Quiver

Jock leaps up in excitement as the shop assistant gazes on in mild astonishment. “Twelve!”

He yells out to the passing trade. “Twelve! What a woman! What a glorious mass of female flesh!”

Peeved at this emotive display the shop assistant hurries out the back to locate the appropriate shoe. Jock kneels at Stacey’s feet, running his small muscular hands up the inside of her calves. His touch sends a shiver of expectation up her legs. He smiles suddenly, a brilliant, strangely child-like grin, open and mischievous. “Don’t ever be ashamed of your size. It is power, it is what makes you different from the rest of the plebeians.”

He buys her a size-twelve pair of patent leather deep red Charles Jourdan stilettos. She stands six foot seven in them, towering over both him and the shop assistant. Jock insists that she wear the shoes, along with the Chanel suit, Dior stockings and Guy Laroche teddy, back to the car. The only thing about her appearance that remains untouched is her hair, which at his order she wears loose and unravelled down her back.

They fly along in the Mercedes. Despite sitting on a cushion, Jock can barely glance over the dashboard. Luckily for Stacey, the car has its top down, so she can stretch her neck back as far as she likes. Hair flying back, the black silk of the Chanel suit fitting snugly across her broad bosom, the length of stockinged leg shimmering expensively beneath her, Stacey feels glamorous.

Jock has one hand on the wheel and the other on her knee, as he talks incessantly about his empire. Meat. More specifically butchers’ shops, a whole chain of them across the north-eastern suburbs.

“Me father’s business see, but then he was never much of a visionary. Only had the one shop all his life; couldn’t see the value in expansion, in providing intimate service, cheap cuts and decent offal at old-fashioned prices. Too much of a tradionalist, was Dad. Believed in staying in yer own class. Well, fuck that! And I did, well and truly. Now I can hobnob with the best. I earn as much as them—what’s more I earned it all myself, didn’t get some poxy handout from some rich daddy. Nothing’s sweeter than money you’ve earned for yourself, believe me, Stacey. That name doesn’t suit you, you know. From now on I’m gonna call you Stance.

“How tall are you, anyway? Six-five?”

“Close enough.”

“That’s a beautiful height for a woman.”

“I never thought so.”

“It’s a gift to be different, you can use it to your advantage. I learned to.”

“How?”

“I knew myself and I knew what I was capable of, and if people were going to dismiss me because of my height, it was going to be at their peril. What it comes down to is self-respect. Look, there are plenty of conventionally beautiful people out there who hate themselves. What is the point? Life is too short. What else are you good at, apart from being tall?”

“Mathematics.”

“Good, we can’t have you stuck at the TAB all your life, can we?”

She clutches onto her new handbag as they pull sharply into a car park beside a large butcher’s shop. The words J. P. MOTHERWELL’S JUICY SHORT CUTS AND OTHER DELICIOUS MEATS flash proudly above the huge front window.

He ushers her into the shop, an immense, old-fashioned hall of refrigerated glass cases. The staff, dressed in long striped aprons and white hats, stand behind each display. There is sawdust on the floor, some areas are stained with blood. The shop is crowded with mid-week buyers pushing ahead to get the bargain of the day.

“Afternoon, Jock!”

“Gidday, Mr. Motherwell.”

The staff stand aside as Jock ushers her toward the back of the shop.

“Wait here, I’ve got business. I’ll be back in five.”

He leaves her behind a partition. The area is empty except for a wooden crate and a small table. She sits down on the crate and eases her feet out of the stilettos. I am crazy, she’s thinking, this man might be a murderer, a sexual pervert, anything. But she wants him fiercely. All the years of obedience, of being invisible or, worse still, politely ignored, of being categorized as the single one, the spinster in the family, the one who will stay back and help Mum, the one referred to as Poor Stacey. It all bubbles up inside her, like bile rising to the back of her throat. “Fuck them,” she says out loud, “fuck them all.” It is the first time she has ever used an expletive in her life.

“Shipment due in Iran in two weeks.”

“Lamb and some beef…of course it’s live…”

“Bugger customs, what they don’t know ain’t gonna harm them. Besides, it’s trade isn’t it?”

“All trade is good for Australia.”

Jock’s voice and a deep foreign male voice float over the wall. Their tones mix and dip into a low drone. Eventually they break into a foreign language. Stacey wonders vaguely if it’s Arabic. The sun filters in from a skylight, flooding down onto her, making her feel drowsy. Drowsy and sexy. She likes the authority in his voice. The power and the anger. There’s no hesitancy about Jock. She’s never met anyone so confident before. It excites her, inspires her. Besides, it’s the first time she’s seen anyone get passionate about meat cuts.

She wonders about the size of his penis. Are short men small? She’s only ever seen one penis before in her life and that was more felt than seen. She remembers being surprised at how big it was and how soft the skin was.

A door slams behind her, followed by hurried footsteps. Her heartbeat quickens.