Chapter 6

I scoop myself out a little hollow in the dune and watch the sparks from the fire drift lazily up into the windless night. A surfer boy is poking it idly with a stick, can of beer in his hand. His skinny blond companion in a bikini top and wrap-around skirt joins him, putting her arm around his waist. Two couples are sitting cross-legged in the sand playing cards by the fire light.

Shades tries to engage me in conversation, his speech is sprinkled with surfer-slang and youth-speak. I'm not being very co-operative, I just want to relax and watch the fire.

"Y'surf?" he asks.

"A little," I reply.

"Y'shoulda been here yesterday, 15's... 50 break... max out, man... way cool!"

I nod a reply, not really understanding a word.

"Y'gotta an ole' man?"

I shake my head and he slides a little closer. One of the girls comes over and proffers a smoking joint at me. The sweet smoke assails my nostrils.

"Wanna hit?" she says.

I take it absently and take a cautious drag on the marijuana. It dries my throat and feels like a layer of ash has been deposited on my tongue and tonsils. Coughing, I hand it back to the girl who passes it to Shades.

"Skanky weed, eh?" the girl says, "Troy's had it for months... forgot where he put it," she giggles.

She wanders back to her partner. Impossibly thin, her long legs poke out from her flappy shorts like tent poles as she swings her girl's bottom from side to side.

"Bella's cool, eh?" Shades says, as we watch her retreat to the fire.

A few minutes later I feel a little languid buzz from the dope. Shades is sitting close to me, he puts his arm around my shoulder and gently draws my head against his. This closeness feels good, I roll my head slightly feeling the texture of his hair.

"You're a cool chick," he whispers.

His body's adolescent thin with just a hint of what might become good muscle development in his upper torso. His face is a little prickly, with the beginnings of some face hair. 'God, ' I think, 'this guy's so young!'

As his hand begins to wander down my arm, I snap back to reality.

"How old are you Shades?" I ask him.

"Why?" he replies defensively.

"13? 14?" I suggest.

"No!" he snaps back adamantly.

"So, how old are you then?"

"Does age matter?"

"Yes! Tell me?"

"He's 14," one of his companions calls out, laughing.

"Am not, Dunger," he yells back.

"You bloody are, Shades," Bella chips in, "you're one class below Cassie and she's just had her 15th!"

I straighten up, dislodging his arm. Shades grabs a handful of tussock grass from the sand dune and rips it out, throwing it away in disgust. He bows his head in a sulk.

"So do all you guys go to the same school?" I ask them.

They nod, while 'my guy' looks at the sand in front of him.

"Riverton High School," Bella tells me, "we've just broken up."

Shades looks crestfallen, like a kid who's just lost his pet puppy. His surfer-posturing act has now fallen away to reveal the child underneath. I rub his back maternally, feeling the bumps of his spine.

"Thanks for inviting me to join you," I tell him, "it's very flattering. I'll give you a bit of free advice though," I continue, dropping my voice, "don't be in such a hurry... get to know someone first and..." I lean next to his ear, "I'm not going to be 'scored' with, understand?"

He nods, dejected. I take him by the face and give him a big sloppy kiss.

"Take care," I tell him.

He looks at me with a startled expression as I get up and leave.

When I get back to the tent, I realise I have another 'sulker' on my hands. Simon's sitting by the dying BBQ watching the embers fade to black. He looks up anxiously as I approach.

"Helene... there you are... I thought... look, I'm sorry, I didn't mean... I mean... I didn't know that..." he babbles, clearly agitated.

Sighing, I put up my hands.

"Slow down Simon," I urge him, "just bloody chill, ok?"

I sit next to him, put my arm over his shoulder and give him a rub.

"Have we got any dinner left? I've got the munchies."

"I don't have any room in my life for a relationship right now," I'm telling Simon as we sit together consuming the last of the dinner. "It wouldn't be fair on the guy, being away for so long. For ten months of the year I'm based in the UK."

"I understand," he replies, somewhat unconvincingly. "Love, it doesn't take those things into consideration."

"Love, Simon? Are you saying you love me?"

He nods slowly, looking straight ahead.

"How the hell do you know that after two weeks?" I tell him, "Have you seen me in my bitchy mood? Will you make me laugh when I'm shitty with everybody, or run for cover like my brothers? Will you understand when I want to be alone? Or, like tonight, mope around feeling sorry for yourself? I think you'd be like a little pet lamb, following me around and waiting to be patted. I don't need that in my life, Simon."

I see anger light up his eyes. His lip trembles as he tries to control himself. Trembling, he picks up a can of beer and puts it to his lips.

"Do you cut everyone down who tries to get close to you?" he asks eventually.

"Y'think that's what I do?" I ask him. "What else did Wolfie tell you?"

His anger is barely concealed. Each sentence seems to sting him. After a pause, he says,

"Why shouldn't I ask Wolfie about you? When you like someone, that's what you do, check them out."

"Yeah well, it sometimes feels to me like Wolfie's been briefing you on what to say and do. Y'know, he really doesn't know shit about me on the inside."

"No, he doesn't does he?" Simon mumbles, grinning to himself.

I rub his back.

"That's an improvement," I tell him, chuckling, "'Tuesday Afternoon, '? That was SO corny."

He starts to shake with laughter.

The night is chilling down and it's no longer comfortable in our T-shirts and shorts. I suggest we retire to the tent and get into our sleeping bags. We each have our own collapsible stretchers and matching down bags, all care of Simon, who's a keen hiker.

I feel relaxed and sweet, probably a little of the after-effects of the dope and beer. Simon's paced himself well tonight, his eyes a lucid, his speech not slurred. Perhaps the episode at the bar that day was an aberration. His smile lights up his handsome face, boyish glee at some little anecdote he's relating. 'Maybe I could grow to love this man?' I think to myself.

I reach up and brush the side of his face with the back of my hand. His eyes close at the touch, he stops mid-sentence and turns to look at me. I lean across and kiss him on the mouth.

"Simon? I ask, "do you know the boy scout's motto?"

"Sure!" he looks puzzled, "be prepared."

"And are you?" I ask softly.

The light of understanding gradually washes over his soft face. He breaks out in a nervous smile, widening as he reads confirmation in my expression.

"Sure," he says, his voice trembling a little.

"Don't get your hopes up," I tell him, "just tonight... I want to be close to you... no promises, understand?"

He nods slowly as he fishes around in his bag.

"Understand, Simon!" I say emphatically.

"Yes, I understand, Helen," he replies evenly.

Out of his bag he retrieves a 24 pack of condoms.

"Jesus Christ, Simon," I laugh, "were you planning on getting any sleep?"

The far off campfires of the surfers shine like sparks on the wall of the tent as I slip out of my sleeping-bag. Each ember is accompanied by a pink halo on the dayglo orange nylon.

Simon is gentle and worshipping. We spend a long time kissing and exploring that which is accessible. He adores me, that much is obvious. I sense it in his touch, his eyes and his lips. I feel it in the way his chest shudders as I explore the contours with my fingertips. He sighs and hums as I tentatively nibble his neck and earlobe. He's almost crying when I return to his mouth. His hands caress the small of my back, probing with his little finger a 1 inch band of bare flesh between my shirt and knickers.

This is how I want it. Not frantic and fumbling bent over a washroom basin. Not drunk as skunks and falling asleep. But like the whole world can take a day off and leave us alone for a few hours, a week even. Having my nipples licked by someone who I actually know the name of. Someone who doesn't see me as a piece of meat hanging there at his convenience.

When finally I maneuvre under him, raising my knees and inviting him to join together with me, I know I'm sharing something special. Something that I'll remember for the rest of my life. It's my first time, my 'real' first time. Everything up to now has been an adolescent fumble in a back seat.

Simon allows me to guide him with my hands. He's prepared to forgo some of his own sensations in pursuit of mine. When finally I relax, my own tears stain my face in the glow of the distant fires. I hold him as he lies exhausted on top of me.

We join together the stretchers, zip the two bags into a double and settle down in each other's arms. I revel in the cozyness of his body next to mine. He spoons me with an arm thrown over, lying idly on my sex. He rolls his chin against the back of my head, scoops up locks of my hair with his nose. Breathes in deeply the scent of my shampoo.

"Hey, Hardy!" I call.

He hums a query.

"Wipe that smug smirk off your face," I tell him.

"Helene?" he replies after a long pause, "no!"

We decide not to move on any further. Apart from the odd day trip, we stay at the camp, walk along the beach and ramble over the surrounding hills searching for that 'special' view of the ocean.

... And we make love, every chance we get.

Simon is a good salesman. He knows to be patient sometimes, let the punter feel the goods, make up their mind. He knows when to urge forward, hustle a little, when to back off and when to close the deal.

I've no doubt he loves me, I've no doubt too that I'm very fond of him. But love? I'm not sure I can reflect the utter devotion that Simon shines towards me.

Today I suggest we go riding up the coast a ways. Just to find out whether the beaches look any different further around. I venture that I give him a ride on the Ducati, tucked down on the back seat. The idea sounded much better than the reality and Simon shivers in fear on the back of my bike. There're pillion-riders and there're riders, usually you're either one or the other. I'd NEVER get on the back of ANYONE'S bike, you've got to hand it to Simon for giving it a try.

We even swap bikes for a day. Simon relishes the power and feel of the Ducati and is soon leaning in and out of the corners having the time of his life. I don't like cruiser bikes, never have. If you want to haul around your lounge suite, buy a limo and stay dry. The way I look at it, bikes should be lean and mean, not overweight and placid like the Guzzi.

Our little dream fantasy has to come to an end. Simon needs to get back to work on Friday and I'm beginning to feel guilty about neglecting my family.

The weather remains clear and warm on the way back. The Ducati was obviously someone's baby once. It shows unmistaking signs of having had much love and care devoted to it. The bright gold bike is a head-turner too, I feed on the envious looks of other motorcyclists we pass along the way.