Part 2: Business

"Quiet night?" Bob asked the bartender as he drew Bob's first beer.

"Oh, early days yet, mate. We don't pick up until a bit later, but mark my words, the first group of girls arrive from the beach around seven-thirty and the crowds aren't far behind them, if you take my meaning." He raised a speculative eyebrow at Bob as if to suggest that he could work fast and get the drop on the competition.

Bob had already been back to his grandmother's house, showered, shaved, changed into his new clothes, walked fifteen minutes to The Beachcomber and it was still only 6pm. Mental note, Bob: a night out doesn't start until the sun goes down. That's probably one you could have figured out for yourself.

Looking around, he could see that most of the other patrons were older couples eating an early dinner in the booths, plus a couple of men drinking alone at the bar. He was probably 25 years younger than anyone else in the place, but pattern analysis was his strong suit so he took his beer to an empty bar stool near the television and settled in for a long wait. As luck would have it, the TV was tuned in to the cricket; one of the very few sports that he found not just tolerable but enjoyable. There seemed no end to the numerical analyses that could be applied to cricket; bowling and batting averages, aggregates and records by player, team, series, calendar year, opponent, ground and countless others ... it was a mathematician's wet dream.

He lost track of time watching the game, but at one point he found his beer glass empty and it was almost magically replaced with the slightest of nods to the underworked bartender. The bar wasn't getting any fuller, but most of the older folk seemed to now be replaced by younger people like himself. Bob felt a surreal moment of disorientation as he looked about and considered that this is exactly how aliens would stage a covert invasion: snatch people away and replace them with alien stooges so that nobody would notice the change.

A young man with shaggy, sun-bleached hair dropped on the bar stool next to Bob, trailing a wake of eau-du-surf: salt, sand and something sweet and organic that could have been beeswax. A moment's eye contact with the bartender and a gesture at the Pale-Ale beer tap and then seconds later he was sipping the foam off his beer with a satisfied sigh as the bartender made change.

"How're we going?" he asked, gesturing at the TV with a nod.

"Three-f'r," Bob responded, as a cricket lover he was secretly overjoyed to be able to use one of vanishingly few forms of slang with which he was fluent. "The openers went cheaply, but the middle order's putting up a bit more resistance."

The other man nodded knowingly. "Much in the pitch?" he asked.

"A bit. All three wickets were caught behind. If we can get two-fifty then our blokes will have something to bowl at later."

They watched in companionable silence until the end of the over and then the man turned to Bob and held out his hand. "Spike," he introduced himself. "How're y'doing?"

"Bob," Bob replied taking the proffered hand. Spike shook it in a complicated series of grip changes that looked like something from an American movie, but he did it naturally without making Bob feel awkward.

Spike led out with a volley of skilful small talk; he was engaging without being nosey or creepy. It was his first day in Coffs after driving in from Port Macquarie. He was on a twelve-month surf-safari around Australia and planned to stay maybe a week before moving on to Byron Bay for a longer stop, maybe work in a surf shop to top up his funds.

"So you're here on your own, too?" he asked after extracting Bob's short story: finished school, going to uni next semester, flew in this afternoon and staying a couple of weeks.

Bob nodded and drained his glass. Spike shot the barman the universal signal for "two-beers." "You can get the next one," he nodded to Bob as he paid for both.

"So," Spike went on. "We're both in need of a wingman."

"A what?" Bob looked confused.

"A wingman. A bro. A partner in crime," he explained unhelpfully. "Look, I'll take seconds. I mean, you're a decent looking bloke, so your seconds are probably a lot better than I could do on my own."

A light switched on in Bob's head; he was talking about picking up girls! Bob almost laughed out loud at Spike's tragic misfortune to attach himself to the one person in the bar most able to repel a woman, any woman, attractive or otherwise. The idea of two men working together to meet girls struck him as simultaneously absurd and eminently sensible at the same time. Just the sheer number of things that could go wrong: how do you decide who gets which girl? What if you both want the same girl? What if they both want the same guy? What if two hit it off and the other two don't? Or – and this was so horribly perfect that Bob understood it would almost certainly happen: what if you started out with one pairing and then everybody wanted to switch? It was utter madness. But was it really? What was the alternative? Work alone? Girls don't go out alone – at least Bob didn't think they did; how could one guy pick up a girl who was out with her friend? No girl would leave her friend alone? It could only work by targeting one girl from a group of three or more? What sort of guy had the confidence to do that?

Until today, Bob had never given any of these questions a moment's consideration. Until earlier today, Bob had also been a virgin who had never had a conversation with a girl.

"Wingman!" Bob said, smiling and feigning relief. "Sorry, I thought you said wig-man. I was about to tell you 'No, mine's all natural'," he laughed; holding a handful of his own tousled locks.

Spike laughed along with him for moment and then flashed his eyes at Bob. "Whoa, batter up. Six o'clock ... coming towards us." Bob started to look around. "No!" Spike hissed, "Wait 'til she goes past. Oh, man, she's gorgeous ... be cool."

From the corner of his eye, Bob saw a red shape approach in the bar mirror and then pass behind him.

"Hi Bob. Love the shirt."

Spike's eyes almost popped. Bob was fumbling frantically on the bar for his glasses but the owner of the voice didn't stop in his close-range blind spot; she continued on towards the ladies bathroom, looking over her shoulder and waving. As she moved away, she came into focus for Bob: her flawless bottom flexing and swaying gently from side to side in time with the glossy blonde-brown curls that hung perfectly framed in the deeply cut back of her slinky cotton-spandex mini dress.

"Oh! Uh, hi Amy," he raised his own hand in recognition, holding the glasses now rendered useless by distance. It was lucky she didn't stop; he might have fumbled with them for ages trying to get them on to see who it was.

Amy disappeared around the corner into the bathroom and Spike turned back around to face Bob with eyes wide and jaw open. "Bullshit!" he grinned.

"What?" Bob laughed at the surprise and amusement on his new friend's face. "I met her today in town."

"Please tell me she's here with a friend," Spike implored with mock seriousness.

"Who? Amy? How should I know," Bob said with a wave of his hand. "She's probably here with her boyfriend."

"Oh my God!" Spike leaned forward and put a hand on Bob's shoulder. "Are you waiting for a written invitation? Dude, she doesn't have a boyfriend; she's into you! Big time!"

Bob didn't get an opportunity to explain how ridiculous Spike was behaving because a change in the glare from the setting sun outside drew his eye and suddenly the doorway was framing a shapely silhouette – the delightfully familiar silhouette of Vicky the flight attendant.

Wearing a sleeveless white sundress that shone like a halo, Bob could see the slim curves of her hips, waist and breasts as a gorgeous shadow before of the setting sun. Vicky walked slowly through the door, looking around but not seeing him; and Bob felt a physical pang of loss when the sundress lost its translucence as she moved into the artificial light of the barroom.

Celeste emerged from behind Vicky, stunning in a tailored white tunic, black short-shorts and open-toed sling-backs; her radiant red hair spilled in cascades of glinting curls over one shoulder and formed an open parenthesis around the full curve of her right breast. She took Vicky's hand and guided her to a booth, expertly signalling an order to the barman before they sat down. Bob hadn't noticed any table-service in the time he had been at the bar, but watching the speed with which the barman brought around two glasses of champagne, he doubted that sort of thing mattered for the likes of Celeste. She rewarded the man with a big smile and a compliment that Bob couldn't hear, but the barman grinned like a schoolboy and colour rose to his cheeks, so Bob guessed it was the sort of thing people liked to hear from a beautiful woman.

Bob kept watching Vicky and Celeste from the other side of the room. They were seated directly behind Spike and Vicky was turned side on to them and slightly away, so even though she was scanning about the bar, she didn't make eye contact with Bob.

Meanwhile Spike was enthusiastically coaching Bob about how he should handle the whole Amy situation and had assumed that Bob's lack of eye contact meant that he was eagerly watching for Amy's return so that he could instantly swing into action. In actual fact, Bob wasn't listening to a word; he was waiting for Vicky to look around, desperate not to miss a chance at catching her gaze.

"So, Plan A is see if she's with a friend, or if she can call one," Spike recapped, ticking off points on his fingers. "If that doesn't fly then... ," he paused, expecting some kind of affirmation from Bob. "Bob! Bobby! Earth to Bob; are you reading me?"

"Huh?" Bob flicked his eyes to Spike and then back over Spike's shoulder to Vicky across the room.

"What are you looking at?" he asked. "C'mon man, don't make me turn around like a dickhead. She's over there isn't she? Is she talking to a guy? Oh fuck, she's standing right behind me, isn't she?"

Two guys had just approached Vicky and Celeste's booth. They had improbably styled hair and open neck shirts unbuttoned about half way down their hairy chests. From his years of schoolyard geekdom, Bob identified them immediately as belonging to the genus Sleazebag. Species: Asshole. One guy was a head taller than the other and wore a thick, gaudy gold chain around his neck. He seemed to be the leader; the shorter guy was just smiling and nodding and leering at Vicky.

Bob saw Celeste smile half-heartedly - nothing like the sunbeam she turned on the barman – she shook her head at Gold Chain and said something that Bob couldn't hear.

"Oh, shit!" Bob muttered under his breath.

Curiosity got the better of Spike's cool vibe and he reluctantly turned around, smiling when he saw who Bob was watching. "Bob," he laughed. "I love your ambition, man. You are bloody bro-tastic, mate. You pass on the third hottest girl in Coffs so you can take run at one and two with your wingman."

Still watching Vicky and Celeste trying to deal with the sleazebags, Spike continued: "That redhead is smoking hot, mate, but shit, there're no loser with those two so you take your pick, my friend. I'll take the other and be bloody grateful for it."

Taking a long last look he added "Those guys are getting shot down though, so we'd better get a Plan B sorted..." As Spike began to turn back around, Bob brushed past him walking purposefully towards the girls.

"Bob! No, man! Not cool!" he hissed. "At least wait for those guys to drag away their bloodied corpses."

Bob either didn't hear him or didn't care. "Cluster fuck!" Spike muttered. He jumped up and dumped a fifty dollar note on the bar. "Bottle of champers and four empties, my man," he blurted urgently to the barman. Pointing towards where Bob was walking, he added "Keep the change if you can meet me at that end of the bar in fifteen seconds."

With a practiced dexterity borne of half a lifetime in a pub, the bartender whipped a full bottle from the fridge, handed four champagne flutes to Spike and then shadowed him up the bar as he ripped off the foil and cage, popping the cork and handing it over without breaking stride just as they reached the far corner of the bar.

At the booth, Bob was behind the assholes and trying to move into a gap where Vicky could spot him.

"Actually we're just waiting for our boyfriends," Celeste said, losing her serenity and sounding tired and more than a little annoyed. "So you'd really be doing us a favour if you didn't let them see us chatting to a couple of hot guys."

"Oh well, we'll just keep you company until they get here and then we'll sneak away," Gold Chain crooned. "They won't even see us." He made to sit beside Celeste but she slid down the bench to block him. The gap opened up and Vicky spied Bob standing back and looking nervous.

"Oh, here they are now," she smiled at Bob. "See ya later, guys. Thanks for keeping the creeps away from us."

Still standing, Gold Chain looked around at Bob, four inches shorter, considerably narrower and looking decidedly uncertain. The even shorter sleazebag laughed and took his cue from his taller partner: "No way is that guy your boyfriend."

Vicky stepped quickly out of the booth and between the assholes. She put her arms around Bob's neck and pulled herself up onto the toes of her flat sandals to kiss him deeply on the lips. Understanding that this was part real and partly staged, Bob slipped his own arms around her narrow waist, feeling the cotton move sensuously over her soft, bare skin, and kissed her back; meeting her tongue with his and matching its intensity; tasting the sharp tang of champagne in her mouth.

She slowly broke the kiss with a soft "Mmmmm" and dropped back down to her heels without moving away; her body still moulded into Bob's and her small, firm breasts pressing into his chest. She blinked a few times and looked into his blue eyes, brushing away the stray lock of black hair.

"Hello, Bob," she husked. "We've been waiting for you." Moving her arms down and around his waist, she gave him a welcoming squeeze, as if to suggest that the kiss was by no means just a prop to get rid of Gold Chain and his creepy sidekick.