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When Kathy’s parents had bought the three bedroom Ramsgate Ave.
flat for her, for fifty thousand more than they were ready to invest in
it, they asked her to take a female lodger in order to help meet the corresponding
mortgage repayments. Not that it would make a difference
in their budget, but they meant to impart their daughter with a sense
of financial responsibilities. Myriam was the first girl who had answered
the ad posted in a cafeteria at New South. She gave fifty five per week
for her room, plus her share of the gas, power, water and telephone bills
and had proved to be generally unobtrusive, except for her musical taste
(more disco than classical) and some boyfriends who rapidly developed
an interest in the fair landlady when they had exhausted the charms
of the half-caste apsara.
“Hello Kathy, are you just getting up now?” she exclaimed,
“What happened?” She was in the kitchen, moving her ample tanned
backside in a bright red narrow swimsuit to the rhythm of Supertramp.
“Tell me the whole story! Do you want me to cook something for you?”
When the tide of questions had subsided, Kathy told her that there was
a new man in her life who would come to live with her, but she should
not worry, she could stay with them for the time being, until she found
suitable accommodation in the area. “Congratulations! You look so
happy. As I know you, he must be gorgeous. But what with Bill? -You
will be disappointed: my friend is a married man in his late forties. I’ll
call Bill tonight to tell him it’s over. —Is the guy one of your teachers
then? —No, but he is a French Reader at the University of Sydney, I
met him at a party last Sunday.”
Bondi Beach, almost white in the glaring midday sun as seen
from the kitchen window, except for the squatting brownish mass of the
Pavilion, was already dotted with shiny lying bodies. An orange lifesavers
inflatable boat was aimlessly striding the surf: you would not think of
sharks on a day like this one. Kathy went to the bathroom. She wanted
a cold shower. When she took out her light blue satin dressing gown,
she could see that there were several short curly grey hairs stuck to her
breasts, one sitting just on top of her left nipple : hair from Jacques’ chest.
She picked it up between her right thumb and forefinger and brought it
close to her eyes, then to her lips and blew it out to the washing basin.
No thought crossed her mind meanwhile, no picture but the whiteness
of the wall tiles reflected by the mirror framing the shape of her own
face. She stretched her arms, lifted her shoulders, yawned and shivered,
looked down and stroked her pubic hair and tummy once with the palm
of her right hand. The intense memory of pleasure was real, more real
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