On the Same Page, page 8
‘So?’ Crystal says.
I look to Effie for support, but her expression is blank.
‘What’s up with your face?’ Crystal says.
‘Well …’ I put my hands on my face. ‘I have a blushing problem. New situations exacerbate it.’
Ruby looks horrified.
Beyoncé strokes my arm. ‘I wouldn’t get work if that happened to me.’
Crystal points. ‘It’s on her neck too.’
Effie claps her hands and tells us that as this is the introductory class we don’t have to get changed, but we can take off our shoes and stretch. My skirt is a little tight around the tops of my legs, but I manage the hamstring and Achilles stretches. Then Effie claps again and directs us to the poles. Straightaway, the other girls grip their poles with both hands and swing around them with their feet off the ground. Effie criticises their technique, but tells them that their skills will develop as the term progresses and they learn proper moves and routines. I have more modest aspirations—spying on Jules for Jack, and working out whether Evangeline can climb a drainpipe to a second-storey window. But when I swing around the pole, I can’t get both my feet off the floor at the same time. Not even a centimetre.
‘Maybe you’re too fat,’ Crystal says.
‘That’s not true,’ Effie says, smiling at me encouragingly again. ‘Weight in the healthy range isn’t a factor, but fitness and flexibility are. I’m sure we’ll see improvements in the next few months.’
After the class, I meet Jack at the end of the street. And, when it begins to rain, we link arms and share his umbrella.
‘Crystal is a pain, but the other girls are nice. Effie too, though she seemed so disappointed when I couldn’t touch my toes.’
‘And?’ he says. When I look blankly at him, he makes a face. ‘Did you see Jules?’
I squeeze his arm. ‘He wasn’t there this week, but I promise I’ll track him down next time I come.’
‘Probably a waste of time anyway.’
‘I’m sure he’ll fall in love with you again, so long as you’re honest about your feelings and prepared to commit.’
Jack laughs and puts an arm around my shoulders. ‘Thanks for the advice. Which is pretty rich actually, coming from you.’
‘I’m honest about everything except Emma. And I’m not afraid to commit.’
‘Committing to your characters doesn’t count.’
‘I think it should. Have you read Cupid’s Revenge?’
‘Edward’s book, right? I read Chapter 45, the one with your four-poster bed in it.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Sorry, sweets. Not my genre.’
‘You’re Edward, Jack.’
‘What?’
‘Well, part of you is. The self-absorbed, promiscuous, unfaithful part.’
‘Thanks for that. Why can’t I be Rupert? I like the sound of Rupert. He’s tortured and interesting. I wasn’t keen on Edward.’
‘Maybe you should read the novel anyway.’
The first time my phone rings I ignore it, but the second time Jack makes me stop and search for it in my handbag. I grimace when I answer and hear Lucinda’s voice.
‘Tell Emma I’ve organised Rosehill Racecourse for Wednesday evening,’ she says. ‘A carriage and four greys. Six o’clock sharp.’
The idea of having a real carriage to choreograph Evangeline and Rupert’s Chapter 45 scene should be exciting. But the fact that Iconic is organising it means they’re one step closer to satisfying the contractual variations—and taking Emma.
‘Don’t forget,’ I say to Lucinda, ‘Emma insists on absolute privacy.’
‘The racecourse is closed, so the only people there will be the gatekeeper and carriage driver.’
After I hang up, Jack puts his arm around my shoulders again. ‘Road-test sex in a horse-drawn carriage?’
‘Looks like it.’
He grins. ‘Rupert can’t wait.’
Chapter 12
It’s drizzling with rain when Jack and I step into a taxi on Wednesday evening, sitting next to each other on the back seat. He turns to me as the driver pulls into the traffic. ‘I like your outfit.’
Evangeline is in disguise as a stable boy in Chapter 45, so I’m wearing the expensive jodhpurs I bought for Violet—who rode astride after midnight—and a white linen shirt. My breasts are strapped almost flat with bandages.
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘I like your waistcoat.’
Jack always commits to the costume. He opens his grey suit jacket so I can see the waistcoat properly. The outside is burgundy velvet and the lining is dark-gold satin. ‘Picked it up in a Vinnies store. I thought it’d be less obvious than a high-collared shirt and cravat.’
‘I appreciate you enjoy these performances, Jack, but you have to behave. I have a horrible feeling we’re going to be watched.’
‘Trust me.’ He reaches across the seat and squeezes my thigh. ‘When have I ever let you down?’
‘You ripped my corset when we choreographed Chapter 45 of Cupid’s Revenge.’
‘Harsh! You told me to close my eyes and think of Jules, so I did.’
‘And when we were doing Chapter 45 of Cupid’s Arrow, you fell backwards and smashed Professor Lau’s window.’
‘I was tied to a chair and you were squirming on my lap. How was I supposed to know there was a window there?’
‘It was a conservatory, Jack. Of course there was a window there.’
When we pull up at the racecourse, Jack takes out his wallet to pay the driver. ‘My treat.’
There are a few spots of rain so we run to the entrance, towards a man at the gate wearing a pork-pie hat. When he waves us in and points to a carriage on the far side of the track, Jack takes my hand and pulls me along.
‘Look out for Trevor,’ I say. ‘He’s in charge of the horses.’
‘Rupert’s excited.’
‘He shouldn’t be,’ I say firmly. ‘Because all he’s going to do is to check out the dimensions of the carriage, sit on the seat opposite Evangeline and do a circuit of the track. I’ll be quite satisfied if I can work out what a moving carriage feels like and how much elbow room Evangeline and Rupert will have. Then we’re going home.’
‘We’ll see,’ Jack says.
‘No, we will not see.’
Trevor looks about twenty and holds his phone close to his chest—I think he’s trying to keep it dry under the brim of his Akubra. His trousers are cinched at the hips by a belt with the biggest buckle I’ve ever seen, and Jack makes a great show of admiring it. The carriage is attractive, painted black with gold squiggles on the sides, and Trevor explains the correct way to step into it. The harnesses of the four horses jangle when they stomp their hooves. Three of them are white, but the one on the far side has small brown spots on its rump. It’s as if Lucinda has asked Trevor to hide that one in the back, hoping Emma won’t notice.
Trevor shuts the door behind us and I sit down on the forward-facing seat. Jack trips over my foot and crashes into the seat opposite.
‘It’s rather … intimate in here,’ he says, shoving my feet out of the way so he can arrange his legs diagonally.
He’s quite right. Another small person could sit next to me, but it would be a real squeeze to fit anyone next to Jack and he’s not even as big as Rupert. I had no idea how small carriages are. If I didn’t have a real carriage to refine the choreography for this scene, the sex wouldn’t be realistic at all.
The carriage leans to the side as Trevor gets onto his seat at the front and then it levels out again. ‘Ready?’ he shouts.
We can’t see him and he can’t see us, but it’s odd having him so close. Jack laughs and jiggles my foot.
‘Yes thanks, Trevor,’ I say, shushing Jack. The carriage lurches forward and then we’re off. I presume the horses are only walking because the carriage isn’t moving very fast. Even so, it rocks from side to side. I hope Trevor has put away his phone and is concentrating on his driving.
Jack winks. ‘The rain is falling steadily as the carriage picks up speed.’
‘Jack, don’t.’
‘Rupert stares pensively out of the carriage window. He can’t bear to look at Evangeline.’
‘You’re talking in clichés. You should be ashamed of yourself.’
Jack shrugs. ‘But she won’t marry him, will she?’
‘No. And why should she? He won’t acknowledge his true feelings for her, and he behaved highly inappropriately towards her in the rose garden at Lady Hawthorn’s tea party.’
‘But she’s virtually homeless with three sisters to support. And she works as a stable boy.’
‘Evangeline would rather look after brood mares than be one herself.’
‘But Rupert loves her. Deep down.’
‘Very deep.’
‘Don’t be coarse about Rupert.’
‘Oh!’ The horses must be trotting because I’m bouncing on my seat.
‘Okay back there?’ Trevor shouts.
‘Fine thanks.’ I grin at Jack. ‘This reminds me of Madame Bovary. Have you read it?’
‘At school, I think. She eats a handful of poison at the end?’
‘That’s the one. There’s a scene where Emma Bovary and Leon are in a carriage—it’s the beginning of their adulterous affair. The carriage is being driven through the streets of a busy French town and they’re having sex all afternoon. And every time Leon’s about to come—’
‘They do it more than once?’
‘Quite a few times.’
‘Impressive.’
‘Do you want to hear the rest?’
Jack nods.
‘Well, the driver tries to keep to a steady pace, because he and the horse are getting tired, but Leon won’t let him. He urges the driver to gallop faster and faster, and it’s clear to the reader that Leon is thrusting faster and faster. They take a couple of breaks—’
‘Well, you’d have to, wouldn’t you?’
‘And the horse is allowed to slow to a trot. But as soon as Leon and Emma are ready to start over, the driver has to whip the horse to a gallop again. It’s quite an amazing scene.’
Jack grins. ‘Do you want me to do that, then, shout at Trevor to go faster?’
‘Of course not!’
Jack shrugs and straightens his waistcoat. Then he bends his knees and puts his feet up on my seat, one on either side of me, and pats his thigh.
‘Climb onto my lap.’
‘We really shouldn’t, Jack.’
‘You need to get your facts right, and I’m obsessed with Rupert. We really should, sweets.’
‘In Cupid’s Revenge, you were obsessed with Edward, and before that it was Sebastian and Dominic. You’re not terribly faithful.’
He takes my hand and, eyes mischievous, kisses my palm. ‘Please climb on my lap.’
I had no idea how difficult it would be to remove Jack’s jacket without dislocating his shoulders. In the end we leave it on, but he takes off his shoes and I unravel my breasts. ‘Just think what we can do with these bandages,’ Jack says, winding them around my wrists and opening his eyes wide.
‘Not tonight,’ I say, freeing my hands, ‘it’s Evangeline’s first time.’
Removing my jodhpurs is difficult, though not as difficult as it is to put them back on again half an hour later, when Trevor calls it quits. I’ve only just done up the buttons when the carriage comes to a stop.
‘Was Evangeline happy with everything?’ Jack says.
‘She was delighted to be on top.’
I’m shoving bandages into my bag when Trevor opens the door. The horses are under cover, but the carriage isn’t—I get soaked just walking down the steps. When my shirt clings to my skin, I hug my bag tightly to my chest.
‘Thank you, Trevor,’ I say. ‘That was brilliant.’
‘No problem,’ he says, smiling for the first time as he takes Jack’s twenty-dollar tip. ‘Just need the photos, then we’re done.’
‘Photos?’
‘Lucinda called. Some guy she works with wants them. Adam?’
‘Photos of what?’
‘Of you with the horses. Said I can take them or she’ll come and do it, if that’s what you want.’
‘Let’s go,’ I hiss at Jack.
‘You take the photos, Trevor,’ Jack says. ‘No need for Lucinda to venture out in this weather.’
‘Have you gone totally insane?’ I whisper, squeezing Jack’s arm.
‘Ow!’ He rubs his arm. Droplets of water drip from his fringe.
‘Is it okay if I unhitch the horses from the carriage first?’ Trevor asks.
‘Sure,’ Jack says, putting his hand behind my back and pushing me under cover, near the horses. They’re puffing a little and steam rises from their backs. The man who let us in at the gate tips his hat and helps Trevor with the unharnessing.
I yank Jack’s arm. ‘Let’s go.’
Jack, ignoring me, takes off his jacket, shakes it and drapes it over a railing.
‘Are you crazy?’ I grab his jacket and shove it against his chest. ‘Adam from marketing wants photos of Emma.’
‘You have to do it.’
‘No, I don’t. I won’t!’
‘Then Lucinda will get suspicious and talk to Trevor. He’ll say, “average height and weight, big indeterminately-coloured eyes with a brown forelock,” and Lucinda will conclude, reasonably enough, that Emma is Miles. Unless Trevor appears as a witness in court—’
‘Jack, please stop.’
‘In a minute. When Trevor is on the stand the judge will say, “Describe the defendant’s breasts, young man.” And Trevor, chewing on a piece of straw, will say, “I watched her walk up the carriage steps, Your Honour. She was as flat as a pancake.” The judge will ask, “Are you absolutely certain?” And Trevor will say, “On second thoughts … I watched her walk down the steps as well. She had big tits.”’ Jack glances at Trevor and slowly shakes his head. ‘Unreliable witness, sweets.’
‘Ready?’ Trevor shouts, rubbing his mobile on the front of his shirt.
‘Just about,’ Jack says, tugging my handbag out of my arms and grinning. He hangs the bag on a post, takes off his tie and waistcoat and throws them over his jacket. He reaches for the buttons of his shirt.
‘Jack?’
‘Rupert!’ he says. ‘Take out your hair.’
‘What?’
‘Cover your face with your hair.’
I undo my bun, run my fingers through my hair and shake my head so the strands get plastered to my face.
‘I feel like a bikini girl on the cover of an X-rated men’s magazine.’
Jack winks, takes off his shirt, and flings it over the railing with his waistcoat and tie. ‘Well?’ he asks.
I make sure Trevor’s not watching and then I pat Jack’s chest and abdominal muscles. They’re firm and warm.
‘You have a draining-board stomach,’ I say.
He shakes his head. ‘It’s washboard, you idiot.’ He undoes his belt and the top button of his trousers. There’s a line of hair extending downwards from his navel.
He raises his eyebrows. ‘Too much?’
‘Nope,’ I say, taking his hand. ‘Promise no one will recognise us?’
‘Promise.’
Chapter 13
Rupert and Evangeline need outriders for their carriage scene, so I’ve come to Centennial Park for inspiration. As well as equestrians, cyclists and runners train on Sunday mornings. Low-hanging branches of a Moreton Bay fig tree extend metres from the wide grey trunk, shadowing the notebook I have on my lap. My favourite timber bench, dappled in sunlight, overlooks the bridle path.
The riding-school horses look bored as they walk along, one after the other, nose to tail. Other horses trot towards me, while some break into a canter. As soon as I see the man and woman, I know they’re what I need. They’re still quite far away, but they’re heading in my direction. The woman is riding a dark-brown horse and she turns her head to the side as she talks to the man, riding a tall black horse. When a motorbike roars by on the road, the man’s horse lunges forward in fright and then prances sideways. The woman laughs as her horse catches up.
I know little about horses, but these are obviously well bred—like racehorses, only fatter. I’m writing details in my notebook, about how the man moved with the horse when it shied, and brought it back under control without kicking it or pulling on the reins. I’ll have to look at Cupid’s Arrow again. Did the paragraphs about Violet’s riding attire overshadow the ones about her horsemanship?
I look up from my notes. Now the horses are walking and about twenty metres away. The woman is looking at me. She’s wearing a riding hat, so I can’t see her clearly, but there’s something strangely familiar about her. I look at the man. He takes off his hat and runs his fingers through his hair. There’s no doubt who he is.
‘Miles?’ Lucinda says, walking her horse across the bridle path and stopping at the railing near where I’m sitting. The horse stretches its neck over the barrier and pricks its ears. ‘It is you.’
I stay seated, looking from Lucinda to the horse, but I see from the corner of my eye that Lars and his horse have drawn up alongside.
‘What a pretty horse,’ I say to Lucinda.
‘Thank you.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Her name, she’s a mare. Georgie.’
‘Hello, Georgie. What a nice name.’
Lucinda gestures to the black horse. ‘And this is Henry.’
‘That’s a nice name too. Hello, Henry.’ I give a little wave, like Pippy would.
‘Good morning, Miles,’ Lars says.
‘Oh, sorry, Lars,’ Lucinda says. ‘But you two have met, haven’t you?’
Lars nods. ‘A number of times.’
‘You’re back from London, then?’
‘I am.’
‘Did you have a good trip?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
This is excruciating. ‘That’s good.’
‘What are you doing here?’ Lucinda says.
I wave my notebook in the air. ‘I like to sketch on Sundays. Horses, riders.’ I look around for inspiration. ‘Trees.’
‘Do you come often?’ Lars says.
‘Most Sundays.’
‘To sketch?’
I look to Effie for support, but her expression is blank.
‘What’s up with your face?’ Crystal says.
‘Well …’ I put my hands on my face. ‘I have a blushing problem. New situations exacerbate it.’
Ruby looks horrified.
Beyoncé strokes my arm. ‘I wouldn’t get work if that happened to me.’
Crystal points. ‘It’s on her neck too.’
Effie claps her hands and tells us that as this is the introductory class we don’t have to get changed, but we can take off our shoes and stretch. My skirt is a little tight around the tops of my legs, but I manage the hamstring and Achilles stretches. Then Effie claps again and directs us to the poles. Straightaway, the other girls grip their poles with both hands and swing around them with their feet off the ground. Effie criticises their technique, but tells them that their skills will develop as the term progresses and they learn proper moves and routines. I have more modest aspirations—spying on Jules for Jack, and working out whether Evangeline can climb a drainpipe to a second-storey window. But when I swing around the pole, I can’t get both my feet off the floor at the same time. Not even a centimetre.
‘Maybe you’re too fat,’ Crystal says.
‘That’s not true,’ Effie says, smiling at me encouragingly again. ‘Weight in the healthy range isn’t a factor, but fitness and flexibility are. I’m sure we’ll see improvements in the next few months.’
After the class, I meet Jack at the end of the street. And, when it begins to rain, we link arms and share his umbrella.
‘Crystal is a pain, but the other girls are nice. Effie too, though she seemed so disappointed when I couldn’t touch my toes.’
‘And?’ he says. When I look blankly at him, he makes a face. ‘Did you see Jules?’
I squeeze his arm. ‘He wasn’t there this week, but I promise I’ll track him down next time I come.’
‘Probably a waste of time anyway.’
‘I’m sure he’ll fall in love with you again, so long as you’re honest about your feelings and prepared to commit.’
Jack laughs and puts an arm around my shoulders. ‘Thanks for the advice. Which is pretty rich actually, coming from you.’
‘I’m honest about everything except Emma. And I’m not afraid to commit.’
‘Committing to your characters doesn’t count.’
‘I think it should. Have you read Cupid’s Revenge?’
‘Edward’s book, right? I read Chapter 45, the one with your four-poster bed in it.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Sorry, sweets. Not my genre.’
‘You’re Edward, Jack.’
‘What?’
‘Well, part of you is. The self-absorbed, promiscuous, unfaithful part.’
‘Thanks for that. Why can’t I be Rupert? I like the sound of Rupert. He’s tortured and interesting. I wasn’t keen on Edward.’
‘Maybe you should read the novel anyway.’
The first time my phone rings I ignore it, but the second time Jack makes me stop and search for it in my handbag. I grimace when I answer and hear Lucinda’s voice.
‘Tell Emma I’ve organised Rosehill Racecourse for Wednesday evening,’ she says. ‘A carriage and four greys. Six o’clock sharp.’
The idea of having a real carriage to choreograph Evangeline and Rupert’s Chapter 45 scene should be exciting. But the fact that Iconic is organising it means they’re one step closer to satisfying the contractual variations—and taking Emma.
‘Don’t forget,’ I say to Lucinda, ‘Emma insists on absolute privacy.’
‘The racecourse is closed, so the only people there will be the gatekeeper and carriage driver.’
After I hang up, Jack puts his arm around my shoulders again. ‘Road-test sex in a horse-drawn carriage?’
‘Looks like it.’
He grins. ‘Rupert can’t wait.’
Chapter 12
It’s drizzling with rain when Jack and I step into a taxi on Wednesday evening, sitting next to each other on the back seat. He turns to me as the driver pulls into the traffic. ‘I like your outfit.’
Evangeline is in disguise as a stable boy in Chapter 45, so I’m wearing the expensive jodhpurs I bought for Violet—who rode astride after midnight—and a white linen shirt. My breasts are strapped almost flat with bandages.
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘I like your waistcoat.’
Jack always commits to the costume. He opens his grey suit jacket so I can see the waistcoat properly. The outside is burgundy velvet and the lining is dark-gold satin. ‘Picked it up in a Vinnies store. I thought it’d be less obvious than a high-collared shirt and cravat.’
‘I appreciate you enjoy these performances, Jack, but you have to behave. I have a horrible feeling we’re going to be watched.’
‘Trust me.’ He reaches across the seat and squeezes my thigh. ‘When have I ever let you down?’
‘You ripped my corset when we choreographed Chapter 45 of Cupid’s Revenge.’
‘Harsh! You told me to close my eyes and think of Jules, so I did.’
‘And when we were doing Chapter 45 of Cupid’s Arrow, you fell backwards and smashed Professor Lau’s window.’
‘I was tied to a chair and you were squirming on my lap. How was I supposed to know there was a window there?’
‘It was a conservatory, Jack. Of course there was a window there.’
When we pull up at the racecourse, Jack takes out his wallet to pay the driver. ‘My treat.’
There are a few spots of rain so we run to the entrance, towards a man at the gate wearing a pork-pie hat. When he waves us in and points to a carriage on the far side of the track, Jack takes my hand and pulls me along.
‘Look out for Trevor,’ I say. ‘He’s in charge of the horses.’
‘Rupert’s excited.’
‘He shouldn’t be,’ I say firmly. ‘Because all he’s going to do is to check out the dimensions of the carriage, sit on the seat opposite Evangeline and do a circuit of the track. I’ll be quite satisfied if I can work out what a moving carriage feels like and how much elbow room Evangeline and Rupert will have. Then we’re going home.’
‘We’ll see,’ Jack says.
‘No, we will not see.’
Trevor looks about twenty and holds his phone close to his chest—I think he’s trying to keep it dry under the brim of his Akubra. His trousers are cinched at the hips by a belt with the biggest buckle I’ve ever seen, and Jack makes a great show of admiring it. The carriage is attractive, painted black with gold squiggles on the sides, and Trevor explains the correct way to step into it. The harnesses of the four horses jangle when they stomp their hooves. Three of them are white, but the one on the far side has small brown spots on its rump. It’s as if Lucinda has asked Trevor to hide that one in the back, hoping Emma won’t notice.
Trevor shuts the door behind us and I sit down on the forward-facing seat. Jack trips over my foot and crashes into the seat opposite.
‘It’s rather … intimate in here,’ he says, shoving my feet out of the way so he can arrange his legs diagonally.
He’s quite right. Another small person could sit next to me, but it would be a real squeeze to fit anyone next to Jack and he’s not even as big as Rupert. I had no idea how small carriages are. If I didn’t have a real carriage to refine the choreography for this scene, the sex wouldn’t be realistic at all.
The carriage leans to the side as Trevor gets onto his seat at the front and then it levels out again. ‘Ready?’ he shouts.
We can’t see him and he can’t see us, but it’s odd having him so close. Jack laughs and jiggles my foot.
‘Yes thanks, Trevor,’ I say, shushing Jack. The carriage lurches forward and then we’re off. I presume the horses are only walking because the carriage isn’t moving very fast. Even so, it rocks from side to side. I hope Trevor has put away his phone and is concentrating on his driving.
Jack winks. ‘The rain is falling steadily as the carriage picks up speed.’
‘Jack, don’t.’
‘Rupert stares pensively out of the carriage window. He can’t bear to look at Evangeline.’
‘You’re talking in clichés. You should be ashamed of yourself.’
Jack shrugs. ‘But she won’t marry him, will she?’
‘No. And why should she? He won’t acknowledge his true feelings for her, and he behaved highly inappropriately towards her in the rose garden at Lady Hawthorn’s tea party.’
‘But she’s virtually homeless with three sisters to support. And she works as a stable boy.’
‘Evangeline would rather look after brood mares than be one herself.’
‘But Rupert loves her. Deep down.’
‘Very deep.’
‘Don’t be coarse about Rupert.’
‘Oh!’ The horses must be trotting because I’m bouncing on my seat.
‘Okay back there?’ Trevor shouts.
‘Fine thanks.’ I grin at Jack. ‘This reminds me of Madame Bovary. Have you read it?’
‘At school, I think. She eats a handful of poison at the end?’
‘That’s the one. There’s a scene where Emma Bovary and Leon are in a carriage—it’s the beginning of their adulterous affair. The carriage is being driven through the streets of a busy French town and they’re having sex all afternoon. And every time Leon’s about to come—’
‘They do it more than once?’
‘Quite a few times.’
‘Impressive.’
‘Do you want to hear the rest?’
Jack nods.
‘Well, the driver tries to keep to a steady pace, because he and the horse are getting tired, but Leon won’t let him. He urges the driver to gallop faster and faster, and it’s clear to the reader that Leon is thrusting faster and faster. They take a couple of breaks—’
‘Well, you’d have to, wouldn’t you?’
‘And the horse is allowed to slow to a trot. But as soon as Leon and Emma are ready to start over, the driver has to whip the horse to a gallop again. It’s quite an amazing scene.’
Jack grins. ‘Do you want me to do that, then, shout at Trevor to go faster?’
‘Of course not!’
Jack shrugs and straightens his waistcoat. Then he bends his knees and puts his feet up on my seat, one on either side of me, and pats his thigh.
‘Climb onto my lap.’
‘We really shouldn’t, Jack.’
‘You need to get your facts right, and I’m obsessed with Rupert. We really should, sweets.’
‘In Cupid’s Revenge, you were obsessed with Edward, and before that it was Sebastian and Dominic. You’re not terribly faithful.’
He takes my hand and, eyes mischievous, kisses my palm. ‘Please climb on my lap.’
I had no idea how difficult it would be to remove Jack’s jacket without dislocating his shoulders. In the end we leave it on, but he takes off his shoes and I unravel my breasts. ‘Just think what we can do with these bandages,’ Jack says, winding them around my wrists and opening his eyes wide.
‘Not tonight,’ I say, freeing my hands, ‘it’s Evangeline’s first time.’
Removing my jodhpurs is difficult, though not as difficult as it is to put them back on again half an hour later, when Trevor calls it quits. I’ve only just done up the buttons when the carriage comes to a stop.
‘Was Evangeline happy with everything?’ Jack says.
‘She was delighted to be on top.’
I’m shoving bandages into my bag when Trevor opens the door. The horses are under cover, but the carriage isn’t—I get soaked just walking down the steps. When my shirt clings to my skin, I hug my bag tightly to my chest.
‘Thank you, Trevor,’ I say. ‘That was brilliant.’
‘No problem,’ he says, smiling for the first time as he takes Jack’s twenty-dollar tip. ‘Just need the photos, then we’re done.’
‘Photos?’
‘Lucinda called. Some guy she works with wants them. Adam?’
‘Photos of what?’
‘Of you with the horses. Said I can take them or she’ll come and do it, if that’s what you want.’
‘Let’s go,’ I hiss at Jack.
‘You take the photos, Trevor,’ Jack says. ‘No need for Lucinda to venture out in this weather.’
‘Have you gone totally insane?’ I whisper, squeezing Jack’s arm.
‘Ow!’ He rubs his arm. Droplets of water drip from his fringe.
‘Is it okay if I unhitch the horses from the carriage first?’ Trevor asks.
‘Sure,’ Jack says, putting his hand behind my back and pushing me under cover, near the horses. They’re puffing a little and steam rises from their backs. The man who let us in at the gate tips his hat and helps Trevor with the unharnessing.
I yank Jack’s arm. ‘Let’s go.’
Jack, ignoring me, takes off his jacket, shakes it and drapes it over a railing.
‘Are you crazy?’ I grab his jacket and shove it against his chest. ‘Adam from marketing wants photos of Emma.’
‘You have to do it.’
‘No, I don’t. I won’t!’
‘Then Lucinda will get suspicious and talk to Trevor. He’ll say, “average height and weight, big indeterminately-coloured eyes with a brown forelock,” and Lucinda will conclude, reasonably enough, that Emma is Miles. Unless Trevor appears as a witness in court—’
‘Jack, please stop.’
‘In a minute. When Trevor is on the stand the judge will say, “Describe the defendant’s breasts, young man.” And Trevor, chewing on a piece of straw, will say, “I watched her walk up the carriage steps, Your Honour. She was as flat as a pancake.” The judge will ask, “Are you absolutely certain?” And Trevor will say, “On second thoughts … I watched her walk down the steps as well. She had big tits.”’ Jack glances at Trevor and slowly shakes his head. ‘Unreliable witness, sweets.’
‘Ready?’ Trevor shouts, rubbing his mobile on the front of his shirt.
‘Just about,’ Jack says, tugging my handbag out of my arms and grinning. He hangs the bag on a post, takes off his tie and waistcoat and throws them over his jacket. He reaches for the buttons of his shirt.
‘Jack?’
‘Rupert!’ he says. ‘Take out your hair.’
‘What?’
‘Cover your face with your hair.’
I undo my bun, run my fingers through my hair and shake my head so the strands get plastered to my face.
‘I feel like a bikini girl on the cover of an X-rated men’s magazine.’
Jack winks, takes off his shirt, and flings it over the railing with his waistcoat and tie. ‘Well?’ he asks.
I make sure Trevor’s not watching and then I pat Jack’s chest and abdominal muscles. They’re firm and warm.
‘You have a draining-board stomach,’ I say.
He shakes his head. ‘It’s washboard, you idiot.’ He undoes his belt and the top button of his trousers. There’s a line of hair extending downwards from his navel.
He raises his eyebrows. ‘Too much?’
‘Nope,’ I say, taking his hand. ‘Promise no one will recognise us?’
‘Promise.’
Chapter 13
Rupert and Evangeline need outriders for their carriage scene, so I’ve come to Centennial Park for inspiration. As well as equestrians, cyclists and runners train on Sunday mornings. Low-hanging branches of a Moreton Bay fig tree extend metres from the wide grey trunk, shadowing the notebook I have on my lap. My favourite timber bench, dappled in sunlight, overlooks the bridle path.
The riding-school horses look bored as they walk along, one after the other, nose to tail. Other horses trot towards me, while some break into a canter. As soon as I see the man and woman, I know they’re what I need. They’re still quite far away, but they’re heading in my direction. The woman is riding a dark-brown horse and she turns her head to the side as she talks to the man, riding a tall black horse. When a motorbike roars by on the road, the man’s horse lunges forward in fright and then prances sideways. The woman laughs as her horse catches up.
I know little about horses, but these are obviously well bred—like racehorses, only fatter. I’m writing details in my notebook, about how the man moved with the horse when it shied, and brought it back under control without kicking it or pulling on the reins. I’ll have to look at Cupid’s Arrow again. Did the paragraphs about Violet’s riding attire overshadow the ones about her horsemanship?
I look up from my notes. Now the horses are walking and about twenty metres away. The woman is looking at me. She’s wearing a riding hat, so I can’t see her clearly, but there’s something strangely familiar about her. I look at the man. He takes off his hat and runs his fingers through his hair. There’s no doubt who he is.
‘Miles?’ Lucinda says, walking her horse across the bridle path and stopping at the railing near where I’m sitting. The horse stretches its neck over the barrier and pricks its ears. ‘It is you.’
I stay seated, looking from Lucinda to the horse, but I see from the corner of my eye that Lars and his horse have drawn up alongside.
‘What a pretty horse,’ I say to Lucinda.
‘Thank you.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Her name, she’s a mare. Georgie.’
‘Hello, Georgie. What a nice name.’
Lucinda gestures to the black horse. ‘And this is Henry.’
‘That’s a nice name too. Hello, Henry.’ I give a little wave, like Pippy would.
‘Good morning, Miles,’ Lars says.
‘Oh, sorry, Lars,’ Lucinda says. ‘But you two have met, haven’t you?’
Lars nods. ‘A number of times.’
‘You’re back from London, then?’
‘I am.’
‘Did you have a good trip?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
This is excruciating. ‘That’s good.’
‘What are you doing here?’ Lucinda says.
I wave my notebook in the air. ‘I like to sketch on Sundays. Horses, riders.’ I look around for inspiration. ‘Trees.’
‘Do you come often?’ Lars says.
‘Most Sundays.’
‘To sketch?’
