpse of the pearly whites and a satisfactory crinkling at the corners of the eyes, Maya's dark grey smiling eyes pierces professional or personal armour. BANG. Straight through. BANG. The problem as I see or experience it - BANG - is the heart has little to do with it, or at least, only as a secondary effect, such as elevating the pulse rate. BANG. No, the Maya heart-stopper's primary effect has more to do with other parts of the anatomy. Her quick, sexy smile should instead be called, the Maya cock-rocker. I'm not sure what effect it has on the female anatomy. BANG.

I know that if she flashes you a Maya cock-rocker at the same time she is bending over and mucking around with the new copy machine's paper feeding trays and showing off her lovely business-skirt-clad expanse - BANG - the experience transforms into the Maya irresistibility-intensity effect. The closer you are to her the greater her irresistibility. These thoughts go through my mind as I start on one side of that tightly clad expanse and stroke my hand across to the other side, and what is she doing with the new copy machine? Trying to thump it into submission?

She freezes mid-thump.

She doesn't understand the effect she has, what history she dredges up with her pristine sexiness and her twinkle-eyes; but she can't be blamed. Keeping her back turned, she straightens. How can she possibly understand the depths of erotic fantasy she plums by merely being Maya? She hisses, 'Stop it,' and tries to bat my hand away, and says something else I don't catch. I definitely hear what she says next:

'If you don't stop feeling up my arse you will be in so much shit, you fucking creep,' she says.

She bucks back against me and tries to elbow me, but I don't budge and even the fear, shock, and panic I'm experiencing can't transcend the bliss of pressing the length of my erection into the cleft of her bottom. I dream of Sophia and her brown curves; her lingerie a second-skin clinging to her taut muscles, and I realise I'm grinding, I am, and I'm close, I'm getting bloody close, and Maya swears and demands I stop, we're in the copy room, anyone can walk past, anytime, anyone, you're in so much fucking shit.

I back away; I'm seconds from coming. She blindly lashes out, catches me with a solid thump on the right ear, and then rushes out of the room.

So this will be it.

She will storm into Baxter's or Tina's office, crying, weeping, skirt rumpled from my lewd ministrations, and lay out the whole sordid little episode. My heart literally sounds as if it's in my ears, especially the one she clobbered, and with the paper trays filled the copy machine suddenly starts up and continues the job it was doing earlier, probably the latest contract update to the Gambles' house deal.

This is it, all right.

I don't know what to do. Fresh air, I need air. Get out and go for a walk. Don't just stand here waiting for a summons from the headmaster.

I must have been, what? Ten years old? No, I must have been eleven, because if I was doing Mr Neledelec's math's homework (yes, we called him Mr Needledick behind his back and sometimes to his face) that places me in the first form.

Dad re-arranged his office with a small desk placed in the corner. He would pick me up after school, race back in the Pontiac to the firm, and frog march me to my desk where I sat and stared at beige wallpaper for two or more hours with my back to my father, who rustled paper, often mumbled to himself, or took terse phone calls. Those terse phone calls. It wasn't Mum calling, and they didn't sound like the calls he had with clients. Client's calls were always more formal when my father transformed into a solemn used car salesman that uses big words.

In those days, it was just Dad and two lesser lawyers Dad called the Underlings. I never figured out what purpose the Underlings served, as Dad always complained about the vast volumes of work no one else seemed to have. One by one, he got rid of them, but their replacements took the name, Underling. I guess Dad wasn't smart or trusting enough to go into partnership with a shrewd Charlie Baxter like Eustace James did. I used to think Dad was too selfish to have anyone else sharing his name on the front door until it finally occurred, albeit too late, he may have been waiting to have my name added to his: Braithwaite & Braithwaite.

Why was I completing homework in my father's office? I couldn't be trusted to do it at home. Mum's soft touch meant little or no homework ever got finished at home. Other things did. Pictures got drawn or painted, cakes and delicious meals baked or simmered to perfection as the good boy, Julian, watched on or helped in small ways: peeling, chopping, and stirring.

Occasionally Dad allowed people into the office when I was there, an unavoidable occurrence when you stuff your son in a corner. Normally it was an Underling, a nameless pale-faced creature with a good old bowl-cut, or the secretary, old downy chinned, Mrs Lamsil. Dad once admitted she understood the law better than the Underlings even though he argued with her every day over something or other and repeatedly told her to stick to typing and keeping track of stationary supplies.

On one occasion, he had in a client, an older woman, Mrs Broome. By older, I mean older than Dad at the time; hindsight places in her mid to late-forties. A woman that any man or boy takes notice of - her voluptuous hourglass figure; a big, broad bosom straining against an expensive white blouse, and a long, snug, top quality grey wool skirt hugging long legs that inspired the imagination. Sexual solidity is how I remember her now. Positively charged, she had a smoky air of excitement that crackled around her and really could change the atmosphere of any room she entered. And her inner strength was a resilient force that suggested no matter how shit things got, and things got shitty for her with two messy divorces, she would always, always, be stronger than you and could always be relied upon for sheer unadulterated fun. Her generous smile switched between sympathy and sarcasm, and with rich full lips like Sophia's, suggested promises that even at that tender age I could grasp.

The two of them conversed away behind me, about what, I can't now recall. Divorce proceedings, I suppose, but it could have been other business. She was a powerful woman in her own way. Her father had owned one of the early Department stores in the city and sold it for a fortune as the story went, so she had money or appeared to have. Was that her problem - she was penniless? I sat there devouring the fresh memory of Mrs Broome's blouse, and forced myself to stay front and centre on my maths, when everything in me wanted to turn to my left and drink in the sight of her. An eternity later, the business concluded. I remember many mentions of a certain He/ Him; this He/Him was being a pain in the arse. They stood up and straightened out. I sneaked glances at that derriere as they took forever to get to the door, but Dad caught me out and scowled at me. She noticed me and called me diligent or studious, I can't remember which, and she followed it up with that smile. I remember the queasy sweaty palmed excitement that stole over me. I thanked her and pretended to get stuck into my homework.

For small reasons they stalled at the closed office door, taking forever to leave. The small talk got smaller and smaller, descending into near silence, and a weird intensity I didn't understand came over the room. It was as if my head got heavier, my blood thicker, more sluggish, so that with difficulty I turned away from my incomprehensible homework to my father and Mrs Broome. Why wasn't she leaving?

My father had his left hand on the door handle but hadn't taken action to open the door. Under the pretence of ushering her out, or positioning her in front of him, he stroked up the inside of her thigh. Up and over and cupping that wonderful arse, he stroked up the cleft to the top and then started over again. I saw everything from my desk. I'm positive I stopped breathing. It was a terrifying wet dream, which I was sometimes having at night except I was awake.

My father stayed turned away from me. She reached out and with one hand steadied herself against the doorframe. She looked down at the ground, or at the door; I can't remember which. My father kept mumbling something inane to her, Yes, yes, we will have to wait and see, Mrs Broome, yes, of course. It could have been dirty talk. Whatever dirty old Ted was hoping for eventuated because with a yearning groan she hitched her skirt up three of four heart exploding inches, spread her legs wider than shoulder width apart, placed both hands up against the door and pushed her questing derriere high into the air. She moaned, 'Bloody hell, Ted' and then my father had to remember me.

I had been the quietest little sparrow.

With his back turned, I guess I was out of sight out of mind. His eyes nearly popped out of his head as he took me in. I hunched over at my desk, vainly trying to hide my stiffy. He ordered me out. Mrs Broome must have forgotten me as well. Turning around, with her face flushed and her eyelids so heavy they looked as if they would never fully open again, she took me in with a wide-eyed glance. Seeing something in me she recognised, she gave me that supreme smile. The saucy tart knew what I was about to rush off to do. Stiff-legged, I awkwardly shuffled past. Bundling her over towards the desk, Ted hoarsely asked me to close the door on the way out. I dashed to the toilets and barricaded myself in a cubicle. It was the first time I masturbated. I got most of it on my school shorts and spent an age trying to sponge it out with wet wads of disintegrating toilet paper.

I crept up to Ted's office door after I cleaned myself up, but there was only a tomb-like silence. I crept back along the passage. The entire firm was a tomb as I made my way outside. Dad's offices were near the port then, and I headed to the water and sat on the wharf pilings near the usual crusty old fishermen, and watched and listened to the sea slapping against the woodpiles. Without fail, briny sea air always makes me remember Mrs Broome's seedy but glorious office seduction. And one day a young woman called Maya walks into the firm where you work, decked out in snug-fitting office attire, with a body that takes you back.

You tell your Mother what you saw this afternoon and your little life won't be worth living, Dad snarled at me on the drive home later that evening. I guess a feisty or rebellious kid might have said, Fuck that, I'm telling Mum everything, but I didn't. In many ways, I respected as much as hated my father that evening. No, more than respect, my adolescent self was in awe of him; awed that he could seduce Mrs Broome, who I believed could have any man she wanted; awed that he could make her respond to his touch in such a way she lost control and surrendered herself to him. I suppose my fledgling sexual brain recognised or thought it recognised power when it saw it, a power of sorts over other people, specifically over women.

12.

Scotty walks right past me when I head back into the firm. He gives me one of his brisk greetings and a curt nod. 'Braithwaite.' Beyond that... nothing, just the usual midmorning office hum, a timeless busy period before pre-lunch anticipation starts and work slows. I can't even remember where I've been, nor for how long I aimlessly walked the streets, my cuffed ear throbbing redly. Outside Baxter's office, I listen for shouting, crying, or wailing from inside, but there's none of that. No one loudly demands vengeance. Has she left? Is this the aftermath of her resignation, the eerie calm before the storm that will engulf me?

I hear the furious thumping of keys on a keyboard a metre from the door. It can't be coming from inside Mz Froomey's office? The firm's ancient hard-wired head secretary is off for her annual summer holiday to her family in Aussie. Wait, the noise is coming from within Froomey's office. Her door is open. Someone is inside using her computer.

Maya.

Blasphemy, outrageous blasphemy. Even in my dire state, Maya's irreverence shocks me. Not even Baxter dares such a thing. She looks up from the screen. No red eyes, wet cheeks, or soggy tissues in a pile. Her hard level blue eyes say everything.

'What do you intend to do?' I ask, cautiously entering. It's a floral scented bear's cave.

'How do you know I haven't already done it?' she says, sitting back and giving me a once over.

'Are you doing it now?' I ask, waving my hand at the computer screen.

'I'm drafting my resignation, outlining in detail what happened in the copy room this morning. I'm cc'ing it to Mr Baxter, Tina, and the other senior lawyers, and my temp placement officer,' she says, smug. She doesn't even know the names of the other lawyers yet.

She might exaggerate, but my hot hands and groin have done more than enough. On a macabre level, I'm glad I didn't completely lose it. A true neanderthal man might have hiked up her skirt, tugged down her panties, and yanked out the wonder wand. The thought of standing in the boring toner reeking copy room, waving my wonder wand around makes me want to laugh. She sees something going on with me and narrows her eyes. If this is it, better to get it over, but it's false courage and empty brazenness.

'I'll wait for the assassination squad in my office,' I say, falsely bright.

In my office, I hear her clatter out of Froomey's lair and follow me. Why bother when you have the ammunition at your disposal? Click click, email sent: Goodbye, Julian Braithwaite.

I stay behind my desk as she quietly closes the door behind her and confronts me. She is furious, her jaw clenched. Prominent blue veins pulse at her temples. She stands in the middle of my office and folds her arms. She glances around in much the same way Baxter did when he was last in here. Who is this guy? What does he do?

'Look, Maya, what I did was inexcusable. An apology isn't any nearly enough.'

'And what do you think is enough, Julian?' she says.

She will not make this easy, and of course, she shouldn't. Then it clicks: Maya sitting in Froomey's office, an impossible feat to achieve, as Froomey keeps it locked whenever she is out. So Maya has a key to Froomey's office, and even more staggering she has acquired the password to Froomey's computer. How did she do that? She has only been at the firm five minutes. Blasphemy. Froomey wouldn't have entrusted it to her, the old Septuagenarian wouldn't even have heard Maya's name yet, let alone give her the run of her office, which she has never done, ever, to anyone. Click Click Click. She hasn't followed me in here worrying over her trespassing in Froomey's office, oh no, she is not afraid of that, no way; the real message comes through loud and clear.

'You want Froomey's job,' I state.

'Eventually, yes,' she says, relaxing.

'Well, I can definitely help you,' I say, without hesitation, but with no idea how. It occurs to me I won't do it. Mz Froomey, like Stuart James, is an institution here. Short of murder, or waiting for Froomey to die, there's no way this busy little upstart will take her position. I should tell her the truth and see what happens. She answers that question for me.

'I've saved a draft outlining your, what? Despicable behaviour? It's just a click away from Mr Baxter's in-box, isn't it?' she says, smiling sweetly.

'I'm thankful for what you're doing for me, Maya,' I say.

In reality, I want her to leave so I can collapse and sob until lunchtime. So stupid, I should have left the copy room the moment I saw her in there, or to be precise, saw her big round bottom bobbing in front of the copier. I should have turned and walked straight out, but something similar or worse would happen, either with Maya, or someone else. Coffee at Zion, anyone?

'I'll give you time. I hope the other lawyers have favours you can call on,' she says, and gives me a wink.

'What do you expect to happen, in terms of?' I say, genuinely puzzled.

'Get me assigned to a lawyer, any lawyer but you,' she adds.

'If I do that will you promise to delete that email and promise not to tell anyone?' I say.

'Can you make it happen?' she says, hedging.

'Yeah, yes, I believe I can,' I say, lying.

13.

Everything is prepared. My own homemade garlic-packed lasagna drips with cheese. Perfect. Perfect? Well, lasagna isn't haute cuisine. I racked my brains for a comforting non-challenging meal without being boring or bland and arrived at lasagna. Breadsticks from the Italian bakery, with assorted cheeses and meats, and olive oil from a massive bottle I bought from a fancy foodie shop, sit spread out on a platter. Not least but not last, two big (also bought) slices of baked cheesecake for desert wait in the fridge, before the finale: relaxing up on the mezzanine and consuming a box of Belgian chocolates I bought at that same foodie shop, Caramel.

That's not how it's working out.

The words come out of Sophia's mouth with so much mindless conviction I've stopped listening. Instead, I follow the trajectory of the spat flecks of cheesy meat sauce and pale pasta onto the tabletop, where they seem to disappear as if the little pieces of matter are so insubstantial they evaporate upon reentry into the world beyond Sophia's mouth. Although, what a mouth, and those lips? It takes a heartbeat of thought if that and I again re-experience their cool lusciousness on my cheeks and imagine them on my lips. What is she talking about? The Iraq War, we've lit upon the Iraq war. The illegal war, she calls it, and gives me another look I can't fathom, and then asks me whether President Bush should pull the troops. She vehemently believes he should (I offer the spat food as proof) but I find it hard to buy her arguments; they seem transparent. To withdrawl or not to withdrawl? Such a redundant argument. They can't stay there forever.

I know bullshit when I see or hear it, but I make a dumb show of believing her even if I dislike myself for doing so. I've my reasons, obviously; her frilly lingerie panty band peeking up above her jeans is one. It's just... it isn't hard to imagine a pumped up, self-righteous, teacher at the front of a classroom holding court with his or her inflated second-hand media-skewed opinions, while the spoon-fed Totoroa girls sop it up in anticipation of unleashing it on their parents and siblings, or tonight, me. I drink more wine and finding my glass empty again refill it. If I drink enough, I believe I can drown out the monologue and the looming presence of Maya's threats. Jesus, Maya. Two days have passed since the Incident in the copy room, but already Maya has asked me what I intend to do with what she calls her problem. I suppose, considered in a different light, ambition can be seen as a problem.

Of course, he had to retaliate, Sophia is saying, in reference to September 11 and Bush's invasion, and she asks me where I was when it happened. The Big It, she calls the Twin Tower's destruction, although it happened in another country, a metaphorical million miles away from here. I want to remind her we are not a State of America and what happens in America, but she is so passionate I don't want to risk angering her, or getting hit with that whole compassion plea. Come on, think about the thousands that died in the towers and what if it were your loved one's lost in the smoke and rubble of that morning? Tragedy transcends states and nations, that's the underlying message, but please don't mention tribal wars and the resulting genocide of thousands upon thousands of people in African countries that have reliably rumbled along for decades now, or what some Asian countries will do to its peoples in the name of progress, and when I say peoples, I'm talking millions. Is an argument what she wants? Does an argument get her blood up?

In bed, I tell her, I was in bed, and I turned on the morning news and bam, there it was, billowing smoke and everything. I shake my head and want to continue, but she isn't listening. She starts up about George Bush being an illegal President, and again she gives me a knowing look, and then rambles on about illegal ballots and Al Gore's legal challenge and it clicks. She is trying to impress me. Legal this and illegal that. Doesn't she understand? The last thing a lawyer wants to talk about at the end of the night is the fucking law? I squint at the second wine bottle of the evening to see how much I've drunk. Too much. She isn't drinking, again, the driving excuse.

Neither one of us has brought up my sordid little confession from the last visit. She starts up on her many and varied opinions, and it's impressive, not just how much she can talk and eat, or how much she can pretend to understand, but the fact she has so many passionate opinions. Full of zeal, or I suppose, full of something else and possibly that's the problem; she is too young to understand anything, but young and bright enough to believe she knows everything and feels entitled, no, obligated to tell people. I guess I was the same - a passionate young know it all - spoon-fed to the gunnels by the sombre self-important Masters of Rathven Heights Boys. With time, she will lose her passion, zeal, and selfless desire to give a shit beyond whatever little world she exists in. Would I want to know her then?

I down the dregs in my wine glass, hoping anything any action will distract myself from the sudden silence. Sophia ploughs into the rest of her meal. I've finished mine: I can't remember eating it.

'Is everything okay, J?' she asks between mouthfuls.

One of those vague, open-ended questions again. Everything? Things are okay, I suppose, other things aren't.

'I've been talking way too much, haven't I?' she says.

Yes, she is more concerned about herself and her image than my state of mind.
'I've been drinking way too much,' I say, mimicking her exaggeration of waaaaayyyy, waaaayyyy too much. I brandish my empty wine glass as evidence.

She sips her wine and pretends to enjoy it. Her whole teetal-total thing makes me wonder if she is alcohol intolerant and driving home an excuse to dodge drinking even one glass. Imagine if somebody turned up and I had a schoolgirl passed out on the couch? Technically, she is not a schoolgirl anymore. Scant consolation. She shovels in the last mouthful of lasagna on her plate. Now that's genuine appreciation.

'You're such an amazing cook, you should be a chef, you're wasting your talents being a lawyer,' she says.

'A good chef never accepts compliments,' I say, not knowing if that's true or not. Standing up, I sway on the spot. I make a start on clearing up the dishes, but the amount of concentration I'm exerting on this simple task is ridiculous.

'How about lawyers? Do they accept compliments?' she asks, smirking up at me.

'Always, any time, we're sponges for compliments, they're so rare. I'm sorry, Sophia, the chef thanks you for the compliment,' I say. Placing my plate back on the table, I perform my best and deepest bow, but have to catch myself on the back of a chair. Is she noticing this? She doesn't let on. She pushes her chair back and makes a prim and proper curtsey.

'Baked cheesecake?' I ask. The words are as thick in my mouth as I imagine the cheesecake mixture to be. The thought of rich cheesy creaminess makes me nauseous.

'Shit no, I'll explode,' she says, and makes a show of patting her sexy little tummy.

'Yeah, same here,' I say, but what a disappointment. I can't help being disappointed. I get her back inside the house, out of that pool, and go to the trouble of creating a fine meal with exquisite deserts she doesn't even want to eat, and wine she refuses to drink, and I've got myself plastered. So what now? Sit around stealth farting, burping, and talking politics? She gets a bustle on and oozing domestic confidence gets stuck in clearing the table. Straightaway she drops a knife. On my polished concrete floor, it bounces around, a metallic tinny version of chalk on a chalkboard, and apologising she chases after it. Bending over to pick it up, her black teeshirt rides up the small of her back and reveals the panty band stretched tight in a perfect arc across her brown skin, a line of sexy stitching on flawless fabric. Now all I can think about, all I can hear is that stupid singsong: Have you heard about the Hot-Handed Man, got caught with his hand in the cookie jar...

That won't stop me.

In the cookie jar, the cookie jar got caught with his hand in the cookie jar, it won't go away, I can't get it out of there. As I list around the end of the table, Maya's face tumbles up in there, buttoned-down stone-cold Maya. Sophia carefully places the knife onto a stack of dishes as I approach.

'I'll give you a hand,' I say, cupping my hand on her arse. I give it a squeeze, much harder than I intended. She gives me a frightened yelp and bats my hand away.

'Jesus, J,' she says.

'Oh what? You're no fun tonight, eh?' I say.

'Really?' she says.

'Oh crap, Sophia, that was, I'm bloody sorry,' I mumble.

'I know how much I challenge you, J,' she says, and turning away from the stupid dishes, she faces me.

'My hands, my bloody hands,' I say, holding them up in front of me. The slime hands, the evil hands, these hands that shalt not touch... office secretaries in the copy room, shalt not...

'I'm in so much trouble, Sophia,' I whimper. Stumbling to the table, I slump against it and try to stay in place without sliding to the floor. I might whimper I'm that drunk.

Sophia is making cooing noises and has taken my hands in her own.

'You're so alone, J,' she shouts, or it sounds as if she is shouting.

'I need help, I can't be trusted around women, my hands, my horrible evil fucking hands,' I say.

'Can I help you? Would you like that?' she says.

I try to laugh but it's hard work trying to keep my head raised. Can Sophia help me? Can a schoolgirl help me where professionals have failed? How could she help me? By screwing me? I guess that might help, but would it?

'You could dress up in a maid's uniform and tickle me with a feather duster, you naughty little pixie,' I say, but I'm having an awful moment of clarity through my intoxicated fog; I watch my slurred words tumble out onto the floor at my feet in a puddle of fermented red-tinged lumps that once resembled lasagna.

Later, at four o'clock in the morning, I find her note in the middle of the cleared and wiped clean dining table. She has even removed the puddle of vomit from the floor.

Good grief J! I hope it wasn't the lasagna! (Ha ha) Thanks for the wonderful meal.

(If you wanted to have fun tonight why did you drink so much? Duh.)

I'm sorry you're going through hard times. Don't worry. Sophia will help you!

Until next time,

S.

p.s. Something you said tonight inspired me. Do you like playing games?

14.

The late nights of waiting take a toll. I overheard someone at work, maybe Scotty, call me a sleepwalker behind my back the other day. The historic house sale shifts from shambolic to comic. Now everyone is singling the firm out as the problem, but it's hardly my fault if the rest can't get it sorted. How can I straighten it out when nobody can decide? The house owner, Olivier, can't even figure out what he owns. So the potential buyer, a Mizz Gamble (yes, one of the city's famous Gambles, of the Gamble mansion by the beach) keeps making these weird discoveries whenever she peruses the building. Apparently, she found a back room full of unused large bakery ovens, and now she's trying to get them listed in the chattels for the original asking price.

How can Olivier not know he owns a bunch of bakery ovens?

Revisions revisions revisions, and what's worse young Stuart appears to be copping it from Baxter. Stuart can't keep track of the documentation that needs constantly updated and photocopied, and he can't type to save himself and needs constant direction. The poor guy has big black bags under his eyes. Maybe Scotty was calling Stuart a sleepwalker?

I was contemplating turning in for the night when I hear a cry of glee ring out over the courtyard. Sophia has discovered the stepladder I left by the fence. She runs straight past the pool - thank God - and bounds up the steps to the main living area. No schoolbag tonight, this time she has a large and heavy looking black sports bag.

'Here I am,' she says, stepping inside.

She may as well have said, Ta-da!

'Are we having a pyjama party?' I ask, pointing out her big bag.

'Better than that,' she says.

I'm not sure what to make of it when she un-ties the red ribbon, un-rolls and flattens the pages out onto the dining table. She must have found a word-processing template that uses ornate borders; the A-4 pages look like an old-fashioned legal document, or something out of a cheap pirate film. She keeps the ribbon and tucks it into her jeans pocket - not her sexy jeans. Tonight she wears a pair of skater's jeans, baggy enough to hide a caravan fridge inside them.

'The rules of Sophia Quinn's and Julian Braithwaite's Game,' I say, reading the title aloud.

She makes us snuggle up on the living area sofa. I gather the pages and skim over the headings: Lessons, Rewards, and Punishments. I don't like the reference to punishments and tell her so.

'Start at the beginning and read it through, it makes sense,' she says.

The Game, she calls it. I read the first part, a general introduction, and want to tell her it looks methodical but vague on details. I don't.

There will be lessons in which Sophia tempts me to lose self-control (my dangerous hands, she points out) and based on my performance (how well or poorly I do at keeping my hands to myself) she will award me a grade: unsatisfactory, satisfactory, or exemplary.

Now it gets trickier. Based on my lesson grade, Sophia will mete out a reward, which may involve me being allowed to get my hot hands on her (my heart beats faster as I read this part) or a punishment, to be chosen and in her words "inflicted upon my body if necessary" by Sophia. I don't like the sound of that and tell her so. I want more details. What are the lessons to be? What do they involve? And the punishments? What is she going to inflict? Pain? Real pain?

'Are you scared, J?' she asks, looking closely at me.

'This won't work unless you fully commit,' she says.

I wonder if she shouldn't be committed.

But I swear a solemn oath: I will abide by the rules of the game and will absolutely follow through with any demand she makes in relation to said game in the general interests of improving my behaviour and overcoming my hangups. Rolling up the sheets, she re-ties them with the red ribbon. She tenderly tucks it away in her bag. I can't take it. The little vixen now has physical, legally binding evidence of our relationship. Imagine if her parents, or friends, or a teacher she may be in contact with saw this and noted the names? They would find out who I am quick enough. I'm only an internet search away - we all are at the firm - and I'm already a city curiosity, the Hot-Handed Man. Imagine this getting out?

'Nobody will see this, right?' I say, more forcefully than I intend.

'Of course not!' she says.

'I'm sorry, but you know what I'm talking about, eh?' I say.

'Do you know how much shit I'd get if my parents found out about this? About me coming here? God, you're so weird sometimes,' she says.

She hands me a small white envelope to open, but only after she leaves to "prepare" in the master bedroom. I ask her to be careful, 'Don't knock over The Natural Woman in there, Quinny', but she doesn't appreciate my attempt at humour and scowls at me. I open the envelope as soon as she is out of sight. A list of instructions. In her immaculate printing, she asks me to ready the vacuum cleaner, cleaning rags, and "cleaning product" which I take to mean Pledge or something. Plus tasty nibbles, preferably "small fruits" (small fruits?) and a "refreshing non-alcoholic beverage."

Gathering and preparing the list only takes five minutes. I make a lemon/lime/bitters and dig out the Belgian chocolates I've kept in the back of the fridge since our meal date. Now I wish I'd taken longer. I can't stay in one place for long, I'm that nervous, curious, excited? Not even Kelly would do this, and I don't strictly know what we're doing yet. I keep thinking about that big black bag of Sophia's. And Kelly.

I talked to Kelly earlier today at the gym. With fantastic tone, and less orange from fake tanning than her usual umber-glow, she seemed interested in my life. I can't even remember what she said now. Not true, she asked after Bernie, of all people, and I rambled on about how I haven't heard from him and how he had reconsidered his life and now practises law for a pittance in Auckland, helping under-privileged people, or abused children, I can't remember which. She gave me a big smile and I can't figure out if it was for me, or if she was happy to hear about Bernie's life changes.

15.

Even though I had a hunch of what was coming, I rush up off the sofa. Transforming from baggy-jeans and hoodie into a high-heel strutting garter belt-wearing maid, complete with a material tiara and white fluffy duster, appears to have wiped the sullenness out of her. She struggles to suppress her pride; a smile threatens to break through her haughtiness. Her black skirt is so short a more apt description might be micro-skirt, and the thigh-high black stockings, complete with suspenders, make me want to grovel on the ground at her feet. She hasn't even done anything yet. Her white blouse is crisp and a tad voluminous in the chest, but that doesn't make her any less desirable. My imagination works hard at the silhouetted black lingerie bra, and I start towards her with my bad intentions. She shoos me away with the duster.

'You'll have to do better than that,' she says, and clatters over to the dining table where I've arranged the goodies. I made a pile of the "cleaning products" on the floor next to the vacuum.

'Wow, delicious,' she says, tasting a chocolate.

'I hope I've met your requests, Madame,' I say, not keeping small fruits in the house.

'Madame? That's a good start, J, a good start,' she says, waving a half-eaten morsel at me.

'And what are we to start on?' I say.

'And what are we to start on, Madame,' she corrects.

She sips the drink and makes a face. She may not have tasted fresh lemon lime and bitters. People my age don't drink it, so I can't imagine younger people drinking it.

'God, that's delicious too. I'm taking the eats and drinks over to the couch. Better get started,' she says, pointing out the living area.

'Madame?' I ask.

Get started on what? Cleaning? Vacuuming the floor? Why bother dressing up in a maid's uniform if I'm the one doing the work?

'Start with the luxing, J, we'll discuss what else needs done around here later,' she says.

Sophia shuttles the eats and drinks over to the sofa. Making herself comfortable by lying on her front, she gobbles chocolates and watches me vacuum. The last thing the living area needs is cleaning. I work the house cleaning on an area-by-area basis: the master bed and bath, the guest bed and bath, the living area and mezzanine, the kitchen, and last, the side bathroom. The garage and basement once a year. I never fall behind or shirk from it. The last area I completed was of course the living area.

I get stuck in, but it's hard to focus. No doubt she does it on purpose. Coyly kicking her legs, she turns over onto her back and makes a show of arranging her stockings and the garter belt. God only knows where she got that garter belt; I don't want to think about it. She tells me to focus on the job. Yes Madame. Remember the rules, she reminds me. Yes Madame. If I do the work with complete absorption, the lesson will end and the fun will begin. After two minutes of cleaning, she swears. She has dropped chocolate on her skirt. I offer to help her, but she cheerily waves me back to work and heads off to the kitchen. To dab the chocolate out, I suppose. Focus. Focus now, fun later, I repeat to myself as I crouch and vacuum as far as I can under the majestic second-hand cabinet I bought from Clay's Antiques.

Little does she know how much pleasure I derive from cleaning. Meditation comes in many forms. She clatters back, but I stay focused. Focus now, fun later, focus now... her perfume arrives ahead of her, and then her skirtless legs are right next to me.

'You're quite conscientious, aren't you?' she says, bending over to examine my work. She sashays back to the couch and I take in every centimetre of the luxurious journey. She resumes her position on the couch and nibbles another chocolate. Teasing, she licks the chocolate with the tip of her tongue.

'Back to work,' she calls out.

'Yes, Madame,' I say.

Not long after the skirt incident, Sophia heads up to the mezzanine and moments later descends. She glides over in my direction and inspects my efforts. It involves a show of bending over, and I realise I've been vacuuming the same spot the entire time. She directs me back to places she believes I've missed. Here. Here. And here. I drag the vacuum back over but I'm hard to put to see the missed dust or dirt.

'Where, Madame?' I ask.

'Right here, I know you're not blind,' she snaps.

I vacuum the fictitious dust but that's not enough for the stroppy one.

'No, you're missing it, get on your knees and do it, maybe you'll see it then,' she says.

Jesus Christ. On my knees and feverishly working the same area, she stands so close beside me her crotch is practically in my face. Over the whine of the vacuum and its hot dusty aromas, I swear I can smell her lap-scent; a moist sweaty heat-tinged urine and perfume pong.

'That's much better,' she says.

'Thank you, Madame,' I say.

'You should now direct your efforts under the dining table,' she states.

Back on the couch, she resumes her chocolate nibbling. Under the table, on my hands and knees, I more easily sneak peeks at her. She catches me out and again asks me to focus. Trying not to bang my head on the table struts, I repeat my mantra: focus now, fun later, focus... she swears again. She has dropped chocolate on her blouse. I offer to get her stain remover from the laundry but she waves the offer away. She kicks off her high heels and pads into the kitchen.

I miss her return and don't notice the clothing omission until I glance over at the sofa. She has draped the blouse over the back of a dining chair, and wearing just lingerie and stockings, settles on the sofa. She makes a motion to kill the vacuum. Carefully and elegantly, she swivels off the sofa and approaches me.

'Come out from under there,' she commands standing next to the table, so that all I can see are her glorious thighs.

She orders me to grab the rags, Pledge, and glass cleaner, and with fluffy duster wielding Sophia in the lead, we head up to the mezzanine.

'I don't suppose you want to take a Playstation break?' I say, letting the Madame slip. I check to see her reaction. She is totally serious.

'I noticed your cabinet needs work,' she says.

She is referring to my media cabinet and I experience a stab of irrational anger. The bloody thing does need dusting, and I make a mental note to step up my cleaning program.

'Yes, Madame,' I say.

She settles on one of the couches and the sight of her in black lingerie on plush black leather is picture perfect erotic. I set to and get busy. I wonder if she will order me to polish The Eternal Embrace, and this worries me. I've never cleaned it with product, only dusting it and giving it a buffing with a dry soft chamois. What if she orders me to lather it with Pledge? Would that damage the surface?

On the verge of asking her when the lesson will end, because surely, surely, I've shown exemplary control, I move onto the glass cabinet's right door. About to unleash glass cleaner on it, I notice Sophia in the door's reflection. She is behind me, over my right shoulder, lying fully stretched out. She watches me in the glass door's reflection. I make a few dry swipes on the glass to keep up the pretence. I watch her change position and re-orient herself at the opposite end of the couch, her back against the cushions. She draws her left leg up to her chest and un-snaps the suspender clasps at the top, letting the thin straps drizzle down her thigh. I hold my breath. So this will be it. She will ask me to... no, she re-clasps the belt and smoothes the stocking. The action reminds me of stroking a cat's back; a very sexy cat's back.

I am lasting I will outlast her. We can't do this all night. She must have a time limit on the lesson's length and to be honest I'm getting tired. I am tired. I want a heads up, or encouragement, but she is comfortable enough hanging out in her knickers on my furniture. As if sensing my unease, or my boredom, she rolls over onto her front and this time unclasps her bra. Watching me in the reflected glass, the bra strap ends spill open like a heathen God's birthday party invitation. She props up on her elbows and the shoulder straps run the risk of slipping off her shoulders. I remember her suspender belt shenanigans and bide the seconds, polishing nothing, and instead watch the play of muscles in her brown back and take sneaky peeks of her breasts as she fusses.

'I have a problem with my brassiere. I wonder if you could help me?' she asks.

Can't I latch a bra strap, sorry, a brassiere, without losing control? I can do that. Be quick: hitch hitch, done.

'Yes, Madame,' I say, and then I wonder. Am I supposed to refuse her? Is this the real test?

That stupid song starts up in my head as I ditch the rag and glass cleaner: Have you heard the one about?

'What is the problem, Madame?' I ask, standing beside her and gazing at her undeniable splendid-ness.

'I want you to do my brassiere straps up for me,' she says over her shoulder. She playfully keeps the bra cups covering the goodies.

What seemed easy by the television screen and media cabinet seems next to impossible now. I fall back on the one thing that has a chance of getting me through this. I remind myself of her age. She may not technically be a schoolgirl now, but to me she is definitely a schoolgirl. I remember her ludicrous school bag on her back, and the pin festooned Blazer; her school socks pulled up to her knees, and the way she rolled them down and tugged them off before she slipped out of her skirt...

'You just need to do it up,' she says, again looking over her shoulder at me.

Without remembering when, I sit right on the couch edge and lean over her. I've both strap ends ready to pull together and clasp. But I'm not looking at the strap ends. I'm looking in the opposite direction; taking in her body, the small of her back, the swell of her bottom and along her toned, stocking-clad legs. In my steamy dream, I let go of the bra straps and position myself further along the couch. I run my hands over the lingerie panties, my lips hovering above her skin as they follow my hands. Cupping the inside of her thighs, I ever so gently prize them apart so that repositioning myself I can take her thighs in my hands and bury my face between her legs...

She rears up and thrusts backwards so hard she knocks me off the couch with her arse. I land heavily on my side. Sophia scrambles to latch her bra and I take a second to realise what has happened. I wasn't doing it in my head; I was doing it for real.

'That, J, is an unsatisfactory effort,' she says, and giggling, she pads away towards the stairs.

'I'm sorry,' I call after.

'You can put away your cleaning stuff,' she calls out from below.

Where does she get her self-control? Is my touch so awful that she isn't seduced, or even tempted?

16.

She hasn't changed out of the maid's uniform, so the game must be afoot. I changed out of my work clothes into a pair of track pants and a plain, grey, warm hoodie I wear when I'm blue.

'Are we in game mode, or can I talk normally now?' I ask.

She gauges me. For whatever she has planned next, I guess.

'Firstly, J, you're doing really well. I know you don't think you are,' she says, hitting me with a full-beam smile.

How does she know that? How can she know I am doing well without having done it before? Who is she? A novice initiate in an ancient school of bondage, discipline, and psychoanalysis?

'Secondly, J, do you have a garage, like, with a bench, you know, a workspace and stuff like that? And tools? Do you have any tools?' she asks.

'You mean, power tools?' I say, alarmed. What does she need with power tools?

'No, well yeah, I need tape, or string?' she says.

'Are you going to tie me up?' I say.

She doesn't satisfy me with an answer. I send her on her merry way to the garage. She lugs her sports bag with her. I call it a garage, but it's a second story basement with a massive area set aside for storage space; one wall, from ceiling to floor comprises large plastic draws. Most of them are empty. My ski-gear is in one of them and another has my winter jerseys and jackets. I've often considered installing a sauna and a spa pool, but I've never got around to it. Other times I've contemplated setting up a bar and a pool table, or even a billiards table, but again, never got around to it.

Sophia is impressed and fossicks my bench and shadow board and through my rolling steel toolbox. I haven't opened the toolbox let alone used any of the tools in it for God knows how long. I ask her if she has everything she needs. She is so excited she doesn't respond. She sends me back up the stairs.

'No peeking,' she says, closing the door.

'How long are you going to take?' I try to ask her through the door.

She doesn't reply.

I try to pre-occupy myself from remembering my hands on her skin, her thighs, and my face pressing into that velvety smooth firm-softness. I tidy away the cleaning implements and Sophia's eats and drinks. Waiting, as usual, waiting for Sophia to present herself, always waiting. Minutes stretch to a quarter hour and a quarter to a half. I make myself an espresso and take it out to the sofa. I can't take my eyes off the doorway to the garage. What is in that bag? How is she going to punish me? My untouched espresso turns cold in the cup. Too nervous to eat or drink, I can't bring myself to believe she will go through with it, and I've decided she has lost her nerve when she reappears.

Whatever the object is, she holds it behind her back, but what are they are? Something, no - somethings - droop out to either side of her. A glimpse of leather. And wood? She has made something out of wood? She approaches me. I haven't moved off the sofa. She has that same conflicted glow on her face when she strutted out of the bedroom in her maid's costume.

'Okay, what is that?' I ask. I can't stay on the sofa. I have to see. The drooping things bounce slightly and make a funny woody clacking sound as she spins away from me.

'Oh, you'll find out, Mister Braithwaite,' she says.

'Come on, Sophia, let me see,' I ask.

She keeps spinning away and with a shock I grasp what the wooden drooping things are. I once bought an enormous stack of wooden venetian blinds from a second-hand store: long, thin, narrow slats stained dark brown, with dirty grey cords to raise or lower them. I had hopes to clean them up and hang them throughout the house, or at least in the bedroom wings, but once I got them home and dumped them on the garage floor, I experienced a moment of clarity. They were awful. They hardly cost anything, so I bundled them into an unceremonious pile in a corner. I guess Sophia's imagination fired at the sight of all that unused material and apparently hidden potential. Potential for what? Punishment? Who sees potential for punishment in a pile of old blinds?

'Come on Sophia, it's getting late, let's see it,' I say.

She agrees. Game mode descends. She holds it up in front of her. I don't get it. With the outermost slats drooping to either side, it looks like the skeleton of a massive hand-held paper fan, and she has gone to the trouble of winding... leather? Yes, she has wound thin worn leather strips an inch down from the tip of each blind. She has gathered the slats at the bottom by tightly winding one of the dirty blind cords around them, creating in effect a handle, and then used a wad of black insulation tape to seal the top and bottom of the wound cord in place. Likewise, she has done the same thing with the bottoms of the leather tips. Her intentions suddenly dawn on me. I'm not so naïve, but at this point I'm in denial.

'I cut old belts into strips, that's what took so long,' she says, watching me. I've a funny feeling leather belts aren't the only things she has in that bag.

'Are you going to do what I think you're going to do?' I ask.

'Yes, I am,' she says, trying to out-stare me.

'You deserve it for your unsatisfactory performance,' she states.

I swear she has grown an inch taller. Madame Sophia has returned. Game on.

She orders me to the dining table. I don't believe her though, that she will do it, and I stand my ground. The sight of her standing there in her sexy maid's uniform, holding a bizarre handmade instrument of bondage and discipline is having the opposite effect of what she wants. Better it were her derriere bent over the furniture while I wield the spanking device. The thought drives me crazy. I want to see how she will make me...

The first strike lands on my right thigh. I'd say it was unprompted except she wielded the device with an expert wrist-whip action. She must have practised in the garage. The other strikes are indiscriminate and less forceful. I stumble to the table, laughing to hide the panic and fear that grips me.

'Pull your pants down. Pull them down!' she shouts.

'Okay, okay, calm down,' I say.

'Calm down, Madame. Never tell me to calm down again,' she says, in a way that gives me the impression I will pay for my slip-up.

I work the trackies to my ankles, but keep my underwear on.

'Turn around and put your hands on top of the table,' she orders.

I don't enjoy the concept of that bloody thing stinging my tender buttocks. My thigh muscle is harder, but it stung like fuck that first time when she put effort into it. I follow the sound of her high heels as she moves into position behind me. I glance back. The tips of the device graze my underwear as she measures the distance. Her intensity and focus freaks me out.

'Don't look back,' she says.

'Yes, Madame.'

If I play the game by the rules, she might lighten up on me.

'You've forgotten something,' she says.

What now? I called her Madame, didn't I? I don't want to incur further wrath. What a nasty bitch she becomes with a spanking device in hand. I aim for middle ground.

'I don't understand, Madame,' I say.

'I asked you to pull your pants down,' she says.

Does she mean my underwear? Really?

'I don't understand...'

With her free hand she tugs at my underwear and then steps back to her carefully measured distance.

'Do you understand now?' she says.

17.

Strapping and caning was banned by the time I made it to Rathven Heights Boys. My father might have experienced something similar except I'm receiving it from a red-faced schoolgirl, instead of a red-faced school master reeking of mothballs and beef casserole. I tug my underwear part way down, but too slowly for Sophia's liking. She must have what people describe as having your blood up. Again stepping forward, she uses her free hand to help me tug the boxer shorts the rest of the way; I hear stitching rip on the violent descent.

'Take it easy, take it easy,' I say.

She instantly reprimands me for not using the moniker, and orders me to place my hands on the tabletop.

'You get extra lashes every time you look back,' she says, grazing the rough tips of the device across my buttocks.

The question is out before I check myself. I've presence of mind to add the Madame. I want to know though: how many lashes?

'How many do you think your unsatisfactory performance tonight demands?' she replies.

She carefully times the lashes to allow for anticipation, without being long enough to allow time for recovery, or harbouring a hope the punishment has ended. The sound of the slats compressing and solidifying into one solid object as the blow impacts on my poor marshmallow flesh is impressive, a whistling rattle that becomes a loud crack. Did I mention the searing, stinging pain? I swore the first time, but the Madame forbade me to talk, and I've been whimpering between clenched teeth with each strike, panting and sweating as if I'm doing steep repeats on the Nordic Track. My buttocks are numbing. They must be bleeding, or at least red. Striped? Whatever is happening back there doesn't slow Madame Sophia. She has said yes to herself a few times now, which I find interesting, on an objective level of thought: Yes. YEs. YES. I've a hunch that if I glanced back, I would see the young Madame getting off. My punishment: her reward. That sucks.

It's obvious she expects me to break. The imposed silence and the measured strikes are designed for max psychological damage. Fuck that. I will not break. Those slats will break over my red arse before I yield, and something stirs in me at Sophia getting off in her lingerie. I glance at my crotch. Indeed.

'I will do better for you next time, Madame,' I shout.

'Yes, you will! You will!' Sophia shouts as the next lash lands.

My buttocks are so numb the sting has gone out of each lash. Now it's just a hot flash, and the impact sounds worse than the reality. I will not give in and I thrust my arse higher in the air.

'I will perform better for you next time, Madame!' I repeat.

'Good boy!' she shouts, in a tone of voice that suggests everything about her state.

I imagine her nostrils are red-rimmed and flared as she raises the device before whipping it. I even fantasise she has removed her bra. I picture her pert sweaty breasts jiggling and bouncing as each blow lands and her powerful thigh muscles shifting under the stockings and suspenders.

'Promise me!' she shrieks.

'I promise Madame! I will do better, I will do better...'

The blows land indiscriminately now and lack the power of the earlier, timed lashes. Has something gone horribly wrong back there? I lose it for a moment, imagining the slats dripping with my buttock's blood. No, she is the one losing it. Her cries intensify - Yes, YEs, YES - then drop. Then stop.

Over my own breathing, I hear Sophia catching her breath. I take a risk and glance back at her. With her forearm, she wipes sweat off her forehead. Her spanking device, held lightly in her right hand, dangles and droops, and her other hand presses against her lap. Jesus. Even though she hasn't removed more clothing, she is a sight. Her tiara is askew on her head, and lends her a sweaty, kinky dishevelment. I turn away, bent over the table. I'm as hard as a bone, but my arse is on fire.

'Wait there,' she says.

She gives me a radiant smile when she walks into sight. Wordlessly, she trots off towards the kitchen.

I straighten and gently touch my buttocks. Even that slight sensation makes me think of prodding raw room temperature steak: tender or tough? My physical excitement dies, and I pull my underpants and trackies up to cover my crotch, but keep my arse uncovered. I listen to her moving around in the kitchen; running taps and thumping ice trays against a bench top. I'm in denial. She thrashed my arse to a pulp with a weird get up she made. Who does that? She calls out from the kitchen; I can't make it out. Not more punishment? I'm weak at the knees. She emerges from the kitchen with a damp, carefully folded towel.

'Sit on that if you can, or press it against your butt,' she says, handing me the ice-cube filled towel. She rushes off to grab her sports bag. By the sofa, as I arrange the soothingly cold towel on a dining chair and try to sit, Sophia changes back into her jeans and hoodie.

'Are you leaving? Right now?' I ask.

'Parents, remember?' she says, pulling on her sneakers.

'You can't leave me? I might need medical attention,' I say.

The scary thing is, I think I do. A salve or lotion, you know? I can't sit on the towel because the pressure on my flesh hurts too much. I stand and try to press the dripping towel against my buttocks. Ice cubes slip out and skitter across the concrete.

'It was supposed to be a punishment, J,' she says, gathering the bag. She will leave. That's stone cold.

'I feel suitably punished Sophia, but I might need help here, eh? How bad is it? I can't feel my arse!' I say, panicking. What if I need to go to hospital?

This makes her laugh. What a bloody sight. How will I work in this state tomorrow? No, today? Christ, I'll only have a few hours sleep before the alarm clock clobbers me awake. I haven't been able to assess the damage back there. She smirks at me. I know it now; I am a bloody sight. She won't leave me if I need help?

'I trust it will increase your desire to improve,' she says, and then she's leaving, walking through the open sliding doors... what a pompous little bitch!

'Hey! Sophia!' I shout. I hobble to the doors, but I'm too late. I catch sight of her hoisting herself over the fence. I want to shout that she can shove her deranged game up her arse. She would only laugh.

My track pants and underwear low-riding, I shuffle into the garage. I try not to imagine what the damp towel will do to my Audi upholstery as I lower myself into the driver's seat. I'm that focused on getting round into Broad Street and catching up with her, I don't even bother to close the garage door or lock the house. Groaning like a bull or a peeved cow, I ease into first. Changing gears causes friction on my buttocks and the resulting pain makes me want to scream with rage and frustration. How could I let this happen? I take comfort from the fact I'm not the first guy in history to complain of post-thrashing buttocks from a woman, no sorry, a girl dressed in a maid's uniform. The damp towel is comforting, so I try to focus on that and get moving. It will take her less than ten seconds to run through the pines. How far away is her parked car? If she doesn't have a parking arrangement with her pale friend, Becky, she may have to park a block away to avoid being seen and her car being spotted. I guess I've accepted that Sophia lives nowhere around here.

Broad is quiet. I drive right to the bottom T-intersection, on the lookout for distant cars brake or headlights: I see nothing. God, it's a ghost town this time of the morning. Streets empty of traffic, vehicular or otherwise; no one out walking a dog, and no insomniacs out taking a late night/early morning jog in svelte tracksuits and running shoes, like you see in American films. No lights on inside any of the houses. A world asleep. Yes, good tax-paying people sleeping, dreaming, or restless with the stress of the coming day: work/no work, money, bills, mortgage payments and car payments. Fuck that. Fuck all that. The heat in my buttocks spreads and achieves a whole body glow. I'm experiencing an epiphany. I'm awake. I'm awake and glowing and epiphanic because a naughty schoolgirl, a crazy naughty pixie; the weirdest most insane most fun person I've ever met, spanked me with old wooden blinds. I struggle out of the car, and with the delicious cool night air kissing my flaming arse, I tilt my head to the sky and wolf-howl. Those morons in their big boring smug Broad Street houses, asleep when they should be out here with me howling at the moon. An outside light switches on at one of the closest houses and I quickly shuffle back into the car.

I drive the big block. I've missed her. Fit and fast, I imagine she sprinted through the trees and made it to her car by the time I'd made it into the garage. I drive on. The silent world creeps past. I compose the phone call I will make to Baxter a few hours from now. I can't go to work. I'll have a migraine. Yes, that will do, a migraine.

18.

Early this morning I make my migraine excuses to Baxter. I was in real discomfort from my welts at the time so I'm sure I sounded convincing. I've never had a migraine in my life. He told me to hunker down, stay in the dark, and take Paracetemol. He might've been giving directions to a mushroom.

I've waited all evening for her until I run out of patience and drive to the nearest 24hr. I don't find her there and asking for her draws a blank. No one at that store has ever heard of Sophia Quinn.

Over the following nights, I start my search in earnest with stores in nearby neighbourhoods. The city has more 24hr stores than I've ever realised, and I can only search for so long. My arse is smothered in a wad of gauze from a roll I found in my first aid kit, and gets stickier and more uncomfortable with each oozing minute. I don't want to risk missing her should she show at my house, but my search spreads further across the city, a time consuming, slow moving stain. I ask at a few 24hr's towards the end of my shifts, as I call them, but the employees either don't know her and don't care. Or they treat me with suspicion, a guy obviously trying hard to be unrecognisable with an uncomfortable condition that makes him shift his weight from foot to foot.

What started out as a genuine desire to see her beyond the pool and house; to see where she works, or how cute or drab she looks in her uniform - anything to find out more about this crazy young girl who is turning my life inside-out, takes on a darker intent as the days pass. Why can't I find her? She works at one of these stores. I've seen the uniform as proof, haven't I?

Night after night, I search. Driving. Waiting. Buying and eating terrible junk food so loved by drunken students and loved by me in my day. Lasagna Toppers dripping grease, tomato sauce dipped battered hot dogs on a stick; pies, and kumara fries. I'm putting on weight. I can't effectively exercise yet, my healing buttocks weep and stick to my underpants. As if that's not enough, I've got Maya's intense, calculating eyes boring into me every time I venture out of my office. I can hear the days hours minutes seconds ticking over in her mind.

I'm spending more and more time in my office this week and even turned down one of Baxter's power lunches, citing my workload as the problem. It was true at the time; I was on the phone with Mz Gamble, who I know wanted to give me an earful but restrained herself.

I'm on the verge of giving up when I see her bounce out of a 24hr in Applethorne, miles away from what anyone I know considers anywhere. I'm only out here because I reversed my search process and drove out to the absolute last place I expect to find her. Ta-da. This store even has grills covering the windows, and a heavy looking steel-bar-gate to swing over the doors at closing time. What is she doing working out here? This location is the edge of nowhere, the city's outer rim, the edge of a long sprawling suburb that people in Audi's don't drive into, not because it will get stolen, although it could, but because people in late model Audi's aren't welcome.

She gets into a truly crappy, rusting black Honda, and rattling roars off straight out of the blocks. I expect her to turn or take an exit, but a straight arrow she barrels further into Applethorne with her elbow resting on the driver's door, her hand up on the roof, and the other on the steering wheel. She could own this part of the city, her own private playground. A weird noose, the summer night closes in.

This can't be where she lives. On a cramped street where houses fight for elbow room, and often fight gravity to stay up on sure footing, she pulls up and parks outside a dubious specimen. This one is set apart from the others with a low, leaning, once painted wood fence and a gate hanging on its hinges. I park further up the street. Thankfully I haven't needed to turn my headlights on, so other than the fact most of the cars parked around me are at least fifteen to twenty years older than mine and eaten away by rust, I haven't given myself away. She hops out and lifting and dragging the stubborn gate open briskly heads up the short path to the house. How can she live out here and go, sorry, have gone to Totoroa Girls?

Whoah.

The man, definitely out of sorts, a tall and probably once impressive guy long since gone to flabby, grubby shame, storms out of the house and onto the front verandah. That brings Sophia up short. Even without the car door window down, I could hear him. Most of the street must be able to hear him, but no one emerges out of doors or appears out of sorts. Shouting, swearing, and apocalyptic with rage, but not at Sophia, thank God, no, he shouts and swears at someone inside the house. Someone is told to get fucked, and fuck off, and why don't you - I see it happen. Jesus, I think I hear it - the crack as his back goes out twisting away from Sophia to shout more abuse towards the house. He hunches over in agony and locks in that position. One hand on the small of his back, he staggers to the front steps where he semi-collapses onto his knees and grimly hangs on to a rickety-looking handrail, his jaw gritted so tightly I imagine finely ground white powder gathering on his bottom molars.

Sophia tries to help, but he is so heavy all she can do is keep him safely locked in place. She shouts a request for whoever is inside the house. Nothing happens. No one emerges. She tries again and again nothing happens. The man, I guess it's her father, tries shouting over his shoulder, but Sophia calms him. She makes sure he's secure, and carefully untangling from him runs into the house. Frozen in place, the poor bastard hunches there. From my position in the car, it looks as if he's trying to deep breathe through the pain. What else can he do?

Glass of water in one hand and pills in the other, Sophia reemerges and helps him with the pills. I hope they're strong pills, Codeine, at least. The inhabitant emerges. A small wiry-looking woman, born with shot through grey hair and wearing a once presentable tracksuit, struts out onto the verandah. Kneeling beside the man, she says something to him. He doesn't appear to answer. The woman waits. Looking stricken with anxiety, Sophia uselessly fiddles her fingers in her lap. Then the grey woman laughs right into the man's face. She could be beside the Audi's open window her laughter carries that far. The man hangs his head and his shoulders slump. His humiliation reminds me of a huge dumb animal giving up the fight for life moments before a bullet enters its brain. Satisfied, the woman turns away and heads back inside, leaving Sophia shouting after her. I catch her: 'Mum, Mum!' The woman doesn't return. Defeated, Sophia turns back to the Man and urgently talks to him.

I've seen enough. I start the Audi and tiptoe into a three-point-turn that directs me back up the street. She doesn't look away from the man the entire time. The Man. That's her father? And the cruel grey creature? Is that really her mother? Neither can have so much as a millilitre of Maori blood in their veins. Sophia may have one Pakeha parent, but there's no way she can have two. Divorced parents, or parents through adoption? Neither fit the bill as parents of the young girl with the plum in her mouth, but then how often does that plum slip? The Totoroa Girls student that works in a 24hr dairy, scrabbles over backyard fences in her school dress, swims naked in stranger's swimming pools, and moonlights as an educating Dominatrix to an older man with impulse-control problems.

The lies stack up as I drive home and surprising myself, I throttle off and shift gears. I'm doing ninety in a fifty zone. I'm gritting my teeth as hard as that poor man trapped on his front verandah.

Sophia Quinn. I bet it's not even her real name.

I have a question for you, Miss Quinn, naughty pixie and trespassing impostor: Do you like games?

19.

Kelly accepts my invitation so easily it makes me wonder why I haven't asked her earlier. She even allows me to pick her up and drive her out to my place, with the one thing she swore off eating years and years ago carefully nestled in her lap: a pale gooey-looking plastic wrap covered desert. Has she changed or have I? She was always so demanding and had such high expectations of what she wanted from her beau, or should I say, beaus, that it became stifling. Looks. Muscles. Money. Sexual prowess. Macho new age sensitive charisma. Is she still the same? I've spied her from afar at the gym, talking to tall streaks of hunk, but was she flirting or conversing? There's been no mention of a boyfriend or a partner.

The pleasant evening unfolds, and we get stuck into her strange lemony hybrid marshmallow-cheesecake desert with relish. She even has seconds. That's a first. I catch myself glancing out at the pool. Will Sophia arrive? The potential satisfaction of Sophia seeing me with my gorgeous dinner date, a woman of my age no less, loses its allure, and I wonder at my eagerness to watch the scandalous young upstart scrabble over the fence and run back to her rattling Honda.

Kelly says she thought something was up, which gains my attention. Why else didn't I cancel my gym membership and join another gym? Apparently, she has been waiting for an invitation to a meal, a movie, or just a drink for ages.

'For bloody ages, Jules,' she says.

I can't help laughing at that. Few people call me Jules, and I've always thought it the natural nickname for someone called Julian. My giddiness abates. She has such an easy way with men, especially with the guys she trains and others she meets or works with in the gym. So easy it's as simple as meeting one of them in the car park across from the gym for a quick session in the back seat, while your supposed boyfriend, the serious thing, unknowingly pulls up and parks right alongside. Her hair caught my attention that day, a flash of bright copper out the corner of my eye. But I didn't have to catch her at it. The evidence was there in the contemptuous looks I received from guys in the gym, and the latest stud on the block shadowing her as she strutted past on the balls of her feet, as always taut toned and umber. Their eyes said, yeah, I've had her, mate, she's all right, she's a good stick, eh? But what's with her lame boyfriend?

Maybe she has been striking out? Is that why she is here with me tonight? Or has she put that behind her, and now we could get back together? Jesus, this seesaw state of mind. Then I hear it. Arrival. I wince and look out at the pool.

I must have heard her on the stepladder.

'Hey J, you joining me? It's beautiful out here!' Sophia shouts, but the enthusiasm dies from her voice. I'm positive she sees Kelly. I made sure of it. I stood out there earlier this evening and trotted back and forth, adjusting the inside lighting until there was a clear view of the main living area and the dining table from the pool. Sophia is dressed to kill again in the mouthwatering jeans, the snug teeshirt, and black high heels. And the lingerie? The poor girl looks as if she has swallowed a tumour. Is this the revenge you were hoping for, Braithwaite?

'Jules, why is there a girl standing beside your pool?' Kelly says, staring out at Sophia as if she doesn't trust what she is seeing.

Ahhhh, there goes my naughty vixen.

'Jules? Jules! She's taking her clothes off! Julian!' Kelly gasps, horrified but laughing. She is halfway up out of her chair, apparently unable to decide on a course of action.

Of course she is taking her clothes off, I want to say, she always does, but glancing away from the stripping Sophia, back to the half-standing Kelly, I now comprehend how much trouble I've got myself into and how much worse it will get.

Kelly spins away from the now naked Sophia, who dives into the water. Kelly wants answers. What can I tell her? Hasn't she seen enough? My imagination kicks in and it rolls away in front of me: I see Kelly first thing Monday morning, bursting to tell her colleagues and any gym-goers who know who I am, and it wouldn't matter if they didn't know me, Kelly would tell anyone just out of curiosity, or to get a second opinion. Many of those gym-goers are lawyers at other city firms. That's why most of us go to that bloody gym in the first place, it's thee city gym to work out. I'm not including Kelly's girlfriends and boyfriends she will call as soon as she is on her way home - and how is she going to get home? Am I going to drive her home? Jesus, awkward? She can't ever tell anyone what she has seen tonight, ever. But how do I achieve that? I can't believe how stupid I've been. No, not stupid \- yes, stupid - but how... I can't even find the words.

'Is that girl a friend of yours, Julian? Is she your girlfriend?' Kelly says, deciding to stand.

Out in the pool, we both watch naked Sophia swim lengths.

'Yes, kind of. Okay, yes, she is, no, look, it's a long story and it's...'

'Not what it looks like,' Kelly finishes for me, deadpan. She starts towards the entrance and grabs her jacket and handbag on the way.

'Kelly,' I say, following.

'Are you fucking her or what? Jesus Julian, how old is she?' she hisses.

'It's not like that, she swims in the pool, that's all, she's just a friend,' I add, but it's too late.

'Naked? And what? You join her? Or do you just watch? She took her fucking clothes off in front of us and she looks like something out of a dirty old man's fucking Playboy magazine!' Kelly shouts.

'Look, we'll talk on the way back to your place,' I say, but she wrenches her cell phone out of her handbag and brandishes it at me.

'I'm calling a cab, and no, Julian, you're not driving me home. I'll wait for it outside,' she says, heading for the door.

'Kelly, Kelly!' I shout, stopping her at the door.

'You can't, it's a stupid mistake,' I say, shaking my head. A series of faces whirls around in my brain; Sophia, Maya, Baxter, Kelly, and seeing Maya and remembering Maya's deal nearly sends me to the ground, a crumpled heap.

'I can't what?' Kelly says, squinting at my hand on her arm.

'You can't tell anyone, it's not what you think, honestly, it isn't,' I say, removing my hand.

'You're sick,' Kelly says, and she blows past me, out into the night.

Sophia.

I sprint back through the house and out onto the courtyard, between the Pohuts and - she is gone. I could jump in the Audi and chase after Kelly, but she will have disappeared. She won't hang around waiting for a taxi on my doorstep. In the mood Kelly is in she will sprint until she can only jog then jog until she can only walk and then she might call a taxi. Narrow alleyways and ladders comb the hills up here that walkers and joggers use. Kelly knows them all she has spent enough time over the years running these hills. She is gone. They're both gone.

20.

Inevitable and unavoidable, Maya follows me out of the firm to Quick Fix, a tiny café two blocks from the Square. I guess I drove Maya to it. I've been hiding in my office all week hitting redial on my cellphone... Kelly's number. She never answers. I even refused another Baxter power lunch. My excuse? Too much work. It's the first time I've ever seen him genuinely surprised. He didn't reply, just nodded once and left. In reality, I sat at my desk, surfed the Internet, and ate a ham sandwich I bought at a bakery on the way into work.

With two small tippy plastic tables and plastic chairs, Quick Fix coffee is average and the food - muffins and the like - is always stale. You can rely on the two harried sullen staff to be fast even if the results are average. The cheeky minx follows me in and moves up beside me. Her distinctive perfume hits me first. A rich, mellow scent that lives in an atmosphere between vibrant toilet cleaner and your floral grandmother sitting beside you at a funeral. Then she presses into me. It's cramped enough in here to permit a pressing, but still. Normally I'd dream of a compromising position such as this, but it's making me nauseous. Maya. Kelly. Sophia. Kelly won't answer my calls and I can't even get through to her at the gym. She is always 'busy' with clients. And Sophia? My bottom stripes are healing, scabbing and itchy at the edges. I believe she will come back. What will I say to her? Even though I shouldn't have to defend myself to her, I'm sure I won't enjoy the nature of her return. Now Maya rubs up against me, a slinky cat cut loose on a scratching pole.

'What do you want?' I ask.

'Who's Little Mr Grumpy today?' she says, laughing up at me over her glasses. Those horn-rimmed glasses. She either slides then down her nose on purpose, or it happens naturally; regardless, I hate them. I want to snatch them off her face and grind them under my shoe heel. It's as if she's trying to be an old woman before her time. I wonder if bony old Mrs Froomey started out like this a long, long time ago? It's hard to imagine.

'Yeah? What does that make you? Little Miss Vicious?' I say, angling forward to the counter. I ask her what she wants and order and pay for her. Better to keep her on my side until I can figure out what to do. Thank God it's busy and loud enough in here that conversation is difficult to make. She gets in one remark before we barge out. Looking straight into my eyes, she says, 'I'm surprised you can keep your hands to yourself.' I tell her I've no idea what she's talking about, but she can see right into my dark soul. She can see the slime on my hands.

'How is it going, our little campaign for yours truly?' she says, on the walk back.

I try walking as fast as I can, without spilling or dropping anything, hoping to make it as difficult as possible to talk. She must work out because she isn't distressed, not even out of breath.

'I'm working on it,' I say, realising I'm the one that's out of breath.

'I thought you were hiding in your office,' she says, taking a sip of her coffee.

'That reminds me,' she says, as we approach the entrance to the firm. Shit, what now?

'Charlie was looking for you, you'd just left,' she says, Cheshire-smug.

'Maya, look, I'm working on it, okay?' I say, at the bottom of the staircase leading up to our floor.

'I hope so,' she says, gliding past.

She leads up the stairs; her derriere a hypnotic metronome swaying from side to side in front of me that sets my right hand to twitching. I go straight to Baxter's office. His looking for me isn't something the officious Maya would joke about; she takes her job too seriously. Turns out he is too busy to see me when I politely knock and step inside his office.

'Later on, mate, I'll come see you,' he whispers, covering his phone's mouthpiece with his hand. He squints at me for a moment then returns to his call.

I wait in my office all day. He doesn't come to see me.

21.

Rising, rising, I rise from the depths of a deep sleep and swirl up to noisy splashing and Sophia's wild laughter. What fucking time is it? We need to sort this out, this turning up at odd hours whenever she wants. I drag myself out of bed and stumble over to the blinds. Even my groggy state can't squash my elation: Sophia has come back, Sophia has come back. Wait. There's two voices out there, two bodies in the water. Readying to open the blinds, I pause. An excitement indistinguishable from fear or even dread grips me. It's Sophia and she has brought a friend. A girlfriend? Are they both naked in my pool? A voice, a young male voice suddenly booms out over the courtyard. Furious, I cinch the blinds up to the top and look out at the pool.

She wears her bikini, which gives me scant consolation. He is young, long-limbed, and buff-ish. Wearing just his underpants, a droopy pair of patterned boxers, he dive bombs off the edge and sends Sophia screeching and scurrying for cover. What did she tell him? They're out there carrying on as if no one is home. That must be it; she concocted a story... the owner away and out of the house is the obvious choice. But how could she know that and explain that to the boy without giving away our relationship? That and the unavoidable fact the owner watches on from inside the house.

They don't appear to be close; there doesn't appear to be any touching between them other than loud play fighting. Who is he to her? Is this her boyfriend? I've never considered it, although it's so obvious, now she slaps me in the face. Of course she has a boyfriend, or boyfriends. How many boys flirt with her in the 24hr? Her dark, deep brown eyes and the body that even her drab uniform can't hide. Such a fool, I feel such a fool now. What did I expect to happen after Sophia saw me with Kelly?

They slide into an embrace, not especially close. Sophia dangles her arms loosely around his neck, and I can see his hands on her hips, but it's enough. They startle and look up towards the house, but only the boy shows surprise: I'm banging the window with the flat of my hand.

The boy swears and clambers out of the pool. Slower, Sophia follows and makes a sexy show of getting out. In no way does she show she knows me as they retrieve their clothes and pull them on over their wet bodies. Laughing the entire time, the two jog across the lawn, the boy leading. I guess I expect it - she turns and pauses. Looking over at me, she curtsies. It only takes a second. The boy doesn't see. Solemn, I salute her back, lesson learnt. She turns away and scarpers off after the boy. They meet at the fence and laughing and swearing go over in a loud flurry of activity. The night resumes its silence.

I stay in the bedroom, looking out through the windows at the pool. For how long, I'm not sure. Silence. How am I going to keep everyone: Sophia, Kelly, Maya - especially Maya, who is so contemptuous of me she thinks she can play practical jokes on me with Charles Baxter. How can I keep everyone silent? And Sophia? The liar, the upstart, the congirl, who brought a boyfriend right onto my property and into my pool while I was inside sleeping like an uncomprehending old man. Out of the three, it's Kelly I fear the most. In Kelly's hands, the story of Julian Braithwaite's nocturnal visitor can definitely find its way into significant ears. Even stranger, is the realisation the only friend I may have is Sophia, the one person more dangerous and infuriating than all of them.

This isn't the first time the young Pixie has sent me rushing out into the night with a case of the furies, and I bound down the steps and stride over to the pool. I don't know what to do. I should go for a relaxing swim. God knows I've been doing less exercise since my thrashing. Remembering my tender days of gingerly lowering myself into seats and chairs, my underpants material sticking to the weeping wounds, makes me even more furious. The water laps against the pool walls, calming now after their exit.

How long were they out here for? Quiet as a pub hours before opening, they climbed down the stepladder - the stepladder! What did the boy think of that? Then stealing onto the grounds, padding across the lawn and pausing at the pool, listening for inhabitants and watching for signs of life from within. What did they then do? I glance at the long comfortable poolside loungers. It's easy to guess. I bet she straddled and rode him until the young Neanderthal spurted in an unqualified, groaning mess.

I'm not sure when I've realised I've lost it. Is it rational to hate poolside loungers? They go in one after the other. Now a pile in the middle of the pool, a decent chunk of the last lounger protrudes from the water, an improbable iceberg. They weren't light, either. I lie on the tiled pool edge, exhausted and drenched in sweat. I've no idea how I will get them out of there. I don't much care. A calm clarity washes over me. I know what I have to do.

22.

Maya has been giving me significant glances all week and more than that takes and creates any opportunity to bend over in front of me or press in near me whenever I venture out from my lair. Sophia hasn't returned. I've reached the point I'd welcome her back even if she turned up with her boyfriend. I bought her lingerie, but how humiliating. The department store clerk, an older, heavily made up snooty woman, who treated my mumblings and lack of knowledge of these matters with disdain, threw me filthy looks as I handed over the cash. I may as well have walked away wearing a loud sandwich board blaring the word GUILTY stamped front and back, although IDIOT may have been more apt. That lingerie's nothing compared to what I'm about to offer Kelly.

The fear that Kelly may have told people about Sophia eats away at me, a corrosive fluid in my veins. I haven't been able to reach her but she can't hide from me forever. I know her habits and routines. By Friday lunchtime, Kelly craves a salmon and low fat dairy-free cream cheese bagel from the Organic Café that adjoins the gym and this is where I'll pounce.

I time it just right. I intend to be breezy and surprised to see her - fancy that, bumping into - but it won't work. I've called her at least a hundred times since Sophia's dinner date interruption.

'We need to talk,' I say, moving up beside her, as she accepts her salmon bagel and coffee from a ruddy-faced employee.

'I'm sorry, Kelly, you've left me no choice, you don't answer my calls,' I say, as we grimly head to a table set back against the far wall, as far from the windows and the street front as possible.

'Is it the girl? It must be,' she says, gazing sadly at her beloved bagel. This confrontation was inevitable; I guess she wanted it out of gym range.

'Jesus, Kelly, of course it's the girl,' I say, whispering, but why whisper? The espresso machine's screaming steam wand reminds me of a Boeing engine starting.

'I don't want to know who she is, or what's going on, or what your relationship with her is, okay? She might even be related to you, Jules, I don't care,' she says, shaking her head. She nestles her bagel in the middle of two unfolded napkins.

'Related? What? Okay, yeah, you can say you don't care, but have you told anyone?' I ask.

She takes a massive gulp of coffee then wraps the bagel. I'm running out of time.

'I haven't told anyone, Jules. I don't want to tell anyone. It's weird and creepy, okay? You've been up in that house by yourself all this time, and I thought you must be that bloody lonely asking me over for a meal. God only knows what you've been doing. I felt sorry for you before, I don't know what to feel for you now,' she says, starting on another gulp.

'But it's not that easy,' I say. Where do I start? How can she not get it? How can she be so naïve?

'Why? Have you murdered her, Jules? Have you buried her in the backyard?' she says, laughing.

'Kelly, this isn't funny, I need to know who you've...'

'No one - not a soul - all right? You have to believe me,' she says, pushing her cup away, the bagel now suffocates in a wad of tightly wrapped napkins. She stands. Discreetly as possible, I grab her arm and try to force her back into her seat.

'Get your fucking hand off my arm,' she says, her voice at a hiss.

'Okay, okay, don't go yet, I've got something to show you,' I say, letting her arm go.

I pull the envelope out of my back pocket and slide it across the table. She sits. She doesn't bother to pick it up, or open it. It's a fat letter envelope. I wish she'd take it off the table.

'Even if you haven't told anyone, Kelly, I need to trust you. A rumour like this,' I say.

'Oh, you're so fucking precious, aren't you, Jules? I need I need I need... you big dumb dweebs with your suits and your fake lives and your stupid fucking secrets,' she says.

'Kelly, this could ruin me. Do you know how much pressure I'm under at work? It's not just me, it's the firm, it's the Gambles, Kelly, do you have any fucking idea what that means?' I say.

'How much?' she says, indicating the envelope.

'Enough for a kick arse holiday somewhere hot,' I say. It's not a bribe, not really. She loves tropical vacations and her brief Gold Coast sojourns.

She slides the envelope back over the table at me.

'Well you take it, Julian, you take it and you go on a kick arse holiday somewhere shit hot with your little girlfriend, but don't ever, ever talk to me or see me again. I'm going to cancel your gym membership, okay? I'm going to do it right now and you're not getting a refund. Is that all right with you?' she says, putting on a hideously bright fake smile.

Even cancelling my gym membership won't be without ripples. How will I explain it to people? I can't afford the subscription? I dislike gyms? Perhaps I don't like the staff? Maybe there's a reason I don't like the staff, one staff member in particular?

'Don't make me do it,' I say.

'What? Do what?' she snaps, stuffing the bagel into her carry bag. Then the realisation, or I guess, something of it dawns on her. She freezes and stares vacantly at the tabletop as she considers the implications of what I mean and what I know of her, and what I might not know of her but can guess. I hope that's what she's doing.

'Julian, you caught me snogging in the back seat.'

'With a gym client? Is that part of the package, Kelly? So how does it go... part personal trainer, part-prostitute?' I say.

That one will hurt. That was how it started for us: personal training sessions. We used to jog over to a long series of steps that ascend to the Heights. Stair sprints, but with plenty of private spots underneath the trees and landings to stop and recover there was less sprinting and more kissing and fondling.

'You'll spread a rumour I kiss guys I train? Wow,' she says. Her tone is belligerent, but her shaking hands and ashen face tell another story. I can't wait to get stuck in now I'm on the front foot. I hate being on the back foot.

'Kiss? You expect me to believe that? You trained me once remember? Honestly, Kelly, everyone must know what you get up to except your manager, but there's a good chance you're bonking him too,' I say.

Her eyes are turning red. She understands the truth of it, an ugly truth. I guess she thought I wouldn't go there, but I'm too desperate for pride. I start in again while she's tangled up in the ropes.

'But the gym cares, doesn't it? The girlfriends and wives of the respectable men that come here, they care, eh? What if insane rumours start floating around? Female gym instructors and personal trainers using their positions to seduce and sleep with the men they train? What do you think will happen?' I say.

'Fucking shut up,' she says. I can't decide if she will hurl over the table, or hurl herself over the table at me.

'Respectable men, that's such a load of shit,' she says, but her voice catches and breaks into a sob. She glances round the café. To make sure no one she works with can see her, I suppose. I recognise no one.

'You have to promise,' I say, leaning over the table.

'You horrible cunt,' she says.

'I have to know,' I say.

'I hope you fucking shrivel up and die, Julian Braithwaite,' she says.

I take that statement as an agreement and stuff the envelope back in my pocket. I leave Kelly sitting at the table, clutching her bag to her chest and staring at nothing.

Job done.

Only when I get back to the Audi and settle in do I realise how much I've lost. Even if she snogged, or even had sex with other blokes, she was always there, a familiar if distant face, always ready with a sad wistful smile I now understand was an apology I never accepted.

23.

Drawn to the open doors of the main living area, I've only been leaning against the doorframe five minutes when I hear the clatter of her presence at the fence. I should've known. The girl from Applethorne. I haven't removed the stepladder. I couldn't bring myself to do it. She pauses at the pool and takes in the jumble of loungers. Something tells me she isn't interested in swimming tonight. She wears a short, light cotton dress with a dark orange and red floral pattern, and a black, short-sleeved shirt that looks good on her. Attractive but simple sandals with low heels, and she carries a large heavy-looking clutch bag, so she has designs of some kind.

But the pool knocks her back. In the early evenings, I often wallow around in the shallow end, and beer in hand gaze at the loungers and chart their perceptible colour fade. It's like having an artwork in your own pool, or a pool that's an artwork. I'm not sure which. The loungers are getting ruined and I haven't cleaned the pool in over a fortnight.

She doesn't move from the poolside. Is she wondering why, how, or when I did it? I call out a greeting but she doesn't answer. She looks from me then back to the pool. Even from here, she looks troubled. Terrified she will turn and leave, panic strikes. I rush down the steps and head towards her.

'How's it going, Miss Quinn?' I call out.

She turns away from the pool and heads towards me.

'You're right, J, this is no time for lounging around,' she says, smiling when we meet.

'Ha, ha, witty, eh?' I say.

As angry as I am at her, I need the game. I need to work on my problems. Yesterday evening, a woman shopping in the pasta and biscuit aisle at the Supermarket copped a blunt forearm brush of her boobs from me. Her nipples visible through the light fabric of her blouse, I tactlessly reached past her to grab a packet of Gingernuts. She hurriedly stepped away and shrugged on a light throw, tugging the material over her chest. I felt so... disappointed. She looked like she wanted to clobber me with a packet of biccies, but she said nothing. Her silence was crushing enough as she hurried away. I thought she was boosting straight to the management to dob me in, so I raced to the check out area. Nothing was amiss. I spied her in the fruit and veggies department on my way out, casually perusing the goods.

But there's always Maya, who gets bolder every day and even comes into my office to drop off mail or photocopying Stuart left behind in the copy room. She has easily taken over Stuart's general office duties. If his last name weren't James, I'd tell Stuart to watch out. A plus side should be Kelly's absence from my list of problems, but that gives me scant consolation. I hope you fucking shrivel up and die, Julian Braithwaite, she said. Did Dad ever have a woman say that to him? Regardless, her curse now battles for space in my bruised lemon mind with the hot-handed man... have you heard the one about? I wonder if they've stopped singing it at Zion?

Sophia waits for me. Best get it out of the way:

'I didn't know you had a boyfriend,' I say.

'I could say the same about your coppertop,' she says, thrusting her bottom jaw out. Now that I know where she lives, this pugnaciousness comes as no surprise. She won't back down or apologise. They're not known for behaviour like that in Applethorne. Glass you with a broken bottle, sure, but back down? No.

'She's not my girlfriend, she's an old... she was an old friend, we're no longer friends,' I say.

'Is it because of me? Crap. It is, isn't it?' she says.

'It's not your fault, well, I mean, you could try calling before you visit, but no honestly, I did and said some stupid shit. So this boy of yours, what did you tell him?' I ask.

'Nothing,' she says, and shrugs. She looks at her sandals.

'He's not my boyfriend, I don't have a boyfriend,' she says.

'So he's a friend? What does he know about me, about us?' I ask.

'Nothing, I wouldn't tell him...'

'Sophia, what did you tell him? How did you explain it? You were driving past and you said, Hey, there's a house over there that has a choice pool, let's go check it out?' I say. What I wanted to say was, Hey, there's a house on the other side of the city that's got a pool, lets jump in my crap Honda and go check it out!

'J, he doesn't know. And yes, that's actually how it happened, okay? We were visiting Becks, and I said, Hey, there's a house over there that has a choice pool, let's go check it out,' she says, her mimicry making me sound Neanderthal.

'You're quite the comedian, Miss Quinn,' I say, ushering her towards the house.

She hesitates and glances back at the pool.

'J? Why did you dump your furniture in the pool?' she says.

'Because I'm a lunatic,' I say, impatient to get going, I just want to get going. She drags herself away and we walk over the courtyard. She is waiting for an answer I won't, or can't give.

'How are things?' she says, and taking one of my hands, holds it up and inspects it.

I stop under the Pohutakawas. The contact of her hand in mine feels warm and solid. She drops it away and gives me an inscrutable smile. Without going into details, I tell her things aren't going so well. I explain my magic hands have got me into trouble at work. A woman - she tenses when I say this - that my impulse to touch (I don't mention worse things: grinding and gyrating) finds hard to resist. I explain this woman has kindly not told anyone (that I'm aware of) but I've a decent hunch there will be no second chances. She takes it in and her expression hardens into accusation.

'Do you like her?' she says, her eyes boring into me.

'No, I don't, definitely not, but it's a long story and you know. Let's get going,' I say, trailing away.

'I bought you new lingerie,' I say, as we head up the steps to the main living area.

'I hope you didn't buy me second-hand lingerie,' she says, but her quip can't disguise her discomfort.

Once inside, she orders me over into the office \- that cosy space under the mezzanine - and I reply, 'Yes Madame.' With no changing of clothes and no digging into her large bag, she orders me to my desk and asks me to open a new file on my laptop. Before Sophia's arrival, I was perusing the intricacies of covenants and heritage foundations. It's such a relief to get a break from it I want to thank her. She pulls a book at random off my shelves and I realise what I'm to be doing. Soon enough, I'm taking dictation from Madame Sophia - on commercial law of all things - out of an old book I bought at a second-hand bookstore when I was a varsity student.

She paces back and forth behind me and crisply recites the bone-dry material. She frequently leans over my shoulder in fragrant, fresh bursts to check my progress. Occasionally, her breasts graze my shoulders, or the top of my arm. God knows what she thinks the women I work with do, or how we interact.

It continues. By degrees, she takes up positions standing or leaning against the desk edge right next to me. It becomes hard to concentrate. Her skirt and top flatter her in a way I find hard to describe. The only word I have is womanly. Womanly? Yes, womanly. An inadequate description, but my mind drifts and I disassociate from the task. I imagine Sophia, her nipples protruding through a flimsy blouse while she shops in the pasta and biscuits aisle. Then I imagine Sophia in the copy room at work, bent over and banging the paper feed trays, then Mrs Broome pops up in there, my schoolboy...

'Pay attention! How can you have spelling mistakes?' she snaps, looking over my shoulder.

'Sorry, Madame, I will correct them,' I say, attacking the red underlined words.

We resume and fatigue soon leeches me. Sophia takes up a position sitting on the desk right next to the laptop. She folds one leg over the other and her skirt rides a long ways up her thigh. I could lean over and... I remember the last lesson up on the mezzanine, when I thought I was fantasising about touching her, only I wasn't. I try to refocus. Focus. Focus.

Focus lasts five seconds. My eyes dart back and forth from her legs to my screen. I summon my touch-typing skills so I can keep my eyes on her legs. She changes position. Shit, she spreads her legs open, not completely, but enough, and idly kicks her feet back and forth, which makes her thigh muscles bunch and relax with each kick. She isn't checking my work anymore. Her left thigh is so close now that if I shift my arm outwards... yes, my forearm just, just kisses her skin. She takes no notice; I experience the electricity of contact from my head to my feet.

I'm typing gobbledy-gook. I've no idea what she now dictates. She may have been reading aloud nonsense. If I lean to my left, I could see right up...

'Are you paying attention?' Madame Sophia asks, and leaning over, she takes in the long string of rubbish on the screen. Her neck is so close I could kiss it.

'That is unsatisfactory, you have failed this lesson,' she says, and snaps the book shut.

'I'm sorry, Madame,' I start, but she climbs off the desk and thumps out into the living area.

I trudge after her. She is digging around in her clutch bag. She stops and straightens up when I head over.

'You need to wait somewhere else while I prepare the punishment,' she says.

She must be able to sense or see my nervous excitement because she frowns at me.

'You need to take this seriously, J,' she says, for the moment, out of Madame mode.

'I am, I am,' I say.

'No, you're not! You have a problem being near women,' she says, so matter of fact I stop myself from laughing. But am I uncomfortable being close to women? If I could get used to being near a woman I might get over my urge to touch her, and if I could master Sophia's earlier lesson, surely Maya in the copy room \- any women anywhere - is safe from my slimy hands and hot grinding groin?

'And you have focus problems,' she says, again matter of fact. She is giving me the impression my focus problems are the least of my worries, but that one hits home. The nonsense I typed earlier - a long glaring string of red underlines - remains on the laptop screen.

'Yeah, yes, I guess I do. I don't know what to do,' I say.

'Try visualising,' she says, brightly.

She orders me into my bedroom. She has something in that bag, but it's not the spanking device. Is it a visualisation manual? She has a point. If I can visualise or focus on something other than her, I might have a chance of getting somewhere. I look across the room at Mum's Natural Woman #4 and decide it needs better lighting. Mum wouldn't want her lady badly lit, but then I have never figured out why she gifted it.

I grab the bathroom stool and by placing it beneath one of the room's four spotlight railings, I can reach the small but powerful spotlights. The screws are loose enough I don't need a screwdriver to change their positions, and with careful twisting, I change their angles and redirect the beams. Shuffling back and forth between stool, lights, and gazing at the Natural Woman, I settle on a lighting combo that does justice to her beauty. I've just finished the arrangement when Sophia enters.

'The punishment is ready,' she says, but not in Madame Sophia's tone of voice. This voice is light years less confident. Her bottom jaw juts out, so I know I'm in for something.

'What do you think?' I say, pointing out the glittering artwork, and pointing up at the lights.

'Oh yeah, that makes such a big difference, wow,' Sophia says, looking distracted.

'Did you try on the lingerie? Are you wearing it now?' I ask. The thought of her wearing the lingerie I bought and imagining her performing a sweaty, painful punishment makes my palm sweat.

'Yeah, uhmm, no, I'm not. Sorry J, I'm not. It's sexy, thanks so much. J? We might want to...' she says, waving her hand towards the living area.

Maybe it's her waving that moves air inside the room, possibly it's on her clothes, or her skin: I catch a whiff of something deeply unpleasant. The smell gets stronger as we head out of the bedroom and past the bathroom. Desperate, I ask her what she has done. It becomes a redundant question. Gagging, I pull my teeshirt up over my mouth and nose. She has smeared the source of the stench over my dining table. She hasn't smeared it anywhere else that I can see. I turn to ask her if it's human or canine - I'm certain it's canine - and prepared as always, she slips on a sterile surgical mask with elastic straps that go over the ears. A pair of bright yellow rubber gloves and an old brown kitchen apron lies on the sofa.

'I don't know why you're so bloody calm!' I shout. Is the table ruined? It occurs to me that the longer the dog shit stays on the table surface the more chances it has of seeping into the wood, forever staining and scenting it. A dog shit scented dining table, fantastic.

'Give me those,' I say, and push past her to the sofa. I throw on the stupid apron and pull on the gloves. I notice a bucket of water at the other end of the table. I make for this but she blocks my path. She holds up my toothbrush. She must have swiped it from the bathroom.

'You have to use this,' she says, her voice muffled by the mask.

'For fuck's sakes, Sophia, get out of my way!' I say, trying to get around her, without pushing past her again. She moves in front of me.

'You agreed to this, you have to do what I say,' she says, brandishing the toothbrush. I can't decide what I'd enjoy more, sticking it up her nose, or poking her in the eye.

'Not to something like this, I didn't agree to this,' I say. The stench isn't decreasing; the warm night air helps open out its bouquets.

'Yes, you did,' she says, holding the brush out for me to take. She wants me clean that crap off with a toothbrush \- my toothbrush - and a bucket of water?

'Did you really think I'd dress up in sexy lingerie and strut around for you?' she shouts.

'That's what I bought it for, genius,' I shout back.

'Well, it's too big for me, genius. Do you think I'm a bloody heifer or something?' she shouts.

She thrusts the toothbrush at me again and this time I take it. It's going straight back to the bathroom cabinet, and her lingerie will go back to the department store for a full refund; I've hung on to the receipt. She goes back to the sofa and digging around in her bag pulls out another mask and holds it out.

'Better get busy,' she says, eyes twinkling.

'This is unacceptable, Sophia,' I say, taking the mask.

'No, J, it's not, feeling up women in public places is what's bloody unacceptable,' she says, and whacks me in the chest with the palm of her hand. She snatches the mask back from me and tugs at the gloves on my hands. I tell her to stop but she is so determined she rips them off.

'What the fuck're you doing?' I ask, my eyes watering at the refreshed dog shit stench.

'I'm being too soft on you, you're not taking me seriously,' she says.

'Three hundred dollar lingerie sets? Isn't that serious enough for you?' I say. Seeping, seeping...

'If you're serious enough to spend that much money on ugly lingerie, you can get serious about the game. Oh shit, shit, that's it - I get it! You're afraid to lose,' she says.

'Don't be bloody stupid,' I say.

Armed with the toothbrush, I approach the table.

'I can't use the mask and gloves?' I say.

'You don't deserve to,' she says.

She watches me from the sofa the whole time. Her mask hides most of her face, and I'm sure that hides her self-satisfied smirk. I retch but hold the vomit back. I hurriedly scrape shit into the bucket (I'm allowed to empty and refill the bucket with sudsy lukewarm water) and as I scrape the last lumps off and start in on the surface with the toothbrush head's bristles, the weird thing is, I can't contain a warm glow from spreading through me. We both know there's more to this than a weird competition. There's more to this than being afraid of losing a game, but face it, Braithwaite, there's no way this girl will beat you.

'Are you going to take me seriously?' she calls out from the sofa.

'Yes, Madame,' I shout back, soldier-style.

She gives me an appreciative nod. If I thought things were weird before, I had no clue.

'Is the lingerie really too big for you, Madame?' I ask.

'Yes. Get back to work,' she snaps.

24.

It turns out Sophia scavenged her neighbourhood for dog pooh after she returned from her 24hr shifts. She collected juicy, ripe specimens in kitchen gloves, stuffed them into zip-lock plastic freezer bags, and then placed the bags in an airtight plastic container. Satisfied with my cleaning efforts, she told me she mixed the collections with water in my bucket to make it spreadable for tabletop application. Nice. How thoughtful. And there I was, fiddling with the lighting in my bedroom, while she was spreading shit. I'm not a hundred percent certain the smell hasn't ingrained itself into the wood. I've applied a special wood finishing oil multiple times since that lesson night, hoping the oil will lift whatever dog shit residue has soaked into the surface.

One thing I know after that night, well, two things: I will never let my fingernails grow beyond a millimetre, and yes, I will take her and the game seriously. That little Pixie will not and cannot get the better of me. I will beat her. And she may be right, her quip about visualisation, but what will I visualise that will keep my hot hands to myself? I never saw my grandmothers' knickers; both my grandmothers passed away when I was a kid. And I can't think about Sophia and not wonder about the boy she dragged over the fence. How much shit is she spreading around? I gave her the receipt for the lingerie so she can exchange it. At least the thought of her parading around in sexy underwear cheers me.

I'm daydreaming about Sophia's lingerie parade when Maya makes one of her unscheduled visits into my office. These visits aren't unnoticed. A few people, Scotty especially, keep an eye out whenever she enters my office. Stuart takes her impropriety with a shrug. He couldn't care less. The historic house balls up is how he describes the Gamble's latest venture. Worse, he says he's happy that Maya has taken over the paper bullshit, as he calls it. She took over his entire territory and he didn't even put up a fight.

And so the acquisition process drags on. The more bloody Olivier pisses around the longer the whole thing takes, which means the Gambles heap more pressure on the firm, which means more pressure on me. The Gambles' main concern, or nightmare, is Olivier selling the house to the Heritage Foundation because they think the Foundation is pressuring him into making the sale. I'm not sure anyone anywhere has ever pressured the infamous Olivier into doing anything he doesn't want to do. If only he or his half-arse lawyer would answer one of my bloody phone calls, we could make progress.

Maya quietly closes the door behind her. That's not good. Scotty will have his ear to the door in a minute if she doesn't reappear.

'Maya, how may...'

'You're not doing anything,' she says, folding her arms over her chest.

'That's a lawyer's prerogative,' I say, trying a disarming smile.

'You know what I'm talking about, Julian. I watch you every day and you haven't lifted one finger to help me. You remember our deal?' she says.

'I'm working on it,' I say.

She shakes her head and arrives at a decision. She turns to leave and I'm up out of my chair, approaching her from around the desk.

'I'm getting help, okay? With my problem. Honestly, Maya, I need more time,' I say. This turns her away from the door. For a second, the sumptuous vision of Mrs Broome pops into my head and I club it away with a heavy blunt instrument.

'Help?' she says.

Is she sorry for me, or does she find it funny? I can't tell.

'I'm trying, look, I've found a way... I'm in a group. It's kind of... therapy that might help me in situations like, you know, the one we, I, found myself in, in the copy room with you,' I say.

Her eyes are so moist I'm terrified she will cry, but not with tears of sorrow.

'Really?' she says, trying not to laugh.

'I understand you must be frustrated,' I say.

'Frustrated? Oh no, you don't know frustrated, Julian Braithwaite. I get paid nine dollars and seventeen cents an hour, half of what I should get paid because I'm still employed by my temp agency, who take half, no, more than half of my paycheck, every week. I'm not hired, I'm a trillion years away from being assigned to a lawyer, and you are doing nothing to help me. I'm giving you a month, then I'm burning you, okay?' she says, nodding slowly.

Fuck. A month? What can I achieve in a month? A decent chunk of that will be Christmas holidays. I point this out and she agrees I might need more time. I thank her. She doesn't appear to appreciate my humility.

'Don't fuck this up,' she says, narrowing her eyes at me and making a vicious moue.

'I know what will happen if I do,' I say, smiling through my terror.

'I don't know if you do,' she says, and stepping closer, she turns around and bends over on an utterly bogus mission to retrieve something off the floor, or to piss around with her shoe. It doesn't matter. She looks up at me over her shoulder and gauges my reaction. Her blue eyes smoulder with contempt and defiance. It's right there, of course, its tightly clad rude roundness nearly nestled in my lap. My hands, my poor hands, the poor things twitch, and she notices and smirks. She has one strike against me imagine a second or a third? She straightens, smooths down her skirt, and heads for the door. I don't even bother to stifle my sigh of relief. Please Sophia, another lesson soon, please.

'You're an evil bitch,' I say, my voice husky.

'You've got it wrong,' she says, leaving.

25.

I spy Maya's derriere disappearing around a corner as I head out. I haven't thought it through, but I'm heading straight to Baxter's office. A wild thought grips me as I approach his door, and I experience a splash of euphoria: Why not spill the whole sordid story out? Like my inappropriate visions of Mrs Broome, I club the thought away. What am I thinking? More to the point, what would Baxter? And thinking about Mrs Broome leads me down the rabbit hole to my father. Ted must have run-ins with the Maya's of the world. He probably always does. How does he deal with them? Does being a partner exclude you from such concerns? Or does he learn from his mistakes?

Baxter waves me in when I poke my head around his door.

'Have you got a minute?' I ask.

My earlier idea - spilling the beans - inspires me, so I inform the gnomic wizard that the temp secretary, Michelle? No, Maya? Yes, Maya, raised concerns about the hiring process around here.

'Are we hiring her, she seems efficient?' I say.

He looks surprised and glances around his office, God only knows why. Yes, the uber-temp is to be hired, and I resist going round behind that big desk and hugging the nuggety bugger. I can use this fortuitous turn of events. I can say I persuaded Baxter to hire her. Simple and easy: Maya, look what I did for you - you're hired! Too soon, too soon, Baxter explains his surprise at my visit, and asks me if I bumped into Tina on my way here. He has just sent Tina to inform the young Maya that she is indeed to be hired as soon as Mrs Froomey gets back from her holidays.

'Good as done, mate,' Baxter says, smiling.

Now Maya won't buy it, not that soon after she saw me. I could say I leant on Baxter to hire her, but she would see that for a lie.

'Knew I was onto a good one there,' Baxter says, and leans back in his chair in a self-congratulatory manner. Something troubles him, though, and frowning, he leans forward and waves me into a chair.

I know what he's about to get into: the bloody Gambles and their historic house debacle. It could be other things, like my love life, or drinking coffee at Zion. I wonder if Baxter has heard the one about the hot-handed man yet? I'm strangling the chair arms with a white-knuckle grip. I force myself to take a steadying breath.

Baxter searches his desktop for inspiration. I prepare myself. He's not known for mincing.

'I've been meaning to ask you a question, Julian,' he says, meeting me eye to eye.

'How do you feel about Stuart at the mo,' his work performance, how is he doing?' Baxter says, watching me closely.

Roundabouts, swings and roundabouts - truth be told, everyone knows Stuart's work performance is below par. It hasn't changed since he started full-time after his United States holiday when he arrived soaking wet with a thousand year stare. What can I say? I oversee a tall pale Zombie that cocks up the photocopying.

'I've often thought Stuart could do with some incentive,' I say.

'Incentive?' Baxter says, taken back.

'Well, the poor guy's been doing the same thing here every day since he started, I wonder if he isn't stuck in a rut?' I say.

It's obvious from the expression on Baxter's face he doesn't agree; I'd say young Stuart James is lucky to have a job here. Everyone knows, or will soon know about Maya's excellent work performance. Baxter's endorsements are rare, and Froomey is due back in a few days, so I guess Maya will be a full-blown employee of James & Baxter by the end of next week. That's a scary thought.

'I've never heard Stuart James described as poor, that's a first,' Baxter says, regarding me hawkishly. One thing he obviously didn't see happening was Julian Braithwaite championing the inept Stuart James. Surely, the rest of them won't be on board? Getting rid of affable if always tired Stuart? Where's he going to go? He doesn't even have a varsity education.

'Stuart hasn't been making life difficult for you, with the Gamble contract?' Baxter says.

I'm at a loss to describe it. Yes, Stuart isn't the most helpful character, but it's not entirely his fault. Shit, it's more my fault than Stuart's. Baxter gives me a quick, satisfied smile. Yes, message received: Stuart has to go he has outstayed his tenancy. Jesus. Poor Stuart. No parents, no education and now this, but Baxter's got a point; regardless, Stuart James is hardly poor, or ever likely to be.

'No, well, it's getting sticky,' I say.

'The problem is with taking on a new assistant full-time, we don't have room for Stuart anymore,' Baxter says.

I nod and I hate myself for doing it.

'I'll keep you informed, but ah, thanks for bringing the young woman's concerns to me, Julian,' Baxter says, and gives me a brisk nod.

I get up to leave but the bastard hasn't finished.

'Julian, hey listen mate, this whole Gamble thing, the house acquisition, it isn't too much for you at the mo' is it?' he says.

And there it goes. It's not enough to squeeze me by forcing Stuart out, oh no, the message isn't clear enough. Why not ask me if I have two balls in my scrotum, or give them a good squeeze himself?

'Too much? No, no way, I'm good, Charlie, it's just messy,' I say.

'I'll be keeping my ear to the ground,' Baxter says, and giving me another brisk nod, returns to the papers on his desktop.

I flee along the corridor towards my office but not before catching a smug-looking Maya staring at me from around a corner. Tina obviously informed her. I head past the fateful copy room and without having to check, I know Stuart is in there hunched over the copy machine. His loud swearing gives him away. Ear to the ground, indeed.

26.

Maya's eventual hiring hasn't appeased her ambitions. Getting hired is just the start, she said, when I confronted her in the copy room the next day, the day after seeing Baxter. The deadline holds, she informed me, over the copying ruckus. Jesus Christ, what does she want? Where will it end? Her last name hanging over the door, right beside James and Baxter's? I asked her what will happen if I don't achieve what she wants from me. Yeah, yeah, she mentioned the email she drafted and has saved and then said other stuff but I wasn't listening. I was at my office door before the rest of her speech hit home. That other stuff. She mentioned numerous other indiscretions. What indiscretions?

'Oh, I'm sure there'll be more before the time's up,' she said, when I rushed back and asked her for an explanation. She then made a big deal of stretching her arms high above her head, which pressed her blouse material tight against her chest. I could see her bra's sexy, frilly edges. She gave me a sly wink when I paused at the door and glanced back. 'Sexual harassment can cut both ways,' I said. She made a shushing motion and blew me a kiss.

With the week I've been having, it's only right I should get an unexpected call from Old Ted tonight, the Old Teddy bear. By the end of it, I want to thank him for calling me. Baxter isn't the only old bastard with his ear to the ground. What's going on? Ted wanted to know, right away. Through the grapevine - his old contacts, I suppose - my father has heard something disturbing about me, and Charles Baxter. First, I'm making a horse's arse - a horse's arse! Ted shouted - of a Gamble property deal, something Ted then solemnly informed me, one does not do. Second, Baxter wants to make a clean sweep of the old guard, old fogies left over from Eustace James' day. Apparently, Baxter has expressed an intention to take the firm in new directions. Ted ventured it's an excuse to cut wages.

Charles Fucking Baxter.

'So what's wrong with you? What's going on?' Ted asked, more than usually brusque.

What could I tell him? It's tricky. Oliver's holding out. What am I supposed to do? I'm a lawyer not a real estate agent. He had an answer, he always does. Money. Get the Gambles to throw money at him, don't muck around, he said. He then asked after Bernie, and if he's had his annual visit - no, not yet \- and he asked after Mum, and then Lindsay.

'Have you been keeping in contact with her, Julian?' he asked.

'Uhhm, no, have you?' I shot back.

'Yes,' he said, 'he has.'

Edward Fucking Braithwaite.

And now, Sophia Fucking Quinn if that's even her last, or her first name. I'm mentally prepared for more pseudo-office work with a smart, sexily dressed Sophia reciting dictation and making life difficult while I wail away at the keyboard... but no.

She turns up at the open sliding doors with her black sports bag, but it looks on the lighter side this time. Without preamble, she orders me to roll out the Nordic track and get changed into exercise clothes. I try to point out the pool, now empty of furniture, which took me an age to achieve. I nearly drowned twice. Those loungers are heavy. I even babble away about my plans to dry, sand, and re-stain the loungers, and order new cushioning, but she stops me. After she explains the nature of the lesson and gets me started, she gathers her black bag and takes off to the bedroom.

I slide away on the Nordic track and have to work hard to keep my pulse rate within the target zone Sophia provided. I've soon worked up a good sweat. If I stay within this target heart rate zone for 45mins I will pass the lesson. I want to laugh. I'm a little out of shape after Kelly's cancelling my gym membership, but I've been forcing myself to go for short sharp runs followed by push-ups and core-work. I'm genuinely trembling from excitement; she stipulated the reward involves yours truly getting my hands on hers truly. My dirty mind can take that many places, all of them good.

She bounces back into the living area. She looks better in tight-fitting workout clothes than most people ever will. I'm not entirely sure she is wearing underwear. I will keep my mouth shut this time though. She un-rolls a yoga mat she must have had stowed in her bag and places it in the middle of the floor, which gives me an unobstructed view of her from my Nordic track by the windows.

'Stay focused, J,' she says.

Think about the reward, I repeat to myself, as she goes through a series of warm-up stretches. The reward, think... but I've tried that trick before and what did that get me? A nasty spanking. She starts in a child's pose and glides into a sun salutation. And back again. And forwards. And back. It reminds me of Katherine Zita-Jones in that heist movie; her slinky body slipping between crosshatched red laser beams while Sean Connery watched on with a smirking woody in his pants.

I force myself to refocus on the workout. My pace has been decreasing and my heart rate dropping. Then it occurs to me. Why not try to distract her and distract myself? She has to focus on what she is doing over there (tormenting me) and she can't do that, or do it as effectively if she has to think about other things, such as answering questions. And trying to converse and Nordic track at the same time? Killer idea for keeping the heart rate elevated.

'What was the lesson you had planned, you know, last time?' I ask. Talking creates a fresh burst of sweat that breaks out across my forehead and forearms.

'That thing's quite noisy, isn't it?' she says.

It isn't but the cheeky pixie pads over to the sound system and shuffles through my cd collection. Either she doesn't find a cd she likes, or doesn't see anything she recognises. Looking miffed, she heads back to her mat. Yes, Miss Quinn, I'm that old.

'I normally listen to my discman,' I say, wincing. I should have an iPod, not an archaic discman.

'Dancing, I had a dancing lesson planned,' she says, breaking into a pilates routine. On all fours performing single leg raises, her glutes could be chiselled out of something hard and delicious.

'Dancing? I like dancing, what type of dancing?' I ask.

'Slow dancing,' she says.

'I wouldn't have lasted five minutes at that,' I say, trying to laugh.

'My mother used to love dancing, she was a big fan of spontaneous dancing,' I say, which draws a smile from the concentrating Sophia.

'When I was younger, an awkward teenager, you know? Mum would whoosh in when you least expect it, usually in the kitchen, and would take me, or my Dad by the hand and lead one of us off into a waltz until we got it sorted, you know? The footwork? I used to complain, and so did Dad. Oh no, not the dancing Queen, I'd say, and Dad would say, Watch out, here she comes!' I say, breathing hard.

Sophia stops what she is doing and regards me quizzically, as if I've become a strange creature, or a dog that's just talked.

'Less talking, more exercising,' she says, her first Madame Sophia quip of the evening.

'Yes, Madame,' I say.

We never pulled away or pulled out whenever Mum grabbed us, at least I didn't. Dad might have a few times being stressed from work, or probably women. Lindsay, who was already fifty even if she is only three years older than me, glanced up from whatever homework she was doing on the kitchen table and passed her stock snide remark, 'Not that frippery again.' Fripperous displays of wasted energy, that's what Lindsay thought they were. Although, she had plenty of energy to waste in the shower, did a young Lindsay.

Shit.

I try not to go there, especially since Sophia now performs graphic gymnastic arches. Sweat runs down her neck, arms, and into her cleavage.

But Lindsay, Jesus, I've never conclusively figured out what my memories of Lindsay make me feel, nor have I ever wrapped my head around what they're supposed to make me feel. Guilty? Dirty? Ashamed? As I get older, I wonder if I should feel ashamed or guilty. Should I? I was a horny teenage boy, and Linz an equally horny teenager. Are there other reasons I shouldn't feel guilty? Reluctant to venture into this dark place, I'm venturing in there, anyway.

Lindsay. To this day, I can't put my finger on it. But I must have heard her several times as I passed by the bathroom, picking up something without realising it, until walking past one Saturday afternoon I caught it again, only louder this time. We were home alone, the two of us that is, but even so I padded away to check the house and driveway were clear before racing back. Tingling with unknown expectations I crept right up to the bathroom door and carefully pressed my ear to the wood. Over the shower water I heard moaning, heavy breathing and busy wet sounds, and occasional swear words that grew louder and growled with a greater intensity; oh fuck, oh fuck, fuck this feels so good, this last word a stifled scream, gooooood. Fighting off a weird plummeting sensation so intense I thought I would lose my balance and fall to the floor, I reeled away from the door.

I waited impatiently for other times. On Saturday afternoons, I became a ghost in the house. Mum and Dad never seemed to be home on those afternoons. And Lindsay, I noticed, always checked on my whereabouts. How often was she doing that? I made sure I was in my bedroom, absorbed in a book, or playing computer games. After I gave her a head start, I jogged straight to the bathroom and pressing my ear to the door, I tuned in. I swear I wore a small lighter coloured patch roughly teenage boy height into the stained wood of that bathroom door. But whether it was from my ear, the heat from my red face, or both, I can't be sure.

To this day, my audacity shocks me, whenever I let my mind wander back. The bathroom door handle glacially creeping down, down, down, as if it were somebody else's hand pressing down on it and not my own, and somebody else's head craning around the door and peering into that hot, steamy bathroom. I had the nous to know that if the bathroom had a different layout and the shower booth in a different location I wouldn't have been able to peer in. It wasn't though, the booth lived in the distant corner, muffled by a heavy, but tasteful shower curtain I think we all secretly hated except Ted. That curtain. It was so heavy; multi-layered, plastic-lined with a material outer that most often one didn't bother to pull across because doing so cut off the oxygen supply to the booth. For this, as a first year high school student, I was ecstatic. Now? I don't know. Am I?

Lindsay, in the shower, more to the point, young innocent eyes popping in my eye sockets, Lindsay masturbating, specifically, Lindsay masturbating furiously in the shower. That first time I poked my head around and peered in, I saw a vertical cross-section of well-built and curvy Linz's back; her heavy buttock and strong thigh, and her busy arm plunging and then, my breath held, the side of her water-slicked breast.

It was enough.

I couldn't take anymore. It took massive efforts of will to close that door as slowly as I had opened it. I pressed my ear to the door and listened to her finish, almost finishing myself from the excitement.

The events didn't seem to happen during the weekday mornings, with everyone busy with the start of day business. A late Saturday afternoon post-sport indulgence - after her field hockey and soccer games - but sometimes it happened on weekday evenings if Mum and Dad appeared to be settled in reading, or watching loud telly. How I longed for those Saturday afternoons and occasional weekday evenings, although I was less bold on those evening sessions, as was Lindsay, who was quieter. It was easier for both of us to get caught out.

There lies the problem for me as if peeping on my big sis' in the shower wasn't already enough. Wasn't there a growing sense of complicity between us? Didn't she give me a heads up? What did she say at my bedroom door before she headed off to the bathroom? 'Hey, watch you up to, Julian?' When exactly did that shower curtain inch open on her, our, Saturday afternoons? The third time? The fourth? Was that when I noticed? Startled, I could see so much more of her than before, this time all of her. When did my head peering around the door become my head and one shoulder? Then both shoulders? Was it the pulled curtain that muffled her ecstasy? Her moans, deep groans and her swearing finale, wasn't that louder? Soon, she was nearly screaming as she desperately, frictively rubbed and plunged. She was never that loud, no way, nothing close, and the curtain? It couldn't muffle that much noise. What was happening, I wondered? Was this natural, normal?

I was literally standing flattened against the bathroom wall by the time Linz, standing at an oblique angle and slightly bent at the knees, played with and fingered herself from behind. Was she fingering her anus, I wonder? Even now, the memories and implications frighten me in so many inexplicable ways; her round red bottom, dark hair lining her orifices, and her breasts bobbing back and forth; her voice rising to a crescendo as she came. Was she so lost in the experience she didn't see or hear me? How could she not have seen me, or sensed my presence in that steamy bathroom? That first time she masturbated from behind, didn't I dash out of the bathroom, hurriedly pulling the door shut? I sprinted to my bedroom, collapsed face down on my bed, and writhing and grinding emptied myself into my underpants. Didn't she notice an unexpected whoosh of air on her body created by the closing door?

Are there other explanations? That curtain was a heat-trapping suffocating clinging miserable thing, and with Lindsay's increasing level of ministrations it's possible she had to open it to control the heat and get enough air to breathe. And my presence? Who'd suspect someone else of being in a bathroom with you while you showered and vigourously masturbated? Lost in an intricate fantasy involving a large handsome man, or one of the strapping lads from her co-ed school, was she even aware of her surroundings?

It had to end.

Spring arrived, so no more winter Saturday morning and afternoon sports followed by long, luxurious showers (as an adult, I've often wondered how much Lindsay's Saturday afternoon showers added to the power bill). Then, out of desperation on my behalf (Linz's shower sessions had become an addiction) Mum caught me angling into the bathroom late one evening. 'Lindsay's in there, Julian,' she said tartly.

To this day I remember Mum's blue eyes needling into me and stripping bare my dirty little soul. I had no comeback, no jaunty excuse. Busted. I mumbled something, I'm not sure what, and headed off with my heartbeat pounding in my ears. I tried to rid myself of the shame and fear by distracting myself with computer games. Mum was out there causing a storm. I could hear her, but not what she was shouting, or to whom. Just Ted? Or Ted and Lindsay? Mum rarely shouted.

Soon after, Old Ted came bursting into my bedroom, and he stood there eye-balling me. Wordlessly, he left. That was it. Except Lindsay popped in later on and asked me how I was doing, and to this day even now as I Nordic track, I experience a surge of frustration at the young boy whose shame wouldn't let him turn away from a computer screen to gauge the expression on his sister's face. The answers were there, I'm sure of it, but now as ever I reconcile myself to never knowing.

'Wow, you've found your focus, J,' Sophia says, approaching the Nordic Track. Does she sound stung? She drips sweat. A decent-sized bead dangles off the tip of her nose before she swipes it away with the back of her hand. It's hard to believe her body contains that much fluid. She stands on her tiptoes and examines my heart rate watch strapped to the machine. Good job, apparently. I'm within the range, but the watch memory will tell the true story. It records the heart rate every ten seconds, and provides the average, peak, and lowest heart rates for the timed duration. Not long now. Fifteen minutes left. The epitome of post-exercise relaxation, she cruises over to her black bag, retrieves it, and heads back.

'Can I use your shower, J?' she asks, and dropping the bag, causally peels off her top. She wears a black sports bra. Defying gravity, her breasts shine with sweat.

'Is that a yes?' she says.

'Oh yeah, sure, knock yourself out, use my bathroom,' I say, meaning the master bathroom, and not the guest room.

'Do you want me to wash those? Throw them in the laundry,' I say, and without stopping, try to point out her damp work out clothes.

'Is that okay? Thanks, J,' she says.

I should've known better. She turns around and strips off the bike pants. I was correct: no underwear. Then she works off the sports bra. I've stopped Nordic tracking, and she turns - Oh Christ, creamy-brown and glistening - and abruptly points at the Nordic track, which makes her breasts bob. She pads off towards the laundry that's off from the kitchen. Telling myself there's not much time left, I try to get back into it and try to ignore a naked Sophia as she heads back past on her way to the shower.

The shower.

I try so hard, yet I can't stop myself from imagining Sophia with soapsuds cascading down her back and over her... the nakedness, I could have handled that, it wigs me out more than anything, but showering? I unclasp the heart rate watch and slip it onto my wrist. Halfway across the living area, it hits me. My heart rate, I have to keep my heart rate elevated.

I'm sure a man's desire for a woman has been the true mother of invention, the greatest inventions. I high-knee jog towards the bathroom, raising my knees as high as possible and slapping them as fast as I can into my palms held up in front of me.

Slowly, but with my legs manically pumping away like pistons, I make it to the bathroom. Standing by the door, I quietly try to keep up my high-knee bouncing but I can't do it. I have to stop. Ear to the door, I hear the shower water. I will have no such luck as I did with Linz years ago, there's no way I can slip inside unseen. My best bet is to get the door open a crack and try to watch Sophia in the large wall mirror; the angle should be spot on. No clammy shower curtains this time, just glass.

Dejavu, that's what it feels like as the door handle twists round and the door, creaking ever so... and there she is. Through the condensation, Sophia showers, well, finishes her shower. Even that brief glimpse of her makes my palms sweaty and my head light. Rinsing off soap or shampoo, she turns in a slow circle under the powerful jet of water, and smoothes her hands over her body, her breasts and belly, her pubic hair and thighs. I close the door and carefully twist the handle closed. High-knee jogging back to the Nordic Track, I replace the watch, take up the skis and slide.

27.

Failure. Sophia has no problems figuring out how to bring up the recorded heart rate memory for the session and finding the average, blowing my last and only hope. Ten beats under the lowest number of the target zone. Which explains why, in the true spirit of the game, I'm out here dumping the loungers back into the pool, while Sophia watches on, seated on a chair from the outdoor dining table set. She is disappointed and peeved at my unsatisfactory effort. Massage, that's what I guess I've missed out on; giving her a post-exercise, post-shower massage. God, what bliss for both of us. Did she want more than that? She has a when will Julian ever learn look on her face. Indeed.

But the pool furniture? I try to tell her how long it took to get them out, but she won't have it. Something about the growing pile excites her imagination and inspires her artistic, architectural bent. Is any of that even true? The course application? Victoria University?

'So which architecture movement do you like the most? Contemporary movement,' I add, taking a break to wipe sweat off my forehead, forearms, and legs. It's been a night for sweat. I'm tired, my legs feel numb from Nordic tracking, and the loungers are the most awkward, clunky bloody things, I keep banging my shins on the legs.

'Contemporary? Bauhaus,' she says, urging me to get back on with it.

'What else?' I say, wondering if Bauhaus is a trendy, easily researched fact to find. I could've said Bauhaus; I even remember it from High School.

'West Coast minimalism, of the nineteen-seventies,' she adds.

'Of New Zealand?' I say.

'No, the United States, Sherlock,' she says.

'Sounds interesting,' I say, but I don't have a clue.

'Your house reminds me of it. Simple clean lines, lots of space and glass, I'm surprised it wasn't mentioned in the article,' she says.

'So was I,' I say, tipping another lounger up onto one end, and readying it to dump into the pool.

'I can't wait to tell my friends,' she adds, and points at the loungers in the water.

I freeze. The lounger, balanced on one end, rocks back and forth before it tumbles over into the pool. Friends?

'I might bring my special friend back to check it out?' she says.

'You won't be bringing anybody back, or telling anybody,' I growl. It's hard to tell if she is being serious.

'Calm down, you're so easy to wind up,' she says, and laughs.

The rest go in and peeling off my teeshirt (to Sophia's wolf-whistles), I hop in and begin the exhausting pointless process of dragging them over to the poolside and stacking them one on top of the other right in the middle of the pool. Friends? Her friend? Even though it's late, and my stomach churns from hunger, I struggle to keep rational, but a weird rage overtakes me. For the umpteenth fucking time: How did I get myself into this? I remember Kelly - I hope you fucking shrivel up and die, Julian Braithwaite - and how, in a strange way, the lesson tonight is something you'd expect from Kelly, a personal trainer. Now I'll never know if Kelly had this weird sense of fun in her. She was fun wasn't she? A free spirit?

I remember the shower, with both Lindsay (the twisted guilt and lust - she was my sister!) and Sophia, the lust I have for her and my reticence (she's a schoolgirl!) but her shiny tits? Her glorious body? She's only sixteen? Seventeen? My throat starts up, my tonsils ache, and a throat infection is the last bloody thing I need, that and insane little girls with big mouths, big mouths...

'Man, did you bitch those or what, J?' she says, as I get out of the pool, grab my teeshirt, and head away at a jog.

'Hey! Where're you going?' she calls after me.

Did I bitch those? Yes, that's exactly how an ex- Totoroa Girl conducts herself. Yo, I bitched those, you know it.

The thing is I never re-deposited the money I withdrew from the bank for my little Kelly endeavour. And look how that went, a voice in the back of my mind snarls. Regrets aside, do I have any Kelly problems now? No. Does the one outweigh the other? I don't know. Do you want to go there with Sophia, that same voice asks? Do you want to risk losing her?

I've kept the envelope in a small lockbox hidden at the back of my wardrobe. Some part of me doesn't want it to be there, wants to find the box missing and the envelope absent, but it's there. I head back and meet her in the middle of the courtyard, the envelope a brick in my hand.

'Where'd you get to? Is this my Christmas card?' she asks.

She appears confused. I hand it to her before I can take it back or sideways out of it.

'More than a Christmas card, Miss Quinn,' I say.

'Fuck. What is this?' she says when she prizes open the envelope and fingers through the bills.

'Early Christmas present? And... a nice way of preventing you from telling those friends of yours what's going on here?' I say.

Great, that was tactful.

Straightaway, she hands it back. I don't take it.

'Think about it,' I say, trying to smile. I fail at that too.

'I don't need this to prevent telling my friends anything because I don't tell them anything. I never have. I was joking earlier, fuck, J,' she says, her voice so choked with emotion, getting each word out sounds difficult.

'What about the ones you bring here?' I say.

'He doesn't know anything. He's not my boyfriend he's just a friend. He thought it was fun. I even made up a story, J, how the cops have been hanging around asking questions. He's never coming back,' she says.

'The friend you met where? At Totoroa Girls?' I say.
'Of course not, I don't remember where I met him, he's got a Jones for Becky anyway,' she says, without a hint of envy or disappointment. Is she telling the truth? Nuh. He must be a fool if he has a Jones for that anaemic thing a block over and not Sophia, and didn't I see Sophia and the boy frolicking in the pool together?

'Oh, I'm sure he has,' I say, the words spilling off my tongue and running down my legs.

The envelope bounces off my chest and hits the tiles where notes burst out and fan over the ground.

'I only brought him here to get back at you, ya shithead, you were the one wining and dining the gorgeous redhead. I'm only trying to help you, I really like you,' she says, and pushing past me, runs into the house.

'Sophia!' I shout.

What is she doing in there? Straightaway she runs back with her black bag. I try to block her path but she deftly sidesteps me and sprints off.

'Oh fuck, Sophia! Wait! You don't understand!'

She hits the back fence at full speed and flies over it, a dark shadow.

I walk over and kick the envelope, spreading bills over the tiles.

'Great. Good job, Braithwaite, another problem solved,' I say.

28.

A store in the middle of nowhere: I guess that depends on where you think nowhere ends and somewhere begins, or is it the other way round? Either way, it looks surgically transplanted - splat - right into the middle of this strange urban wilderness. Were there other stores here? Wall-less, roofless, concrete floors on both sides of the 24hr building suggest there might have been, but whatever they were they're long gone. I glance back at my Audi, which out here gleams silver and aristocratic in the sun, and wondering if I'll ever see it again, I enter.

She spots me. The counter is right next to the door, albeit partitioned off by a thick Perspex or glass screen, and she stands on the other side of it behind the counter. Shocked, she stands there and stares at me. Her body doesn't move, only her eyes follow me. When I arrive at the counter, she turns and heads out the back.

A puffy-eyed bruiser she works with, a girl a few years older than Sophia, steps up and bluntly asks me if I'm buying anything. She makes a point of placing her hands knuckles up on the counter. Those scrape-reddened and bruise-blackened knuckles; it's easy to figure out how she achieved them. I've wandered into a fight club, or a Wild West Saloon and should prepare to draw: On the count of three... one... two...

'I might have a look around if that's all right?' I say.

The girl glances around as if seeing the 24hr for the first time. Look around? As far as the city's 24hr's go this rates as the least enthusiastic version of the franchise I've come across. More cameras aim at the cash registers and front counter than at other parts of the store.

'Yeah, knock yourself out, mate,' the girl says, giving me a shrug.

She rushes out the back, the moment I turn away. I hear Sophia's voice. They converse in low murmurs before raucous laughter startles me. I wander the aisles and grab a chocolate bar. I'm so intent on trying to catch the back room conversation, I don't even know what chocolate bar I've selected. I'm tempted to walk out with it to spite Sophia, or goad her. She would enjoy that, an act of bravado. Enjoy that more than the heavy-footed chump that presents himself at the counter, with the ridiculous chocolate bar softening in his clammy hand. Sophia reemerges. It then occurs to me what they were doing out there: watching me from store-camera angles. Ha ha ha.

Sophia manages to wear her dark blue uniform with a studied crispness that reminds me of the awful Maya except crispness looks stupid and out of place in this dump.

'It isn't much fun when someone else pisses in your pool, is it?' I say, and grin. She appears taken back. The prizefighter hasn't reappeared; she probably wants to watch this exchange on a monitor.

'I'd buy Black Forest if you really want to bribe me,' she says, and calmly taking the chocolate bar rings it up on the register.

'You understand why I did it don't you?' I say, sliding a five-dollar note over the counter.

'Oh yes, you're so terribly important, Julian Braithwaite,' she says, with a bitterness I didn't believe possible in someone so young. The remark hits home, with more impact than Sophia could ever realise. How did Kelly put it? Something about self-important morons that come into the gym, full of secrets no one cares about? She hands back the change and her cool fingers graze my palm. She looks tired, with dark bags under her eyes.

'I haven't figured out how you found me, but you're a lawyer, you know people,' she says.

I guess my rude intrusion into her real life has taken the fun out of it; turning up at my place with the plum in her voice, strutting out the big act; the device wielding, Madame Sophia. No, it won't be the same now if she ever comes back.

'I want you to come back, Sophia, I want - you know what? We need to continue the game,' I say.

'Let's talk outside,' she says, and points towards the automatic doors.

Outside, I shield my eyes against the last burst of afternoon sunlight. My Audi is where I left it. She glances up the road, sees the Audi, and gives me a quick hard smile. Of course you'd drive that car, her smile suggests. What can I say? Appearances are everything.

It's the hushed silence over areas like this that people like me don't trust, people from the inner city, or the cushy Heights. We're out of our depth in this breathless, eerie, expectant silence; an intimidating hush before a gunshot retort, a piercing scream, or the wail of police sirens shatters it. Gunshot retorts rarely happen anymore, or screams and sirens, but it's hard to convince those of us who don't live out here of that fact.

'We're on to something, with the game,' I say.

She laughs at this. She takes me in from head to foot and again glances at the Audi.

'You snuck away from your machine and perved at me in the shower. That's the only reason you failed that lesson. What a gimp,' she says.

Snap. Something snaps. I guess I don't need and don't want a smart little hustler in a tacky uniform, someone that considers working full-time in a shithole like this an acceptable occupation, to sting me with the truth.

'You know what, Sophia Quinn? You're right, I don't need it, I don't need your games,' I say, turning and heading back to the car.

'You do,' she says, right behind me.

She followed me up the road. I didn't even hear her walking behind me. Does she moonlight as a cat burglar, and a behaviour correcting Dominatrix?

'Really?' I say, turning back.

'Yeah, you've got big problems, J,' she says.

'And you're so qualified to comment on them, Sophia. Tell me, Dr Quinn, have the exam results come back yet? Did you pass Art History?' I ask.

'Fuck you, J. If you think you can throw a boatload of money at me to make me go away, you've got shit for brains,' she says.

'So you're coming back?' I say, unable to hide my excitement.

'Will you try to bribe me if I do?' she asks.

'No, I promise. That was wrong of me. Really wrong. What night are you coming?' I say. My liquid heart is nearly floating up out of my chest cavity.

'I haven't agreed to yet,' she says, smiling at me for the first time in this whole exchange.

29.

No, Sophia hasn't returned. She will take her time as usual. I have to be patient. That will be my first New Year's resolution: patience. Am I being too hard on her? Only a few days from Christmas, she has parties to go to or shifts to fill in for employees already on holiday, or she is on holiday? With her family? What I saw of her home life - that surreal glimpse - makes me think she isn't. It wouldn't be anywhere she should want to go; a boozing uncle's crib in the backblocks somewhere. Yay.

Is she stuck at her work Christmas party like I am tonight? Do the city's 24hr employees get together for one big shindig? The managers sit in one corner and bitch about margins and ordering and the numb-nuts staff, and the numb-nuts staff sit around in darker pockets of discontent, muttering about being a shitty 24hr employee, while the sane ones (probably Sophia) cluster in a circle out in the dark car park, passing around a fat spliff?

Beside me, Mrs Froomey, misty-eyed and drunk, gives me a maudlin blow-by-blow, day-by-day account of her holiday in Brisbane. She has grandchildren to one of her daughters over there, and the unconditional love she has for the tiny terriers (two close-cropped, sun-tanned, grinning boys - she has shown me a hundred photos of them on her cell phone) shines out of her, a beacon of the sweetest, purest simplicity. She gives me the impression that even if the little blighters grow up to become the organised crime bosses of the entire Australian underworld, she would still love them. Look at my boys, she'd gush; they're the bosses of everything. Then she would show you a photo of them. On her cell phone.

Bugger it. It keeps turning around and around, the mess that is Sophia in my life. I miss her but that doesn't come close. Miss her? The more I drink tonight, the more sentimental I'm getting. Mum's letters, that's what started it.

I was stuffing the fateful money envelope back into the lockbox when I came across my shoebox of Mum's letters. A nostalgic visitation of my past, her letters go right back to the start of my varsity days. Mostly - content wise - they're meaningless; brief cheer-me-ups, with the occasional anxious request to know how I'm getting on. Yes, I've kept them and yes that might be weird, but not as weird as what I do next after rediscovery. I could say I re-read them and I do re-read them, up to a point, if only to remember what I was doing. It's their scent. That's the real reason I pull them out of the box and scatter them across the bed, and yes, sniff them.

I'd always thought Mum used scented paper, but then it hit me: a flashback memory of a small, bottomless, fluted orange bottle of perfume that permanently lived on her bedroom dresser. That undeniable scent: strong, rich, and floral; a moneyed scent that oozed comfort and subtlety that through sheer presence infused itself into the paper she wrote on, the clothes she wore, anything she touched. That splendid whiff takes me back home. Back to a family no matter how fucked up, no matter what Ted or Mum might have been doing behind each other's backs. God knows what Lindsay was doing. I don't know how long I lay there in my underpants on my bed, propped up on one elbow, picking up notes at random and reading and sniffing them.

The day bled by before I bounced off the bed, scattering notes over the floor. Sophia's scent, I repeated to myself, and I tore around the house looking for a towel she has used, or her exercise clothes that may have infused her scent into other items in the laundry. Or the sofa she sits on, and I caught it, undeniable little pieces of her everywhere; a strong vanilla scent with a sharp tang. 'Even her smell is invading my house,' I said, looking around as if she were hiding somewhere, playing pixie peek-a-boo. I experienced the strongest urge to be with her. Please send that crazy pixie bouncing over that fence, send her swaggering over the courtyard, right now, right now!

She didn't arrive and her absence left me with a miserable, yearning void. I retraced her steps through the house; the time she padded naked from the laundry through to the bathroom, or when she headed up to the mezzanine in her lingerie and lay on the couch... it wasn't long before I found something to do that filled the void, but it didn't last long, and I felt emptier afterward. With a sigh, I even smoothed my hand over the dining table and bent over to see if I could catch a whiff of dog shit. There was a faint faecal hint, a memory in the wood, which made me smile.

Tina, perhaps sensing or seeing I need saving from Mrs Froomey's maudlin conversation - Jesus, when did Froomey get so old? - heads my way with purpose. Apparently, Scotty and some of the lads have Maya bailed up in Scotty's office. In the old days - the Eustace James days - this behaviour had a blind eye turned towards it. Young and supposedly impressionable secretaries coerced into small parties that splinter off from the break-room-bar-lounge were events once considered something of the norm. Does the sequestered young woman, inundated with booze, schmooze, and testosterone complain? No. Well, only if inebriation and flirtation flower into something else, and sometimes not even then.

Froomey gets the idea, and tactfully heads away towards Baxter, who is on the far side of the lounge. Baxter, with his necktie backwards around his head, loudly holds forth to a heavy-lidded crony, a seedy type who shows up from parts unknown for free booze and food, and disappears until the next Christmas bash.

'You want me to go in and get her?' I say to Tina.

'You know how Baxter is,' she says.

'She's a big girl, Tina, surely she can look after herself?' I say.

'Yes, she is a big girl that's the significant part of the problem. They respect you, Julian, you're the mature one,' she adds.

'Mature? Me? Jesus, send Stuart in if he isn't already in there,' I say.

A troubled expression darts across her face before she regains equilibrium. Then it occurs to me. Stuart isn't here. I haven't seen him tonight.

'Oh,' I say.

'Are you going to get in there and drag that girl out, or not?' Tina says.

'The jury votes nay,' I say.

Tina steams off, but really. Save Maya? I mean, save Maya from the boys? Tina has no fucking idea. Someone needs to get in there and save the boys from Maya. Bags not.

Tina gets someone else to save Maya, or she takes it on herself, because by the time I do the rounds, saying my goodbyes, they're hunkering together on bar stools over on the other side of the bar. Their heads are so close, they're touching; I'm sure you'd see steam rising from their bodies. And the giggling. Tina giggling? Tina never giggles. And Baxter is so sloshed he can't stand straight. Perhaps his proposed clean sweep eats away at his conscience? When he gives me a handshake, he nearly topples over, and his good luck Christmas shoulder thump lacks its usual Baxter wallop.

'Keep at it, keep at it, Julian,' he says, suddenly focusing.

He intensely red-eyed beetle-brows me, and my heart my poor rollercoaster heart - I'm working over Christmas and New Years. I know it, and he knows it. It's not as if I had holiday plans, anyway. The house deal is too important, the Gambles are too important, every-fucking-thing is too important to take a holiday.

As if that's not enough, I give Tina and a dishevelled Maya a wave goodbye. Bloody Tina gives me a sly wink and blows me a kiss. Fuck. I've seen that wink-kiss combination before in a copy room from a young woman that has my tender nuts in a vice. They both break into laughter, and Tina gives me a look, an eyes narrowed pinch mouthed you're going to get yours look, and any hope that my bad behaviour has been forgiven whimpers and dies. I restrain myself from running out of the firm.

'Hey, Braithwaite?' Scotty calls out from his office as I stomp past.

'Leaving already, mate?' Scotty says, when I trail back and stand in his open door. His office stinks like a teenage rugby team's post-match dressing room. Peebles gives me a solemn nod, and two older hands; Fergus, a silver streaked marathon runner that masquerades as a lawyer, and Manfredo, real name, Angus, a beefy stalwart of the firm who I caught eyeing up Maya's posterior the other day, try to summon friendly smiles.

'Yeah, I'm coming in tomorrow,' I say, giving my best rueful shrug.

They all nod gravely, but Peebles and Scotty exchange pointed glances, but fuck it and fuck them.

'If you see Stuart tonight, wish him a merry Christmas from me, eh?' I say.

That sours the mood.

'Give the guy a break,' I hear Scotty say loudly, as I head along the corridor.

'Braithwaite's got the Gambles and Baxter breathing down his neck, poor bastard. Merry fucking Christmas, eh?' Scotty says.

30.

Not even the Gambles take holidays over the Christmas-New Year period. Arriving midmorning at the office, after a lung-heaving sprint around the golf course and a leisurely breakfast out on the courtyard, I walked straight into it: Mz Gamble, the auburn, mythically stroppy, late forty-something front of the Gamble Empire sitting squarely in my office. Poor old Froomey, flapping around outside my office door, pointed inside and hissed one word, 'Gamble.' I shrugged her off with a smile and strode in trying to look confident and authoritative.

When I took in the back of Mz Gamble's head and the expensive, short-sleeved cream blouse, and the equally expensive but not outrageous jewellery dripping off her ear lobes, it occurred to me that with Baxter away for the holiday period I was a lame duck to pluck. He has obviously been protecting me from her. I hadn't realised. Alternatively, had he left me behind on purpose?

It's not as bad as that. She isn't stroppy as much as she is impatient to achieve her vision: an ostentatious restaurant set in an old mansion - the city's if not one of the country's first big family homes - that has dodged the Heritage Foundation's warm embrace through a succession of private owners.

She asks me what the hold up is. I go fishing for a few minutes until I can gather my thoughts, and then I explain the zoning laws and my difficulties in reaching Olivier and his legal representative, Carl Holmes, an infamously unreliable man, but she sees through me.

'Okay, I understand, but what exactly is the problem?' she asks.

Ted's advice rings in my ears - Just tell the Gambles to throw money at that French bugger! That bugger, being Olivier. He makes sense though, does Old Ted. He believes Olivier is holding out for a better offer; it's not likely he will give it to the Heritage Foundation free. But he could place a covenant on the property, which is a lengthy process, and being overseen by the foundation that wants to buy the property from him that's not likely to happen any time soon if ever.

I explain this to her and she patiently sits through it, occasionally nodding, letting my frank if second-hand paraphrased appraisal of the situation sink in for a few moments. Nodding slowly, her blunt chin cupped in her hand, her hazel eyes burn into my hardwood floor.

'Okay, you've given me plenty to mull over, I'll be in touch,' she says, and reaching across my desk, she pumps my hand with a grip strong enough to tear a small town's phone book in half.

After making a long series of unsuccessful calls trying to reach the notorious Mr. Olivier, I'm on the beach by three-thirty, sunbathing in my swimming shorts, and watching surfers fight for space on the incoming swells. I can't enjoy myself that much. I hate taking advice from Dad. The fact he is right always stings.

The days grind on into Christmas day. I accept that not only haven't I received an early morning phone call from Mum I've received no phone call at all from anyone all day. I decide Dad's early pre-Christmas call doesn't count. I call both Mum's and Lindsay's numbers but quickly hang up. Why all this new uncomfortable territory? When I've nearly given up hope, Bernie pulls through. One of us always calls the other, either on Christmas Day, or Boxing Day.

Bernie, the newfound crusader for good, a relentless advocate for all walks and talks and groups of abused peoples. I tell him I can't believe it, this new Bernie even though he's been in his present job three years now.

'What happened to the old, ruthless, I'm going to break out of varsity and make mad money, Bernie?' I ask.

The bitterness in his laughter dies and leaves us wallowing in a silent eddy. Why this discomfort? He promises me he is coming for his visit - the same dates and everything - and I tell him I will plan the usual itinerary: Pubs, clubs, and lounge bars, and rented dvd viewing sessions on the mezzanine. But now I'm creating my own silent eddy in the conversation. Will Sophia be around by then? And her varsity course? How soon will she be leaving for Wellington if she is accepted?

The post-Christmas period meanders into a New Year's Eve spent alone. I didn't even have the energy or courage to wander the Square and pull up a corner seat at a bar, strike up impromptu friendships with strangers, and at least kiss one woman - ten nine eight seven six five four...

'Hi, anyone home?' Sophia says, knocking on the doorframe of the main sliding doors. She sees me and gives me a puzzled look.

I've no idea how long I've been sitting here at the dining table, absently shelling and eating a bag of peanuts, and nursing my second beer of the evening. I'm not hungry and my beer is warm. A thick blanket of peanut shells covers the tabletop.

'I was just thinking about you. I'd offer you a peanut but I ate them,' I say, and wave her inside. Since when does she mince around waiting for an invitation? I suddenly realise how much time has passed since the firm's Christmas party. I've missed New Year's Eve. How did I do that? How does one miss New Year's Eve? It's New Years day, no, New Year's day evening now. She must see my confusion as she asks me if I'm okay.

'How was your New Year's? You won't want a beer,' I say, remembering what my New Year's experiences from when I was her age. I remember two of them.

'Tiring,' she says, pulling up a chair next to mine. She plunks the black sports bag down beside her. It sounds heavier than last time, and hopeful excitement stabs me in the guts, and the groin.

She appears tired even haggard if that's possible at her age. Wearing grey, baggy, shapeless track pants and a dark blue hoodie, she slumps in her seat.

'I ended up at a dance party in a massive tent on a beach. I can't remember which beach. J, can I ask you a favour?' she says. Her eyes aren't quite bloodshot, but aren't clear, either.

'I promise, no Sophia, I swear, I'll never come see you at your job again,' I say, placing my hand on my heart and thanking my presence of mind for not using the words 'out there' as in, I'll never again come see you out there in that God forsaken dump.

'Oh, that? Yeah, what's up with that, J?' she says.

'You had to make some explanations?' I state, remembering the prizefighter she was working with that evening.

'Yeah, you're officially my overbearing cousin,' she says, poking me on the arm.

'Overbearing what?' I say.

'Shush, you're being overbearing,' she says, putting her finger to her lips in a way that reminds me of both Maya, and now, Tina. Imagining what awaits me when the firm picks up after the holidays makes me eager to get going.

'What was the favour?' I ask.

'I really, really, really need to take a shower. I stink. Even my hair feels murky,' she says, pulling strands round and twisting the ends. Has she been home since New Year's Eve?

'Jesus, J, can I take a shower? Then I promise I'll get ready for our lesson, but please, please,' she says.

'Fine, go for it. You'll have complete privacy, I promise. No perving. Is there anything I need to prepare?' I say.

'Clean up your peanut shells, ya big elephant,' she says, making trumpeting noises as she heads to the master bathroom.

She takes her time, but it's hard to be peeved; it's another balmy summer night with a breeze to take the edge off. I consider getting the fireplace going out on the courtyard, but I don't want to jeopardise the lesson or Sophia's preparations. Who knows what they are, or what they will involve? I'm sipping a beer and relaxing on the living area sofa when I hear the loud clop-clop of boot heels on my concrete floor.

You see it on telly shows, or in films, and I've never done it myself, but when she struts out of the bedroom wing so utterly transformed into Madame Sophia, I choke and splutter on my mouthful of beer.

'Jesus,' I say, swallowing the rest of the beer. Game on indeed.

She must have found them in an op-shop, or a Vintage shoe store, but those boots: knee high, classic black boots that wouldn't look out of place on a famous actress back in the day and still wouldn't outshine Sophia, and the lingerie? What was I thinking that day in the department store? The set she has exchanged my poor effort for makes me salivate and self-consciously squirm on the sofa. Black with soft, sexy pink outlines and snap-tight garter belts, suspenders, and lace. Yes, I've broken out in a sweat. She drops the black bag on the floor over by the table.

'Do you have the money you, how shall we say? You offered me, Mr. Braithwaite?' she says.

She has applied more make-up than I've ever seen her wear. Slip a stunning dress over that ensemble and - and what? What did she say? Money? What does she want to do with my money?

'Is it part of the lesson? By the way, you look fucking incredible, Sophia,' I ask.

'Thanks, J, that's fucking good of you,' she says, smiling brightly at me.

Help, I'm melting. Money. Sexy boots. Lingerie. If I thought I experienced a hot bolt of excitement earlier, I can't fathom what's happening now.

'Do you need all of it?' I ask, trying to keep both excitement and suspicion from shaking my voice. That's a significant chunk of money to play around with.

'Enough to have fun,' she says, and giving me a sly grin, clicks her fingers twice, chop-chop.

31.

I all but run back into the living area, my short's pockets stuffed with cash. Thank God, I didn't deposit it back into my savings account. Sophia is over at the stereo.

'Take a seat on the sofa, J,' she says, tinkering with the sound system.

Even though I know what the lesson will entail, I force myself to take a deep breath. An infamous establishment in Auckland that provides the service Sophia is moments from providing politely asked me to leave late one evening. I remember the Polynesian bouncer's unbreakable grip on my arm as he escorted me out. He must have been four inches taller than me. I had hot hands then. That's a disturbing thought.

'Are you ready?' she asks, and stereo-system remote in hand, she prowls towards her black bag.

'Yes, Madame, I am ready,' I say, fingers twitching at my sides.

She opens the black bag and digging around pulls out a large, black microphone big enough to club a donkey. She fiddles with it and a red light winks on. She points the remote at the stereo, positions herself in the middle of the floor in front of me and...

'YO, YO, YO, Miss Sophia Quinn in the house!'

The lyrics are a fast and garbled rant about parents not giving a shit, and teachers not giving a shit; I guess nobody gives a shit, certainly not politicians, and she's gotta take a hit, off a bong, or a spliff, is my best bet. I've no idea what's going on with that microphone. Did she tune it in to my stereo? The lyrics, they're just the warm-up, because the song, the rap, the riff? Jesus when did I get this old? The whole thing descends into Sophia making sound effects - no actual lyrics - just loud booshes and dooshes. It reminds me of that character in the film, Police Academy, who performs his own sound effects. She'd have no idea who I'm talking about, or even know the film. She dances, gyrates; shakes, jiggles and thrusts; leans back with gusto and bends forwards with earnestness and works up a sweat to music I'm sure she has put together herself on a keyboard synthesiser circa 1987. Bloody hell.

It's over. The music fades out. Her heavy breathing is the only sound in the entire house. She switches off the microphone and stands there, self-conscious, watching me, the dead microphone held in her right hand. Am I supposed to judge her performance? I've no idea what she expects from me; she obviously waits for me to do something. Vulnerable, cute, and undeniably hot, I can't decide whether I want to rush over and hug her, or pick her up and throw her onto the dining table and take her like the first Viking out of the long boat.

'Thought you'd get a lap dance, didn't you? Dirty old man,' she says.

'That's the lesson?' I ask.

'No of course not. I wanted you to check out my songwriting. It's not perfect, I wrote it early this morning, but it's how I work shit out sometimes, it works for me,' she says.

'It works for me too,' I say.

'Your turn?' she says, holding out the microphone.

'Shit no, sorry mate, I don't have a musical bone in my body,' I say, horrified at the thought this might be the lesson. J, the rap-artiste, gonna work shit out, yo?

She orders me to carry a dining chair into the centre of the floor and sit on it. Back at the stereo, she shuffles through a stack of cd's she brought with her.

'Do you like the Black-Eyed Peas?' she asks.

I answer yes, but I'm not sure. Don't they sing inane lyrics about lady bumps, lumps, or humps? Something/ something/my lady lumps? Satisfied with the music arrangements, she goes back to her black bag. I spy a metallic glint and sure enough, handcuffs emerge followed by a thick clump of tough, black straps. A long, soft piece of black material emerges last - a blindfold - but I guess it suggests a variety of other purposes. She struts over and places the jumble on the ground by the side of the chair.

'Do you want one song or three?' she says, purring into my ear.

'That depends on what you're planning to do with that,' I say, pointing at the ominous pile beside me.

'If you're a good boy, you won't have to worry,' she says, strutting over to the dining table and grabbing the stereo remote. She hits play and loud music thumps out. It's happening too fast. Sophia's slick approach, the nerve-jangling music, the money: I'm hunted prey, but I can't escape the thought that finally, finally... action.

'You know what to do with the cash, don't you?' she shouts, and snaps her garter belt.

'What happens if I'm naughty?' I shout over what might be Basement Jaxx. Bass throbs through the floor into my feet.

'We both know you're going to be a good boy,' she shouts, and tugging a note out of my pocket, holds it out. I take it and making me yelp, she stomps her boot on the top of my thigh. She offers her garter belt. Dutifully, I snap the note in place.

'NO hands,' she says, her face so close, her warm minty-clean breath washes over my face. I recognise that minty scent. She used my toothpaste to clean her teeth.

'I will not use my hands, Madame,' I shout, nodding.

'You will use your tongue, to lick my boot,' she orders.

32.

Vintage boot leather doesn't taste the way you think it should; it tastes like dirt, with a sharp medicinal aftertaste. I guess that's the boot polish. How else did I expect it to taste? I couldn't help myself, once I got going. Licking upwards, over the boot top, I carried on to the slightly roughened skin below her knee. For a few shocked moments - my shocked moments \- she let me lick away to my heart's content. Either she was enjoying the sensation, or enjoying something else, but I was heading around her knee into svelte inner thigh territory before she gave me a light cuff across the top of my head and moved her leg away.

I can't put my finger on it. As the lesson continues, my celebratory orgy of Sophia-ness equalises out. I guess you can't stay euphoric forever. Sophia's splendid rump grinds into my lap, but with less gusto. She takes on an air of what one might call tedium. Was it back at the start, my errant tongue? I'm not sure what I've done wrong, but as more and more notes from my pocket slip under that belt and into the top of her panty band and even into her bra cup and bra strap, I sense something amiss.

I've burnt through most of the money by the time she handcuffs me and secures my arms behind the chair back. Tightly lashed around my ankles, the black bindings cut off circulation. Oh, the failure. Failure with my weak hands, and my thrusting groin \- that's why she lashed my legs. Gyrating against her with such frenzy, with my bottom and thighs rhythmically rising off the chair, I nearly came before she took control and went in search of the ties.

No, she definitely isn't into it now. She stops and heads over to the dining room table, and retrieving bills from the various locations on her body, makes a tidy pile on the tabletop. I've none left in my pocket - no, a couple. She must have amassed a thousand or more dollars. More, I believe. I don't begrudge her the money; I wanted to give it to her before and nothing has changed. Won't she be less inclined towards loose lips with that much money in her pocket? She could put the money towards a better second-hand car. Using the remote, she stops the music. I bet the Americans in Iraq are using this music to torture prisoners, and if not, they should seriously consider it.

'Show's over?' I ask.

With her back turned and her hands resting on the tabletop, she hunches her shoulders up towards her ears and letting out a deep breath, slowly relaxes.

'Sorry,' I say.

'Did you try? You have no... no techniques,' she says, turning.

She has a point. That slimy-handed bastard that Neanderthal Man that pig-tailed axe-wielding sweaty Viking storms in and takes over my brain.

She is winning, and far, far too easily.

'You won this round,' I say. I shake my handcuffs and try to wiggle my legs.

'Punishment time, J, rules of the game,' she says.

'I've received enough punishment,' I say.

'Your punishment hasn't even started yet,' she says.

She adds the blindfold to my ensemble and tenderly winds the soft material around my head a few times, completely blocking out any light, nothing - even in my peripheral vision - darkness. I complain about the ankle-ties and my lack of circulation. She threatens me with a gag. She says she has one and will use it. I stay silent; I know she will. Worse than this threat, though, she restarts the egregious music and punches it up even louder.

'How long do I have to put up with this?' I shout, frightened that her plan is to leave me here. I can't get these handcuffs off without the key, and I guess I could wriggle out of my ankle-ties, but how long will that take? How much skin will I lose?

'As long as it takes,' she whispers right into my ear. I startle and she has to grab my shoulders to keep me from toppling.

'Takes to do what?' I shout.

She doesn't reply. I can't sense her breath on my ear, or her presence nearby. I strain my hearing; the music is too loud. How is it that someone can understand you so well in such a short space of time she can inflict, with surgical precision, the exact punishment that will cause you the most psychological damage? That terrible song is playing: My lumps, my lumps, my lovely lady bumps. I should've asked for earmuffs. It's not just the music: what is she doing? Am I being robbed? My mind spirals out of control and each contracting, tightening spiral withers rational reasonable thought. Did she follow me and see where I stowed the lockbox? A burning lump of vomit shoots up into my throat. I didn't re-lock the box. I grabbed a chunk of bills and raced back into the living area. But why take the money now? Because the droopy-boxer-shorts wearing little shit she swam with is sneaking into the house, no, he is already in the house, and he's romping around with Sophia on my super-sized bed, rolling and fucking on my money. The injustice of it stings my eyes. How can I be and continue to be such a dumb arse?

What if it's none of that? What if she is sitting over at the dining table, or behind me on the sofa, watching me writhe and fidget, fume and groan?

I hear her boot heels on the concrete floor. A swish of air as she brushes past and a moment later the music stops.

'Thank God for that,' I say.

'You've got a lot to be thankful for, Julian Braithwaite,' she says.

She unlocks the handcuffs and I massage blood back into my wrists. Another swish of air, and she is no longer by my side. A scraping noise, the bag, she is busy, busy.

'Sweet dreams, big boy,' she whispers into my ear and gives me a cool, moist peck on the cheek. Another swish, followed by retreating footsteps, she walks down the steps outside.

'Jesus, Sophia!' I shout, struggling to untie the blindfold knot. I writhe against my ankle-bonds.

'Fan-fucking-tastic,' I mutter.

Where did she learn to tie knots? A Special Forces advanced knot-tying course? Maybe it's mandatory for a Dominatrix? I take an age to work the blindfold off and when I do, I take in an amazing three-sixty. Flickering tea light candles surround me. Floating in water, in what must be every plate and dish from the kitchen, I'm surrounded by candles. She performed her tasks so close by she could have reached over and touched me, and the entire time I didn't have a clue.

I hop the chair around and face the doors. In a straight line, the candles march over the steps and out onto the courtyard. Even out of the house, the candles burn in their little silver tubs. Heart quickening, I realise they circle each Pohutakawa. Is she copying a famous film scene? It makes me wonder if she isn't lurking nearby, watching and enjoying my reaction.

'Sophia! Sophia?' I shout.

If she isn't here, I have to get cracking; the bloody house will burn if the Pohuts catch fire. Doubled over and working the ankle-ties off I notice something on the floor; small clear objects the size of thumbnails, some even smaller, placed equidistantly between each candle. The ties slip off and I work at my numb ankles. Wide purple lines depress my poor flesh.

The objects look like pieces of glass, and I follow the trail outside. The pieces - the crumbs - get bigger as I get closer to the Pohuts. Unmistakably, they're pieces of glass. Broken glass. Shards. Chunks. I follow the trail around the right Pohut. On the far side of the tree, I find a tidy stack of bills on the ground. She may have taken one or two notes: I didn't count them when I took them from the box. I don't think she has; I know she hasn't. I pick up a lump of glass and inspect it in my fingertips. Smooth, where the break hasn't left it jagged, and a fine line like a crease that runs across the surface. The quality of the glass, and the obvious craftsmanship: I can't bring myself to head over at the second Pohut. I know I have to.

Features of her serene face, the side of her nose, a part of her sumptuous lip; I can make them out if I closely examine them. Sophia has made a tidy pile of the Natural Woman's remains under the second Pohut. I'm not angry, although I know I will be, later. But my stupidity - God! Another acidic spurt of vomit shoots up into my mouth when I remember stuffing cash into her lingerie. What was I doing? What did I miss? How much am I missing here, now? I try to force calm on myself, but I can't achieve it. I can't help thinking that instead of a glass sculpture lying in a pile at my feet, my mother lies broken up and scattered over the ground.

Sophia left a note in a plain envelope propped up against the tree. I slide the piece of paper out, actual stationary paper scented with Sophia's au de cologne. She scented the paper. But she can't possibly know about Mum's scented letters. No, it's a joke on me. During the lap dance, I said something ridiculous about not wanting to take a shower in case I wash off her scent.

Dearest J,

You failed the lesson before it had even started. Dufus! Unsatisfactory! No hands means no hands!? (And other things. Goodness J?)

Sorry about the sculpture. It was so beautiful. I'm not sure how close you are to your Mum. Are you close? What can I say? Rules of the game, J.

Don't worry. You'll figure it out. Time to pass a lesson?

Dr Quinn

P.S. Not the same Dr Quinn as the one in that ancient television show you referenced when we last met. Or were you making a pun about Dr Phil the shrink? Very witty. I really am sorry about the sculpture but I have to get through to you!!

Fuelled by a vain, foolish hope, I'm up over the back fence and tumbling down a knee high collection of deadwood Sophia has stacked against the other side, before I realise I have her note crumpled in my fist. I hope Sophia made that stack of wood. I scrunch the note into a tight ball and fling it away.

No sight or sound of her rattling car on Broad Street. I wander along to her supposed friend's house, her study-buddy, Becky, and check if Sophia's car is parked in the drive. Empty. No lights on inside the house. I creep up to the letterbox, wondering why I've never checked this. The last name will be Quinn. By the time I get to it, I'm positive Sophia has taken her friend's identity. Rinonier. Becky's last name is Rinonier. Becky's father is probably the city's aluminium guy. He owns two aluminium warehouses and occasionally runs television ads on national channels.

I wander back up the track destroy the step-up, tossing the logs and branches as far as I can from the fence. I soon wish I hadn't. I bean myself on the way over and have to crouch on the lawn as I get my breath back. On the courtyard, I snuff out the candles. How long had she planned this? How many candles did she buy? And the lockbox money? It's all there as close as I can guess. The fact it is rekindles my rage and I just, just resist the urge to pick it up and empty it into the pool. Floating cash would make a nice addition to the fading loungers.

Tomorrow will be a write-off. I collapse on my bed so tired and soul-bruised from the night's events I sink into the bed sheets and mattress. But I struggle out of the exhaustion and sniff the bed sheets and check for wet spots to make sure she wasn't rolling around in here with a beau. I wouldn't put it past her, plus, two pairs of hands make light work. Light? My artful lighting shines on the Natural Woman's empty plinth. The arrangement looks like a practical joke, or a corny conceptual gallery artwork. For the second time tonight, I can't keep tears from stinging my eyes. I have to tell Mum. I have to tell her if only for insurance reasons. House and possessions might cover it if she has kept the receipt.

'What am I thinking, what am I fucking thinking? Insurance? Fucking insurance!' I shout. Anger propels me off the bed and over to the mocking plinth. I knock it over and send it crashing against the wall.

No, the thing I'm most afraid of isn't the fabricated explanation of the Natural Woman's destruction I will create and tell Mum. Sophia? The Game? Tea light candles and lap dances? No way. I race through a bunch of different scenarios: I knocked it over, I was cleaning, I was throwing a ball around, there was an earthquake, there was construction next door, there was nothing I could do, no, it was entirely my fault.

I try to face the truth, but squelch from the job.

I've lost the Natural Woman because of this stupid game, but it's worse than that, and somehow that terrifying little pixie knows. My greatest fear, one that truly terrifies me, is that my Mother no longer cares enough to be interested.

33.

I find Stuart in the break room, making a mess of plunging coffee in the staff Bodum plunger. He looks so forlorn I invite him across to Grind.

'How can you balls up plunging coffee?' he mutters, rhetorically miserable as we make our way out of the firm.

He might have cracked the glass body of the plunger against the side of the sink when he rinsed it out. I think that possible crack is on both our minds as we trot across the street to Grind, but with Stuart that's impossible to tell. How was Christmas, how was New Years? We settle into our seats up front by the windows, our creamy flat white's fern perfect. Over small talk we realise we've both had much the same experience, both alone for Christmas and New Years. Like me, Stuart looks better and healthier with a tan. Unlike me, Stuart didn't have a fanatical, psycho Pixie strapping him to chairs and destroying precious objects in his house.

I didn't call Mum; I couldn't do it. Wait, that's not true. I called and hung up after a few seconds. Enraged by my cowardice, I then drove out to the 24hr, and not finding Sophia's car, headed on to her parent's house. Again, I parked up the street. I dug around in the glove box, found an old receipt, and scribbled a note on the back of it...

Now I know where you live.

Luv J.

Yes, now I'm referring to myself as the letter J. I scuttled to her car and slipped the note under a windscreen wiper. My heart beating that fast, I could've been sprinting a hundred metres. What did I expect to happen? The locals pouring out of their front doors, their pump action shotguns aiming at the yuppie with the silver car?

Sophie retaliated in her usual fashion. Yesterday afternoon, at the end of the first official day after the holiday period, I plodded up to the parking building, to my Audi. I didn't notice it until I was inside and turning over the ignition. A folded white piece of paper slipped under the windscreen wiper:

Ha ha I know where you park your car too.

Luv S.

The notorious little bitch didn't leave it at that though. First thing this morning, Froomey clutters into my office, armed with a bright orange sticky note and a name: T Dickson, and a number I had to call, it sounded urgent.

'Guess what? I know where you work,' Sophia said, when she answered.

She has to go one better. I told her it's game on. 'I'm not pulling punches anymore, Miss... Dickson.' She sounded pleased about that and I couldn't keep myself from hissing, 'What the fuck are you doing?' She laughed and hung up. I kept the number though. It's probably the 24hr's, and the name, Dickson? Could that be her real name? What does the T stand for? Not Tina, I hope.

Tina, the lurid wench, made a big deal of bending over in front of me and after straightening, gave me a wink. I can't take this harassment for much longer. I have to believe Maya will honour her one-month deadline. I don't have a clue what I will do with her ambitions. Looking across the table at Stuart calmly sipping his flat white as if he hasn't a care in the world, makes me want to reach across and shake him: Why don't you have any ambitions? What the fuck is wrong with you?

'I used to come here when I was a kid. After school I'd sit here and watch the old man craning around in his office,' Stuart says, looking up at the firm's windows across the street.

'I suppose Baxter's too short for craning,' I say. What was Stuart thinking all those years ago, watching tall, stern, Eustace James, busy-bodying?

'What made you want to work at the firm, after your trip to the States?' I ask, watching him carefully. He has his father's fantastic poker face when he can be bothered to use it.

'I guess I've always worked at the firm. I used to do the rubbish after school, stuff like that,' he says.

'Never wanted to do law? James and Son?' I ask.

'I was never much good at school,' he says, and hides his smile behind his coffee.

I want to tell Stuart it doesn't matter because who gives a shit? I can't decide if that's more a lie than a complacent truth coming from someone who has an education and the resulting, and I'd have to say, conservative career track. All helped along by the right schools and Daddy's connections.

'What would you do if you didn't work at the firm?' I say, genuinely curious, and trying not to remember Baxter's heads up and the lad's imminent demise. Fucking Baxter. He won't do it. No matter how amazing Maya is at her job, Baxter won't do it. Try to give Stuart a kick up the arse, yes, but let him go? No, although, would Stuart even respond to a kick up the arse?

Stuart shrugs, but he gives me a shrewd, penetrating look. It reminds me of his father's craggy- browed dark-eyed stare, a look of intense seriousness that could stifle storm fronts.

'Your mate, Bernard, is he still around?' Stuart says.

'Bernie's in Auckland now,' I say, trying to remember when Stuart first met him. Wait, Stuart can't have met him, I must have mentioned him. Trust Stuart to remember an odd detail like that.

34.

I guess it was my reference to pulling punches. I didn't expect Sophia to find inspiration in it, or take it literally. We push back, lift, and carry the furniture to the sides of the living area and make a large impromptu ring using cushions and books and whatever else is at hand to line the ringsides. That black sports bag is bottomless. Two sets of training gloves emerge, and two helmets; Sophia even has a bright lime green mouth guard, and worse, looks scarily proficient as she slips on her helmet and gloves. She wears the same exercise clothes as last time, minus the top. Distracting much? Way to solemnly for my liking, she informs me there will be no kicking, the use of knees or elbows is forbidden, and there will be no tripping. Who does she think I am? I work out on a Nordic Track, for fuck's sakes, I'm not a mixed martial arts expert.

'Is this the lesson?' I ask, wondering where and what the educative points are as I slip on and adjust the helmet. Whoever wore it last had a smaller head than mine. I haven't mentioned the Natural Woman's brutal destruction, or the note leaving and phone calling, not once. I won't until she does.

'Uh-huh, we're going to have short rounds. Light sparring, okay? We'll rest for one minute when I say,' Sophia says.

'Yes, Madame,' I say.

'Ready?' she asks, her voice muffled by the mouth guard she just stuffed in her gob.

I tighten the Velcro strap on the second glove and try to staunch a moment's sharp panic. Come on, Braithwaite, this will be fun, she is...

a creamy brown ball of lethal kinetic energy.

The first shot she genuinely lands is a right cross that cracks me smack on the chin. I stagger back to the edge of the ring, holding a hand up, one moment, please.

The second decent shot she lands is an upper cut that catches me high on the jaw, just below the ear. God, I wish I had a mouth guard; I can taste blood.

'Time!' she shouts, and struts over to the far side of the ring, where she has made a nice station for herself; a sports towel to wipe off sweat, a water bottle she takes a quick swig from and a watch she consults to check the rest interval. She starts performing brisk, deep, wide-kneed Sumo squats. That's it, that's too much.

'What the bloody hell're you doing?' I ask.

'Time!' she shouts and rushes across the ring at me.

I cover up and turn turtle, keeping a mere slit between my forearms to see through. She heads downtown and wails away at my midsection until I'm grunting and heaving for breath. Every time I drop my guard to protect my abs and ribs, she goes straight for my face. Every time I cover my face, she goes back to my midsection. Where and when did she learn to fight? We're both drenched in sweat. My arms, I can't keep them up. I try to move around the ring, but she cuts me off.

'Time!' she shouts.

'Thank God,' I mutter, as I stumble over to my side of the ring, where I've no station, no towel, and no water.

'It's not much fun when the object hits back, is it?' she says, after she finishes her efficient little ringside routine, minus the squats.

'Eh?' I say, perplexed. Object? Is she talking about the Natural Woman she destroyed, but she rushes me again.

I change tactics.

Like a drunken man, I grab her and try to cling-wrap those powerful pistons of hers to the sides of her body. It becomes a grim struggle; a sweaty, dripping, grunting, panting pointless exercise in God knows what. She is far stronger than she looks. She just wants to hit me, and if that's her intention, she must be satisfied. What is the lesson? Sophia boxes and I don't? What I don't enjoy is the fluttery fear I experience when she gracefully slides forward and tries to punch my face and head. I just don't like it, I'm not used to it: bang-bang, bang-bang-bang, bang, bang, bang-ban - I slip on the concrete floor. Our sweat has dripped off our arms and faces, or run off our legs, and it's a polished concrete floor.

'Time!' she shouts.

She lets me know that's the end, sparring finished.

With a massive groan of relief, I collapse on the floor and concentrate on the rise and fall of my chest.

'I'm completely buggered,' I say.

Sophia busily un-gloves, wipes down, and drinks, brisk-brisk-brisk. Ministrations over, she lies beside me and for a blissful moment's silence, other than my heavy breathing, we lie there, staring up at the ceiling and exposed pipes. I peel off the sweaty, wet gloves, and tug off the helmet. I can't see where the lesson lies. She can't complain about me not keeping my hands to myself; I don't think I punched her once.

'You're a terrible boxer, J, or you're a pussy,' she says.

'I'm out of practise,' I say.

'You failed the lesson, sorry mate,' she says.

She rolls over and pecks me on the cheek.

'You're going to look adorable,' she says.

What does a guy have to do to get a break around here? At first, I said no way, no fucking way. I accused her, verbalising the yet unspoken gulf between us, of wanting revenge for my finding out where she lives. As if destroying the beautiful, and I added, expensive artwork I own isn't humiliating and painful enough. I haven't seen her this stumped since that afternoon I bowled into her 24hr.

'Why do I care if you know where I live? Am I supposed to be ashamed?' she says.

Now she has me stumped.

'No,' I say.

She delves into her bag of magic tricks. What she emerges with is pink and fluffy.

'You failed the lesson. You treated me like a glass doll,' she says.

'I'm not a good boxer, what am I supposed to do?' I say.

'Punishment time,' she says, bobbing the crinkling, fluffy thing at me.

Surely, it will take more time to change into the leotard, tights, and a vivid red wig, and then apply make-up, than the punishment will last? But she drags the punishment out, longer than out. Soon it ceases to be a joke, with the humour bled dry after what? Fifteen minutes? My legs are killing me. I had to slip off the ancient high heels she provided for me and do it in my stocking feet. Kicking kicking, I can't keep it up for much longer, and the music? Duh-duh, duh-duh-duh-duh duh-duh, duh-duh - cancan bla-bla bla-bla cancan, bla-bla bla-bla - Ahhhhhhh! The fucking cancan? That's not the worst of it, shit no, I'm losing my voice from having to shout over the mind-numbing music, and what does Madame have me shouting? YOU ARE NOT AN OBJECT! YOU ARE NOT AN OBJECT! YOU ARE NOT AN OBJECT! She watches, legs tucked up under her, quite comfortable on the sofa, thank you.

The leotard cuts into my crotch where it rubs against the tights, and the red wig wants to slip off, it won't stay in place. I'm close, the closest yet. She knows it, I know it; I want to chuck the whole thing in and admit defeat. She is insane. Sophia is beyond me. She will never back down, ever. Of all the punishments, even the Natural Woman's destruction, which I'm still trying to get my head around, the leotard and make-up, the kicking and chanting - it's going too far. My cancan kicks diminish, lower and lower, bla-bla bla-bla-bla, bla - YOU ARE NOT - it sinks in. It has to - how can it not?

No, Sophia, you are not an object. Yes, I was wrong wrong and wrong to treat you like one; the bribery, the tipping, and I inwardly shudder when I remember my earlier outburst, my revenge theory about her Applethorne ties. Even the Natural Woman debacle sinks in, my own Mother's belated lesson hitting home.

'YOU ARE NOT AN OBJECT!' I shout so loud Mum can hear me in Nelson if that's where she lives. I shout it again, louder, so Ted can hear in his office in Wellington. Edward Braithwaite, Mum, 'WAS NOT AN OBJECT!' Kicking, kicking, I'm lashing out now, willing my foot an inch higher with each kick - 'NOT AN OBJECT!' - I'm sorry, Kelly, for using you like a chess piece - 'NOT AN OBJECT' - for trying to bribe you - 'NOT AN OBJECT' \- I'm nearly sobbing I'm so tired. I want the game to end. I don't care about winning. Just beam me some place past, present, or future, where no one gives a shit about winning stupid games. But where or when is that?

Memories of an afternoon blindside me.

As soon as the house and pool became operational, Bernie and I had an exclusive unofficial housewarming that descended into a long afternoon's drunken debauchery. Yes, Bernie is with me in the pool, laughing and offering his fleshy face up to heavy rain that hammers our wetsuits and individual lilos, and cools our hot, flushed drunken faces. Why were we in wetsuits? Did we make plans to go surfing? I will myself back there even as I kick, shout, bob, kick and shout. I'm back in the pool, floating weightless and boneless beside Bernie, my best mate. If I raise my head, I can look over the courtyard at the two Pohutakawas I fought so hard to keep in the plans, over the architects, builders, and my father's reservations. The house, a brand new house, a glassy space with so much potential and so many possibilities - my own house.

I don't realise she has stopped the music until I hear the rasping sound of my voice. Sophia cocks her eyebrows at me and I take this as my cue to stop. I double over, my hands resting on the tops of my knees, and the itchy red wig slips down and falls to the floor. In a burst of spite, I kick it across the floor towards Sophia, and then resume my earlier recovery position. I swipe the back of my hand across my face, and it comes away black. My make-up has run.

'I'm going to beat you,' I say, looking up at her.

'What, J? Excuse me?' she says, when she stops laughing.

She hasn't moved off the couch. Poised and feline comfortable, she appears to be enjoying herself.

'I will beat you, I will win the game' I say, louder.

This makes her smile.

'With a fluffy duster, love?' she says, in a mocking Cockney-English accent.

'No, the game, this stupid game, I'm going to beat you, I'm going to win,' I say.

35.

Sophia took my declaration to see myself victorious, the all-conquering, J, supreme winner of the Game seriously. I guess it was too much for her to take after thrashing me in a boxing match, dressed me up in a fluffy-lined leotard, tights, wig, heels, and make-up, and then made me perform the cancan. You are not an object. Bloody hell.

I will beat her though. Night after night, Sophia returns, a dodging shadow materialising in the pool lighting, with her black sports bag in hand. Ta-da. The steadily fading loungers cluster in the pool. On closer inspection they are perishing, as each day the sun and water take their toll, as is the game on me.

One night, or even two nights a week was hard enough, now it's every night, and it takes everything to keep my eyes open at work. She must have swapped around shifts at her job, or even quit it, which makes me anxious. Does this mean Wellington accepted her application? Every time I've tried to ask, she evades my questions. She is all business as if she wants to throw my challenge back in my face. You want to beat me? Let's see if you can keep up, let's see if you've got the stamina. The nights wear on, and it becomes less and less a game and more Sophia's full-throttle attempt at mentally, physically, and emotionally breaking me. The last couple of afternoons I've even busted out of work early, hours before the others leave, Scotty especially, and raced the Audi through traffic to get home so I can curl up in bed and sleep for a few hours before I have to get up and face the Game.

I'm nowhere with the Gamble-Olivier contract. A miracle, I reach Olivier's representative, Counsellor Holmes, and he told me Olivier wants to keep working out the details. What does that mean? Olivier doesn't want to work anything out with anyone. The fall out from the pre-Christmas Mz Gamble visit has had unexpected consequences. Baxter asked me to see him in his office twice this week, pointedly asking both times why Mz Gamble was asking questions about my father. It's killing him, the not knowing: Did my Father, the famous Ted, ever have business with Olivier, or the Gambles? Ted and the Gambles? The Gambles never went anywhere near Dad, which always disappointed him. And Olivier? Unlikely.

But Baxter's roundabout inquisitions troubled me, so I called Ted and asked him: The Gambles? Olivier? Did you ever represent that guy? You've got to be bloody joking, he said. I was so tired I didn't press him and just accepted his answer.

So, the game.

I wouldn't be playing it if weren't for the fact it's working. Maya, and now Tina, play games with me. Catching me off-guard while I was making coffee in the break room, Tina pressed and rubbed up against me as if I were a tree; her breasts squashing against the length of my arm, and her blouse straining across her chest. I held tight; I didn't yield, and she walked off in an embarrassed huff. Neither of us said a word - an awkward silent engagement.

This has been my secret weapon, evolving, deadly, and effective in the struggle.

It first happened during the cancan punishment. A complete mental break from the pain and humiliation, I immersed myself in a wonderful afternoon memory I thought I'd forgotten: afloat on a lilo in my brand spanking new pool, blood warm in my wetsuit, shocked by icy needling rain and over the downpour Bernie's laughter, his uncontained drunken laughter; I experienced limitless contentment that afternoon. I owned a house, and I was so proud no downpour could squash a contentment I've never experienced since.

Every time now, during the game with Sophia, or teasing at work from Maya and Tina - body pressing included - I drift back into the memory of that afternoon. If I focus hard and long enough, and even close my eyes if the lesson proves too tempting (Sophia in lingerie, grazing her breasts into the side of my body or face as she reaches past me on a bogus errand, or Maya and Tina, taking turns strutting into my office and making a sexy show of filing single pieces of paper that when I dig them out of my cabinet drawers have, J is a Cock Muncher, printed on them) I enter a deeply meditative state. I lose control of the present; I slip away.

I've explored other memories, equally pleasant, in their own quiet way. Breakfast out on the courtyard on a summer Sunday morning after a run and a relaxing shower; skim-reading the Sunday papers, drinking my first cup of coffee, and digging into my scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast. A winter's afternoon, curled up on a sofa on the mezzanine, watching a dvd, or half a mind on a rugby game, a test match, or a hyped Super-Twelve stoush. I can make them last, these memories. I can merge memory and experience to the point I can walk through the house, out to the pool (in my meditations, the loungers are poolside, not in the pool) where I sunbathe, or take a quick, refreshing dip, then relax and drink a beer.

They don't like it, the trio. Sophia especially is getting stroppy, whereas Maya takes my fortified, restrained stance with wry humour. Cock muncher? Me? Although, I don't trust her sudden relaxation of her blackmail threats over me, and Tina's losing interest, now I'm not biting. I guess it's not that much fun when the object hits back, but I suppose the opposite is true. It's not much fun when the object plays dead possum, either. There was once a game with a script to follow, but I'm not following it now and how it's pissing them off. As for random, stray encounters with nipple-peeping women in Supermarket aisles? Nothing, not a single shifty act of self-sabotage. The women of this city are safe in my presence. Is that true? Admittedly, I don't go out as much as I used to - shuttling between work and home - but my record for random acts is zilch.

I haven't won yet. At least not the game, not in Sophia's books; she always finds increasingly trivial details, little niggling something's; my lingering fingertips on her waist, or adjusting body parts during a slow dancing lesson, or even a turn of my head, or a double take is enough. She notices them and hangs me up on it. 'You've failed yet another lesson, J,' she says, with a sigh. I'm not out of the woods, but it's unbelievable how close I am. It could happen anytime now, during any of these long nights. We both know it. I will execute the perfect lesson, a flawless, hang-up free lesson, and there will be absolutely no way she will be able to fail me.

36.

She can be vicious, my naughty pixie. She did spank me with a custom built spanking device. But of all the objects to emerge from her sport's bag of tricks, she pulls out a knife. Short bladed and folding, more pocketknife than real blade, it looks sinister enough. Without having to touch it, I see its razor sharp edge. She, or someone else, hones that blade to a fine edge, and polishes both blade and handle to a silver sheen that could put my Audi's paint job to shame. The second item to emerge from the bag is somehow more unsettling: a large plastic bag of store bought apples. She places both knife and apples on the dining table.

'Apples, Madame? I say.

'I want you to peel and core these,' Sophia says.

She closes on me, looking up into my face. Her jaw clenches and her gaze hardens into suspicion. We can both sense it. That knife unnerves me, but not enough to quiet my excited heart. I'm here I've arrived there's no denying it now. I teeter on the edge of victory. Sophia narrows her eyes at me, hoists the sports bag onto her shoulder and pads off towards the master bedroom wing.

'Get to it, and I want them thinly peeled, J, no chunks hacked out of them,' she says over her shoulder, before she is out of sight.

I sit at the dining table, by now knowing better than to find something to drop the peelings and off-cuts into. That's cause enough for failure, seeing as though she didn't ask me to do that. I start on the first apple and what I thought easy straightaway proves difficult. I've never peeled fruit or vegetables without a bone fide fruit and vegetable peeler. Her heads up about not taking out chunks of apple proves apt. Does she peel apples this way? That makes me wonder what else she might use this knife for and I shy away from those thoughts. Instead, I focus on creating satisfying thin swirls of peel, as long as I can make them, before they snap off, or I mess it up and snip them short.

'Oh, so pretty,' Sophia says, and reaching over me, bounces a strip dangling off the apple I'm peeling. I was focusing so hard on not slipping, and not removing the top of my thumb, I didn't hear her approach and didn't pick up her scent. Sophia wears her killer lingerie set. The set she chose, not the one I bought her. She repositions herself, reaching forward and closer. Her bra cups, the soft virgin skin above the cups, and her collarbone and its hollow are so close if I turn my face and pucker my lips... I switch into meditation mode. She caught me by surprise. She has been trying to do that these past nights and waits for me to get comfortable and absorbed in the lesson before she pounces. I submerge and plunge into my breathing, into my memory-experience.

'Don't cut yourself,' she breathes ticklish and minty warm into my right ear; she has been using my toothpaste again. I peel apples, and simultaneously float on my lilo in the pool. Bernie good-naturedly punches my upper arm and pushes away from me, finding his own floating space. We are laughing, and his wet suit is obscenely tight against his big belly; the rain drums on it the neoprene is stretched that tight. He is having the best afternoon of his life as am I. I move on with my mind's journey. It's a brisk morning not yet winter and snug in my favourite winter jersey, a great, shaggy, shapeless thing with a hood I pull up against the chill, I carry toast and coffee through to the bedroom. Carefully placing them on the side table, I slip back under the covers and pick up where I left off in the book I'm reading.

Abstractly, I notice Sophia has propped herself up on the dining table, just to the side of the apples, both peeled and unpeeled, and just as abstractly I realise I'm making progress; there's an equal amount of both, two equal apple groups. Sophia leans forward and purses her hands in her lap, which squashes her breasts together. That used to be provocative enough to set my face on fire, but she won't stop there, she must do more than that. I push her much farther than that these nights.

Brace yourself, Braithwaite. She leans back on the table, propping herself up on her elbows. With that same state of abstraction, I notice she has painted her toenails black. Even her feet, her toes, look sexy and delicious. I will myself to slow and count my way back into my meditation. I start at the beginning, with the flood of joy, the pool, and Bernie, splotchy faced, gingerish Bernie, always eager to please, Bernie. Don't lose it now. Pointing her foot, she delicately brushes her toes up the length of my arm. God, she has strong thighs to have that much control. Don't look at her thighs. God, I love her thighs. FOCUS! Bernie catches my eye from a pool length away and his face glows with delight. He gives me the double thumbs up, and points at the sky and the rain. More peels. Ignore the toes. Ignore the foot. Peel, peel... that's one apple peeled. She shuffles closer to the table's edge, and strokes my chest and upper thigh with her foot. Taking my time, my head bowed over the apple, I slice out four sides around the core with a slow-bearing, precise pressure.

As I thought, she slides further towards the table edge. Dipping her foot, she gently places it on my lap. I don't notice this abstractly. It rests there, a block of concrete perfectly able to smash through my best efforts of resistance. I'm stirring, rising, and she starts slow teasing circles. What is failure at this point? I can't consciously control it, what's going on in there. No, I can't control it, but failure is surrendering to the pleasure and I will not yield.

Any moment now, the apple I'm peeling will burst into flames. I will another slow earned centimetre of peel away from the flesh. It does. And another. Her foot, the circles, progress into heavier, more applied rubbing, Jesus Christ, she is rolling the ball of her foot back and forth over my hardening cock shaft. I will not yield. I will not stop peeling.

The thing is, I don't. I do not stop peeling. Four cuts, push the core out, tidy the coreless centre up, shave off the now empty core edges, the top and bottom, and add it to the growing pile of unpeeled apples. But I'm so close I'm losing it, but I don't show it; I stare holes into that apple's surface. I restart the meditation and successfully bury myself. I head off on a summer's twilight jog around the golf course. It's not much fun when the gimp learns to play dead possum. It's against that level of resistance I want Sophia to fail. I refuse to yield. I run smooth and relaxed. I could run for hours. I smell fresh cut grass, rich and baroque as I skim along the edges of people's sprawling properties that line the other side of the street, directly across from the course. How many windows do they lose to stray golf balls every year? Do they instal reinforced glass? She stops. It stops. The rubbing, rolling and grinding... with an exasperated sigh, she lifts her foot away, fussily repositions herself and stares hard at me. Peel, peel now, before she hits back with a new strategy.

Sophia completely lowers herself onto the table and slides closer to the centre. Directly in my line of vision she parts her legs, creating a V that encompasses me. Placing her palms on the inside of her thighs, she parts her legs even wider and in a fluid motion arches her butt up off the table two inches. Then lowers, then raises. I stop peeling. Her hands stray to the inside of her thighs. She pings her garter belt against her skin, and gives a grunt of satisfaction, and even though I know she is playing, pretending, trying to cheat me out of victory, it causes me a second's doubt. She lowers herself back to the tabletop. I can't restart. I'm staring into the silky abyss of my potential failure. Keep peeling, Braithwaite. I drag my eyes away from her parted legs, back to the apple in my hand. Meditation, start the meditation.

Her right hand thrusts between her legs and starts a slow, bold caress. I'm not peeling. Heart breaking, I reposition the apple in my left hand and angle the blade against the skin. I can hear it, the friction her fingers create rubbing the lingerie material. A new scent in the air mingles with the sweet crisp apples, and forms a heavy sweaty sweet scent, a pungent scent. A few millimetres parts from the flesh, and then a few more, and I'm on my way again. I try to ignore her increased breathing, the friction that's picking up speed and momentum, the table that's rocking back and forth threatening to roll apples off onto the floor. I focus on the accomplishment of a swirling apple peel. I stare at the apple in my hand, the blade edge working in a trembling but straight line, and will myself back into memory-experience as Sophia plunges beneath the panty material.

I relax in front of the courtyard fireplace; a decent blaze smacks sparks up into the night air. Bernie is there. It's a recent visit - last year's. A glass of decent red wine even though he prefers white, and it must have been weighing on his mind, his big career move into what I call pro bono work even though he gets paid for it. A pittance, but he gets paid for it. He turns and asks me if I enjoy what I do, my chosen career, and we both laugh at that. Enjoy? Bernie knows as much about me as anyone alive. He knows Ted pressured me to do law, and he knows how much I leant on Ted to contribute financially towards building this house. It always made Bernie uncomfortable this knowledge, but I had no one else to turn to, especially after Mum and Dad divorced, and he was there, my confidant, my amigo, always there.

You know what? Yes, yes I enjoy what I do, I said, in answer to his question, and I leant back on my chair, wine glass in hand.

What is it? A scream? A curse? Sophia follows it up by sweep kicking the apples off the table. Clambering down, she sprints towards the master bedroom wing. I call after her but she doesn't pause and heads round the corner at speed. The bathroom door slams shut. She's screaming in there. I hear her shouting, but I can't make out what. Concerned, I run to the bathroom. She has locked the door. Wanker. She alternates between screaming and calling me a wanker, 'You fucking wanker!' she shouts.

This is it.

I've won.

I've no idea what she was doing before she had this tantrum, what depths of masturbation she had reached. I head back to the dining table and clean up the apples. I had one left to peel. This might be a ploy and a good one at that if she sneaks out of the bathroom in a few minutes, sees the one unpeeled apple, and declares the lesson a failure. Indecisive, I can't bring myself to ask her if the lesson has finished. No, I'm positive - the lesson, the entire game - I've won, I've won! I want to dance on the spot. Or should I bury the lesson and the game for good, by sitting and peeling that last apple? I sit, retrieve knife and apple, and patiently peel.

37.

In less time than I thought, Sophia comes out of the bathroom. She has changed out of the lingerie, or thrown her clothes on over top. Halfway through peeling the apple I stop and wait, but for what, I'm not sure. She points at the apple.

'Why are you peeling that?' she snaps. She stands over me and folds her arms over her chest.

'I'm completing the lesson,' I say.

'Why don't you make a refreshing beverage for us both, ya big winner,' she adds, without smiling, grace, or humour.

Winner.

I never thought I'd hear her say the words. I've won. I don't trust myself to speak, not yet. Sophia moves out of the way, and taking a bite out of the half-peeled apple, I head off to the kitchen, not even bothering to check what she is doing. I don't expect her to follow me in and chat while I make cocktails. Although that would be fun - sharing war stories, or a top ten high light reel, and pouring out the questions you long to ask your competitor after the competition is over: What were you thinking when I - and how did you - and what the hell was - why did you make me? - what about that night you?

It will take us time to reach that stage. Based on Sophia's reaction, she might right now be out in the living area, screaming, shouting, and swearing into a cushion. I'm in denial myself, I mean, she masturbated right in front of me and I didn't lift a finger, not even when she had her foot in my crotch.

Happily, no, happy doesn't cut it. Which word best describes how you feel after you've gone though an exhausting trial, or series of trials and come out victorious on the other side? Relieved? Lightened? Yes, I feel lighter. A dark and heavy burden has lifted off my soul if that doesn't sound too melodramatic. Sing is what I want to do. Throw my head back and sing a terrible impression of an Italian opera at the top of my voice while I bilthely throw the ingredients of a Pina Colada into the blender. I've no idea if Sophia even drinks Pina Colada.

The one thing I haven't considered is my reward. Never having passed a lesson, now I've arguably not only passed a lesson, but won the entire game. I'm due, no, I'm owed a reward, thee reward, the game victor's reward, the grand prize. My hand shakes as I pour the cocktail into the glasses; my mind swirls with graphic visions, but my meditation mechanism kicks in and knocks them back into place. That's no fun.

'Where shall we drink these?' I ask, when I head back into the living area, a drink in each hand.

'Shall I crank up the fireplace, out on the courtyard? I've wanted to do that for ages,' I say.

The pineapple and rummy creamy coconut scent of the drink kills me. I want to knock it back. Sophia hasn't moved from the spot by the dining table. But now she has a wide splash of something on her shorts that wasn't there earlier. Lime green and wet that splash looks familiar, memory teasing.

'What's up? Hey, what's that on your shorts?' I ask, placing the drinks on the table.

'Paint,' she says, without hesitation.

'Paint? What paint?' I ask, but the answer hits me before she has to answer.

'You've been downstairs in the garage,' I state.

She doesn't nod or hang her head; she stares at the dining table and chews her bottom lip.

Downstairs in the garage I have or I should say I had a full two-litre can of lime green paint I once had designs for, designs now long forgotten. Maybe painting the guest bathroom or the kitchen, I can't remember which. The paint can slowly became lodged in the back corner of my bench, where it has gathered dust.

'What have you done?' I ask.

In answer, she points at the mezzanine, and I bound off up the stairs. She prized open the paint can lid - with her knife, I suppose - stepped back and tossed the contents at the Eternal Embrace with so much force paint bounced off and splashed the media cabinet, the walls, not to mention the floor and the closest rug.

'You fucking juvenile delinquent,' I say, when she mooches up and stands beside me.

'I'll get some rags,' she says.

'No, don't worry, I'll clean it,' I say.

I'm not surprised. I should have had suspicions when she sent me into the kitchen. Silently, we stand side-by-side, taking in lime green paint that audibly drips off the sculpture's various crags and projections.

So victory looks like this.

'You shouldn't clean it off - it's more interesting this way,' she says, in a bruised lemon tone of voice.

'You should leave now, Sophia,' I say, surprised at my own steadiness.

Wordlessly, she turns away and heads down the stairs.

'I'm leaving now,' she calls out, moments later.

She stands by the doors. With her bag slung over one shoulder, she wears a light jacket, a trendy hybrid that lives between functional windbreaker and designer clothing. I should take that off her and use it to mop up paint. I clump down and join her.

'No apology?' I say.

'I offered to clean it up. I meant it, I really will clean it if you want me to,' she says, her dark brown eyes wide and round and on the verge of tears.

'Nuh, it's all right, mate,' I say, trying to be offhand, but I can't achieve offhand. Now we've arrived at a genuine parting of ways, I don't want it to be like this.

She places her hand on my chest.

'Do you want me to come back? Not to the play the game, you've won that, you won ages ago, dufus,' she says, smiling.

'We can hang out and do fun stuff, is that okay?' she asks, with more sincerity than I've seen her express.

'Yes,' I say, unable to accept true victory in anything better or longer than one word: Yes.

38.

Another Saturday afternoon boys only party of the uninvited and unwanted, and someone inconveniently pipes up about the pool loungers. From the main living area, looking out through the steady, heavy rain, you can just make out the top most loungers protruding out of the water. I guess angular shapes without a reasonable explanation will prompt someone to cough up, and it's one of Scotty's mates, or he could be one of Peebles' - a crony anyway - that sits on one of the dining chairs and stares out at the courtyard and pool.

'Hey, what's that in your pool, mate?' he says. Leaning forward on his chair, his expensive black and red leather racecar driver's jacket loudly crinkles and creases. He frowns and tilts his head left and right to get a better vantage on whatever he thinks is out there.

I'm thankful he asked, now. I couldn't stand it, the waiting, especially after Peebles bounded up onto the mezzanine and trailed back, a stunned look on his face. Then everyone went upstairs. I think the boys had designs for watching a European Grand Prix on my big screen, but the mezzanine scene deterred them. I haven't cleaned the Embrace yet, or the cabinet, walls and floor. I pushed the paint around with an old white bedroom sheet I found in a cupboard. I left the sheet wet and rumpled on the ground, where it crusted over and now looks like a decomposing body, possibly animal or human, maybe alien. Indecently sprawled on the floor it gives off a thick, creamy acrylic paint pong. Obviously, I haven't told them the truth of how the sculpture came to be covered in lime green paint. Laughing it off, or trying to, I told them I'm starting a career in performance art. 'You'll have to do better than that,' a smartarse muttered. Someone else, in an awed tone of voice, mentioned the media cabinet and the television screen - there must be paint on the screen - who does that?

They trailed downstairs and gathered in a glum circle, chugging beers and trying to make conversation. I should ask these crashers - even Manfredo is here - since when is grumpy old Angus part of the boy's club? Who decided he's welcome here when none of the others are? I should ask them to carry the Embrace out into the rain. I could scrub it and let the rain do the rest.

Now, I've got my other performance art piece to explain. They're leaning forward or turning round in their chairs, and others stand to get a better vantage point, sipping their beers as they squint out at the pool. Someone asks me if I've got an umbrella, and I answer vaguely. A fever of curiosity spreads through the gathering. Someone else asks me if they can go check it out. They're standing by the windows, and then the sliding doors rumble open and someone, the same person? Again, he asks if it's okay to check it out.

'Yeah, knock yourselves out,' I say.

I knock back the rest of my beer and go in search of another as most make the mad dash outside. It's only midafternoon and I'm half-cut. I'm tired, too tired, which doesn't help the beginnings of a sore throat. The calls of those standing in the open doorway, asking the others what's in the water, makes me flinch.

'Lounge chairs!' Scotty shouts from the pool.

The discoverers pelt back taking care not to slip on the tiling and burst back inside wet, fresh, and oxygenated. Loungers? Why do I have my pool furniture in the water? Laughing, everyone's laughing, and those that stayed behind have ducked out to see it for themselves. It's another performance art piece, but Scotty and Peebles - who know me better than the others \- after wiping water off their faces, exchange doubtful glances with each other. Performance art? What the fuck?

As I hand towels around, the unease behind the laughter and fake admiration increases, going by the shocked expression on Manfredo's face. What numb-nuts fuck-up dumps his furniture into a pool?

'How much did all those cost?' he asks me, with his famous homicidal scowl. I've no doubts that Baxter will find out on Monday if not earlier. Not that it's any of his business. When I avoid the question, Manfredo starts up on the others, 'How much do you think those set him back? They're ruined, aren't they? Did you see how faded they were?'

'You're not going Curt Cobain on us, are you, Julian?' Scotty says, handing his towel back. I shrug. How long will it take these uninvited assholes to get the picture?

They don't. The grey, wet afternoon drags. Beers are replaced with spirits and mixers, most of them mine, and Scotty keeps glancing at his watch. Is it time for a sporting event to start on the telly? The Grand Prix? Or is it something else? Stuart? Yes, Stuart. He must be worried Stuart might show. I assume he will show. He didn't show at the Christmas party, but there's a definite possibility he will wash up here.

By now, our little party has splintered into smaller cells, and the cronies, who are genuine racing car enthusiasts, brave the mezzanine - it's just paint, I hear one of the astute point out - and they watch the grand prix. Loud, aggressive bees blast throughout the house, and I want to hide in my bedroom and read. I'll never get through my Umberto Eco. Scotty, Peebles, and Angus semi-circle me in the kitchen while I make mousetraps, and bake frozen sausage rolls and old pies I found at the bottom of the freezer. They have other plans, and I don't know if my performance art pieces hastened those plans along or laid them in the first place, but I find myself the centre of an inquiry, ala Julian Braithwaite's state of mind.

'I'm fine, I'm fine, you guys need to chill, have another drink, Scotty, where's your beer, mate? Why haven't you got a bloody drink?' I discourage them to the point of grim disappointment. So many crosscurrents; Scotty and Peebles - Scotty more so - wants to know what the story is with me and Maya, and it's unspoken but I could lump Tina's name in there. But Scotty can't shut up about Maya.

'She has a BA in Political Studies, with honours,' he says, not bothering, or unable to hide his reverence.

'Jesus, she's just the office girl, steady on, Scotty,' I say.

Peebles gives me a wide-eyed glance, and even Manfredo can't chew back a smile. To cover, he bluntly asks about the Gambles and the state of the contract, and there resides a rub or two. They've been waiting for this chance.

The contract.

Olivier, he who shall not be reached by telephone or email, unexpectedly fired back with a further list of stipulations and revisions for yours truly to wade through, and the Gambles responded, and a little unkindly towards me, by asking me to keep up to date. Take a vote of confidence, anyone? I'm a bright orange life raft bobbing in the narrow channel between two old Galleons having at it with cannons and buckshot, but one galleon is twice the other's size.

'No one is on the same page,' I say, but it sounds a tired whining excuse more than sound statement of fact. It's clear what they think; I'm the one that's not on the same page. Fuck them.

'So when's Stuart coming over?' I ask, shuttling a tray of mousetraps into the oven.

'Stuart's not invited,' Scotty says.

'Not invited? Jesus, who says you lot were?' I shoot back.

At last, I will get peace and quiet. They take their chips on their brooding, dissatisfied shoulders, and head out into the living area.

Pies, rolls, and mousetraps cooked, I prepare to ferry the goods out of the kitchen, only to hear female voices laughing, hello-ing, how're you going? Wazzzz up? I glance out the kitchen door and instantly retreat. Maya and a mousy skinny-fat blonde friend have crashed the party. The bogans upstairs are ecstatic: beers, food, and now two blonde women. They're loudly told to get a grip by the lawyers. For all I know the boys on the mezzanine are lawyers. I can't hide in my own house, so I grab a tray of mousetraps and head out. Maya brightly introduces her friend, Mandy. I place the tray on the dining table. In a plunging white v-necked teeshirt and a push-up bra, Mandy gives me a quiet, coy greeting. Great, a quiet one, that's just what we need.

Maya asks me if I need a hand and do I have more to carry out and why aren't the boys helping you, bloody hell, it's not good enough, is it, Julian? We head in to the kitchen together, and Scotty's eyes follow us, gauging and calculating, but he's caught in the excitement and throng created by an attractive blonde woman and the proximity of hot food. I give it two minutes or less before he heads in after us.

'Okay, what's this then?' I say, turning to face her.

Sincere in her offer, she carefully picks up the second of three trays.

'Bored,' she says.

'Can't you be bored somewhere else?' I say.

'It's too much fun watching you squirm. I love your house, very tasteful,' she says, and places the tray back on the island.

'Scotty's invite right? Just so you know, this a party of uninvited people,' I say.

'Better than being invited to no party,' she says, shrugging.

'What about our deal, then? The month's up, I've been a good boy. Thanks for dragging Tina into it, good moves,' I say.

'You have been a surprisingly good boy,' she purrs, tucking a long strand of hair behind her hair.

Her hair, she is wearing her hair out. Unruly blonde hair, curling at the ends, and jeans, snug-fitting blue jeans and a cute pink teeshirt and no bloody horn-rimmed glasses; her weekend transformation from cold office robot into a gorgeous approachable warm human being startles me.

'What about, you know, your ambitions?' I say.

'Ambitions? I wouldn't call it ambition. I guess I'll always have a favour to ask you, won't I, Julian?' she says, and picking up a tray, she bustles out.

Midafternoon becomes late afternoon, and late afternoon heads into early evening and I worry my naughty pixie will hop over the fence and walk into the middle of this. I can't explain her away as performance art. The rain persists and Manfredo keeps harping on with that old saw... farmers and rain. I'm more than half-cut; I'm totally drunk. Maya's flushed face swims in and out of my vision and without fail every time she catches my eye she gives me a crimped smirk, so fast I wonder if I'm imagining it. Can anyone else see? Can anyone see me? I've become the invisible man as I always do at these unscheduled shindigs. Sinking into the corner of the downstairs sofa, the angry bees up on the mezzanine drone on and on, high performance supercars driven by supermen - when is this fucking race going to end? I could be at a car racetrack, or a video games arcade. Everyone's drunk now that's what it sounds like.

The bogans gaze down from the mezzanine and for a jubilant moment, I think the race over. It isn't. 'Turn the volume down if you're not bloody watching it,' I say, but for the first time I realise loud music, bass-thumping music, and not the whine and growl of powerful cars reverberates through the house. No one can hear the invisible man from the sofa corner. Upstairs, the bogan's yahoo and wolf-whistle. What is it? People stand right in front of me, including Manfredo, who turns and looks at me.

'Check this out,' he says, but I'm not convinced he said anything, that his lips even moved. It was pure mind-meld. Mind-melding with Manfredo? Unlikely.

What I glimpse between legs, arms, and bodies, compels me to struggle out of the sofa and up onto my feet. For a second, I stand, swaying in denial. Has there been a strange quirk in time, an echo, or a de ja vu? Charged particles floating in the air, left over from the Game with Sophia?

His back turned to the windows; Scotty sits on a dining chair placed in the middle of the living area. Thank God for that because he appears to be getting a lap dance from Maya's friend. Making it look as if she's pulling the piss, Maya joins in after Mandy peels off and sits on Scotty's lap. Double-bonus, Mandy thrusts her chest into his face. He keeps his hands to himself, so he has that on me, the old me. Maya isn't grinding, at least if she is, it's not obvious. Scotty sits there: solid, cleft-chinned, ex-farm boy, Scotty, acting like the entitled King of Pleasure Island. Something - the cut of his posture - swaggering even when he is seated with a woman's round rump in his lap reminds me of my father; his unbreakable, ferocious, proprietorial confidence towards the opposite sex. Maya removes herself from his lap and turns around as Mandy resumes the hot seat - Why? Why give Scotty lap dances? - and catches my eye through the gathering. Again, she gives me that fleeting, crimped smirk. I can't stand it. In fact, I can hardly stand, but I can't watch a moment longer. I lurch off, seizing on the first ridiculous idea that pops into my head.

I know they're in the garage somewhere, and through numb-faced stumbling luck, I find them, the sun umbrellas that match the loungers. I could ask someone to help carry it, but why just one? Why not two sun umbrellas? Three? Let's move the party out into the rain! I don't want to be with people though. That's why I'm here in my garage and moments from heading out into the rain, isn't it? So the umbrella first, and I'll come back for the concrete base plate after.

Partygoers sober or strong-willed enough to glance away from the show look at me as if I'm insane, and a bogan gives the guy next to him an elbow nudge: He's at it again. But the dancing continues and Scotty the King stays in place and for reasons that don't surprise me, Mandy has stripped off her teeshirt and now cavorts in her bra. Even drunk, I see the bra cups look padded an inch thick, but I catch the animalistic hum in the air and can smell carbon dioxide panting out of moist, parted lips. Maya is nowhere to be seen.

The umbrella base, a circular concrete stone with a slot for the wooden umbrella shaft, slips out of my hands three times. I put it down, tip it up, and try rolling it across the living area floor. For drunken, egoistical reasons, I expect to find myself the centre of attention. Look, what's he going to dump in the pool now? Even if I shot myself, I don't think I could distract the boys away from Mandy, who now prances around in her black bra and matching black panties. Maya reappears and equally unclad matches her, a curvaceous study in frilly pink.

Maya, who needs no gravity defying push-up bra or padded cups, switches positions with Mandy. No mucking around this time, she gives a beetroot-red Scotty, who appears seconds away from a spectacular ejaculation, the real-deal lap dance. Squatting over him, grinding into his lap, with one hand in her hair and the other on her hip, Maya gives Scotty the lap dance of the fucking century.

A bolder bogan, the guy with the driver's jacket, approaches Mandy, temporarily left out of the action. He plunks down one of the dining chairs and ushers Mandy to take a seat. Apparently, he wants to give Mandy a lap dance and even makes motions of removing his polo shirt. Scotty appears ready to explode, and Mandy, good naturedly waving away the humourous bogan's offer, precedes to dance in front of Maya. To the group's raucous, awestruck disbelief, Mandy presses her boobs into Maya's face. Even above the ruckus, I hear Scotty groaning and loud shouts start, 'He's shooting, he's losing' it.' At a glance, it's Maya losing it, grinding Scotty so hard the chair teeters on its back legs before returning. Even Mandy's close: straddling Maya's solid leg, she now grinds it.

'Like a rolling stone,' I repeat to myself, as I head into the rain. A rolling stone, a hot-handed man, have you heard that one? The hot-handed man? Soon soaked, I roll the base along to the pool and head back to the steps for the umbrella. With my newfound discipline, I force myself not to look inside the house. I grab an outdoor dining chair as I pass by, and moments later I'm sitting in a loud relative silence; the rain tattoos the umbrella material and spatters the pool water. The umbrella itself stays put. I'm pleasantly anaesthetized. Am I? Scotty's anguished face flits through my mind. As does Maya's, flushed and sweaty that from different angles on my awkward walk past appeared to be trying to suckle at Mandy's breast, the bra cup in her mouth and between her teeth.

A breeze stirs the upper branches of the pines, rocks the pine and macrocarpa, and pushes rain in under the umbrella. Behind me, shouts from inside rise to yet another crescendo. The group orgasm must have climaxed. In my own house and uninvited, Scotty's smug bravado enrages me. I shout, 'Fuck you', as loud as I can, but I realise I'm not shouting at Scotty, Maya, or her friend.

I'm shouting at someone else.

I recognised their similarities earlier when I struggled out of the sofa and noticed Scotty receiving his lap dance. Edward Braithwaite. Both my father and Scotty share an unshakeable confidence towards the opposite sex that suggests entitlement and possession. I don't know where to direct my rage. At the two men and their swaggering bravado, or women who indulge their entitlement and possessive qualities.

Dog piss, so much useless dog piss.

Perhaps it's Scotty's and the women's display of arrogance in my own house, and the growing wind and rain that reminds me of that night deep in the Abel Tasman National Park when the storm struck. Yes that storm, the two women, and my father. I first began to truly hate male macho bravado during that long night in the park.

I was fourteen-years-old, pimply, shaving daily, and nightly stealth masturbating in my bedroom, when Dad decided it was time for a boy's own Christmas holiday adventure. A manly expedition, a father-son bonding session of epic proportions: double-sea kayaking in the Abel Tasman National Park. Like my memories of Lindsay, I try to forget it as often as I remember.

Ted, ever practical, packed bottles of red wine; thick glass bottles of red wine in a sea kayak with a small storage hold mostly taken up by our tent and sleeping bags. Jesus. I packed dehydrated meals; beef casseroles, chicken with noodles, spagbog, and painstakingly assembled zip-locked airtight bags of scroggin. The weather held from the put in at Awaroa. A large forecasted storm never materialised and one perfect day paddled into another. Macho-men, or my father was - all I ever wanted to do was sunbathe \- one day we pushed further ahead than we had planned. With daylight failing and the weather deteriorating, we consulted the map. We worked out our destination and ploughed off, thumping through growing swells and rounding a nearby point. We coasted into a small bay with a Department of Conservation designated campground as the promised storm arrived.

It says many things that Old Ted saw them first, his being in the company of a horny fourteen-years-old boy. Jesus, will you look at that? he breathed. An impossible dream, or a mirage: two German sisters in their early twenties, with braided blonde hair, skimpy shorts, and tanned bodies, stood side-by-side waving at us from the camp ground settled on a small rise. God, the bodies they had on them; solidly built, with big bottoms, and jaw dropping busts; bazookas, barely contained by skimpy pieces of material - yes, they wore bikinis even though it was nearing nightfall, and stormy. They had been in the park a few days too many. Even from a distance, we could see their white teeth flashing at us from the rise as they gave us loud guttural German hellos. After we got the boat hitched and secured that was it, Ted boosted. You'll get the tent up all right, won't you, Julian? He didn't bother with my answer, No.

To be fair, Ted shuttled back and forth between the sisters and our exposed site. The sister's tent site was pitched in a lovely small alcove in a dense stand of trees. No problems for them when the storm fulfilled its promise. I did my best to prepare our two-man tent and cook a meal on our little gas stove despite buffetings from the wind. I pretended my father wasn't being an absolute shithead right in front of my eyes. Coming back with two bottles of wine from an excursion to the kayak, he changed into a fresh shirt. He wolfed my pathetic, lukewarm slop, and mumbled something I didn't catch. He even brushed his teeth before he set off, rinsing and spitting behind the tent. You're welcome to tag along, Julian, he said. It was, and remains, the most uninviting invite of my life.

Huddling there in the dark night, alone in a powerful storm with the tent-sides heaving in and out like bellows, the rain exceeded what waterproof capabilities our tent material contained. But all I could think of was my father and the Germans. Sisters. Tanned. Bazookas. What would I tell my mother when we got back? I was eleven years old again, watching my father's ministrations on Mrs. Broome, while I tried to hide the stiffy pushing against my school shorts. I never told my mother about Mrs Broome, and Ted the bastard knew I wouldn't tell Mum about the sisters when we got back to civilization. If I were different, a chip off the old block, say, I might have got in there first and as for narking on Ted, what am I? A killjoy, or what? Did I want to ruin my parent's marriage over my old man having fun?

Runoff forced me outside, and armed with a torch and a foldout camping trowel, I set to scraping out shallow channels to guide runoff around the tent. The storm intensified, bringing more rain and soaking me through my parka. I was afraid the tent would collapse or even blow away, and I had to admit I needed help, so I stumbled and slipped off towards the sister's site in the trees.

In the alcove, surrounded on three sides by dense trees, the wind dropped right away. What the wind outside stifled, the relative stillness in the alcove couldn't. The screams of a woman, possibly both women, in a state of tortured ecstasy, and my father's deep bull moans expressed a deep disbelief.

I made it back to the tent, drenched, covered in mud, and miserable, more miserable than I'd ever been in my life to that point. I wrapped myself in my soggy sleeping bag and inside the sodden sagging tent, which couldn't have differed greatly from being outside on the ground I waited for morning.

People shout at me from the house. 'Don't catch a cold, Julian! Don't fall in, mate!' How long was I out here? The rain hasn't abated and the wind blows steady and strong. I'm shivering, going at it from toes to fingertips to chattering teeth. Did I fall asleep? For a moment, when I awoke, I thought I was back in that soggy tent in the Abel Tasmen while my father fucked two sisters. What is the time? Time has marched on and the sky darkens, but not so much I need to worry over Sophia's appearance. I don't have to worry: the party has finished. Everyone is leaving. God knows what I will find. Used condoms strewn over the floor? Maya - fully clothed - waves at me from the open sliding doors.

'Thanks for the party, see you Monday, Julian.'

I raise my hand, but even wet and cold, I want to wait until the house is empty before I try to move.

'You all right out there, Braithwaite?'

Peebles, it's Peebles, a slick bastard I've always thought thee slick bastard, and Scotty turns out to be the King of Pleasure Island.

'Needed some privacy,' I shout back.

'See you at work then, mate,' he shouts.

It's either waiting and risking hypothermia, or moving. I move. I make it. Someone has made an effort at tidying the place. No used condoms. Just a few stray empties left in random places, and the kitchen sink and benches overflowing with dirty dishes. Fucking hell, I've got to spend the rest of the evening dealing with the kitchen? I can't face it. After one last search of the house for stowaways; drunk bogans and skinny-fat blondes that might find the guest room too great an invitation, I strip out of my wet clothes and crawl groaning into bed. The last time, I say to myself, the last time.

In the morning, hunger and dehydration force me back into the world. Pissed off, I don't want to face the rest of the morning, or is it afternoon? I walk into the kitchen and find it spotless. Not a dirty dish to be seen except for minor odds and ends. Did I imagine yesterday? Walking backwards out of the kitchen, I take in the living area in a new light. It too is spotless. Then I see the note propped up in the middle of the dining table.

What? Another party I'm not invited to?

I checked on you but you smelled like a brewery and I couldn't wake you.

Thought I'd help you out.

Have a nice Sunday, J.

Your midnight house-elf,

S.

p.s. Do you always sleep in the nude?

39.

I must be the last lawyer in the city to hear the rumour. But now, mid-Monday morning, I fail to appreciate the threat in the vague details. I say vague because that's it, a suggestion - if that - of calamity from a drunken Oliver's French-English slurrings, probably taken out of context late on a Saturday night or early on Sunday morning in one of the city's more sophisticated bars. My problem is Mz Gamble fills me in with the dubious info. My ear is numbing, I have the phone's earpiece pressed that hard against it.

This could have been different. If I had got to my cellphone earlier and noticed that after Bernie's first two missed calls the other nineteen were Ted Braithwaite's, or even if someone in the firm had brought me up to speed -Charles Baxter, for example - but that wasn't the case. I suspect Baxter first heard it, anyway, from his blind spot in the corner of the bar Oliver occupied. Olivier. Loose lips. The wild bastard threatens to perform the one vicious magic trick the Gambles and this firm don't want him to pull out of the hat: a covenant. They're afraid, which means the firm is afraid that out of sheer spite (something Olivier is known for) he will place a covenant on the house, stipulating it can be used for anything but a restaurant. I'm bogged in the latest revisions, and now Olivier's making things messier.

'Please don't worry, it's a smoke screen,' I say to Mz Gamble, trying to channel something of my twin-sister shagging father's confidence into my voice. The same father, coupled with Scotty, I spent most of Sunday lying in bed hating. Olivier has to apply for a covenant from the organisation that wants to buy it from him, I explain. Again. Are they going to give him that?

I haven't got the heart to tell her that if Olivier was genuine and stipulated a covenant of that nature and intention, protecting the house and infrastructure from crass commercial business renovations, the Heritage Foundation might agree. We can see this; we're dancing around the issue.

'Why can't you get a bloody contract together he will agree to?' Mz Gamble finishes with, after leaving me in a silence so long, I politely asked if she was there. Fuck.

Worse luck, Baxter has scheduled a firm meeting for this afternoon, and emails ping back and forth, as the time keeps changing. THIS IS THE CORRECT MEETING TIME, Tina shouts back. Can you pass it on to Stuart? she adds at the bottom of the email. She doesn't have Stuart's latest email address. Done! I reply. Even Bernie gets in on the act; his name nestles in the list of sender's addresses in my in-box. I slump forward on my desk, forehead pressed to cool wood. The only good thing this morning is that I haven't yet seen anyone. I got to work early and barricaded myself in here.

I keep hidden in my office and eat lunch by myself. As usual, I'm unable to reach Olivier. I didn't call Ted back, and he has stopped calling. Slipping away, it's slipping away and things don't slip away from the Gambles in this city, not with this firm's successful track record. Minute by minute the firm meeting time approaches. It isn't unusual, Baxter calling a meeting on a Monday. More pep talks and petty bureaucracy than anything serious, most of the time only half of the staff show, the other half occupied by productive activities like working, and seeing clients. Scotty, the King of Pleasure Island, boasts he has attended two meetings in two years. Me? I make every single one.

At the designated hour, we shuffle through to the conference room. Not one staff member missing except Stuart who is dead on time, or running late. And it's not out of place for Froomey to sit next to Baxter at the other end of the boardroom table. What is unusual is that she has no old fashioned notebook in front of her to keep the minutes, and the meeting agenda list she neatly prints out longhand, should Baxter need reminded if he forgets an item. Instead, it's Maya, a few seats away on the left side of the long table, who touch-types into a laptop. Scotty is here, a first. Something's up, and Tina, mauve shirt material stretched tight across her chest, floats me a strange smile.

Details. Updates from the last meeting; follow-ups, new issues raised; and fundraising fun runs, and can everyone please respect and be careful with the kitchen equipment, especially the coffee making equipment?

Stuart!

I forgot to email Stuart the revised meeting time! The meeting is well over fifteen minutes old. He can't waltz in this late and excuse himself with a mixed-up meeting time. I meet Tina's eyes, and she smiles at me again, and Maya glances away from her tapping and gives me a similar strange smile. This meeting will never end.

'Now,' Baxter says, 'the last, and certainly not the least item on today's agenda. It's with sad and heartfelt regret I have to inform you of Diane's retirement plans.'

Old Froomey. She will walk before she is surgically removed. I feel guilty for a second: I thought today's meeting would be about my mess with the Gambles, hidden under the guise of a staff meeting stressing the importance of sweating the details.

Then bloody Stuart sidles in and tries to disappear into the closed door at his back.

What in God's name was he doing that was so important and engrossing he didn't notice everyone had buggered off? Lovely old Diane, plying me with her bright coloured sticky notes and making sure I received my messages, was more of an ally than anyone else. Reliable. Neutral. Unbending. The contrast between the set up, stooped, stunned fool standing with his back to the door, and the dignified woman unstinting in her service to the firm, couldn't be more marked. Even though I'm the other half of that set up, the reliably-unreliable fool that made Stuart's balls up possible, I secretly applaud the deftness of the foul stroke. They gambled I'd forget to pass that email on to Stuart and relied on his carelessness to bowl in late.

Baxter glares the length of the long room at Stuart, and even Froomey can't hide her disgust. Most of the others can't, either, except the handful that seem to be in on it, and trying to stifle their laughter. Manfredo, homicidal scowl intense enough to light paper on fire, asks Stuart what he thinks he's doing. And Stuart, poor Stuart, he seeks me out with his beseeching eyes, and what can I say? I could say it's my fault, that I forgot to forward the email. I could try to make light of it. Front up, Braithwaite. I should say something; I say nothing. Stuart turns and to a loud siren song of disbelief and disgust, leaves a pariah.

40.

Midmorning Tuesday, a day after Stuart's late arrival to Froomey's retirement announcement, Baxter has just asked me to fire Stuart. A photo on Baxter's desk, one I've never seen and turned in such a way I can see it, distracts me from what Baxter has asked me to do. An attractive young lioness in full graduation robes, with her silly black hat on an angle and her broad smile pearlescent perfect, beams out of the frame. A former head girl of one of the city's distinguished schools, I bet, probably Sophia's, the renowned Totoroa Girls.

'Oh, that's my daughter, Chloe,' Baxter says, noticing my interest. He doesn't say she was head girl, but he fills me in on her tertiary education: an honours degree in something to do with communications, and a Masters degree in Business Systems, but she can't get a job. I should be thankful she doesn't have a law degree, or I'd be out on my ear along with Stuart.

Am I going to fire him? No, that's bloody ludicrous.

'Being overqualified in a nation of degree graduates remains an achievement though,' I say.

I try to smile through my growing panic. Did I just insult Baxter's daughter? Uncharacteristic perkiness, brought on by his glowing Chloe, slides off his face. Something replaces it, the last thing I'd expect in this weird exchange: triumph. Why is he looking triumphant? I thought I was getting dragged in here over Olivier and the Gambles, and now I'm trying to get my head around being asked to fire Stuart. Am I going to fire Stuart? It's ridiculous his being fired, and me being asked to do it. I'm talking again before I can stop myself.

'Stuart deserves to be treated better than this,' I say, without making clear what he doesn't deserve - being fired, or being fired by me?

'Why? Because he's somebody's son?' Baxter says, sneering at me, taking such a different tack, I would never have seen it coming.

Somebody's son? Who is he having a dig at here? The infamous Ted Braithwaite's son?

'Who does that make Chloe then?' I ask, at first thinking it a witty stroke of genius, before the realisation hits me. I'm dragging my boss's daughter into this, again.

Whatever I've touched on, the glowing Chloe reference hits an unintended mark. Troubled-looking, Baxter glances out the windows at the overcast day, one of the first in weeks. I wonder if Stuart isn't over at the café, staring up here and wondering what's going on? I don't want to let Stuart go. It's not even my job; I don't hire or fire people. There's an unofficial census taken over such matters before any formalities are undertaken. When did this take place? Baxter and Stuart allegedly had a loud argument after Froomey's retirement meeting ended yesterday. Was it later that afternoon? I'm so far out of the loop I may as well be on another planet, another galaxy.

'Stuart made it clear yesterday afternoon, Julian. He no longer wishes to be employed at the firm, but won't leave of his own accord,' Baxter says, finality ringing in his voice.

'What's Stuart going to do? Where will he go?' I ask, refusing finality, refusing to accept my odd place in this warped logic.

Baxter smiles, a smug little piste resistance. From getting me to do his hatchet work? That can't be true; Manfredo is the hatchet man. I suppose Baxter assumes I worked with Stuart the most and was the closest to him. I want to take Baxter's smug smile and...

'The last person you need to worry about is Stuart James, his old man made sure of that in his own funny way,' Baxter says, spreading his arms wide, palms out. Imagine that?

'I'm not comfortable about this, Charlie,' I say.

'Look, Julian, I know you've got a full plate full at the moment,' Baxter says, and again that fucking smug smile, and again the arms, the open palms. Imagine that?

No, I'm not working on any other cases or contract drafts. Thanks for pointing it out though, bastard.

'I want him gone by the end of the week, Julian, sooner if possible,' he says, giving me an encouraging smile. His jaw muscles must be killing him. I thought his pristine daughter bore no resemblance to him; I was wrong. Both have beautiful smiles; Baxter's seems devoid of genuine joy.

'No second chances?' I ask, getting out of my seat. I have to do something, but defend the indefensible Stuart? I have to try.

'For Stuart?' he says, getting out of his chair. He sees me to the door that's a first. Jesus, what was that? Who else isn't getting second chances?

'That boy's had more second chances round here than a bloody cat,' Baxter says, giving me a light tap on the shoulder when we meet.

'I'm sorry, Charlie, I just, I think he's got more to offer than he's ever shown anyone,' I say, with a sincerity that pauses Baxter at the door. It's obvious he wants his hands clean of this mess and wants to march on with his clean sweep. I have to do this. I'm not only buying myself time, I'm buying my way back into the firm's good graces. Even though I know what I have to do, I can't bring myself to accept it. When did it get this bad?

'Oh yeah, Stuart's got more to offer, eh? After you let him go, Julian, I want you, and I've told everyone else, mate, so, don't feel singled out. Listen, I want you to keep an eye on him. Make sure any property that belongs to the firm, stays in the firm, okay?' Baxter says.

'Stuart won't steal anything,' I say.

'He's a convicted thief. You didn't know that? Oh yeah, I'm not joking, mate. Big scam at the K-Mart. Stuart got himself a job at K-Mart awhile back, storeroom sort of thing. Televisions. Great big buggers. Big screens? Kept walking out the back door on his watch, and Eustace, bloody Eustace wouldn't pull any strings to get the conviction diverted, so Stuart did a thousand hours of community service,' Baxter says, shaking his head.

'That must have been a few years ago,' I say, trying to keep my voice even.

It must have been before Stuart went to America, but after Eustace passed away. If Stuart's conviction made entry into the States difficult, someone pulled strings to get him in for his long American holiday. Baxter. What the hell is going on? I bought a big screen telly (at present, smeared with pale green paint) for an absolute song off a tall guy I'd just met at James and Baxter. This guy, Stuart James, reckoned he had one for sale and he didn't have room for it in his new apartment. Shit.

'If his own father was that hard on him, what am I doing letting him hang around here wasting his life?' Baxter says, needling me.

'Maybe he needs encouragement,' I say, unwilling to give up, but my defence is too little too late, way too late.

'Spare the rod spoil the child,' Baxter says, spitting the words out. In his disgust, he turns away from me and returns to his desk. I see myself out. We're from different generations. Generations? No, different worlds. It doesn't pay to be somebody's son around here, at least, not one with a conviction.

I find Somebody's son working diligently in the copy room. He has darker than usual rings under his eyes. He notices me and must see or understand something of the dilemma we're both in, because he stops the copier and makes tidy stacks of the copying on the bench, and then scrawls a series of labels he places on top of each stack.

'It must be coffee o'clock?' I say, trying to make light of this God-awful awkwardness. I guess he won't want to be left hanging around until Friday, not if he can boost on a Tuesday. Now, in his presence, with his stacks, labels and diligence, and he even has the new copier sussed, I have a terrible feeling Stuart is pulling up his socks.

'Sure,' he says, finishing.

'My shout, we'll go across to Grind, eh?' I say.

'Sure, sounds good,' he says.

I'm perspiring by the time we leave, and I make sure I stay in front of him on the walk down the stairs and across the street. I bloody trip on the curb and for a moment risk losing my balance. He glances at me, wide-eyed. No, I'm not drunk. Adding to my nerves was the firm atmosphere when we walked through: no one in sight with doors closed and the office hum at a record low volume. I thought I glimpsed Maya for a split second, peeping round a corner, but I can't be certain.

'What's up, Jules?' he asks, as we queue before ordering.

Again, I try to make light of it but I'm exasperated. What does he imagine is up? You don't allegedly shout at the senior partner of a law firm when you're the general office gimp and expect to get away with it even if your father was the founding partner.

'Yesterday, isn't it?' he says, when we settle, as usual for Stuart, in the front most window seats. I hoped to do this in one of the gloomy corners, but Stuart headed straight here.

If I stay silent long enough will he put the pieces together himself? That's not fair. I wouldn't want that for myself, I wouldn't want any of this. Cut out of the fold and left to plod away in office work purgatory, Stuart deserves better.

'What happened yesterday afternoon? Charlie said you don't want to stay on at the firm?' I say.

'Yeah,' he says, slumping in his seat and pushing his coffee away. He gazes out the windows; across at the firm, I'm guessing. Is Baxter standing on his office chair, spying on us? Are bloody Scotty and Peebles hiding behind that big cabinet, watching us? Laughing? Exchanging bets over hypothetical reactions from Stuart. Will he have a tantrum? Will he hit Braithwaite? Will he storm back into the office, or sneak back in and burgle staplers? Stuart the thief, it's hard to believe.

Here it goes. Get on with it, Braithwaite.

'Is that true, Stuart? Because, well mate, Baxter's taken you up on your offer,' I say, wincing, scrunching my eyes, and mincing on my seat. If those arseholes are watching from behind the cabinet, they'll be in spasms by now.

'Is that right?' Stuart says. He appears unimpressed for a guy that's just been let go, but then, is Stuart a man of his word? He did allegedly state he didn't want to stay. He takes a man-sized swig of his coffee, then dabs his upper lip with a serviette.

'You've got to the end of the week if you want to stay until then, or can you leave today. Jesus, sorry mate that sounded,' I say.

'Nuh, it's all right, I'll leave today,' he says.

'Froomey's taking care of your pay, you'll be paid to the end of the fortnight,' I say.

Stuart shrugs in a way that suggests he couldn't care less about the money. Anyone else in his position would shit bricks: calculating, weighing, balancing rent or mortgage payments, bills, and loan payments against savings and assets, what could be sold as opposed to what is bolted down, and finding a new job. Stressful? I'm guessing he doesn't have mortgage payments, but doesn't he pay rent? Or does a trust pay it? Doesn't he have to buy groceries?

'What will go on to, Stuart? Study?' I say.

'You asked me that last time we were in here, didn't you. Did you know?' he asks, giving me a crimped smile.

Shit, what can I say? I hide behind drinking my coffee. One thing I knew; Stuart was boxing himself into a corner. Did I believe Baxter wouldn't do it? That he couldn't fire the late Eustace James' son, but why not, I now realise?

'I thought Baxter wanted to give you a boot up the arse,' I say, shaking my head, and lacking the ruthlessness to point out Stuart fired himself.

'And he made you do it. You're much better looking than Manfredo,' Stuart says. Laughing, he reaches across the table, and thumps my upper arm.

'I'm worried about you,' I say, rubbing my arm.

'Nuh, don't be. I used to sit here, right here, when I was a kid? I told you that, didn't I?' he says, his eyes brighter than I've seen them in years.

'You used to watch your father up in his office,' I say.

'I used to sit here and hate him, Jules. Dad and his fucking law firm,' Stuart mutters, and then finishes his coffee.

'I was the same with my father,' I say, wondering how long it has been since Stuart and I had a bitch session venting the injustices of being the sons of prominent lawyers, although in Stuart's case, his father was more than just a prominent lawyer. Prominent lawyers don't have university annexes named after them.

'Can you give me a lift home? I took the bus today,' Stuart says, rubbing the tops of his thighs.

At least that's something he has in common with his father: frugality.

'You don't want to collect your stuff? You've got a desk somewhere, haven't you?' I say.

'Yeah. There's nothing in it, hang on, no, the manuals to the photocopiers? They're in my desk,' he says, standing.

I pop up to the firm and grab my cell phone, wallet, and keys, and it's as if a strange form of collective intelligence or consciousness surges through the place. Faces emerge from opening doors. Maya gives me a smile and Peebles gives me the thumbs up, and standing half in-half out of his office doorway, Scotty, the King of Pleasure Island emerges and gives me a penetrating stare, followed by a brisk, satisfied nod. How do they know what has happened? Was I followed, or bugged and recorded? Baxter clumps along the corridor and catches me as I'm leaving.

'Did everything go okay, Julian?' Baxter says, gazing up at me with his hand on my shoulder and a proud fatherly expression on his face.

'I'll drive him home if that's okay?' I say.

'So, he's downstairs?' Baxter says, peering out into the stairwell.

What's going on? Do they think Stuart is a wild animal determined to maim and destroy? I should tell them Stuart doesn't give a shit, and he seems freed of a massive weight from off his shoulders.

'I better go check on him, he might try to steal parking meter change,' I say, and without waiting for a response, I jog out and start down the stairs. I'm halfway when Baxter calls out after me.

'Can you wait there a minute, Julian? I've got something for you to give Stuart,' he says, and heads back up the stairs.

He returns and meets me on the stairs with a small, hard-worn book in his hand.

'I never took Stuart for a reader,' I say, hoping Baxter didn't hear, or has forgiven my parking meter quip.

He hands it over and I catch the author's name: Alan Curnow, and the title, Selected Poems.

'Stuart reads poetry?' I say.

'No, not Stuart, it was his father's. I've had it in my draw for years. By rights, it's Stuart's now, he should have it,' Baxter says.

'I'll pass it on,' I say.

'Be sure you do, won't you? Old Eustace James wrote poetry for years and years, he never could get a damn thing published though. I've been expecting a posthumous publishing discovery, but nothing's ever happened. I suspect Stuart's got something to do with that,' Baxter says, and wearier than I've ever seen him before, turns and takes each step as if its robbing a year of his life.

When I make it out to the street, Stuart is nowhere to be seen. I walk along to both corners, and following a hunch (I'm certain he knows where I park my car, but I couldn't say why) I head up to the parking building, but he isn't there, either. I go back to the café and check in, surmising that he may have thought I got caught up at the office. No. No Stuart. I don't even know where Stuart lives, only that his apartment is in the trendy if not thee trendiest part of the city. I will find it though, I reason, I'll get the book to him. I wander downtown and have an early lunch. I have time to kill; I'm supposed to be dropping Stuart home. When I return, I smuggle the book back into the office and slide it under documents in my desk draw. Later that afternoon, Baxter pops in to my office and asks me if I gave Stuart the book and I lie. Yes, yes I did, I say, Stuart appeared to be delighted to have his father's old book back. Baxter raises his eyebrows once, and wordlessly leaves.

41.

Sophia and I can't rollerblade to save ourselves. Not that we care, it adds to the challenge. Badly balanced and grabbing onto anything within reach, including each other, and more like sprawling-walking-running than rollerblading, I've a hunch the Warehouse rollerblades Sophia turned up with aren't helping us learn any faster. How did she know my shoe size? She said she guessed, but when was the last time anyone guessed your shoe size? Even though they fit, the rough, plastic top-edges to my rollerblade heels cut into the backs of my calves. I want to call a pit stop so I can pad them out with something, but if I win this race - one more lap through the house, out round the pool, and back in through my master bedroom wing to the finish line in the main living area - she will have to decide between losing her bra or her panties. I'm topless. Caught between fun and pain, and the prospect of watching Sophia rollerblade topless, or even naked, I continue.

It isn't the Game.

What is this. Strip-rollerblade? Fun? Yes, fun. I've spent the rest of the week since the Stuart debacle locked in my office, drafting new contract revisions. I emailed the new revised contract last thing this afternoon. Baxter even asked me along to Friday night after-hours drinks. He must have been lurking by the doors, waiting. For me? Or did he accost everyone who happened by, inviting them to a morale building, team-bonding drinking session after a grim week? Citing fatigue, I politely declined. He then expressed his real agenda - that bloody book of poetry. What did Stuart say when he received it? I couldn't remember what I said last time so again I lied. This time, I said he was over the moon, wow, yeah, he really seemed over the moon to have it back. Baxter shot me a sceptical sideways glance. He threw my office door open on his way out, threatening the stained glass panes.

By the end of the drive home, I felt bad. What if it's the only cherished object Stuart has of his father? What if it meant something special to Eustace James, and only someone as close to Eustace as Baxter was could understand that? When I got home I got busy, and using the phonebook and Internet, I found Stuart's address. I scribbled it on a piece of paper and pinned it to the fridge door with a magnet: Stuart. Book! Deciding I was being bloody lazy, I grabbed the book, jumped in the Audi and raced to the post office. I wrote a brief note and slipped it into the bubble wrap envelope:

Baxter said this belonged to your father. He said your old man was a closet poet! Who'd have thought? People (Baxter) are wondering where your old man's poems got to - he's expecting a belated publishing discovery! He said you might know about that. Anyway, Baxter said you should have it. I hope it means something special to you.

Good luck,

Jules.

There, I thought. Done. I've done my job. I've other things on my mind now.

Sophia is scrappy and uses everything at her disposal to fight me for first place. The race she won from me, she tripped me from behind and sent me skidding into my office under the mezzanine, while she tottered on to the finish line.

'Why are you so ferocious?' I shout after she fights her way past. She comes to a stuttering stop by the pool and I collide with her. I grab her shoulder to get my balance. Is it time for a swim? She stares at the house.

'What the bloody hell's going on here, Braithwaite?' A familiar voice, one I haven't heard at the house for months, no, an entire year, rings out across the courtyard.

I don't want him there. But of course he's there. The emails and calls, the annual visit; this year it's Bernie's turn to visit. He's laughing with hysterical I can't believe my eyes there's a hot girl standing there in her bra and panties and I just happen to be visiting my old mate, Braithwaite, what amazing luck laughter.

'Who is that?' Sophia mutters, staring. She hugs her arms over her chest

What can I say? This exact eventuality has always terrified me, and now it has arrived and I'm caught with Sophia? Nothing, I have nothing, although, indecision is something.

'Julian?' Sophia says, looking for direction.

'Don't worry, it's my old friend, Bernie,' I mutter.

'Bernie,' she repeats.
'We'll meet you inside, make yourself at home, Bernie,' I shout. He gives us a tactful wave and heads inside. Straight to my liquor shelf or my fridge, depending on whether he ate on the flight.

'He's here for a long weekend, it's a once a year thing,' I say, as I lower myself and start on my rollerblade laces.

'And you forgot?' she says.

Looking less part-time Dominatrix than an ashamed girl caught out for bad behaviour by her parents, Sophia stands in the same spot with her arms folded over her chest.

'Where are my clothes?' she says.

'Don't worry, I'm working on it,' I say, finally out of the blades.

Her clothes - a skimpy pair of shorts and a teeshirt - are scattered around the courtyard. I gather them up, grab my teeshirt, and hurry back to the pool. I help get her teeshirt on, and out the corner of my eye I see Bernie standing up in the windows, watching us with a beer in hand. With my help, she crouches and carefully sits on the tiles where she wriggles off the blades.

'Is your bag inside? I'll go get it,' I say, as she shimmies into her shorts. Why did she wear shorts like that tonight? Skintight, and I mean, skintight, they're so short of mid-thigh they could be underwear worn over underwear. Her baggy teeshirt and heeled sandals adds to the sexiness of the ensemble; every time she leans over, the drooping teeshirt offers a clear view of her cleavage and bra-cup.

'Why? I'm not going anywhere,' she says.

Shit. How can I get her to leave? Doesn't she have a shift at work? No, she doesn't. What am I going to tell him?

'He's a lawyer, he knows everyone I know, the guy's even tight with my father, for God's sakes,' I say.

'He's already seen me. Why can't you tell him I'm your friend? Aren't you allowed to have friends?' she says. Fully dressed now, she is the picture of coy innocence.

'Why are you so interested in seeing him?' I ask.

'Who says I can't be?' she says.

42.

Bernie meets us on the steps up to the main living area. He laughs good-naturedly, when I introduce him to my friend, Sophia. Friend, eh? It's Bernie, and it's not Bernie. What has happened in the last year? He has lost weight, and his skin, forever characterised by a flaccid blotchiness made more marked by his general pallid gingerishness, has cleared. He's tanned and tight across cheekbones I've never seen, and he's stylishly dressed that's the only apt word for it. A fitted black label polo shirt and flattering dark blue pants and black leather shoes that for the first time in his life don't look as if his mother bought them for him. It's more than that, though, it's his eyes. Even as he laughs with his usual enthusiasm, they stay flat, hard and unsmiling. I want to ask Sophia who this man is, what is his name?

'Two questions, Julian. How old is she? And why are your pool loungers stacked up in the pool?' he asks me in the kitchen, while I grind up ice, soda water, lime juice, sugar, and vodka in the processor. Sophia is God knows where, doing God knows what. I'm surprised he is in here with me and not out there with her. Has she given him the cold shoulder so soon? My relief at the thought startles me. Am I competing with Bernie? For the hundredth time, what does Sophia mean to me? Bernie hunts through the fridge, and arranges various leftovers, spreads and pita chips on the kitchen island, so at least that part of him hasn't changed... always hungry.

I lie. Again, more lies on lies. I say Sophia is twenty, and we met at a bar, you know, the usual. The loungers? Drunk. Blinded. Woke up in the morning, gazed out at the pool, and bingo, a pool full of furniture. Like Baxter did earlier in the evening, he glances sideways at me. Unlike Baxter, he voices his opinion.

'Bullshit, Braithwaite.'

What and how much can I tell him? He has seen her gallivanting around in her underwear, and he has seen through my pitiful deception. We settle in and gather around the living area furniture. Sophia and I share the sofa, while Bernie, hardly taking his eyes off Sophia, drags over a low coffee table and a chair, and places his goodies in the middle of the table. An unmistakable vanilla waft assaults me, and I glance at Sophia. Freshened up, a touch of mascara, her hair tidied up after the rollerblading and now the perfume; I remind myself what she has done for me in the past, the lengths she has gone to dress up for me.

I force myself to get a grip, but it's hard. For the first time in my friendship with Bernie, I'm the one caught out frumping up the place in tired, causal clothes while Bernie cuts the trendy, sophisticated figure. Fuck. Sophia sculls the vodka blend. The first time I've ever seen her drinking alcohol in my presence, it makes me wonder if this has become a night out for her. She has always wanted an invitation to one of my parties. I guess she is taking what she can get when she can get it.

Sophia is drinking fast, as is Bernie, and the vodka disappears as if inhaled rather than drunk. Soon I'm back in the kitchen, blending another Julian special. Bernie and Sophia are out there laughing, and when I reemerge, I'm assailed by two accusations at once.

'Twenty, you said I'm twenty?' Sophia says.

'What's all this about a game, Braithwaite, what the bloody hell have you been getting up to around here?' Bernie says.

Fuck. Double fuck.

Come on, it's Bernie, my one and only trusted friend, the only true friend I've ever had. I slop out three minty, slushy Bacardi rounds, and settle back on the sofa. I give Sophia what I hope is a significant look, but between bantering, correcting and re-correcting, doubling back and leaping forwards, we reveal the truth of our history, and the nature of our game. It turns out Bernie knew I had a problem with my hot hands as far back as our first year together at varsity. Waiting for entry in late night queues for pubs and nightclubs, and pressed up against nubile, drunk female students, he couldn't help but notice my bolder antics as the years passed. He said nothing; he didn't know what to say. I'm so humiliated I want to leave the room, literally run away, or go sit outside by the pool until everyone has left, but I can't.

I no longer have hot hands, hot slimy hands. That was the old me, the creepy, groping, impulsive, ill disciplined, and disrespectful me. I now have control. I hold my clean, lovely hands in front of my face as if I've never seen them.

I am the victorious Julian Braithwaite.

'These hands shall offend no more!' I shout.

'Prove it then,' Bernie says, slamming his empty glass on the coffee table.

Sophia slides forward and slams her glass on the table.

'I know how to see if J can keep his hands to himself,' Sophia purrs. Resting her hand on my arm, she stands and straddles me. Only half-pretending, she gives Bernie a bump and grind show. It must be the alcohol, the sight of that flexi-short material stretched tight; it's so cosy and sexy, nestled in my lap as if custom made for it. It lasts a few seconds and she stands and steps away. I'm as hard as a handrail. I sit forward, trying to hide it from sight until it subsides. From the expressions on Bernie's face, part shock - part disbelief, and a growing and frightening concentration of lust, he already sees Sophia in her underwear and on his lap, not mine.

'It has to be a lesson, right?' Bernie says.

At least he has lost none of his customary drunken briskness. It was that command of his faculties under alcoholic duress that attracted the attention of the wayward trust fund princes, who longed for wild student escapades to glorify in their later years, but failing in direction and purpose, not to mention imagination, were struggling to achieve anything of note. Bernie changed that for us. It's strange, I never thought of Bernie as having leadership potential.

'I'll be a sec,' Sophia says, and giving us an impish smile, heads away towards my master bedroom wing.

'Where's she off to?' Bernie asks, half out of his chair, but she is back in the time I shrug and give Bernie a long, and given the circumstances, my best don't even fucking think about it staring competition.

'Oh, come on, Jules, she said you aren't an item, not that you should be, she must be twelve years old,' he mutters, as Sophia bounces back up and onto the sofa.

I'm relieved. She wears clothes. Here I was, preparing myself for a near-naked, Madame Sophia entrance. She slyly regards us, and then presents that evil looking fucking knife, the same bloody knife I used to peel apples. Ta-fucking-da. She must take it with her everywhere.

'Not more fucking apples,' I groan.

'Apples? Jesus Christ, apples, I thought we're going to throw something in the pool,' Bernie says, as Sophia drops the knife onto the glass coffee tabletop. He picks up the knife, unfolds it, and just stops short from testing its sharpness on his thumb at our shouted warnings. Grinning at us, he draws the blade across his thumb. He swears. Even that slight pressure parts the skin. He dabs his thumb-tip into his pants leg and, giving Sophia a loaded glance, sucks his thumb.

'You both up for a lesson?' she says, unable to drag her eyes away from Bernie's creepy thumb sucking.

'Both of us?' I say.

In my impaired state, I imagine wild contortion acts that involve the three of us. I suspect Sophia might make the two of us give her a lap dance. Jesus, Bernie giving me a lap dance, and vice versa?

'A lesson that involves this?' Bernie says. Holding up the knife, he gives me a wide-eyed glance. I can tell he is more than tickled by the idea though.

'And this,' Sophia says, as she removes her teeshirt, kicks off her sandals, and provocatively tugs at the top of her shorts. That action reminds me of a different night, out by the poolside. Was it one of her first appearances? What did she threaten to remove that night? Underwear? Bikini bottoms?

'Should I, J?' she says, turning. All she needs is a lollipop in her mouth, pigtails with bright ribbons, and knee-high socks.

'No,' I say.

'Yes, definitely yes,' Bernie says, the knife in his hand.

She peels the shorts off and kicks them out into the living area. She nearly falls over. How drunk is she?

'What are the rules?' Bernie asks, his face flushed, and his eyes glistening. In his eagerness, he parks on the edge of his chair.

'Are you sure about this, Miss Quinn?' I say.

'You've never had cold feet, Mr Braithwaite,' she says.

I've had cold feet before a lesson, especially before a punishment, but I won't admit that in front of Bernie. She tries to drag the coffee table out of the way to make room. Bernie intervenes and drags it the rest of the way.

'Who's going first?' Bernie says, eager as a kid on Christmas morning.

'You haven't heard what the lesson involves yet,' I say.

43.

Bernie winks at me and holds the knife in his hand. Sophia struts back and settles on my lap. Bass from my stereo thumps out, and Bernie drags his chair closer to the sofa. He grins at me, but his unblinking eyes fix on Sophia. The unfolded knife rests on his knee; one finger holds it in place. I'd prefer it out of sight if not now especially when things get going. I try to point this out, but he shakes his head.

'Rules are rules,' Bernie says.

'Absolutely,' Sophia says, and reaching back, she takes my hands and places them palms down by my sides so Bernie has a clear view of both.

'If you stab me with that bloody thing,' I say.

'Keep your hands to yourself and I won't have to,' Bernie says, smirking at me.

He decides the chair is too far away from me, something I spotted straight away but didn't tell him. After a weird exchange over the best position to stab me from, Sophia and I reposition further along the couch, and Bernie settles in beside me, on my left side. He is so close I can smell his ketonic breath, and my left hand presses against his thigh.

Sophia twists around and asks me if I'm ready. I nod.

'Use your mad skills, J,' she says.

I'm not sure what I'm supposed to focus on: Her grinding, or the knife Bernie holds inches away from me, with an expert's grip and the blade's tip pointed straight at the meatiest part of my upper arm. I try to use my mad skills, which starts with visualising Bernie and I in the pool, the pounding rain and our laughter. One look at Bernie, and I know that won't happen. Not anymore. He doesn't even look like that same fat Bernie. It's as if he has reverse-aged. With effort, I dream myself away from the exquisite gyrations and the gleaming blade. I try to imagine tomorrow morning, a lazy Saturday morning. Wound free, I will make coffee, with fresh croissants bought from the bakery at the bottom of the hill, warming in the oven. Bacon and eggs spitting in the pan, and - damn - I can't help it, Sophia increases her rate of stroke, and mixes up vertical with circular. I can't help it; I thrust up against her.

'Whoa, hang on,' Bernie says, the knife poised and ready.

Sophia doesn't stop; the turbulence excites her.

'What the fuck. I didn't move my hands, did you see my hands move?' I say, but it's excruciating.

'First and last warning, J,' she shouts.

'Close call, J,' Bernie says, and by tilting the knife, he reflects light off the blade into my eyes.

I close my eyes to shift my focus and step away from the distractions as difficult as that is. What to do? I try deep breathing. Breathe through it, breathe, and control it. I smell vanilla and the elusive stringent tang that hides underneath the vanilla, and sweat, and sweet, fruity alcohol; my sloppy fruity specials enriched by Bernie's yeasty beer, and a slightly stale sofa pong, a dusty mustiness that reminds me of illuminated dust motes dancing in sunlight while I read a book. What book? A book of poetry. No, poetry reminds me of Stuart.

Breathe.

Whatever my facial expression, it sets Bernie laughing. It shatters through my efforts. Is he moving? The sofa briefly rises and falls and suggests weight coming and going. When I glance at him, he is beside me. With thick hooded eyes, he devours Sophia's every bob and thrust. Even in my position and state, I can sense his frustration of not being able to touch her reaching humming levels. I'm forced to close my eyes and refocus. Nearly out of control, Sophia now thrusts so hard against me the sofa protests; its springs screech and wood rhythmically knocks. Bernie's heavy breathing hits the side of my face. I can't hold on much longer, I have to put my hands up above my head. Yes, yes, I will place my hands up above my head, and up there they will be...

Bernie strikes. When did he ever move that fast? I howl and push Sophia off me in a mass of flailing limbs. I yank up my teeshirt sleeve to get a better look. Bernie laughs so hard he may cry, and I call him a wanker, a fucking wanker.

'You weren't supposed to use the bloody thing,' I say.

That only makes him laugh harder. Amiable, Sophia picks herself up, and joins in with Bernie when she takes in my wounded arm. Expecting to see gushing blood, raw tissue, a hospital emergency scene, I'm embarrassed at the lack of gore. A thin trickle of bright red blood dribbles down from a tiny hole made by the blade's tip and a numbing blunt pain throbs outwards from the sight.

'I was putting my hands up above my head,' I snarl at Bernie.

'That's not what it looked like,' Bernie says.

'Did you forget the rules, J? So disappointing,' Sophia says, not the least bit self-conscious as she stands there in her underwear. She open-throats her drink and slams the empty glass on the table.

'Good skills,' Bernie says.

There they go again, exchanging that glance: intense and loaded, and simple for Bernie's forthright lust, and complex for Sophia's fascination and repulsion.

44.

Bernie lies on the sofa, his hands pressed to his sides. I've never seen anyone holding his sides from laughing so much. Is it like the stitch? Moving around to the distant side of the coffee table, I pick up the knife.

My turn.

Noticing the knife in my hand, Bernie quickly takes up the hot seat, and even neatly arranges his pant's crotch, while Sophia struts over to the stereo. His eyes don't move from her. I take up the punisher's seat, the knife held in the same light grip Bernie used.

'You so much as twitch a little finger, Bern-arsed, I'll remove it,' I say, raising my voice over the loud music.

'We'll see,' Bernie says, and his eyes roam the approaching Sophia.

'Ready?' she says, to my mind a question aimed at both of us, but Bernie takes it as his own: Yes, yes, and yes. Jesus, he won't last long, he all but pants in anticipation.

Is this what I, no, what we looked like the first time Sophia sat in my lap? She was wearing sexy lingerie that night... that I bought for her. She was wearing boots that night... that she made me lick. Would she make Bernie lick them if we switched places? Would she want more from him? What is with their attraction? His gaze roams every inch of her, and he even leans out to either side, bringing his head and face so close I could brush his thinning gingerish hair with my lips. He would lick anything she asked him.

'Do you want me to film this, Bernie?' I ask.

He stares at me, his eyes red at the edges, his jaw set, and his face pinched and pale before he returns his attention to Sophia. No cameras. Did I have a similar intensity, minutes earlier? And Sophia? I could call her my Sophia, my naughty Pixie, except for the obvious. How did she put it to Bernie, earlier? We're not an item. And did she start this slow with me? Is she pressing harder into him, and for longer?

I've missed it. His opposite arm moves and flexes; I can guess where his hand is. Yes, by standing up and looking over him I see it, his hot hand plastered to her thigh. No protests? What? She doesn't notice it there?

'Bernie,' I growl. Repositioning myself next to Bernie, I raise the knife to strike, but it's Sophia's name I want to growl, her arm I want to strike. Why doesn't she say something? Didn't she tell me to calm down the second I moved during our dance?

He doesn't think I will do it.

I warn him again and hover the blade-tip a mere centimetre from his arm. He brings up his other hand in a slow display of arrogance. Both hands now rest on Sophia's hips. They stay there, and more, I see the pressure he applies, pulling Sophia harder against him than she grinds. What is it with these two? Sophia doesn't appear able to stop. Her mouth opens wider, and her eyes - like Bernie's - are heavy-lidded slits, but I sense the distracted expression on her face doesn't match her outrage. Yes, outrage at this violation of the game, her game, and her rules. She is Madame Sophia and must be obeyed. But Bernie's hands are all over her now; her hips, her back; he strokes the tops of her thighs and cupping her buttocks squeezes them. She moans loudly. She doesn't stop grinding, but turns an imploring gaze on me. I have to do something.

'Bernie!'

I tug his closest arm, but it doesn't budge, so I try to wrench it off her. He doesn't allow it. When did Bernie get this strong? He locks his arm so tight its like solid wood; his hand stays cupped on her hip.

'I'll use the knife if you don't stop, Bernie,' I say.

He pulls his top lip back in a sneer that says everything he has to, but he says it anyway.

'Does she look like she wants to stop, you dumb shit?' he says, grinning.

Why can't I use the knife? With everything that's going on, I'm aware of the throbbing pain in my arm where Bernie stabbed me. I brandish the knife and again warn him, but the threat seems redundant. He's right. Does it look as if Sophia wants me to stop him? Is she so powerless to resist? She moans again, but keeps her stricken gaze on me. I can't keep it together. Do you want me to stop him, or go away and you leave you both to it? I want to shout this, and she only grinds Bernie harder - the couch springs, the knocking wood - and Bernie, he is caressing her; up the sides of her back, and reaching up, he cups her breasts and squeezes them, hard. Furious, Sophia tries to removes his hands.

'Bernie!' I shout.

I wrench his closest arm, this time pulling it off her. He blindly lashes out; his knuckles smash my cheekbone with a jarring shock. He pushes me hard in the chest and sends me flying to the end of the sofa.

'J!' Sophia shouts.

She can't get off him. He pins her to him.

'J,' she moans, in a tone of voice implying much, much more. What the fuck are you doing? I'm a panting mess huddled in the sofa corner. Stupid thoughts, echoes, and déjà vu: I was huddling here when Scotty, Maya, and her friend were... fuck! What am I doing?

'Bernie, stop! She doesn't want this,' I shout.

'That's such bullshit, what are you, fucking blind?' Bernie shouts, and grabbing the top of her panties, he tries pulling at them.

If he thinks I'm blind, what does he think Sophia is? She twists round as far as she can and punches his arms and hands, but it's a futile show of resistance capable of failure, and isn't there a strange note of self-loathing in her voice as she swears at him? No. That's such bullshit. Bernie claws at Sophia's underwear and they're more off than on now, and Bernie, this new Bernie, this animal, Bernie, grunts with triumph at her exposed, bare flesh. I throw myself at him and Sophia, unable to get a clear shot at him, switches her efforts and tries to kick her way off. I try to fight my way through her thrashing limbs and Bernie's desperate attempts to keep hold of her. With a loud crack, Sophia's heel lands squarely on Bernie's chin.

It doesn't slow him. Even with me holding his left arm and trying to pin him to the sofa, he reaches forward and punches Sophia in the ribs. Sophia screams, perhaps out of shock more than pain. Has he broken her ribs? No, I know how tough she is. Swearing, cursing, and keeping up a constant barrage, I break the grip of that left arm. Sophia breaks away from him and crashes into the coffee table. 'Bernie! Bernie!' It isn't enough, not for him, he won't stop, and he crashes after her as she mad-scrambles to her feet and tries to get around that coffee table and chair.

'Fucking stop! What the fuck are you doing, Bernie!'

Again, I shout words, but not the right words. Not what are you doing; I know what he's doing and what he wants to do. Bernie is lost in it and revels in his loss of control. I want to ask him, no, I want to shout it: Who the fuck are you? Not even those words get close enough. Where the fuck are you? Where's the Bernie I know?

He can't get her; he mustn't. This nightmare will only intensify towards an inevitable end unless I stop him. He sets off after her. I head round the other end of the table, determined to catch him before he gets to her. I try to kick the table out of the way but trip up and nearly fall. Fuck! Sophia chooses the kitchen to run towards and once inside might arm herself with a kitchen knife - a frightening thought - or barricade herself in, or both. I'm armed. The knife, I haven't dropped it, it's gripped in my right hand.

'Bernie!'

She won't make it. Without a head start, Bernie mauls her from behind and trips her to the ground. Face down, he pins her with his weight. Sophia screams my name, and I know I have to do it.

Don't fuck it up, Braithwaite.

I'm a slasher, not a stabber, it turns out. It just presents itself and it's not as you'd think, is it, cutting someone with intent? No blood lust, no gleeful roar of triumph. I want to vomit. I slash across the top of his hand, his left hand, as he brings it forward towards Sophia. Screaming with pain and snatching his hand away, he staggers up and away from us. Sophia scrambles to her feet, and tugging up her underwear, rushes round behind me. The room is silent and a thin drop of blood drips off the blade. Bernie's blood drips off his hand onto the concrete floor. God, it must be a deep gash. He cradles his injured hand against his chest, and his shirtfront soaks up blood, darkly.

'I had to do that,' I say.

Who am I saying it to? Bernie? Sophia? Who am I trying to convince? Myself? The Universe? Sophia cradles up behind me and wraps her arms around my waist. She starts up weird but regular spasms that convulse against my back. She is sobbing, but silently. Gently, I try to remove her hands, but she tightens her hold. What if Bernie attempts to rush us? No, he's in no condition to do that. He must go to hospital, the sooner the better. Should I drive him? What if he calls an ambulance? Even a taxi? He will have explanations to make. You can't turn up at the hospital seeking treatment for an unexplained knife wound.

'J? I want him to go,' Sophia says.

'I'll wash this in the kitchen,' Bernie says, through gritted teeth, trying to move his hand.

'There's clean rags, in a bottom draw,' I say, backing away, as Bernie warily semi-circles us on his way towards the kitchen. I don't tell him about the decent first-aid kit in a kitchen cupboard; he did try to rape Sophia.

'We'll go to my bedroom,' I say to Sophia, who drops her arms away from my waist.

'Oh great. I'll see myself to the hospital then, will I?' Bernie says.

'I'm not driving you, and you can't stay here,' I say.

'No, you're right, Julian, I wouldn't want to get in the way,' he says, trying to peer past me at Sophia.

'Bernie,' I say, and in saying his name even if I don't want to face it, or can't face it, I put all my fears into the weight of saying it: Bernie, please, I want to say, please if it's even possible, please, please keep this to yourself. Let's contain this, for both our sakes.

'We'll talk in the morning if I don't get tetanus or gangrene and die overnight,' he says.

'I fucking hope he does. Is he staying here?' Sophia hisses into my ear.

'I'm not bloody staying here,' Bernie says, backing into the kitchen.

'Your twelve-year-old girlfriend doesn't make me feel welcome,' he says, laughing as he moves out of sight.

'I'm not twelve years old, you fat fucking cunt! Fucking rapist!' Sophia shouts.

She bolts for my bedroom. Keeping an eye on the kitchen door, I follow, but she left her clothes behind in the living area. God, I'm always picking up her clothes. I fold the knife and stuff it in my pocket. Bernie bangs around in the kitchen as I retrieve the skimpy shorts, teeshirt, and sandals. Her bag must be in the bedroom. A tap in the kitchen runs, and even out here, I hear his grunts of pain. It must be impossible to bind a cut like that with only one good hand. I can't help it.

'Bernie, do you need a hand in there?' I shout.

'Ha ha, very funny,' he shouts back.

'This is stupid, you need help,' I shout.

'Not from you I don't,' Bernie shouts.

'From me? You would have raped her if I hadn't stopped you!' I shout.

'Fuck off, Julian, that's ridiculous. I'm coming out, okay? Put your girlfriend's knife away,' Bernie says, and opening the door, stands in the doorway.

A tea towel, he used a tea towel. Sloppily wodged around his hand, it darkens with blood. I'm not sure that particular towel was one of the clean ones, either. My skin crawls imagining legions of germs and bacteria swarming Bernie's open, raw wound.

'Did you get that from the bottom draw?' I say.

Bernie shakes his head.

'How could that possibly matter now?' he says.

'We need to sort this out,' I say, hating to admit he's right. I am worried he might tell someone, more than his slashed hand. Surely, damage control is something that worries him; Bernie the attempted rapist sounds appalling.

'I'm going out to wait for a taxi. Give me a hand with my bags,' he says.

45.

Bernie is gone. A taxi arrived not long after we shifted our shambolic charade out to the street. He wouldn't back down, or couldn't. He refuses to take responsibility for his behaviour. What would have happened if I hadn't been here? I asked him. I would have screwed her, minus all the bullshit, that's what she wants, Julian, he replied. Was Bernie always like this and I never noticed? He never has girlfriends - not at varsity, nor after \- but then he never complains about the lack, so I've never hassled him or asked about it. He again mentioned his wish to talk in the morning, but honestly, he will spend most of the rest of the night waiting to be treated at the A&E, and afterwards he has to find somewhere to stay. No way, he won't come back tomorrow morning to talk.

What we needed to talk about is his hand, and how he will explain it. What else is there to talk about? Damage control, I suppose. As friends, we can't come back from this. The taxi eased away from the curb and all I could think about were the weeks I've spent visualising that great drunken afternoon we had together in the rain. Bernie. Gone or going. Kelly. Gone. Even my mother has dropped out of my life.

I half-expect Sophia to have vanished, but I pack ice cubes into a wet cloth before I head out to the bedroom. Do I want her to go? No, I don't. I don't want her to stay, either.

Sophia curls up on the bed, a tight ball of post-event-trauma.

'He's gone. For your ribs,' I say, handing over the ice pack, and her clothes.

She takes the clothes and ice, and gazes up at me with shining eyes as if seeing me in a new light, her hero-protector, the badass knife wielding motherfucker who slashes any man stupid enough to take liberties with her. Then that begs the question why she, me, both of us, two grown adults were stupid enough to allow a drunk horny teenage girl to get into that position.

'May I have my knife back?' she says.

I hand it back. It has blood on it. I gave it a half-hearted swipe in the kitchen and did the same for a blood-spattered trail leading from the main living area to the kitchen. The kitchen sink and bench looks like a slaughter site. She unfolds the blade, and runs a finger over the clinging, crusting blood.

'That was a little out there, J,' she says.

Jesus, only a little out there? She takes no action to dress. I'm convinced the evening's events haven't yet registered.

'What are your plans?' I say.

'Can we check the doors and the windows? It's okay if I stay awhile, isn't it? I don't want to go home yet,' she says.

'You can't drive you'll be over the limit. Unless you want me to drive you home?' I say, avoiding the obvious that I will also be over the limit.

'You're quite the romantic, J,' she says, gazing starry-eyed at me.

'I'll give you some privacy,' I say, uncomfortable at what I see in her eyes, the earnest invitation that lurks there.

We check the house and grounds, lock all the doors and windows, shutter blinds, and turn on the outside lights. I try to reassure her that Bernie isn't the type to hide out in the shadows, or seek petty revenge, but my assurances sound empty. I vividly remember Sophia crashing to the floor and Bernie, a slavering wolf, pouncing on top of her and pinning her. For the first time this evening, I experience anger, genuine anger. What the fuck was he thinking? I wish he came back, so I could do more than slash his hand. But I make sure Bernie hasn't stolen the spare house key, and check its hiding place under a rock outside. Relieved its there, I pocket the key. I wish I had brought it inside when Sophia first appeared, as I initially wanted. Bernie wouldn't have got inside tonight if I had.

Exhausted, we collapse side by side on my bed. Not quite touching, we are soon asleep. For reasons I don't understand my last thoughts are of Bernie, poor Bernie, seated alone in a sterile, impersonal hospital waiting room, head buzzing, eyes aching from flickering fluorescent lighting, my dirty tea towel bandage cradled in his lap, and an awful show blaring from a television's unavoidable vantage point, mounted up near the ceiling. Why couldn't he have at least used one of the clean rags? The bottom draw, they were in the bottom draw.

46.

'I'm so proud of you,' she whispers. I don't know what the time is, but it's early, dawn-early. She doesn't clarify what she is proud of, instead, she says that last night was awesome, a statement that jolts me awake. She is clothed, irritatingly awake and alert. Did we? No, we didn't. She is not a virgin if that's what troubles me. Jesus, is that what she thinks is on my mind? She wants to get home before her parents wake, and no, she doesn't want breakfast. But she wants to know why I won't...

'If I do, I'll lose,' I say.

The honesty of my statement throws us both; her incomprehension is a match for my own, but I wouldn't retract it. I mean it. I will lose. I just can't put into words what I will be losing.

'You won, remember?' she says.

Sophia takes up my hands and kisses them with quick, dry kisses. Once slimy objects of disgust, she kisses them as if they are a Saint's hands. She props herself up beside me on her knees, and kisses me on the cheek. She has that look in her eyes from last night that same earnest invitation.

'I don't ever want to be a good girl, Julian Braithwaite. You should accept it. I'm proud of who I am,' she says, bringing her lips so close, I'm now convinced aura-like butterfly kisses exist.

'You better get going,' I say, fearing her response at my rejection, and fearing for my groggy early morning vulnerability should she stay longer.

'You're such a good man, J,' she says, poking me in the chest.

'Is that why you were attracted to Bernie?' I say, words I never thought I'd hear myself say.

'Oh my God, are you sick or something? I'd watch out for that one from now on if I were you,' she says.

'Did he break anything, your ribs?' I ask, pointing to where Bernie hit her.

'I don't think so your ice pack helped heaps, thanks,' she says, prodding at the site.

Why is she thanking me? It should never have got as far as it did. He should never have hit her or wrestled her to the ground. I'm ashamed of my, no, of all our actions and inactions, and she couldn't care less. I wonder how many other crazy nights like last night she has buried away?

God, I want to sleep. I can't face the day yet, or the possibility Bernie will honour his promise from last night and return to the house to talk. Will he press charges against me? Should I ask Sophia if she is prepared to press charges against him? We didn't even go to the police. I have a hunch she wouldn't go to the police even if I pleaded with her. No one knows she is here, or ever has been, except for the boy she brought over, and her friend Becky. She spun the boy a story, and as far as I'm aware, Becky believes Sophia has been on my property once when they skinny-dipped together. I trust Sophia has and wants to keep it that way.

'I have to go. That big brain of yours is at work,' she says, sliding off the bed.

'I'll see you out,' I say, hurrying out of bed to follow her.

She doesn't linger. She trots down the steps, black bag over her shoulder, and this time, this may be the last time I will see her.

'Sophia!' I shout after her as she skirts round the pool.

All I can do is wave. She waves back. I watch as she hoists herself over the fence. I wander back to my bed and perch on the bed edge. I've truly won, but I don't feel victorious. A silent chasm, the morning stretches away before me. I remember the Saturday morning I visualised last night of hot coffee, croissants, and bacon and eggs, and I resolve to follow through with it. I will have a fantastic morning.

47.

After a decent nap, I drive down to the bakery for croissants and an extra loaf of bread. At the supermarket, which has just opened, I snaffle the proper victuals, including real orange juice, not that watered down sugar-added stuff. By the time a hung-over, half-asleep young teller rings everything up and sends me on my way - 'Have a good one, eh?' - my stomach gurgles.

Now, bacon and eggs sizzle and spit in the pan, coffee darkens in the plunger, and four crusty croissants, warm and ready to go, give off a buttery, pastry scent. Even the weather is perfect today, so good I will head outside with my breakfast and the paper. As if on cue, sunlight arches over the roof and hits the courtyard and my vivid red Pohutakawa flowers, and plays over the outdoor dining table and chairs. Best of all, there's no longer blood on the floors or kitchen surfaces. Washed away and disinfected, last night's debacle might not have happened.

The doorbell rings.

Bernie? Has the bastard honoured his intentions to come back? Who does that? I slashed his hand. Has he come back to talk charges, either his own or any he sees coming his way? Surely that's the only reason he would come back? What if Bernie's not out there? A policeman? The police might follow up on the victim of a knife attack, depending on the explanation and details Bernie gave last night at the hospital. Shit, what did he tell them? It might be a policeman, or a lawyer. Either way, policeman, lawyer, or whoever, I face unavoidable questions. Where and to whom will those questions lead?

The young Madame, Sophia Quinn.

The doorbell rings again. If it's Bernie, he might have a taxi waiting, in case I don't show. Bernie's a tightwad, he won't let it sit there forever; the fare-counter will tick over in his head and burn a hole in his pocket. Yes, I'll wait him out. Policeman, lawyer, taxi-driver, the whole entourage, I'll wait them out.

'Thanks for getting the door, mate,' Bernie says, standing in the open kitchen doorway.

'Fuck! You startled me,' I say, grabbing hold of the counter-edge to steady myself.

He brandishes a house key in his good hand. His other hand, tightly and expertly bandaged, rests in a loose sling. He places the key on the countertop and slides it over.

'I accidentally took a spare home a few years back,' he says.

'Convenient,' I say.

'You didn't mention it when it went missing. I knew you wouldn't answer the door,' he says, glancing over at the stovetop.

Shit. I rush over and switch off the pan, and the oven. The bacon and eggs are on the verge of burning. The croissants will be well beyond warm. We both hate dry, burnt croissants. I've warmed enough for two each, as I would have with an unwounded still a friend Bernie, and this realisation angers me. His actions not mine led to this uncomfortable predicament.

'Fuck that smells good. I haven't eaten anything since last night, Jules,' he says.

He looks as though he hasn't slept since last night, either. Dark bags under his eyes, and I can imagine how intensely his hand throbs; my own little knife wound has tender bruising coming out around it. Again, this predicament, and his pathetic obvious hunger angers me. I bet he's holding back drool.

I task the hangdog fuck with taking out the coffee plunger and follow him out with most of the breakfast on a tray. Pretence now, going through motions, falling back on old rituals: pull up a chair I'll come back with the rest. Are you sure you don't need a hand? Ha ha, yeah, no, sure, I'll be back in a tick. Perhaps with food and coffee in our bellies, we will see a way through this and settle shaky ground? The bandage, pristine and white, and so fresh it looks just applied, begs otherwise.

'Where did you stay last night?' I ask, once we both get a decent amount in, and drink our first cups of coffee. The thick Saturday paper sits there between us, untouched. Our rituals are so ingrained we continually catch each other out glancing at it. Twice I catch myself from reaching out and grabbing it. We usually spend a half hour eating, drinking coffee, and swapping sections of the paper.

'The hospital, they gave up a bed for my fat arse,' Bernie says.

'What did you say about, you know?' I say, waving my fork at his bandaged hand, trying to make light of it, but even that casual action can't hide my trembling hand.

'Drunken accident at my friend's house. He was too inebriated to drive, so that explained the taxi,' Bernie says.

'That was smart of the friend,' I say, matching Bernie's sarcasm.

I want to point out I would have driven him, except I had a young woman cowering behind me fearing things I would love to get into: assault and battery, and attempted rape. God that word - rape - in a new day's light Bernie's actions horrify and disgust me. I stare at his bandaged hand and wonder if he got off too easily. His manner changes and he leans back in his chair, shifts in his seat, and gazes towards the pool. He takes a deep breath.

'You need to check your email,' he states. I know this side of him. Business Bernie, down to tacks.

'Email? Why, who has emailed me?' I say.

A hundred people, I tell myself, a lawyer's office-email most likely. Who? His old firm, Alain, Robert, and Pankhurst? No, he burnt them when he shifted to Auckland. His first firm, right after graduating? But he burnt them too when he shifted to Alain et al. What firm in the city would represent him? He must have friends in Auckland by now. But hang on, hang on, what is he going to charge me with when he knows the charges Sophia could counter with?

'Can you go check? I want to get this over, I'm catching a flight back at lunchtime,' he says, helping himself to more coffee.

'Sophia is prepared to press charges, Bernie,' I lie, getting up out of my chair.

Bernie shakes his head.

'It's not going to come to that,' he says.

I try not to rush, or in any way show my terror. Not knowing, I hate not knowing. Is it a practical joke? It would be so Bernie to wind me up like this. After checking the modem is plugged in, I turn on my laptop. No law office, no police - just Bernie's email address. No subject heading. I open it. No subject, and no text, but it has attachments, a handful of files that inch down from the top of the page when I open them.

Photos of Sophia lap dancing a red faced Julian Braithwaite.

Bernie photographed us on his cell phone. Oh fuck, does it take videos as well? Yes. The last file is a video. Sophia, looking every bit her sixteen, possibly seventeen years, furiously gyrates me. At least she closed her eyes for me too. I delete the email even though I know that's pointless. Imagine if anyone else sees how stupid I look? I'm embarrassed that Bernie witnessed my slack-jawed idiocy as Sophia ground into me. And my stupidity? Didn't I think Bernie was moving around, getting up and sitting, and what was I doing? Playing mind games with my eyes closed so I wouldn't touch Sophia. After all that, Bernie stabbed me for my troubles, and now this.

I want to scream: I'm in a similar position to the one the awful Maya had me. But you know what? Her threat fell empty, and so will whatever Bernie's planned. I pray, yes, I pray to God, Jehovah, Allah, and any Gods that watch over asinine lawyers, I pray Bernie hasn't sent them to anyone else. I was so frazzled I forgot to check if he had cc'ed it to anyone before I deleted it.

'Yeah, funny, eh? I deleted it. You do the same,' I say, standing beside him. He hasn't moved. He faces away from the table, gazing towards the pool.

'Did she make you dump all your pool furniture into the pool? Jesus, and you did it? Look, take a seat, finish your delicious breakfast, you can listen while you eat,' he says.

A loyal dog whip-lashed, neutered, and powerless, I take my seat. I recognise the tone in his voice. You hear this tone in his voice moments before contracts receive signatures, negotiations close, and various small or large hopes die.

I sip my coffee and he calmly, so calm as to be otherworldly calm, lists his blackmail demands. I try to interrupt with the obvious, but he continues on, raising his voice over mine, and by the end, despite his brutality toward Sophia, he has me on camera, and filmed. Do I have any of what he did on camera, or video?

'I have Sophia,' I say, spitting it over the tabletop.

'Do you? Is she going to press charges?' He leans forward as he delivers the last nail.

'Do you want that for her, Julian?' he asks.

Will I drag her and our game into the light of day? I prop my elbows up on the table and cover my face with my hands. I need time. He can't have me. He can't. I don't understand.

'Why in God's name do you want to work for Ted of all people?' I say.

'Your father's firm is solid, he can pay me the money I want, give me the work I want, why wouldn't I?' he says, with that same fucking calm. I wish I could strangle him with it.

'Have you asked Ted for a job?' I say.

'Yes. He said he didn't have a position open, not just right now,' Bernie says, mocking my father's pompousness.

'And you'll honestly send them to Charles Baxter?' I ask.

He shrugs.

'Why not, Charlie Baxter's a good starting point,' he says.

'But you took that job in Auckland because you were sick of corporate bullshit. What the fuck happened to you? You're supposed to be my best friend,' I say.

'If you look at it another way, I'm only asking a favour,' he says.

'That if I don't follow through on will ruin me,' I say.

'Okay, you've got into a scrape. Your old man will bale you out, Jules, we'll be best friends again, promise,' he says, getting up out his chair.

I stay seated. If I focus on a spot on the ground and only that spot, I can keep it together until he leaves.

'I'll always have this to remember you by,' he says, holding up his injured hand.

'Yes, you will. Fuck you,' I say.

'One other thing, Jules, I'm handing in my two weeks notice first thing Monday morning, then I'm emailing your father. If I don't have a job within two weeks, I'm sending it to everyone at James and Baxter,' he says.

'We'll see,' I say.

'Thanks for breakfast, mate, I'd love to be a fly on the wall when you call your old man,' he says, walking away.

'Don't worry, Jules, I'll see myself out,' he shouts, at the top of the steps leading into the house.

I watch him stride through the living area until he is out of sight. I can't move; even if I needed to, I couldn't. Bacon grease and egg yolk smeared over my plate makes me want to vomit. I push the plate away so hard it bounces off other items, knocks over the plunger, which clatters off the other side of the table and shatters on the ground. I won't pick it up, any of it, not yet, never. I don't think I will move from this spot for a long time. A week, a month, years, who knows? The warming sun on my back, surely a universally loved sensation, and loved by me, shows poor timing. Fuck warmth. Fuck the sun. Fuck everyone.

48.

How many times now have I punched the number and hung up before it dials? Another half hour and it will be too late to call - it might already be too late. Ted hates late night calls. Becoming bearish after he slips into his silk pyjamas and lets his guard down, Ted's mind sinks into a honey and berry morass of contentment. A phone call slices through this sleepy calm like a stranger physically shaking him out of it, or slapping him in the face. Even if he ignores it and doesn't answer, the jangle-shrills of the phone's ringing is enough to irritate him into a lash-like rage for an hour.

What if Bernie follows through with his threat? Ah, the risk. Do I want Ted calling me tomorrow, asking questions about dodgy photos and video footage taken of his son? Who took it? Why has Bernie emailed me? What's going on? Who is this girl? How old is she, Julian? How old? Meandering inane circles only lead me back to the start, the big gamble, to call or not to... what if I call, give Ted the heads up, and Bernie doesn't follow through? A snivelling confession to my father might be what Bernie wants to achieve, and he gambles I will be so shit scared of his blackmail threats I will unburden the story on my father who will wet himself laughing when an email from Bernie arrives explaining the practical joke, and a photo of his knife wound.

I call him.

Dad sounds less like reaching down the phone line and strangling me with a non-existent telephone cord than I thought he might. He must be sleepy though, and my efforts to push through a brisk heads up get bogged at the first mention of Bernie's name.

'Bernie?' Ted keeps repeating, 'Bernie? What's this about Bernie?' I'm sure his slippered feet crush into his shag carpet as he circles his lounge, tidying this and tidying that.

'Yeah, so Bernie's playing a practical joke on me,' I try to explain without getting the message across.

'Joke? A joke? What's this about, Julian? Has he been calling you as well?' Ted says.

Calling me as well? Bernie? Now it's my turn for questions.

Bernie has been bombarding Ted with calls for the past month, and not once did Ted think it wise to tell me. Poor Ted. As the story unravels, I pity the man. First Bernie wants a job at Ted's firm. Faced with rejection and continued resistance, Bernie pressured Ted into putting a good word in for him at other firms. Except, the firms Ted could place Bernie at aren't good enough, they lack the prestige and money Bernie desires.

'Julian, what's bloody going on?' Ted demands.

Questing, sniffing, and uncontainable, why can't it stay buried? Why does it have to come out? Why can't it stay in the dark where it belongs? I am a lawyer, and I became a lawyer because I saw it as a cushy job that entitled me to sit back, watch, listen, finesse and guide other people's ugly personalities, truths and untruths, deeds and needs and wants out into daylight, holding their hand if necessary. Justice. Law and Order. Ideals. I didn't believe in any of that; I had lived too long in Ted's cynical shadow to indulge in idealism. For a variety of reasons, some of them sound, people want something from someone else; other people want or have to stand their ground: attack-defend, defend-attack. I arrived at the conclusion that I enjoy reading and arguing the subjective interpretation of the textbook cases I read at university; it was good fun. And now I get paid extremely well to achieve clarity and order out of messiness and obfuscation. I enjoy dressing expensively; I love my big house my job affords me to keep, and I my late model Audi. Mostly, I love the lifestyle my job guarantees. How many people say that about their jobs? I never thought that after I graduated I would become a lawyer. I naively thought I could appease my father's wishes by getting a law degree, but by then it felt like an inevitable march into the bar, one I couldn't stop. It's never my shit that's supposed to see the light of day, it's always supposed to be other people's, never my own. That's rule number one in anybody's book.

Then I remember Mum, and what she told me of her affair and the complete disclosure she gave Ted. Did she receive the hoped for forgiveness? No. And where does honesty get me? Honesty only serves to fast-forward pain and separation - the pain of separation - rather than prolong its arrival. What if you prolong it long enough and it never arrives? I take a deep breath. It isn't nearly deep or long enough.

I start out unsteady, my voice shaking. We might both be pacing around our respective lounges. I force myself to sit at the dining table and even take a quick sniff of the table surface. Did I catch a whiff? Out of habit, I stick to my impromptu cover story, the practical joke. No, no, it doesn't look like what it looks like, no, it sounds much worse. But an explanation like that only leads to more questions: What doesn't look like what? What is it supposed to look and sound like? As my honest explanation unfolds, Ted's loud disbelief descends into silence.

'Dad, dad, are you still there?'

He grunts in reply. He wants to know if I'm having him on. No, I'm afraid not. And how old is she? I don't lie about Sophia's age. And you were doing this because of what? A game? Confusion is a euphemism to characterise my father's response. I meander through the rest of my confession, and his confusion evolves into a slow building apocalyptical anger as his late night lawyer's mind sifts out the relevant pieces from what he assumes is outright lies and poorly concealed truths.

'A game? With knives? Where you stab each other?' he says, almost shouting with disbelief.

'No, just that one time, but I mean, yes, a game,' I say.

I can't imagine what's going through his mind. What it probably looks like to Ted, a worldly member of the older generation, a man that wields Occam's Razor like his own personal life philosophy, is his impressionable, lonely son got hoodwinked by a teenage girl.

I leave nothing out. On tough cross-examination everything comes out. Ted obviously doesn't want to leave anything to chance. That's encouraging. From my perspective, the more Ted knows the greater his ability to squash Bernie like the fucking bug he is. At the end, and God knows what the time is now, is it midnight? When he has the story pieced together to his satisfaction, he sighs.

'We'll have to wait and see what Bernard does tomorrow,' he says.

'Dad, I'm sorry,' I say.

He grunts and hangs up.

49.

All day I stare at the phone and refresh my inbox every other minute. Computer solitaire fills in the gaps. Later that afternoon, Baxter walks in and gruffly informs me the Gambles didn't take to my contract revisions. Awful, is the word they used, he informs me. Awful. That's it. Message delivered, he turns, stumps out, and slams the door shut behind him.

Charles Baxter never slams doors.

I should have tagged along for Baxter's power lunch at Jack's on Bridge today. I didn't have it in me; sitting across, or worse, seated next to Scotty, who gains an inch of smugness every time I'm unlucky enough to see him. As usual these days, I cited too much work with the Gambles' contract. Baxter didn't hide his disgust this time. Fair enough, he snarled. It would be just like him to have spent the rest of the day hunting down the Gambles to get their latest opinion on my abortive efforts. God knows what the boys said about me over lunch.

At home after work, I sit in my office and do the same thing I did all day. Phone. Refresh. Solitaire. Did Bernie send them? What is Dad doing? Ted is unreachable both at the office and at home. Phone. Refresh. Solitaire. I even toy with the idea to call Bernie and ask him to stand down, but my pride won't let me. I endure the long evening. Phone. Refresh. Solitaire. For something to do, I call the number Sophia left that day at work, under the name T Dickson, and as I thought, it's the 24hr. She too is unavailable. The only consolation is that at least Sophia really is Sophia. The girl on the other end of the line called out to another employee, 'Is Sophia Quinn working tonight? Sophia? Yeah, Quinny. Yeah. She isn't? I dunno, a guy. Okay, I'll tell him.' I even consider driving out to Sophia's house, well, her parent's house. What will I do when I get there? Throw stones at her bedroom window? Crouch against the wall and whisper her name? How could I figure out which room is her bedroom? Imagine waking up her father and having his back go out as he stumbled around in the dark searching for the softball bat?

The phone rings. My landline. That means Ted. I let it ring a handful of times. I don't want Ted to think I've been waiting by the phone.

Bernie sent the email.

Ted has the photos and the video.

Firstly, he wants to know why I didn't see Bernie taking the photos and video. Did I have my eyes closed the whole time, or what? He asks me where the girl stands. I try to tell him her name is Sophia, but he doesn't want to know her name, nor does he care. He wants to know how much she knows, and whether she is on our team, a term that brings bitter joy to my heart.

'Our team,' I repeat, laughing. I'm so confident Ted will cut Bernie's nuts off, I'm not prepared for the exasperation in his voice as he explains that Bernie has us by the nuts, not the other way round.

'How am I going to keep my reputation and the firm's if everyone finds out my son is running around with teenage girls for God's sakes,' he says.

His reputation. I thought Ted Braithwaite couldn't care less about his personal reputation by now. I guess his arrogant vanity is boundless. I get the point even though I don't want to accept it. My reputation is tied up with his and always has been.

'I'm not dragging her into this, she knows nothing about the blackmail,' I say, spitting out that last ugly word.

'What are you going to do?' I ask when Dad doesn't reply.

Ted will have none of it. Details to be delved into another day.

'You can't take my house,' I say.

'What? Jesus, who said anything about your house?' Ted says.

'So you're sorted? You can hire him, or... or pay him off? You have the cash, don't you?' I say.

'Pay him... well, cash? I haven't exactly said that, have I? How well placed are you at the moment? You have savings, don't you? You always seem to. Look, Julian, you'll be okay. You've got your job, you've got a decent wage coming in, you'll get through this, you're young, son, you'll bounce back, eh? You won't be seeing that ugly bastard's face walking into your firm every day, not at least until I can get rid of the prick,' Ted says.

It doesn't want to sink in. Bernie? Walking into Ted's firm every day? Ted honestly believes this an eventuality, but what about fighting back? He must have an idea or two to nip this ugly predicament before it comes to my selling up? He isn't letting on if he has.

'I guess there's a lesson to be learnt here,' I say.

'To be honest, Julian, I'm shocked, bloody shocked,' Ted says, serious and earnest. Shocked? He hangs up before I have to chance to bludgeon him with the irony.

50.

I refuse to accept Ted's capitulation. I refuse to accept Bernie holds a checkmate position over us. And money? After his earth-shattering move from corporate law into the fringe realms of deadbeats, dropouts, and idealists, all Bernie wants is money? I stumble into the bathroom, crouch beside the toilet, and heave. Nothing comes. I haven't eaten enough today, there's nothing to bring.

I repeat it, but saying it aloud or silently doesn't make the terrors abate, 'This isn't happening, this isn't happening.' Of course it's bloody happening. I try to take solace from the fact I'm not the first fool to face a predicament like this, but something in that thought echoes. Weeks, no, months ago, when Sophia first appeared in the pool, didn't I then think at least I'm not the first fool placed in temptation's way? Did I find solace in that thought; did it make me feel better? And what did I do? I shake my head. I tried to buy both Kelly's and Sophia's silence.

The money! The lockbox of money in the bedroom! I could offer that to Bernie and see if he bites. The only problem is when I get to the bedroom and check for it... it's not there.

I pull everything out of the wardrobe, and shake out boxes, draws, and bins. Pulling off the bed sheets and pillowslips, I search on, in, and under the bed. Nothing. The lockbox is gone. I search the rest of the house with a feverish hope that Sophia or someone at the last party of un-invites hid it as a practical joke. Did Bernie find and hide it? I try to put myself in his shoes and picture him standing in the middle of my bedroom with the money. Where would he hide it? I've searched everywhere and I search again, and again nothing. The garage, the car, the kitchen; I even fossick around outside and clamber up into the Pohut's, thinking a smartarse at the party might have hid it in one while I sat out by the pool in the rain. No, nothing. I shake the branches, which only helps shed red flower petals to the concrete. Fuck it. I climb out and drop to the ground. I want to reach up and with both hands tear the night sky into strips.

In the bedroom, determined to find the money I know is gone, I see Mum's letters and little notes scattered over the floor. Surely, my own Mother cares. I dial Jennie's number and let it ring before I've realised the time of night. She answers, but sounds five metres under water.

'It's me. Julian. Your son. Yes. God, I'm sorry, yeah, it's late, I know, I know, am I in trouble? Ummh, do you want me to call back tomorrow? No, are you sure? Okay. So, Mum, can I come live with you for a while? Ha ha ha, yeah, I haven't called for yeah, no, so, Jesus, I'm, I'm in trouble, yeah, trouble, but, uhmm, Ted? No, I am. I, ahh, I've got in trouble with a woman, and it might take money, pretty much everything I own to get out of it. Yeah that's the gist of it. No, not Ted, me, I'm the one in trouble. So, Jennie, can I come live with you? I want to quit my job. It's... I might have to sell the house, everything I own. Yes, I won't have anywhere to live.'

Silence.

She thought it would be bad news, I'm certain of it. Her tone of voice has something I can't put my finger on... resignation? She has long been expecting this call. Jennie might even be old enough to suppose a call this late is an overseas call, or news of a tragedy, and if not tragedy at least the promise of trouble. Looking at it from that point of view, I guess that's right. I am bad news. She wants to know if it's all that serious, but she sounds tired, too tired, or she genuinely doesn't care enough to dig deep and offer to help.

I apologise for not calling on Christmas day, and for not calling at all, ever. I acknowledge and confess my transgressions and accept responsibility for playing the bad son to Lindsay's good daughter. She doesn't even seem to be listening. She mumbles something about Lindsay's promotion and her hard work at a hospital somewhere.

'Julian, I've been meaning to call and tell you... I've taken back my maiden name,' Jennie says.

'Okay, that's fair enough,' I say.

'I no longer want to be associated with Ted, not in any way, do you understand, Julian?' she says.

How harsh is that? He is only the father of your two children I want to say before the realisation hits. The name change, the association, or in this case the disassociation... not in any way. Do you understand? Jesus that includes me, doesn't it? Not in any way. Not even your son? Am I now Ted's son? I can sense her uneasiness breathing on the line. I want to say something. I can't trust myself. I want Jennie to say something. Doesn't she trust herself? And what is there to say? Hit upon hit, has my mother disowned me? What mother disowns her son? Awful is the word I use to describe this mess, bloody awful. Then it's happening, it's beyond my control; the water works start.

'Can I take a leave of absence at work and come up and see you?' I ask, between wet, spastic blubs.

She keeps repeating my name in a soothing, apologetic way. That's all I need to wrangle my mangled foot in through the cracked open door. But she isn't having it and there's no other way to put it: she isn't having me.

A spurt of something nasty kicks in. My inner defensive fiend, a corrosive little entity comprising bile and old meat left glued to the sides of my intestines wants to strike, cut, burn and beat. Anything to fight back against the mountain of pain and my powerlessness in the face of the world's worst rejection.

'I've been meaning to call and tell you something,' I say, catching my breath and trying to gain control.

Jennie keeps repeating my name. Having nothing to say, I guess she thinks saying nothing in the form of my name is better than saying nothing at all, which arguably, I'd prefer.

'Do you remember the glass sculpture you gave me at university, after you and Dad split up, do you remember?' I ask.

She gives a small, wary sound of acknowledgment.

'Well, my sixteen-year-old girlfriend destroyed it, she smashed it up into a thousand pieces, and I'm happy she did,' I say, my voice snarls, but not without a note of triumph.

'Let me guess, Julian, this sixteen-year-old girlfriend will cost you everything you own? Jesus, you and your father can have each other if he can tolerate you much longer,' Jennie says, and cuts the call.

It wouldn't surprise me if the phone in my hand melts; colour-coded wires and grey number pad gathering around my feet in a puddle of white-ish plastic. I am completely fucked. Bernard Middleton owns Edward Braithwaite, and Edward Braithwaite owns me, although he is being nice enough about it. Disowned by my own mother, blackmailed by my best friend, outwitted, and smothered, a strange reckless happiness steals over me.

At least I know where I stand.

I grab a bottle of Peter Blake's best from the fridge and head outside to the pool. I roll up my jeans and sit on the pool edge, dipping my feet into the cool water. I toast the lounger pile and in one long suffocating open-throat skull, I finish the beer. I throw the empty as hard as I can at the closest lounger. It ricochets off a chair leg and smashes against the tiles on the far side of the pool.

51.

Two days spent lying in bed, except for mandatory food and toilet breaks, is acceptable considering the circumstances. I try calling Jennie late on Monday afternoon. Surely, a change of heart? An automated voice tells me this number is no longer available. Jesus that was fast. Worse, I don't even have her email address. I started writing a letter, but seriously, how do you convey to your mother - the great disowner - the shame, humiliation, and the fear; the guts-grabbing, stool-loosening, heart-pounding fear of something so inalienable as your own mother's love, unconditional through thick and thin, til death do us part, when she takes it away from you? Fuck. Her obvious hatred of Ted, something I wasn't even aware of, has blinded her to a simple fact: I am his son, not the man himself.

I couldn't tell them this at work. I pulled the old migraine trick. Baxter couldn't have cared less. He just wants to see a new contract draft, pronto. I can't even bring myself to tell Ted, the one person I might find sympathy from, with emphasis on the might. I started crying when I realised the one person I could have been able to tell and receive sound counselling was Bernie. I started writing him a letter and couldn't get beyond the first line: Why are you doing this to me?

The nights, ahhh, the nights spent waiting, listening for the sounds of activity at the back fence. She won't come. When I need her laughter, her zany games, she won't come back. A stroppy employee told me the twenty-four hour dairy is a business it's not a residence, eh? I tried to ask if Sophia has quit, but the employee hung up.

On Thursday, after spending two days at work sitting at my desk, staring at the door, or losing hours in computer Solitaire, I got a call from Ted. His number on my phone display practically glittered with bright stardust. Finally, I thought, the demise of Bernie. Have you talked to Bernie, I asked? Businesslike, Ted explained he has been working his arse off all week to create a legitimate position for Bernie at the firm. When I asked him if he was serious, Ted exploded. Yes, he is serious. I told him I called Mum, and voice breaking, informed him she has changed her last name back to her maiden name. So? Well, she has disowned me, no, us, and Lindsay has received a promotion. So? Why did you call her, he asked? Look, Julian, he said, can I rely on you?

Somehow, including a Friday afternoon visit from Peebles who invited himself into my office and asked me, How's it going mate? Are we all right in Briathwaite-ville? I make it through the working week; I am surviving.

I even survived temptation's brush, this morning, at the bakery, now a fledgling Saturday morning routine. Was it only a week ago Bernie let himself in and dropped his blackmail bombshell? Pressed into the bakery's cramped counter area with a glorious woman inexplicably arranged at that early hour in a tight fitting, short, cotton summer dress, a frilly but tasteful blouse, and high-heels, she kept bending over in front of me to peruse and select from the tasty range of cakes and slices in the glass display windows. All the pain and anger, no, not anger; the rage, a sheer pure rage I have at everything popped sherbet-like metallically fizzing and crackling in my mouth, my head and in my blood. The young employee, bored and half-asleep, had a minimal investment in the transaction. The woman, who I couldn't tell if she knew I was there in her blind spot or not, backed up and almost rubbed into me with her impressive rump. Instead of the usual white-hot lust response - my twitching hands and ticklish fingers - I politely coughed, stepped away, and gave her room. No deep breathing, closed-eyed visualisation, and no fancy tricks.

I stepped away because I was disgusted I ever thought anyone would want touched in such a way without their consent. A hundred, hundreds, a thousand instances, of public brushes and outright gropes, in stores and queues and bars and clubs, rushed through my mind in a chaotic but comprehensive jumble; the full scope of Julian Braithwaite's disrespect; a history of Julian Braithwaite's self-hatred. Yes, self-hatred. Hatred. It clicked. I hate myself for the choices I've made in my life, and as a result hate and disrespect everyone else, especially women, easy targets for a man's self-hatred. Is it that simple? Am I self-deceiving?

I stumbled outside; I needed fresh air to clear my head. The woman pointed out the bakery was now empty when she emerged with a jumble of the bakery's bags in her arms. I had nothing to say, at the same time I wanted to say everything and dump my stinking mess of a life in her lap and receive a blessing only an impersonal stranger could give. With a wave, she trotted off to her Range Rover. If I praised myself for my restraint, and my insight, I couldn't stop myself from hating her obvious contentment. Is this what I will become when everything's gone, everything I love? A hater? One of the envious? Am I not more than a house, a car, or expensive bakeries on Saturday mornings? Am I not more than a lifestyle? Is this how I define myself?

As I walked back into the bakery, I wondered if navel-gazing like this inspired Bernie's sudden change in career and his just as sudden reversal. Is it that simple? Am I so shallow, and is Bernie so shallow, the shape, meaning, and purpose of our lives can be reduced to pursuing a lifestyle beyond our means? Is this what we're fighting for... status, and the pursuit of misplaced or hollow ideals and false beliefs involving power and prestige?

I couldn't make any sense of it then, and I can't now. Again, I recline on my bed in nothing but my underpants as a perfect summer Saturday creeps over the courtyard. A piece of paper with real estate agent names written on it torments me on my bedside table. No way can a real estate agent assess the property in the shape it's in now, not a chance. Suddenly, I want to move. I want movement, activity, work; I want do something.

I want to mow the lawn.

I need to start somewhere, why not the lawn? It hasn't been mown in weeks.

In just my underpants, I slip on a pair of runners, and get busy with the business of preparing and dragging the ancient lawn mower out from the garage. I fuel it up from an old dickey can, add a touch of oil, and with my brand new industrial noise reducing earmuffs on, I push the rusting behemoth out, latch on the catcher, strike it up and begin. The grass is that long I'm careful not to leave ugly, razed bald patches, and by slightly tilting the mower up, I avoid this occurrence. Can I avoid the messiness in my life by adopting a similar technique? If I take a softly-softly approach for long enough, but make enough noise and show just enough movement? I shy away from these useless thoughts. The shaking, roaring beast levels the grass, and I inch on, thrilled at the noise and the vibration in the handle that for reasons unknown makes my forearms tingle and itch. I'm even enjoying the sweet-smelling cut grass and earthy dust blowing out through worn, frayed holes in the catcher, no matter it clings to my shins and thighs in a growing green sheen.

Everything is humming along, except I can't shake a rude self-conscious nakedness as if I'm being watched. I focus harder on matching up the straight line from the fresh cut strip and being careful not to cut too low. The nakedness persists; someone watches me. Frustrated, I pause and scan the back fenceline. Is Sophia perched on the fence, or in a tree? Fenceline and trees empty, I turn towards the pool... and fuck. How long have they stood there, a bunch of laughing chimpanzees, their grinning, peeled lips revealing their teeth?

Scotty, Peebles, the awful Maya, her skinny blonde friend, and another tag-along, a bullish young woman with multiple piercings on her nose, eyebrows, and ears, and familiar faces; the bogans from the last party of uninvited are here, and new faces makes the total count twenty-ish. Twenty! How did they get out here? Did they walk through my fucking house? Did I leave the front door open? I half-expect Bernie to step through from the back dangling one of my house keys in front of his nose. I switch off the throttle at the motor; the handle's throttle lever doesn't work. I tear the earmuffs off to the sound of loud laughter. Apparently, the sight of a guy mowing his lawn in his underwear is, 'Outstandingly funny.'

'What the fuck are you doing, Braithwaite?' Scotty says.

Chiller bins, six-packs, and dozens, they've come prepared this time. I notice the bogans carry supermarket shopping bags, so I guess that means they've brought food: sausages, patties, bread buns, and tomato sauce. I suppose they will want me to fire up my outdoor fireplace. Better I leave, physically leave my own premises, so they can party. Someone mentions the loungers are in the pool.

'What're we going to sit on?' one belligerent fuck asks.

'I'm mowing my fucking lawns, Scotty, in the privacy of my own property, that all right with you?' I shout.

Tossing the earmuffs away, I start towards my bedroom.

'Oh come on, take it easy, have a beer, mate,' I catch, as I head around the far side of the pool.

Inside, I tug on a pair of shorts and a teeshirt. They're just standing there, milling by the pool, and occasionally glancing over towards the bedroom. Scotty, Peebles, Maya, and two other guys I don't recognise, are having a committee meeting. Are they considering the fact they might be out of line arriving uninvited at someone's house with a large group of people, most if not all unknown by him? I grab my cellphone. The last time this happened, I promised it wouldn't happen again.

'It's not,' I mutter, 'it's not happening again.'

Someone, maybe Peebles, yells out, 'What's going on, Braithwaite?' I don't know, nor care. 'Hey, Braithwaite? Braithwaite!' Why can't they at least call me by my first name? I head over and grab the stepladder I moved to mow the lawns, which might become a source of gossip. I'm sure people noticed the ladder parked up against the back fence at the last party. I pick it up and carry it over to the edge of the pool tiling. The throng pulses away from me and I step up to the top rung and face them, cellphone in hand. I'm a second from making my announcement, and Scotty, red-faced from embarrassment, but possibly not his own embarrassment, hisses at me to get down and stop acting like a cock. Am I the one acting like a cock? Has he, or any of them, stopped to consider their own collective dickishness? Scotty hisses something else, and I tell him to fucking get out of the way, but he reaches up and tugs hard at my shorts. It's the last thing I expect and I lose my balance. I reach out to grab him and missing, land awkwardly on my arse and left hip.

It hurts like fuck, and I'm up and hobbling around in circles with my hand pressed to the sight of the pain. Scotty is there, and Peebles. Both try to console me, but Scotty doesn't even sound apologetic, and inanely repeats, 'Yeah, that's good, walk it off, walk it off.' I look up and catch Maya's stunned embarrassment, and realise there's a collective stunned embarrassment going around, especially on the bogans' faces. Are they in denial that something that humiliating happened to someone, and they witnessed it? Mandy, Maya's skinny blonde friend mouths, Oh... My... God and then laughs hysterically. Maya and the other bullish girlfriend try to shush her. That's it, that's fucking it. I shake off Scotty and Peebles, lurch over to the stepladder, and right it. I climb back up and stand on the top rung. I raise my cellphone.

'If you don't leave my property in the next sixty seconds I'm calling the cops,' I shout.

'For falling off a stepladder!' a smartarse shouts.

'For trespassing, for fucking trespassing! I'm the property owner in case you weren't sure, so fuck off! I've invited none of you, so fuck off!' I shout.

The ferocity in my voice acts like a force-field shockwave; everyone takes a step back.

'Will you bloody calm down, Julian?' Scotty says.

I shake my phone at them. That causes a giggle, but they've got the gist. With unidentifiable, 'Sorry mates,' thrown in, they turn away and slowly head up to the house. I'm acting the petulant kid who loses it on Christmas Day, but I don't care, I don't. One of these assholes stole my box of money, I'm sure of it, and suffering humiliation at falling off the ladder or not, it's fantastic to see Scotty turning tail. You'd think it's his house. I suspect that's what the newbies thought, watching Scotty leading the way through the front door and striding inside.

'See you at work on Monday,' Maya says, stressing the word work.

'If he can be bothered. Take it easy won't you, Braithwaite, don't want you overdoing it, eh?' Scotty says.

'Let it go,' Peebles says loudly, for my benefit, I suppose, but I don't know why.

'Yeah, next weekend we'll head round to your house, Scotty? You know, mate, kick back by the side of your pool, drink beers, barbeque sausages on your outdoor fireplace, just the usual,' I say, trying to swallow my anger. Soon I will be the one without a house, a pool, and the outdoor fireplace. My earlier thoughts; my bakery inspired insights about lifestyles, Bernie, and fighting for the wrong causes - stuff that seemed so trivial - now gut punches me.

'Yeah yeah, I feel terrible Daddy couldn't buy me a New Zealand House of the year,' Scotty shouts back, over his shoulder.

Even Peebles laughs at that one.

52.

Peebles pops in early on Monday morning. Peebles. Classic Peebles, smooth Peebles, with his indeterminate Mediterranean good looks. He isn't exactly apologising about showing up uninvited on Saturday. He is trying to convey his, or the collective group's point of view. Apparently, and I'm not sure where his point of view starts and ends, apparently opinion supports I'm up there alone in my biggish house, with a pool and lovely grounds, and not to mention summer, summer!

'Summer's almost over, Julian. We wanted one last big bash before we're freezing our nuts off! And you need some company, mate. We thought we'd cheer you up, take your mind off things,' he says.

I point out that sounds like pity inspired charity, and how is that supposed to make me feel, mate? I could rent out the second bedroom if I wanted company. I could make renovations and create a third bedroom, and have a cosy flat with like-minded flatmates: Playstation, movie screenings, the rugger on the big screen in winter, and pool parties every summer weekend? If I wanted, no, needed company, don't you think I'd invite people up to my house? I can't keep it going. He has the picture now whatever picture he makes of my tirade. I keep glancing at my phone, waiting, waiting.

My hip aches even though I spent most of Saturday night and Sunday morning icing it. No Sophia. On Sunday afternoon, I drove out to the 24hr, and then her parent's house. No one appeared to be at home and I didn't inquire at the 24hr. She is such a calculating creature. I hope her evasiveness isn't a way of avoiding getting dragged into anything about that night even though she has the right to demand Bernie answers for his actions. Did the experience traumatise her? Imagine Sophia without her sense of fun? I try but fail to imagine a world without the Madame Sophia. I wonder if she is living in the city, or if she hasn't already left? She will show up when she is ready, or she won't, or can't. God, they're depressing realities to consider.

Peebles apologises for the gatecrashing, and for all the other times, and wordlessly leaves. Something in the nature of his apology and exit reminds me of Baxter; the way his brisk, cursory acknowledgement of the other's position amounts to a dismissal couched in pitch-perfect etiquette. Does Baxter rub off on all of us like this? Even if Peebles doesn't mean it, Scotty should have been in here with him. Then neither man would mean it. No, a genuine apology will never happen. They don't think they have anything to apologise for, and I won't apologise for being a killjoy. Anyway, giving me an apology will be the last thing on anyone's mind. I made the call and left the voice message as I soon as I arrived at the firm and got settled.

It happens before lunch.

Despite my best preparation, last night's endless reasoning, and the stalwart defence of my actions I've cobbled together, the reality hits me with a hot sweaty flash of fear that leaves me rigid in my seat and uncertain what to do. Do I head out there? I have mentally prepared for a phone call, or an email, not an actual feet on the ground in the firm visitation by the Gambles. Am I truly so insignificant that no one bothered calling me? Just to double-check it wasn't a mistake, or an unfortunate, but deal-threatening mix-up? Now I've got that mortified urchin hiding in his bedroom thing going on; the kid awaiting a parent's wrath about to rain on his head - What was I thinking? What did I do? Why did I do it? Oh why oh why oh why? - but I'm also angry and affronted; it isn't right no one has thought to contact me. I'm working on that contract. Me. Alone.

Heavy footsteps approach my office and Baxter throws open my door. His entire nuggety body threatens to explode with rage.

'Come and explain yourself, now!' he thunders.

In his office, my so-called explanations unravel in less than twenty seconds. Baxter squints at me from across his desk. It's as if the man has my soul in his hands and examines it, probing and squeezing for weak spots. How much does he know of Saturday's embarrassment? I have a hunch he knows everything. Beside me, Mz Gamble glares into neutral space. I don't think she trusts herself to meet anyone's eyes. It's clear to see the house-restaurant thing is her baby. Old Man Gamble, yes, the man himself; a liverish-looking, snow-maned, hard-wearing gent with outrageous Gamble eyebrows dark and deep enough to lose stale bread crusts in, looks at me with bemusement more than anger. Mz Gamble glances at me; she clearly wants my dripping, severed head delivered on a platter at the Gamble mansion later this afternoon over coffee and cakes.

Here's the bottom line.

Early this morning I called Oliver, and left him a voice message apologising for the inconvenience, but:

Due to your unwillingness to communicate and cooperate with the firm of James and Baxter, I regret to inform you, our client has withdrawn their offer on your historic house. Feel free to pursue a sale with the Heritage Foundation of New Zealand. Good luck. (You crazy French bastard.)

Of course I didn't call him that, but that was the gist: You are emotionally retarded no one can work with you. It felt good at the time, a hot rush of satisfaction. Now? Not so much. Olivier not only received the message, but what the fuck, he listened to it.

Chastened to the point of abject humiliation, I am sent out of Baxter's office with the express order to call Olivier, apologise for the mix-up and absolutely reconfirm the Gambles' ambition to buy his crumbling old mansion. Absolutely. At the door, I mutter loud enough for Ms Gamble to hear that I will be lucky to get a return call. She gives me a cool parting shot I can't quite catch. I glance back and Baxter stares at me with evil intentions that involve my neck, high places and his necktie.

I call Olivier and as I predicted, I'm sent straight to voice message. Trying to sound breezy, I brush the whole business off as a mistake on my behalf, a mix-up with another client, and I accept full responsibility and trust we can carry on, business as usual.

Now, I sit in my office and listen to the growing uproar out there. 'It's the Gambles, who plays games with the Gambles!' I hear someone shout, early on, possibly Manfredo. 'What's Julian doing now? Is he just sitting in there?' The commotion dies as the afternoon wears on and a shocked hush settles over the firm. I wonder if Olivier will grace us with a visit, but if he does, or has, no one tells me. Not even Scotty sticks his head in the door to gloat, something I thought he might do. I bring up the latest copy of the contract but succumb to futility. I bite on my knuckles to stop from laughing. What am I thinking; what am I even doing here? Nobody wants me here, and they don't want me working on the contract. I take a deep, shuddering breath and let it out. I need a miracle, or I'll swim through an ocean of shit to keep my position. No one confronts me on my way out of the firm. Raucous laughter coming from Scotty's office distracts anyone from noticing my early exit. I am empty of miracles.

53.

After a palsied night's sleep, I wrestle with my desire to call in sick. Do I even need to call? Do they expect me? That thought depresses me. No one else at the firm is stupid or irresponsible enough to pull a trick like I pulled. I grope around for consolation or justification. What if it has blasted through Olivier's weird reticence to join everyone at the table? No that's ego, an egoist's desperate scrabbling at the descending coffin lid; no, better to face the fall out today rather than tomorrow. I suit up and weave through traffic in the Audi as I race into the city.

Waiting near the top of the stairs, Baxter ushers me into his office as soon as I hit the firm floor. He quietly thanks me for contacting Olivier yesterday. Dropping the solemnity, he tastes the exact words I used to explain the bogus mix-up the way an expert wine taster allowed the first go at a fine red tumbles the liquid around in his mouth before he spits. I sit there and take Baxter's verbal lashings concerning integrity and character, both my own and the firm's, and the drive for excellence. The man fairly whips me with the word; every sentence incorporates its moral force and weight: Excellence. Excellence must be achieved in all things, in all spheres of the firm and firm related business. Fuck excellence, but Ted is right, I need this job. Calming down, Baxter presents me with an order masquerading as a proposition that forces me to the edge of my seat. I am to take a breather from the contract today, perhaps for the rest of this week. I will spend the next few days tidying up odd jobs. Odd jobs? I'm not sure why, but I imagine myself cleaning toilets, mopping floors and washing dishes in the break room.

He assigns me general office work.

Photocopying?

I avoid stating the obvious. We employ people to carry out this work; Maya, for one, or if she won't do it, we had people like Stuart. He mentions the Gamble's contract and cites overwork as the cause of my... present difficulties. Overwork?

'A bit of something different for a few days will be as good as having a breather, eh?' Baxter says.

Grinning through my rancour, I accept the work and with fat documents in manila folders tucked under my arm, I head off loudly whistling. I'm still on the pay role.

The sorry day unfolds. I leave the doors to the copy room and my office wide open while I'm working. If they want to walk past and gawk at me as if I'm a strange beast, or if they have to use the copier and treat me as if I've got a highly contagious fatal disease, well, let them gawk, let them tip-toe around me.

I haven't heard from Ted, or Bernie. I want to put my head in the sand until that headache fades away. What if it doesn't? What will I say when Baxter orders me into his office and asks me to explain the email and photos he received from Bernard Middleton who felt compelled to pass along his concerns about my behaviour and its possible impact on the firm.

The day grinds on and plots are clearly afoot. Maya scurries here and there, folders clutched to her chest. More active than usual, Manfredo ducks in and out of his office. From sheer focus, something I have Sophia to thank for, I survive. It's good to be working.

After a long night playing Call of Duty into the wee hours, I'm back for more punishment this morning. Minutes from my midmorning break, Baxter walks into the copy room and signals for me to stop what I'm doing. Only then do I notice Manfredo loitering out in the corridor. Jesus. Why is Angus out there? Baxter gets straight to it and delivers the blow right there in the copy room.

Scotty will take over the Gamble's contract. Can I oversee Scotty and ensure transfer of the relevant material: hard copy, soft copy, or any other copy? I stand there unable to articulate sound. Scotty? His face a hopeful enquiry, Manfredo squares into view over Baxter's shoulder. Baxter raises his eyebrows. I haven't made a sound.

I've lost the contract to Scotty.

'You'll get on that right away, Julian?' Baxter asks.

I'm too stunned to nod even though I should have seen this coming. Baxter turns to Manfredo and shrugs before he turns back.

'Look, I'm sorry, Julian, but the Gambles asked you be taken off it, sorry mate,' he says.

A convenient dodge using the Gambles like that, but he isn't lying. Asked? I'd say they demanded my re-assignment.

'You've taken the contract and Olivier's ups and downs as far as you can, it happens,' he says.

Not to Charles Baxter. Not to this firm.

Now I nod. That's all I can do, all I have.

Yes, I nod again, with more conviction this time, I agree.

Yes, I nod harder, faster, yes, this is the ocean I must swim in; this is a jumble pile of poolside loungers rotting in my pool, this is thousands of dollars stolen from me I didn't even know had disappeared; this is my best friend blackmailing me; my father who won't fight for me; this is my one friend, my one gorgeous friend I may never see again, who freed and fucked me up in ways I haven't yet fathomed; this is Scotty that smug fuck taking my contract away from me - oh, I bet he marched straight into Baxter's office after my phone message transgression got out, a seagull hovering over the rubbish bin, the demands, the arguments, the Scotty-centred squawking rhetoric, with his little office Maya scurrying, a trained rat, a rabid bite, this, this, this, this, this, this, this IS MY OCEAN OF SHIT!!! I AGREE!!! I WILL SWIM MY FULL!!!

I can't have Baxter seeing me cry.

I rush out of the copy room, careful not to bump or brush Baxter on my way out. Jacked up and ready to go at it, Manfredo deflates after one disappointed glance at me. Once inside my office, I slam the door shut and crumple out of sight behind my desk. A broken heap on the floor, I let go and weep. Someone opens the door and quickly shuts it. My ocean, leave me to it. Leave me alone.

I can't stay here for long though. Self-pity, Ted hates self-pitying whiners, everyone does, and the thought of Scotty walking in and seeing me in this state spurs my battered pride and enervates me. Ruthless and fast, I stack up the boxes and files; all the contract copies, both on paper and saved to disc; I stack the whole stinking mess up in the middle of the floor and leave a note on top,

All yours. Congrats.

No way, I'm not staying in here to oversee the transfer, Charles fucking Baxter. I grab my jacket, wallet and cellphone, and stride out of the firm with my chin held high. Once outside, I walk the Square, only stopping to get a double-espresso I drink in two gulps. I continue and fuelled by adrenaline, rage and caffeine, I walk out of the Square, stewing and mulling with my head down and my hands in my trouser pockets. Only when a fresh briny tang hits me do I realise I've reached the port. The slap of water on piles and the mild jostling of small fishing boats at moor bring back memories of a different day. The day a boy stung by his father's lewd behaviour walked down here to clear his buzzing head and cool his burning face. I dial Ted's number on my cellphone. Unfocussed, purpose unknown, someone must pay for my misery. Ted doesn't even bother to greet me.

'What do you want?' he asks.

Through clenched teeth, I tell him we will not agree to Bernie's demands, none of them, not one. His silent disbelief at my statement is something yellow and viscous you could scoop up out of an old bucket, and the note of desperation and fear in his shouting voice, a tone I've never heard, stuns me, 'Are you a fucking idiot or what?'

54.

Riotously subdued, I meander back to the firm. My father's angry hysteria shocks me. Did I mean it? Should we call Bernie's bluff? I'm positive Ted's first move was offering Bernie cash, but that's only a guess. Ted is losing it and near breaking point and what am I doing? Photocopying? Transferring contracts?

By the time I return, Scotty will have taken the contract over. He will have removed the boxes of contract copy, all the revisions I worked so hard to achieve, from my office. That's my hope. No that's bloody childish. Scotty will have questions, or requests. I need to get back. Be professional, for God's sakes. I'm in the ocean, but I've my buoy to cling to courtesy of Baxter's odd jobs offer. So get back and cling, Braithwaite, everything else can wait.

No one sees me when I clump through the firm and lock myself in my office. It's nearly one o'clock. The boxes are gone, but Scotty left my note - a forlorn leaf - in the middle of the floor. Ravenous, but experiencing that queasy hunger-nausea that robs appetite, I get back to the copy room and get on with it. Someone has to do this work. It's for the firm, the greater good. I'm a team player, and with good behaviour real work will come my way. Better yet, I will get off my arse and check current or coming sales and if any require significant legal oversight. I can do that. I can. I've got contacts, and my name holds water, it still means something in this city.

So focused on my tasks and murdering a days worth of work in a few short hours, I don't even notice Maya standing behind me, or the tall stack of documents on the bench beside her. With no hello and not even a condescending smile, she asks me to shred them.

'And why can't you do that?' I say.

Does that stack look familiar? I try to inspect it without getting too close .

'I'm busy,' she states, unmoving, cold, and clinical: Behold, the Maya.

I last five excruciating seconds before curiosity wins out over pride, and I snatch the top most document off the stack. A contract. It's one of mine. Olivier. The Gambles. The historic house. Maya steps away as I furiously go through the stack. They're mine, my contract versions. What a sick joke. Worse, Scotty sent his rat to do his dirty work. My pulse rate spikes as if I'm working out on the Nordic Track. My breathing shortens. I felt this way the moment I slashed Bernie with a knife. Calm, be calm, Braithwaite.

'If you want these shredded, do it yourself,' I say, turning back to the photocopier. My body shudders with pressure hundreds of feet below the ocean's surface of my anger. My bones risk crushing and splintering into fragments.

'That's not what Scotty told me,' she says.

'I don't care what Scotty told you, Baxter asked me to do this work, not your work,' I say.

She makes an exasperated noise.

'Baxter, otherwise known to most of us as Charlie, assigned me to Scotty so I can help clean up this mess, and Scotty asked me to tell you to shred this crap, so shred it,' she says, folding her arms across her chest.

'Fuck off,' I shout.

Calling Scotty's name, she runs out of the copy room. She may as well be yelling out fire, she makes that much noise. This should have happened in my office behind closed doors when Scotty came to pick up the material. It's my own fault for scarpering. Now it's going firm wide. I take a deep breath, face the door, and wait for him. I hear him coming. I can't hear Maya's high heels with him; she must be in his office, traumatised by my brutality. I'd bet money Baxter already has a consoling arm around her.

Scotty appears perfectly composed when he enters. Only his eyes betray emotion; they bore into me with a frank invitation I don't understand.

'Hey, I'm sorry Julian, but I don't have enough room in my office. Just trying to make space, mate,' he says, throwing his arms open, palms up, in a perfect imitation of Baxter.

'Don't ask me to do your odd jobs, get Maya to do them. That's what she's paid for,' I say, turning back to my photocopying.

Partway through selecting the correct sorting and stapling option for my current job, it hits me. Blow upon blow: Scotty assigned my contract and Maya assigned to Scotty, I haven't even explored what that means. When did she find out? Did she let me off the hook because small-fry Julian couldn't pull the strings she wanted, so she latched on to Scotty who could?

That isn't everything though.

Space. His reference to not having enough space in his office gnaws at me. Is he coming after my office? Oh Jesus, does he have approval and only lacks the formality of moving in? Is that it?

'Look Julian, Maya's busy.'

'Yeah, I understand how busy she is working for you,' I say.

'Julian,' he says, but I don't give him the opportunity.

'Why did you even bother moving the contract out of my office? I'm sure Baxter's given you a date for the switch, you smug fuck,' I say.

Burying myself in my photocopying, I select a random number of copies. I've since forgotten the correct number. I don't check to see how he took my insult. I can't trust myself; I don't trust him. Then the thought of moving out of my office - the reality and practicalities - hits me fresher and harder. I can't trust myself not to cry again. Fuck.

Scotty steps closer and leaning in forces me to look at him. He stinks of cheap deodorant and stale meat pies. I'm convinced if I peer closely, I could see soft white sandwich bread squashed up in his gums between his teeth.

'Switch? Yeah, Julian, almost, only you're not getting my office, mate, you're taking over Stuart's old job. We wanted to see if you were better at it than he was,' Scotty whispers, and his warm pie - white sandwich bread breath hits the side of my cheek.

Is it a problem with Scotty's proximity, or was it the mention of Stuart? Useless questions now.

My right fist slams into his mouth. I wonder when and how my body came to that decision, let alone executed the action. The Neanderthal brain? Enough, I hit him with enough force he staggers backwards, his swearing muffled by his hand clamped over his mouth. Blood spatters onto the copy room floor as he spits in a long bloody drool. He might have lost a tooth. I wonder if it rolled under the copier? Jesus, I experience a moment's relief I didn't have a weapon at hand, he might have lost an eye.

Scotty shouts: 'He hit me, he hit me, Braithwaite fucking hit me.'

He teeters out of the copy room looking like a man that wants to ask a serious question of a parking meter attendant. Seconds later, Manfredo comes bulling in as if to grab me, but instinct kicks in; I stance up and prepare for battle. Looking stunned, he backs out of the room. Fucking watch out, I'm a starving, wild animal backed into a corner. Baxter is out there now, asking for calm and demanding clarity. The doorway clear, I bolt out and run into my office. Sadly, once I'm safely inside, I realise there's nothing I want or need to take other than my jacket and bag.

By the time I emerge, Manfredo rides shotgun beside Baxter, and together they take up the middle of the corridor. Scotty sits on the ground, his back against the wall, his hand pressed to his bleeding mouth. Maya crouches beside Scotty and administers to him without appearing to do anything helpful. Tina and Peebles hobble together, further back, and the rest mill in doorways, or crane around doorframes.

'If young Scotty doesn't press charges, this will be the last time we'll be seeing you. It will be the last time we'll be seeing you working in this firm. Get out,' Baxter snaps.

Out. The one thing I needed to keep and I lost it, my fucking job.

'We'll pay you to the end of the fortnight,' Baxter says, which causes a minor ruckus. No one apparently wants that for me.

I edge around an unmoving Baxter and Manfredo, and briskly head for the stairs. No one says anything, which spooks me much more than if they had gone village mob and thrust pitchforks at me while waving flaming torches in my face. I bound down the creaking stairs, taking two at a time.

55.

The firm called him unless it's a coincidence. The man himself, Olivier. We park across the street from each other, with Olivier parked directly in front of his stupid historic house. He too drives an Audi, a low-slung red affair that looks twenty-five years older than mine. He shows no surprise at seeing me as we both get out. Comically, our car doors simultaneously slam shut. Someone at the firm must have called him and explained that Julian Braithwaite, formerly a lawyer at James and Baxter, has just lost the plot and his job and may want to enact a form of perverse, or spiteful revenge. By vandalising, or setting his historic house alight? I don't even find it beautiful, or interesting. It's a big old house in need of renovations. The Gambles only want it to add older world prestige to their family name and already exultant standing in the city, and honestly, they're probably the only people in the city rich enough to believe that's important.

I drove up here to contemplate the reason for my demise, although that's simplifying matters. Now, contemplating Olivier, I am looking at one of the actual causes of my demise. I stare across at the broad-forehead of the Frenchman who always has a tan no matter the season and carries the ghosts of disgruntled past employees from his various failed business ventures heavily on his sloping shoulders.

'You're a hard man to get in touch with,' I shout across the street.

We both stand by our respective car doors. He shrugs.

'You might of returned my calls, would it have killed you?' I shout.

He shrugs again. If he shrugs a third time, I will sprint across the street and throttle him. My knuckles ache from where I hit Scotty, but in a pleasurable, satisfying way.

'Julian Braithwaite?' he calls out. He knows who I am. What a dick.

'Was there any particular reason you didn't want to work with me? I've lost my job, you owe me an explanation,' I shout.

He waves for me to stay by my car and crosses the street. His attire of business casual jeans, boat shoes, and a tailor-cut green polo shirt make me feel out of place in my stuffy suit.

'What are you doing here?' he asks, looking hard at me. He smells of lemons and just smoked cigarettes.

'Am I doing anything illegal?' I say.

'Do I call the cops?' he asks.

I'm bigger than him, and taller, but his Gallic ferocity intimidates. A bunch of rumours surround Olivier and his fighting spirit. I can't remember if any involve actual fighting.

'No, but you could tell me why you were such an asshole,' I say, staring back at him. The full implications of my unemployment haven't hit home, but whispers tease me: You've lost your job, you've lost your job, you've...

'I asked, but the people at your firm would not take you off the contract,' he says, shrugging famously again.

I take a calming breath. No one ever told me, except now it makes sense. What else did he have to do? March up and down the street below the firm, hoisting a placard: Julian must go.

'And why did you do that?' I ask, shuffling inches closer.

'I trusted your father once, a long time ago, and it cost me,' he says, stepping back.

'Ted? What's bloody Ted got to do with it?' I ask.

'He played around with the contract that's what he fucking did, man! Sloppy and arrogant, are you any different?' he says.

I can't help laughing. How long is Ted's shadow? Now Ted struggles with the shadow I cast; who would ever have thought that would happen?

'I am sorry you lost your job, I did not want that to happen. I wanted you taken off the contract,' he says.

'Well, they've put their best team on it now, I hope that makes you happy,' I say.

He makes a disgusted sound and appears to think twice about spitting at my feet.

'I've had enough of this bullshit, your firm, the Gambles, and this fucking city. I am selling the house to the Heritage Foundation, better it be turned into an artist's residence than a tasteless restaurant,' he says, punching my arm and grinning.

56.

I awake to my cellphone vibrating loudly on the desktop, right next to my face. Ted's number. Sunlight; bright, glaring, noonday sunlight pours in through the windows, and yesterday's truths smash me as hard as the sunlight and the body odour pong of stale junk food: I'm surrounded by Burger King wrappers. Baxter probably called Ted this morning. I've assaulted a colleague, I've lost my job, I haven't put the house on the market, and I haven't so much as sold a peanut. I let the phone vibrate out. The only cheering thought, other than punching Scotty, is Olivier screwing the firm over by selling to the Foundation. God, I wish I could be there when Olivier lets them know, or even better be there to see the expression on Mz Gamble's horsey face when they tell her. Baxter, he will tell her. With relish, I imagine her shattered dreams conquering her overbearing face.

At the living area windows, I gaze out over the courtyard, at the pool and the loungers protruding out of the pool water. My cellphone vibrates anew and I check the caller id. Ted, again. Shouldn't someone else be calling me? The firm? Baxter? The police? A lawyer? I toss it away into the office, and letting it finish, cook myself a meal. I have a hunch it's out there, ringing and ringing, ringing and ringing. After eating and clearing up, I check it and sure enough, thirteen missed calls, all from Ted.

Fuck Ted.

57.

I note the price tag dangling off its handle, but don't bother ripping it off. How and where to begin. I don't want to snap the hacksaw blade with an irrational attack on the main body. I forgot to buy spare blades, and the hardware store might close by the time I drive back for more. One of the arms? Yes, I will start on an arm, or one of the heads.

'Don't rush it,' I mutter.

It took long enough manoeuvering the crow bar underneath it, and I nearly put my back out tipping it over. It landed with a crash loud enough that I panicked the mezzanine would collapse.

How many pieces do I want to cut it into?

The Eternal Embrace.

Green paint covers it from Sophia's attack. She should have cut it up instead of throwing paint around, no; together we should have cut it into pieces. God, I wish she were here now. She would gleefully join in. She hated both of them, The Natural Woman #4 and The Eternal Embrace: the strange follies of rich people.

It's hard going and I sweat as I saw. With a grim smile, I carefully but steadily remove the heads. Soon, the satisfaction dissipates. How much money could I make selling this? I've committed to a large task that now needs completing for its own sake, now that my reckless enthusiasm has dimmed. Up and down, back and forth, the blade screeches through the metal. Shavings and fine filings curl away from the sight of the cuts, and even finer yet, metallic dust drops and works into the rug I didn't bother to remove before I started. I saw on, up and down, up and down, back and forth, back and forth, and the blade burns hot to the touch.

Just before dawn, I toss the last chunk onto the lounger pile. Smaller pieces find purchase in the nooks and crannies of lounger legs, seat backs, and cushions, while others bounce or slide off into the water and sink to the bottom. Exhausted, I head back into the house and return with hot coffee and an outdoor dining chair. I sit directly across from the pile and sip my coffee. I try to experience elation or sorrow, guilt or vindication, but I can't. How many hours did I unintentionally stare at that ugly hulking behemoth beside the television? What did I learn from its presence - on a deeper level - beyond its corny superficiality? The serene lovers entwined in rapture on one side, the demonic lovers tearing each other apart on the opposite side? Nothing. But clearly something. And what is it, really? An expensive gift inspired by a power game motivated by a bitter divorce. Fantastic.

The only question I have to ask, as the dawn breaks red and orange and creeps into the washed sky, and the hot coffee seeps into my empty stomach, is when did my parents stop fighting for me? Instantly, I arrive at the answer. It surrounds me. The tiles. The pool. The courtyard, with its outdoor fireplace, and even the Pohuts, but most definitely the house; the house that entertained so many scenes of insane stupidity over this past summer, it's becoming hard to believe. I tip the rest of my coffee into the pool and head back inside. If it is a time for hard decisions, then this should be the first.

58.

I take four long days and nights, but late on Thursday night, it's done. They're all gone. Loungers and sculpture remnants, empty bottles, and other odd assortments I tossed into the pool whenever I wanted. The pool now has fresh chlorinated water with the wall tiling scoured clean of a slight green waterline left by the deteriorating lounger cushions as they bled out over the course of the summer. The house received the same treatment; I hired a ute with a trailer and drove load after load to the city rubbish dump, and then various second hand stores with all my furniture, except my bed. Employees from Clays came and picked up my precious rimu dining table. When they weren't looking, I bent to the tabletop and took a long, deep sniff. Before removing the furniture I uploaded artful house and property photos to an online Trade me listing and entered what I think is a realistic reserve price. I headed the entry, 2004 New Zealand House of the Year. The rest of my possessions - mostly kitchen stuff and bric-a-brac - are now scattered throughout other Trade Me listings. I listed my Audi in this Saturday's newspaper classifieds. Hitting my bed fully clothed, the same clothes I've been wearing all week, I succumb to the deepest most blissful sleep I've had in months.

Without an explanation why he is in the fair city this fine Friday, Ted's call comes midmorning: 'Meet me at Jack's for lunch, will you? Twelve o'clock, all right?' Terse and irritable, he didn't wait for my answer. Background noise - noisy bustle and loud ping-pong announcements - made it hard to hear him. He could have been fresh off the plane, striding through the domestic terminal.

I spend a good hour preparing, and freshly shaved, dressed, pressed and crinkle free I drive into the city. It may be one of the last drives I take in the Audi. I drive into the parking building the firm uses, and with a shock stop in front of my old parking spot. A late model Mercedes Benz already occupies it. For a second I entertain keying it and my hand locks on the door handle, my body tensing, readying to get out. I don't. Sighing, I drive on and find a park on the roof. I've never parked on the roof of a parking building in my life.

No one from the firm notices me sitting in Grind, and I can't make any sense out of my disappointment. What did I expect? What did I want? To bump into someone? To have Scotty, Peebles, Baxter, or even Maya, trot across the street and pop in for a late morning coffee and notice me? What would I say? What would I want them to say? Wow, Hi Julian, so... how'z it going? But I can't bring myself to sit in the front windows the way Stuart does. I seat myself at a corner table along the back wall, and guard my lukewarm latte, read the paper, and mentally rehearse conversations with people that will never happen. Anyway, it's nearly time to leave.

59.

Seated at his usual table, the epitome of a Jack's On Bridge man: his power-suit oozing wealth and opulence he probably doesn't possess, Ted deigns to acknowledge me. Waving the smarmy maître d' away at the entrance, I see myself in.

Jesus. After all these years, I'm still the schoolboy sitting quietly at the table as Ted ponderously consults the menu. He hasn't said a word. I try to appear nonchalant while savouring the warm doughy goodness of a freshly baked bread roll.

'I have this great idea, Ted. Let's pretend we have five minutes left to live and say everything we have to say to each other. Get it over with, what do you think?' I say.

Ted slams his menu down on the tabletop. The cutlery and crockery jumps, a water glass threatens to topple.

'Could you have fucked this up more if you'd tried? Your mother was right, she always was, you are a fucking little wanker,' he says, keeping his voice so low and tight, and concentrating so much rage into it, I fear he will clutch his chest and collapse gurgling to the floor. How would that make me feel? I feel oddly neutral, imagining Ted gurgling on the floor.

'I take it you've been to see Baxter,' I say, coolly, knowing my coolness will irritate him.

'That young man you punched isn't pressing charges, thank God, he seems a decent sort,' he says, settling. Ever a self-congratulating bastard, reminding himself of his one good deed for the day - pretending he has dug his son out of this latest mess - plucks him up. Of course he thinks Scotty a decent sort.

'I couldn't convince Charlie Baxter to take you back, not for all the tea in China he said,' Ted says, straightening the cutlery he jostled.

All the tea in China? Is that how old school bastards talk to each other behind closed doors?

'I shouldn't expect Baxter to join us for lunch then?' I say, humming at the delicious prospect of Olivier's pending announcement.

'What will you do for a job? I've no money to give you,' he says, with that desperate note in his voice I'm getting used to hearing.

'No, you'll take mine,' I say.

I wave him down before we can get started on his manipulations.

'Charles Baxter says all you're interested in is the bloody paycheck,' he says, slumping in his seat. I don't think I've ever seen my father slump in his seat before, ever.

'That places me in good company. A bit late for disappointment, isn't it Dad?' I say.

'No, it's not Julian it's not. Listen, I drove up to the house. I picked up a rental at the airport,' he says, composing himself by running his finger around the rim of his water glass.

'You've had everything anyone could ever want, everything. I gave you everything I had at the time to build that house, I let you spend your entire trust fund on it,' he says.

'Yeah that paid for the pool and the tiling,' I say.

'Shut up, you shut up and listen for once in your bloody life,' he says, stabbing his index finger at me.

'I gave you everything and did everything I could to help get you that job with James and Baxter because I wanted you to be happy. You should've bloody worked for me. I could have kept an eye on you. You had promise and enthusiasm, and you've wasted it. Wasted. At least you've looked after the house... What did you do with the sculpture? Did you sell it along with the furniture? Do you know how much that bloody sculpture cost?' he says.

'How do you know that? Did you get inside? Have you got a key?' I ask.

'How much did you get for it? You should have given it back to me. God himself only knows who you've had up there. Jennie called me. She said something about a girlfriend destroying the expensive sculpture she gave you. Is that the girl in the photos? Is that her? Who the bloody hell is she?' he says, leaning forward in his chair, he's avid with curiosity now. Dirty old Ted, I don't even want to imagine what the florid old prick wants to do with Sophia, should he get his hands on her. He certainly hasn't deleted those photos even if his moronic son is in them.

'None of your business,' I state, finding myself unable to navigate these waters, now that he has got around to Sophia. Is he truly searching for her, is that what he's flown down for? Is he hoping to glean information from me, or worse, extort it out of me with threats, bribes, or honeyed offers of salvation; a cushy job in a friend's firm in Wellington, or Auckland? Or somewhere smaller, like Hamilton, or Napier?

'She is my business! She became my business when saucy photos of both of you arrived in my inbox. For Christ's sakes, how can you be so bloody naïve? It's like you've no survival instinct,' he says, searching my face.

Skinny and shaken, I've never seen him like this. Not in choppy seas in a tippy sea-kayak, or under pressure with work and money, not even his wife leaving him for a kindergarten teacher. He looks old and vulnerable. And Sophia? Saving Sophia? She doesn't need saving from anyone, least of all me.

Surprisingly, I find myself apologising, 'I'm sorry I brought this on you, Dad, I am, I'll do everything I have to'.

Hands shaking, Ted clumsily sips his water.

'I know I'm a bloody awful father, I know that, I do. I know you never wanted to be a lawyer, not really, but for Christ's sakes,' he says, shaking his head.

'I can't be a father to you anymore. Once I've cleaned this mess up with Bernard, you're on your own, do you understand? You won't have to sell your house or spend any of your precious savings, if you have any, you always seem to,' he adds, getting up out of his chair.

'Thanks,' I say.

'Good. I'll tell the maitre d' we've changed our minds,' he says, getting up out of his chair.

'Why? I'm staying,' I say.

'What?' he says, standing behind his chair, he grips the top of the chair back and frowns at me.

'I'm having lunch. Where are you going?' I ask.

'Bit expensive for you now, isn't it, considering your present circumstances?' he sneers.

I look him in the eyes and shrug.

'Yes, Dad, I'm unemployed, but this might be one of the last fine meals I have in this city, maybe anywhere, so I'm going to bloody well enjoy it. Is that okay with you?'

Ted pushes his chair into the table so hard he thumps it against the wood, again threatening glasses, jugs, and condiments. I watch as he stalks off and watch him apologise to the restaurant employees. They throw him peeved looks as he hurries to the doors. He doesn't once glance back at me. He exits and a burst of sunlight illuminates the entranceway. Startling in its intensity, it penetrates the inner gloom. The doors close and the bullshit plush-hush dark dim again settles over the restaurant.

60.

Summer's over now, except for the occasional pleasant day. Time to cover the pool. I hope the new owners, a rosy nuclear family who tried to screw me into constructing a fence around the pool's perimeter - apparently, my unfenced pool flew under the Council's required safety regulation's radar all these years - I hope they enjoy it. I really do. I transferred half of the money from the house sale into one of Dad's bank accounts. I've kept the account number in my wallet since I was a varsity student. The account must be open; the money hasn't ricocheted back, and Ted hasn't declined it. It might sit there for a month or two before he notices it, but so be it. I look around the property. No breeze stirs the pines and macrocarpa, or ruffles the pool water. A cloudless pin-drop silent morning, except an urgent car alarm starts up in the distance.

I am leaving the country. I am, to quote the papers, taking my skills offshore. A soon to be statistic, another addition to the so-called brain drain. Hello Sydney. At least I'm not skipping out with a student loan. I take in the Pohutukawa's newly shed blood red needles. A fresh autumnal breeze scatters bright red over the shining courtyard tiles. I experience a pang deeper, more painful than guilt. Loss. I've lost it all, my parents, and Sophia.

Will I ever see Sophia again? Will she want to see me, especially if she starts her new life in Wellington? I'm positive she will be accepted into her architecture course. She would be the first pick, I'm sure. It will only take her half a semester before she will have one of her male lecturers tied up, or grovelling on the floor, Yes Madame, I will try harder next time! I can't imagine Sophia being embarrassed about anything that happened this past summer, not even what Bernie tried to do, but she doesn't know about the blackmail, or my punching Scotty and losing my job.

I glance back at the house, half-expecting to see her watching, and laughing at me from the windows. Windows empty, I glance at the fenceline. She is not there. What did I expect? Sophia squatting on top of the fence, an impish gargoyle revealed in her true form? On some level, despite everything that happened, I know a part of me will forever stay here at the house, watching that fenceline and listening for the clatter of her arrival. I don't hate myself for it. I don't. I understand now. To be both with and without hope is who I am now, it's who I have become, and it's how I will live the rest of my life. Yes, I understand.

****

About the author

David Bath was born in a steel bathtub in the middle of a field during a freak lightning storm. The field is located in a small town at the bottom of the world (Invercargill, New Zealand). David is a father, a husband, and an excellent conduit for electricity. Currently living in Japan, he juggles his time as a shufu (housewife) and a writer.

Overqualified with degrees in Art History, English Literature, and Physical Education, one day David decided to add creative writing to the list. David has published poetry in literary journals in both New Zealand and America.

His two novels, The Disrespect of Christopher Caruthers and The Fragile Castle are available for purchase at Smashwords.com and other affiliated e-book sellers. He is now working on his third novel.

His website - davebath.com - contains a blog he calls GUFF, which is full of articles about his various travel (mis)adventures, his poetry, book and film reviews and more besides.

David wishes he could transcend all his perceived, real or deserved slights, irrational grudges, feuds, and separations; his irritability and fatigue; his stubborn anti-social tendencies, and his hot and cold sex drive. He doesn't want to be different anymore; he is who he is, and he can only work on that flawed clay.

David is reading the collective works of Leo Tolstoy on his Kindle; he has 88 hours and 47mins left.

Contact

davidbath18@hotmail.com

http://www.davebath.com
