Quiver

Des brings her a cup of tea. She places it carefully beside her keyboard. She’s always liked Cup Day, the atmosphere being more charged, more electric than usual. Even the regular punters seem festive, clean-shaven with carnations flashing red in the odd buttonhole.

“G’day, Jock, how’s the meat trade?”

“Thriving, mate, thriving.” The other men part deferentially as he makes his way up to her booth. “Gidday, gorgeous, a thou on Gypsy Queen.”

She glances at the clock, the race is up in two minutes. Automatically she prints out the betting slip. This will have to be the last bet she’ll take. A thou. The odds are twenty to one. He must have some inside information.

“I win and you’re mine,” he says. As he takes the betting slip he slides his finger between hers. The gesture is inherently sexual in its meaning. It makes her wet immediately, her sex contracts at his touch, hidden there behind the counter. Stacey blushes, and tries to cover her confusion by shuffling papers in some semblance of control. Jock smiles at her. Despite herself she finds herself smiling back.

The next anxious punter comes up to the window. “I’ll bet what he’s betting,” he points to Jock, who stands, legs spread stoutly on the ground, staring up at the TV monitor.

“Sorry, you’re too late.”

The gates go up and the racing call begins, fast and hard. The old world of Australian masculinity sweeps Stacey up in a false sense of security, taking her back to her father’s knee on a Saturday afternoon by the radio. Watching the race on the video monitor in the corner she finds her heart accelerating, racing up there with Jock’s horse, in the outside lane, limbs straining, sweat on the flanks, arching forward with each bound of those lean legs, past the first horse, then the second. She wants him to win, she wants him to take her like this.

“And it’s Yellow Sky fast behind Lovesick close to Gypsy Queen who is lagging way behind in the pack and they’re coming up to the fourth lap. Who will take that corner? And it’s Gypsy Queen in fourth. She’s gaining pace. Look at that filly go! And it’s Yellow Sky close on Lovesick in second, hundred and fifty meters to go. Gypsy Queen has just overtaken Yellow Sky in third, neck-to-neck with Lovesick. She’s gaining, it’s going to be a photo finish…and it’s Gypsy Queen! What a horse! What a race! Tremendous odds…”

A shout goes up among the punters. Jock is screaming at the top of his lungs. “I done it! I bloody done it!”

He runs in behind the counter, grabs her hand and pulls her to her feet. “Fuck, you’re tall. I like that. It’s sexy. Eh, Des! I’m just borrowing your staff, okay? You won’t mind, especially after you’ve paid me the twenty thou you owe me!”

Des smiles nervously down at this tiny man who dances around Stacey. Jock propels her toward the door, his hand pushing proprietorially against her buttocks.

“I told yer if I won you’re mine.”

The regulars look on with respect as Jock opens the door of a bright red Mercedes sports parked outside the shop. For once Stacey does not feel ridiculous.

He glances across at her; under the bravado he’s nervous. There is something impenetrable about her cool veneer that scares him. It has been a long time since he has wanted a woman this much. But if it scares you, he thinks to himself, it’s always worth doing. He wants her to want him for himself, for what he still sees himself as—the short, bullied kid who learned to fight back harder, who learned to use his mind to outwit his enemies. There is an empathy between them he recognizes, the empathy of being outsiders. Her vulnerability shows in her

movements: the way she stoops to try to make herself smaller, the way she hides her large hands in her lap.

“What are you going to do with the money?”

“It’s not the money, it’s winning. That’s what I’m addicted to.”

“But you could always lose.”

“Risk, Stacey; when faced with the choice, always take the dangerous way. It pays off.”

“Well, I’ve taken a risk now, taking off with you.” She smiles cheekily. His interest in her gives her courage. She stretches her legs in the small car, feeling his eyes following her every movement.

“The bigger the risk, the bigger the pay-off.” He smiles back. He wants to see those long limbs out of control, to discover all of her beauty. He can scarcely believe that she is sitting in his car, but none of his anticipation shows as he smoothly shifts the car into fifth gear.

He takes her shopping. Striding defiantly beside her into David Jones, and heading straight for the lingerie department, he orders bra, stockings and underpants, guessing her size precisely. He is exacting about the length of the stockings and the quality of the imported Parisian silk teddy he wants to buy. Stacey, totally seduced by the utter confidence of this man who ignores the whispers and giggles of the shop assistants, complies, not silently, not submissively, but with a growing confidence of her own.

“Not the red, it clashes with my blond hair. The mauve is better.”

“You’re right. Why use a blowtorch when a candle will do? You’re gorgeous, you know. A goddess—don’t let anyone tell you different, you understand?”

She stands in front of the changing-room mirror, dressed only in the pale mauve teddy. For a second she doesn’t recognize this Botticelli creation, this full-fleshed goddess with loose, shoulder-length blond hair. He looks down at her feet.

“You need shoes.”

In the shoe department he runs through a list of designers with the shop assistant, whose attitude metamorphoses from one of ridicule to open respect. Jock knows his designers, from Charles Jourdan through to Walter Steiger. Stacey, nervous about volunteering her foot size, remains mute, pinned into a chair, wishing herself smaller as she tentatively arches forward one long leg, her foot seeming to stretch out for miles.

“What size, Madam?” She thinks she can detect a hint of mockery under the tone.

“Twelve,” she whispers.