“So there you are,” she said. I turned my head and saw it
was Rachel, wife of a colleague, standing in the doorway of
my office. A close colleague. My partner, my rival, joint
holder of the current golden boy title. With me, of course.
I headed the inter-government relations division and he the
trade division. We were the fast guns in a high profile
embassy team under a slow hand but impeccably distinguished
ambassador. Tonight’s event was barely routine. Just
another function, this one. Trade-based; which meant he was
more officially on duty than I, which explained why I was
able to slip away to catch a late night television
interview which, according to my informant, would
precipitate a new political crisis in the scandal-racked
administration of this frenetic nation.
“Rachel,” I said, suppressing my irritation at being
interrupted mid-interview. I clicked the record button as a
precaution, while trying to keep half an eye and half an
ear on the proceedings. “Can I help you?” Training, you
see.
She sauntered over to me. The right description. She was
definitely sauntering and, though I only really knew her
socially, I had an uneasy feeling she did not normally
saunter. She parked her posterior against my desk and, with
a little leverage, sat on it. She leaned her weight on a
straight arm and peered directly at me. Uh oh. She was
drunk. I’d never seen her drunk. No question tonight,
though. She was plastered. “So why don’t you like me,” she
said aggressively.
“Of course I like you,” I lied instantly. Well, I didn’t
not like her. I suppose. I’d never thought about it.
She looked around at the television and shifted her
position to block it. She looked back at me, a frown on her
face. “No,” she said petulantly. “You don’t.”
Be pleasant to drunks and try to get rid of them as soon as
possible. It’s all in the training. I smiled my easy smile.
“Hey now,” I said. “Rachel, we only meet occasionally at
events and functions like tonight. But as much as I do know
you, I like you just fine.”
She looked at me with suspicion written in her gaze. “And
if you didn’t like me, that’s exactly what you’d say
anyway,” she said. Okay, she wasn’t stupid. Drunk,
certainly. Stupid, no. She cocked her head. “For example,”
she said, “do you think I’m attractive?”
“Of course.”
“Not enough words. You have to say more.”
“Rachel, it is blindingly obvious that you are an
attractive woman. You must know that.”
“But do you, I mean you personally, find me attractive?”
“Of course.”
She continued to study my face closely, looking for clues.
Too forward by half, but that’s what drinking does for you.
Anyway, I wasn’t lying. She looked pretty damn good and she
always did. Medium height, short brownish hair coloured up
a touch coppery-red by her hairdresser, a sharp face with
angles to it and a small straight nose, a wide mouth, good
breasts without being heavy and a slim line accentuated by
a long black dress of some soft material. It hung off her
clean white shoulders with little thin straps.
“You’ve never made a pass at me,” she said with a hint of
accusation. “Not even a tiny one.”
“You’re a married woman.”
“And you don’t make passes at married women?”
“I don’t.”
“What about Fay Ramsey?”
Damn. Bloody embassies. I smiled my easy smile, however.
“She’s only a little bit married,” I said. Barely at all,
actually. She and Bill don’t even speak, let alone cohabit.
“Hmm.” She pondered that. “Maybe I’m not so married
myself.”
I let that pass. My co-golden colleague was a polished
womaniser and I didn’t know how much she knew I knew. I
presumed she knew it herself because, although she was
drunk she was not stupid. And this was an embassy enclave.
Everybody knew. I would certainly know. It was a question
of how much I knew, and how much she thought I knew.
“I may have had a little too much tonight but I’m not
stupid,” she said. “Don’t worry. I didn’t come here to see
you about that.”
I smiled at her. My pleasant smile. The one that fills in
when you don’t want to say anything.
She raised an eyebrow at me. “You’re thinking: So why did
she come to see me?”
I smiled. I could do that for hours and hours. It’s in the
training.
“I’ll tell you, shall I?” But it wasn’t a question. She
went straight on with it. “I came looking for you because I
was feeling a bit sad, lonely and neglected and I was
looking around for somebody to talk to and I saw nobody who
fitted the bill and then I remembered you. So I came
looking. But I forgot you don’t like me.”
“Rachel, I like you fine. I told you that.”
“But you still won’t hit on me, right?”
I spread my hands. It could be interpreted as a gesture of
regret. “You’re a married woman.”
“That means I’ll have to hit on you.”
“Hey, Rachel, come on. There’s a function going on down the
hall. What if we were busted?”
She laughed, and there was an edge of malice to it. “I like
this game. It’s called heads I win, tails you lose.”
“You’ll have to explain that.”
She eased herself off the desk and sauntered away to the
television set. She switched it off. No problem, it
continued to record. “I’ll have to think about it,” she
said, her back to me. “Make me a drink. Gin and tonic.” She
anticipated my hesitation. “I can always go back to the
party and get one and make a nuisance of myself doing it.”
I got up and opened the drinks cabinet. Gin and tonic. An
embassy drink, if ever there was one. Mother’s misery, they
called it a hundred years ago and more. We called it a leg
opener where I grew up. But we hopefully called most things
leg openers in our youthful naivete. It wasn’t till I grew
up I discovered the best leg opener was a simple and polite
request.
I mixed a gin and tonic and turned to give it to her. She
was standing in front of the television set, facing me.
She’d pulled the straps of the dress down her arms and her
breasts were bare. One arm was across her stomach, holding
the dress to her body. She had a little crooked smile on
her mouth, brazen but embarrassed at the same time. Her
breasts were pale-white, nipples as red as I’d seen.
Nicely-shaped, with the upturned tilt of a teenager, which
she wasn’t.
“Now if I give you this drink,” I said carefully, “you’ll
take it in your right hand and your dress will fall off.”
She smiled a bit more and stretched out her hand for the
glass. The dress fell away and slid to the floor around her
feet. She took the drink and sipped at it. She was wearing
pantyhose and underneath tight black high-cut pants. She
stepped away from the puddled dress and out of her heeled
shoes.
“Rachel, how old are you?” I asked politely.
“31,” she whispered.
I nodded my head slowly and appreciatively. “You’re doing
well. Very well, in fact.”
“Shall I take off the rest?”
“If I were you, I wouldn’t.”
“I will anyway.” And she did, her breasts dangling and
swaying as she bent forward. She straightened, a pile of
clothes at her feet, and stood resolutely before me like a
parade guard. She closed her eyes for a moment and almost
lost her balance. She straightened again, setting her
shoulders back. Square on, she faced me.
Her skin was uniformly white, paler than expected, and she
was slim right through from head to foot, uniformly so,
which gave her a younger and leaner look than you’d expect.
And centred within her hips was a broad and wiry thicket of
dusty-brown pubic hair, more than you’d expect to see on a
woman not dark-skinned, swarthy or hairy. It was slightly
shocking, mildly deviant, in its contrariness and the way
in which wisps and tufts of it stuck out at untidy and
unruly angles. Erotic, too. Too erotic.
“Say something,” she said softly. There was a quaver in her
voice. “You have to say something.”
It was no time to be enigmatic. “You are very lovely,” I
said, with as much simplicity and sincerity as I could
muster. Well, she was. No lie. I hoped it would do.
I think it did, because she had that crooked smile back on
her face. “Well then,” she said. “What now?”
Good question. “Perhaps it would be wise to shut the door,”
I said, and moved over to do it. I didn’t need to click the
lock. A door shut was a shut door in this place. I turned
back to see her wobbling on her feet. She corrected herself
by catching the corner of the desk with her hand and she
looked up at me quickly, a sweep of confusion on her face.
“It’s all catching up with you,” I said. “It always does.
Why don’t you lie down on the couch for a moment?”
She nodded and stretched out on the black leather couch,
against which her white skin contrasted superbly. She
rolled on her side, away from me, her buttocks not quite as
trim, firm and young as the rest of her. Nobody’s perfect.
Tufted ends of her wildly profuse pubic hair poked through
between her legs. Highly erotic.
I stood and watched the naked lady on the couch. I barely
knew her. Rachel, hitherto spotless wife of my tireless
rival, a woman with teenager’s tits, a big hairy box and a
drink-induced will this night to be sad, mad and bad. What
do I do about it?
I walked around the back of the couch and looked down at
her. She was asleep. She wasn’t faking because already her
mouth was open and I don’t know a female who would do that
knowingly while on display. I looked at what I could see of
her body for a while and then went to the closet to fetch
the long winter coat I wouldn’t be needing for a few months
yet. I draped it over her carefully and fetched her
clothes, which I placed beside the couch. Then I let myself
out and went looking for her husband.
I found him at the outskirts of the function which was
winding its way down. “Andrew,” I said. “Just to tell you
Rachel might have had one too many tonight and she’s
sleeping it off on my couch.”
He looked at me with mild interest. “Oh”, he said. “I was
thinking I might go on for a bit of clubbing with these
fine people.” He waved his hand generally at a group
standing nearby.
“I could drop her home a bit later,” I offered. “When she’s
feeling more sound and reliable.”
“Would you? That would be a great help.”
“Sure. Do you want to go check on her?”
“I’m sure she’s in good hands.”
I could not restrain a broad smile. But his attention was
already elsewhere. A tiny pretty blonde was hovering like a
sugar fairy, waiting, and I left him to it. I returned to
my office to check out the sleeping beauty, attention
sharpened further by the illicit nature of it all. Andrew
might well have taken up my invitation to check out her
condition himself. Rachel was fast asleep. I lifted up the
corner of the covering coat and saw how she had relaxed in
her slumber. She had folded into the couch and her bum
poked out over the edge. Wires of hair were now protruding
plentifully between her legs. Very sexy. Considerably
carnal, in fact, considering this was a lady who would not
commonly be found in such compromising circumstances. I
fought briefly with instant urges and controlled them. This
would be all the sweeter for the wait and for the twists
and turns yet to come. I laid the coat down and let her
sleep.
There was always paper work waiting for attention. I
switched on the desk lamp and turned off the main lights
and set to it, happy enough to be gaining a break on the
next day. Nearly two and a half hours passed before she
stirred. I was watching the clock, waiting. At near 12:20
she rolled over on the couch, and as I turned to look, sat
bolt upright. The coat fell away and her breasts were
showing, which she noticed immediately. She clutched the
coat around her shoulders, covering herself, and looked at
me blearily and, I thought, somewhat fearfully.
“Christ,” she said tremulously. “What have I done?”
“You weren’t that drunk,” I said. “You know what you did.”
She was gathering her wits and her memory. “Christ,” she
said again. “Where’s Andrew?”
“Gone out partying. I said I’d take you home.”
“He didn’t.?”
“No.”
“Christ.”
She was staring at me. “You didn’t.? I mean, we didn’t.?”
“No.”
“Not even a little?”
“No.”
She looked away. “I didn’t think so.” A silence developed.
“Christ,” she said, breaking it with a note of urgency and
rising to her feet and clutching the coat to her, “I think
I’m going to be sick.”
“There’s the bathroom,” I said, pointing.
She was in there for a while and she emerged looking worse
than when she entered. She was wearing the coat buttoned
strategically. She looked at me mournfully. “I have to get
dressed,” she said.
I pointed to her bundled clothing. “I recommend you take a
shower before you do. You’ll feel better for it, trust me.”
She nodded, scooped up her clothes and returned to the
mini-bathroom. When she re-emerged she was dressed, cleaned
up and improved. “I have to go home,” she said, her voice
dull and worried.
I drove her. The trip wasn’t long and she didn’t say a
word. I saw her to the door. She turned in the doorway.
“Sorry,” she said.
“It happens,” I said, and left. She stood in the doorway
and watched me go.
Three days later she rang me. “Look,” she said, business-
like and rehearsed, “I can’t leave it like this. I deeply
appreciate your discretion but I have embarrassed myself,
and unless I have a chance to explain I’ll never be able to
look you in the eye again.”
“It’s okay,” I said.
“Not for me. You could take me to lunch today, perhaps?”
I knew Andrew was out of town for a couple of days. “Sure,”
I said, and made the arrangements.
The restaurant was small, dim, unfashionable and suitable
for the occasion. It was a local trade place, and the other
occupied tables were speaking the local language. Rachel
had set herself to waste no time. “Look,” she said, leaning
forward, “about the other night. I didn’t intend to do any
of that. I admit I was feeling a bit provocative and
mischievous but I didn’t mean those things to happen. I
can’t believe what I did. I don’t normally drink that
much.” She stopped and waited, her eyes anxiously roving my
face as she searched for a response.
“I knew that,” I said.
“Thanks. I thought you’d say that but I still needed to
hear it. Can we put it from our minds?”
“Oh no,” I said. “I can’t do that.” She cocked her head
slightly, coping with a response she did not expect. “I can
behave like a gentleman,” I explained, “and I will be
totally discreet. But be fair. I can’t put it from my mind
because I have clear and explicit images of you that won’t
go away.”
Flush points appeared on her cheekbones. “I’ve seen the
bodies of many women,” I went on. “But I like your body
best.”
She seemed to be struggling, not knowing what to say. “I
can see you don’t know what to say,” I said. “Let me go on
while you come to terms with it. I guess you turned up in
my office the other night because you were angry and you’d
been drinking and you wanted to lash out at Andrew and you
thought the best way to lash out at Andrew was to stir up
something with me. So you turned up with no real plan in
mind but in a mood for trouble and things got out of hand.
But it turned out reasonably well because nothing really
happened except you took off your clothes and showed me
your body. And I won’t tell Andrew or anybody else so it
remains just between us. If you can get over your
embarrassment at baring yourself in front of me, we can go
on and lead our lives the way we have been. If that’s what
you want. I only have one question outstanding.”
“Yes?” I could hear her breathing. “What’s that?”
“How come you have pubic hair like you do? It’s like a wild
and overgrown fertile garden.”
She blinked severely and sat back in her chair. “You don’t
like it?” she asked instinctively, as a woman would do.
“Rachel, I love it. I can’t stop thinking about it.”
She looked at me with wide eyes, the flush points bright on
her face. “Christ,” she said. It seemed like it was her
‘bad’ word. Then she giggled, dropped her head and put her
face in her hands. “Good heavens,” she muttered. “This
certainly hasn’t gone the way I thought it would.” She
lifted her head, a small smile on her lips. “Do I have to
talk about this? I guess I must, in the circumstances. I
guess I owe you.” She shrugged her shoulders. “It’s been
that way ever since it came along. I hated it when I was a
girl. A couple of times I’ve.,” she looked at me with
narrowed eyes, “.trimmed it, you know? But in the end I’ve
grown accustomed to it and I guess these days I like it
that way.”
“Girls I know trim it for the beach,” I said.
“Ever seen me on the beach? I hate the beach. My skin burns
to a crisp.”
“Or the pool.”
“Ditto.”
“So,” I said conspiratorially, “your sexy secret garden
remains tucked away and hidden from view.”
“Not quite. There’s Andrew.”
“And me.”
“God, don’t remind me. And you.”
“No other? Nothing extra-marital?”
Her eyes flashed at me. “Once,” she said shortly. “It was a
fair time ago, before we came here, and I won’t be saying
anything more.”
I grinned at her. “Does Andrew know?”
“No. And that’s it. No more. Good heavens, you are
unbelievably intrusive.” She studied my face. She was only
pretending to be violated. I could see the quickening in
her eyes.
“It’s time to talk about me,” I said.
“Is it?”
“You know it is. What did you think and what do you think
now?”
“I heard it from others. They say you’re cool and confident
but also arrogant.”
“And now?”
“No change.”
“So why did you risk coming to see me the other night?”
“Because it was a risk.”
“And?”
“I see,” she said. “You want me to say it. Okay, I admit I
find you attractive. God, you really are arrogant.”
“And now?”
“No change.” She raised her hand in a cautious gesture.
“Mark,” she said, in a changed tone, “we have to stop
this.”
“Why? You’re enjoying it.”
“Because we’re sailing in dangerous waters and you know
that as well as I do.”
“So a raging affair is completely out of the question?”
“Completely.”
“Even though I stopped being married years ago and I’m
immediately available? Even though you find me attractive?
Even though I’ve seen your naked body and I love and adore
it? Even though I’m coming quickly to the point of loving
and adoring everything about you? And even though your
husband foolishly neglects to love and adore you?”
“I never said that,” she snapped.
“But you did, you certainly did, in various and roundabout
ways.”
She sighed. “Mark, you must stop this. There’s no future in
it.”
I leaned over the table and propped my chin in my hand. I
looked into her caramel eyes at close range. “In my mind,”
I said, “I’m looking at your cute upturned breasts and
those stubby red nipples.”
“Stop it.”
“In my mind, I’m looking at the secret forest nestled
between your hips.”
“Stop it.”
“It’s hidden away under the table, under your dress. What
colour pants are you wearing?”
“Christ. Just ordinary white.”
“The best kind. In my mind, I’m taking them off. Drawing
them slowly down your legs.”
“Mark, stop it. You must stop it.”
I sat back from the table. “Let’s go to my place,” I said.
“Okay,” she said, straight away.
Uncommon events commonly bring about uncommon behaviour
which can bring two people together in a relationship which
in the normal run of events would have no chance of
eventuating. These apparently random episodes are our
greatest allies in the battle against the humdrum and the
boredom of too much of our lives. As we grow older, we
build up files of lost opportunities. We have regrets for
unsaid words and undone actions, for unused and under-
utilised skills and mostly for unknown opportunities, and
what we discover later what we should have known earlier.
These things are common to us all. My greatest regret is
for the unseen opportunities which passed me by; something
I didn’t know until I found out, and then it was too late.
I’ll tell you a joyless little story.
I remember many years ago being smitten with a slim and
lovely dark-haired girl I worked with for a short time. She
held her head high, she did her job efficiently and I knew
almost nothing about her except she had small olive-skinned
classically-shaped breasts because I stood over her one day
and looked down the front of her dress. I cannot remember
ever having had a conversation with her and we had no
contact other than what was necessary in the work place. I
had dreams about this girl but she was unattainable.
Nothing about her promoted any expectation. She wasn’t for
me.
Or so I thought. Years later a woman I knew well who knew
her well told me this girl had been head over heels in love
with me. She thought I was an arrogant and conceited
bastard but she was infatuated to the point that she froze
whenever I came near, lest she gave herself away and
appeared foolish.
Everybody knew about this except me. It was a minor office
amusement. She was given sensible advice about what to do
about her affliction. It was said I wouldn’t know about
such matters unless I was hit over the head with a brick
and told in short and simple sentences. She was advised she
could do much better but if she was so fixed on me, it
would be in her interest to initiate meaningful contact.
But she didn’t. Instead, humiliated, she took up with a
colleague she didn’t particularly like and resigned her
job. I never saw her again. I heard she married that man
but it didn’t last more than three years. Her previous
remote attachment to me became a great source of irritation
in the marriage, because he knew about her infatuation as
well as anybody but me. His friends called her Superbitch
because she treated him so badly, and he was a perfectly
nice man. She drifted in and out of other relationships and
she was regarded as an unhappy woman. Those who knew her
believed her to be a sad case.
I don’t know whether this girl and I could have
accomplished anything worthwhile together. I never knew
enough about her to be able to come to a judgement. I was
certainly taken with her at the time and the attraction was
more than physical. But whatever might or might not have
been, an opportunity for both us slipped away because she
was afraid of getting hurt and I was blind and stupid.
When I was told this story I was depressed for days. The
saddest thing is that I can’t remember her name. I can see
her face and I can see her breasts but I can’t remember her
name.
Happy Ending (for some): Rachel and I have been together
now for four years. Andrew moved on and Rachel stayed. With
me. Funny how things turn out.