Chapter 7

I put my head in the rest and close my eyes. Faintly, the speakers on the wall play Kibuki-style music that is oddly relaxing. On the edge of the bath are hand-size depressions. From a rack of porcelain jars you can select the aromatic oil of your choice. You pour a little into the depressions to soak your hands.

The bath itself is scented with rosewater. A fresh display of flowers is placed at the end of the bath each day. They communicate, 'good thoughts' according to the bath attendant.

The water is kept at an even temperature by virtue of a pump and heater. The outlet sends a steady stream of warmed water past my feet and tingling up the inside of my legs. It intimately caresses me before drifting lazily up and over my tummy.

On the wall is an intrusion of modern technology, a hands-free phone. Some hotel guests apparently, can't stand being incommunicado for even an hour. On impulse I reach for the plastic-coated dialer and enter a long string of numbers. It's an age before I hear a voice on the speaker by my head.

"Simon?"

"Yeah, who izzit?" the sleep-fogged voice answers.

"Helene. What are you doing?"

"Helene!" Simon replies, his voice a little stronger, "It's... 5.o'clock in the morning... I'm in bed."

"Oops, sorry... um... you wouldn't believe where I am right now."

"In audience with the Japanese emperor? Say hi!"

"Jokes at 5am? That's impressive," I tell him, "actually I'm having a Japanese bath, I was thinking of you... thinking how much you'd be enjoying this."

"Hmm... yes. Will we see you at Christmas?"

"I hope so. I need to open up my cottage in England... I've got some chat shows and media... and I'm doing a spread for Vogue. A bit of fashion and cheesecake... isn't that a hoot?"

"They're not snapping you in the bath, I hope?"

"I don't do nude... although Playboy's been after my agent, some pretty serious money too!"

"How serious?" he asks.

"About 300 grand US serious, can you believe that?"

"Jesus!" Simon's awestruck, " just to get your kit off?"

"Yep. My agent Ian said I should be careful with my image. He said I'm a valuable commodity... keep away from paparazzi, he told me... watch out for sunbathing topless in the back of the garden or I'll be spread over the tabloids by morning."

"Shit! How do you put up with that sort of scrutiny?"

"Ignore it mostly, and concentrate on my job. I bet you didn't think you were holding such an expensive pair of tits?"

"No, I'd have taken more care of them," he laughs.

"Oh you took very good care, Simon... very good care indeed!"

I close my eyes and picture the 'bush bath' set behind the creeper trellis. The sweet scent of jazmin, lilac and roses. The bouquet of colour across a green clover carpet. The grey-weathered pine fence half buried in overgrown foliage and the brillant white of Simon's sun-bathed back veranda.

And I picture the bronze figure of Simon, head thrown back, eyes closed against the sun's glare. His legs are folded up, the silver rivulets searching for passage down the sparse forest of hair.

Simon sells scooters, trail and farm bikes, quads and, occasionally, overpriced road confection. He's on a small retainer plus commission from whence his salesmanship provides him a comfortable lifestyle. It's hard work and long hours, touching base with customers, probing the market for potential buyers, the after-sales follow-ups. Hours with an ear bent to his cellphone talking to farmers, 'sure Len, a trade-up would be a good option. The new model has more power, blah, blah, blah... '

Yet Simon's phone is turned off, potential commissions going begging or travelling down the road to the Honda dealers. Nothing must intrude into our garden of Eden. Nothing must disturb the playfully wriggling toe caressing me like a finger... or a penis.

I reach down and stroke his foot as he plays with me. I treat his toe like I would the bulb of his erection. It's now trying to emulate it's more purpose-built appendage. I smile as I guide it into the folds of my sex. He looks up when my hand seeks it's cousin between his legs, now breaking the surface of the water.

But in the hotel bath it's my own fingers that are caressing me. My breasts remain un-sucked and un-squeezed, bobbing in the water waiting for Simon's hungry mouth. I push forward trying to catch the last of Simon's thrusts only to meet the feathery warmth of the stream of replenishing water.

Around mid-December I fly to the UK and straight to my cottage in Essex. For the first three days I hold court, meeting with my agent, a couple of journalists and a TV producer. On the fourth I go into London in the Mercedes and tape a show, following on to dinner with Rotol's executives. The next day I have an advertising shoot for Yamaha so I spend the night at a hotel. That afternoon I have a fitting for my racing suit for next season so it's quite late before I'm able to escape back to the cottage.

By now, I notice a few photographers lurking outside the gate. When I leave the cottage they run into the middle of the road, snapping furiously with their motor drives. You can't stop them, you just have to put up with it. Ian suggested I hire a girl to do my shopping and run errands for me but I'm not going to be held prisoner.

I have a Yamaha R1 sports bike at the cottage, given to me by the factory. Occasionally I'm able to take it out for a run through the country lanes. I strike a deal with the paparazzi outside. I'll pose for them, visor up and smiling, while sitting on the bike outside my gate. In return they'll leave me alone while I'm out riding.

"Can you pull your zip down a little love?" one shouts while snapping away.

"Have you got 200,000 pounds?" I reply, smiling.

"A piece of fish and some chips?" he suggests, proffering a box containing his lunch.

I agree to the deal and lower the zip of my jacket to the waist. I even undo a few buttons of my shirt, giving them a little bit of cleavage, and push out my chest a little. After that, we're all friends and they don't bother me during the remainder of my stay.

"Have you seen 'The News of the World?" Ian asks excitedly down the phone.

I admit I haven't.

"You're on the front page, under, 'Helene shows us her stuff, why she's out in front.' It's got you showing a bit of flesh."

"Oh yes," I laugh, "I meant to tell you about that."

"The phone's been going since I got to the office this morning. You wouldn't believe the offers."

"Really!"

"Yes, put it this way. You could make more money modelling at the moment than two seasons of racing. I could double your income in one week, right now!"

"You're kidding me! What about my 'image'?"

"To hell with that," he says, "this is something you really need to take a serious look at. How far do you want to go? A calendar maybe? A Playboy-type spread in all your glory? Think about it? What would be the implications for your personal life? How would you handle a million guys going blind?"

"I'm... I'm flabbergasted," I tell him, "I don't have that great a body!"

"Well, from what I've seen in the paper..." Ian explains, "you've got what it takes. In any case, they can put a few inches on your boobs digitally and make any moles or tattoos disappear."

"I don't have any."

"There you go!"

"You want me to be a nude model?" I ask him.

"I'm just telling you there're some good offers, that's all. It's up to you."

"Ok, I'll think about it," I say finally.

'It's a crazy world, ' I think after getting off the phone. I can make more money stripping in front of a camera than risking my life on a race track. I wonder what Simon would think, seeing me in all my nakedness spread over some men's magazine. Is it something I want? It's ironic that after spending my life breaking into a men's exclusive club I then end up becoming precisely what I've railed against, a stereotypical 'babe'. It's not that I consider myself a radical feminist or anything. I just wanted the chance to do something that I love.

I've still haven't made up my mind when I fly home for Christmas. This time of the year has a special significance for me because the traditional 'cemetary circuit' road race is run on Boxing day. That was the race where my Robert was killed.

Three riders have been killed at that event since it's inception. 3 riders in thirty years is not bad and is a better record than, say, Rugby football. Nevertheless Motorcycling NZ and the organising club have a special memorial for its dead. This year I have been invited to say something at the little ceremony to which I've consented.

A camera crew is waiting at the airport when I arrive. They're from a local station looking for sensation. A boney, impeccably-landscaped 'journalist' blocks my way to the baggage collection. I see Simon hovering in the back of the reception hall and I don't want them filming our reunion.

"A few questions, Helene, please!" Miss 'Broomstick' begs.

I manuevre them away from Simon and do my 'Miss Congeniality.'

"Just a couple," I tell her, "I have family waiting."

"What is your reaction to Kevin Coburn?"

"To what?"

"Have you read this morning's Post?"

"How could I? I've just stepped off a plane."

I'm beginning to get the feeling I'm being ambushed.

"Well," she explains to me, a smug look on her face. "He states that you tried to seduce him after the Grand Prix... blah blah blah... that you use sex to get what you want. That in his opinion you're worse than a whore."

"WHAT?" I'm outraged.

The camera moves close in on my face. I need time to think so I opt to stall them.

"I'm sorry," I tell her, "I need time to talk to my lawyers."

"So you're saying it's untrue?"

"Absolutely!" I confirm, "now if you'll excuse me?"

They try to follow me so I signal to a waiting security guard. I confirm with him that we're on private property. He takes the hint and escorts the TV crew out. I then take Simon's hand and pull him towards baggage collection.

Later, at Simon's home.

"So what are you saying?" I demand of Ian over the phone.

"I'm saying that Coburn was very careful and he's not touchable, as yet"

"But that was bullshit. I never seduced him ever. HE tried to get ME to go into a toilet with him."

"Well, he's not saying that you did. All he states is that you let him into your caravan and you were topless..."

"I was in the middle of changing!"

"Yes, but you didn't shut the door or order him out..."

"AW, shit Ian! Guys have been falling over me when I've been dressing for years, for Christ's sake. They bloody don't have 'his and hers' at a race track you know! So you walk into a woman's bedroom when she's in the middle of changing and she's automatically inviting you to have sex? What sort of twisted logic..."

"Yes, I know, calm down. All he said was that he THOUGHT you were trying to seduce him, that's all! You can't sue him for thinking... just tell the media your side of the story. I'll organise a press statement. Oh and Helene?"

"Yes?"

"Tell me before you decide to take your clothes off again, ok?"

"Dirty bugger!"

He's laughing as he hangs up.

"That fucking Coburn!" I spit, hurtling the phone past Simon's ear.

"You can't sue him?" Simon asks.

I shake my head.

"He hasn't said anything libellous enough, apparently."

"But none of what he said was true, was it?"

"Of course not. But Coburn didn't claim it was. He only said he BELIEVED it was true. Apparently advertisers have been playing on that distinction for years."

"So," Simon intimates, "your tits are now worth 150 grand each?"

"Simon, be serious for a moment... Simon?... Oh!"