Heather Falls in Love Pt. 04

'Lust isn't a bad thing,' Ingrid said, smiling.

'Lust can be quite beautiful,' Heather agreed, reaching for her.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

(March 2004)

It was yet another lovely, lazy do-nothing day. The supplies of Swan had dwindled and expired. Sadly, so too had the girls' cool box. They were currently drinking Shiraz at way over room temperature. And as if that wasn't bad enough, the last case was nearly empty. Once that barrel ran dry, they would be reduced to drinking white wine at way over room temperature.

Yuk!

It wasn't easy to think about leaving paradise, though. Moving on to Esperance suddenly seemed like heading east of Eden. Yes, moving on needed to be put off as long as possible, and knickers to stuffy old drinking conventions.

'Scheherazade,' Ingrid said out of nowhere. 'If you've done five hundred nights up to now, that leaves us with five hundred and one left, yeah?'

'I haven't been counting, but five hundred and one sounds about right. Why ask?'

'Because the mathematician in me is saying we're halfway through this stage of our lives. And I don't know whether to be happy or sad.'

'The mathematician in you,' Heather echoed. 'I bet you've had several mathematicians in you.'

'I've had two,' Ingrid admitted. 'You don't get many Vikings reading maths.'

'You don't get any at all reading business studies,' said Heather. 'And the choice of girls isn't much better.'

'Five hundred and one days,' Ingrid resumed. 'Are we really so near the end?'

'We can always drag it out in the Americas. And the USA alone has fifty states. If we're going to visit all of Australia's state capitals, it would be rude not to visit all theirs.'

Anyone else might have mentioned timetables and funds. Ingrid, who had inherited squillions from an aged great aunt, did not. When it came to finances, she was just as comfortable as Heather was. And Heather . . . who was financed by the "Bank of Me and Dad" . . . was spending the interest accruing on the sale of the family farm. Or, rather, she was spending less than the interest accruing.

'It doesn't have to end, you know?'

Heather swatted away a rare blowie. 'What do you mean?'

'When we get back we could keep seeing each other. I know you're set on having a career, but that doesn't mean we have to split up. We could even move in together.'

'In a cottage with roses round the door?' Heather laughed, although her heart was rolling in her chest. Previous conversations along these lines had been more like utopian fantasies. Today Inga sounded serious.

'Yes,' she said. 'And we don't have lots of cottages in Bromley, so Yorkshire has to be top of the list.'

'I could do it,' said Heather, equally seriously, 'but you want more, don't you?'

'I still want swarms of kids,' said Ingrid, 'and sooner rather than later. But that doesn't mean you can't be our breadwinner.'

Heather sighed. Kids were their sticking point. Ingrid was eager to repopulate the planet while she firmly believed children were dirty, noisy and unnecessary. Well . . . maybe that was putting it a little too strong. Obviously they were necessary for the survival of the human race. But they were still dirty and noisy, weren't they?

'I'm sorry Inga, but I don't have a maternal bone in my body. And, before you ask, I don't have any paternal ones either. I might change when I'm older and my clock starts to run down. Right now I'm allergic to the very idea of kids. You'll have to find yourself a Viking.'

'What if I'm the breadwinner and you're the homemaker?'

Heather's eyes opened wide in horror. 'Top up my glass. I need a big drink.'

'Not tempted, then?'

'Not in the least. Being 24/7 with a swarm of screaming brats is not my idea of a life.' She reached out and squeezed Ingrid's arm. 'I love you and will always love you. But our courses are set to diverge. I'll cry for months on end, but I can't change.'

'I can't even tempt you with a bet?'

Heather slurped too-warm wine. 'Go on. You know I'm compulsive.'

'We ditch all forms of contraception, right? And we work out times of maximum fertility so they match with a bank holiday weekend. Then we take a guy to bed, Friday night through to Tuesday morning.'

'And then what happens?'

'He rides off into the sunset and we leave it up to Mother Nature. If there isn't a pregnancy, we know it's not meant to be. If there is, we know who's destined to be the breadwinner.'

'What if there are two pregnancies?' Heather held up a restraining hand and simultaneously slurped more wine. 'No, don't tell me, I don't want to know. Sorry Inga, it isn't going to happen. I like the idea of sharing a man with you, but it's not even a bet I could cheat on. You'd get preggers without a doubt and, knowing my luck, so would I.'

*****

Heather spent the rest of the day wishing she'd answered differently. She didn't have a different answer to give, though. She really did love Ingrid and would gladly set up home with her, not caring if they became known as "The Lesbians of Rose Cottage". In fact she would be open and proud about their living arrangements. She would even agree to one of the new-fangled "partnerships", if that was what Ingrid wanted. They could have a ceremony followed by a lavish reception and a night do . . .

But she could not agree to kids. And she couldn't deprive Ingrid of the chance to have a family of her own. What sort of a friend would do that?

Their new "replacement cool box" consisted of sea water, a bucket and a patch of shade between two large rocks. Heather didn't intend to patent it on their return to civilization. It was, however, a lot better than nothing and became quite efficient when the sun went down. It also gave them chance to drink the evenings away.

'Here you go,' she said, passing Ingrid a glass of lukewarm red. 'Get that down the hatch.'

Ingrid was sitting close to the tent. She took a dainty sip then surprised her. 'Okay, Scheherazade, it's night five hundred and one. Tell me a tale I can jill to.'

'I do my best,' said Heather, smiling, 'but you've heard most of my tales already. And I thought jilling you was my job.'

'It's been ages since I did some DIY. Quit stalling and tell me something exotic.'

'Exotic? You'll have to give me a clue.'

'I want to hear something completely different. A story featuring an older woman might do the trick.'

Heather pondered a while. Most of her uni lovers had been older than her, but usually only by a year or two. She smiled again as the light bulb lit up inside her head. 'What about an Indian mother of four giving me her virginity?'

'You went with a married woman?'

'No, her husband died. And her kids are all grown up. She was free to explore possibilities for the first time in her life.'

'Is she attractive?'

'Oh yes, she's very attractive.'

Ingrid raised her glass to her lips with one hand and touched herself with the other. 'Describe her to me.'

'Hattie works for my favourite taxi company, who I won't name. She womans the phones and sounds like a mill worker's dizzy daughter. And she has the world's dirtiest laugh. I'd spoken to her regularly before I actually met her. By then I'd fallen for her voice and didn't care about her age or anything like that. I just wanted to hear that laugh of hers in my bed.'

'What does she look like?'

'She's petite and skinny. I'd say she's no more than five feet tall, and it's hard to believe she's had any kids, never mind four of them. Face-wise, she's classically beautiful with the most amazing eyebrows; they make her look as if she's questioning everything you say, but in a matey sort of a way.'

'It sounds as if you liked more than just her looks.'

'I did. And I still do. If I ever revisit our alma mater I'll look her up.'

Ingrid scowled. 'I thought you didn't intend seeing any of your old lovers again.'

'I didn't. But exceptions keep occurring to me.'

'And this Hattie was a virgin?'

'She was as far as girls are concerned. She told me so at least fifty times at the start of our date.'

'How did you get a date in the first place?'

'I'd been flirty with her all along. That was easy because she's the type who flirts naturally. And, when we did finally meet, I suppose she must have liked what she saw as much as I did. When I asked her out she accepted quickly enough.'

'And how old did you say she is?'

'She kept that to herself. But I do know her youngest was twenty when we got it together. I'm going to hazard a guess at forty-five.'

Ingrid held out her glass for more wine, still leisurely jilling with her other hand. 'What's she like down where it matters?' she asked. 'Is she all stretched and distorted?'

'She's perfect,' Heather said truthfully. 'There isn't a stretchmark on her body, and her fanny's as tight as can be . . .'

*****

Heather wasn't quite as good as Scheherazade, but she managed to make the tale last into the third bottle of red. And she managed to turn a session of mutual masturbation into a winner-takes-all shag. By the time Ingrid cried "enough" it had been properly dark for hours.

'Sex under the Southern Cross,' she said, staring up at the stars. 'And you call me unromantic!'

'I call you the most wonderful person I've ever met.' Ingrid took her hand and squeezed it. 'I'm sorry I keep badgering you about you-know-what. I know your urge is just as strong as mine, except in the other direction. And I know I must seem to be going on and on. But something inside me makes me keep trying. Maybe it thinks that one day you'll change your mind.'

'One day maybe I will,' said Heather, 'when I'm pushing forty myself . . .'

*****

The girls' idyllic existence naturally overran the allotted fortnight. Having deliberately lost all track of time, they measured in days of provisions remaining, and knickers to calendar days. They could worry about calendar days later, when they were old and grey.

Not that either of them showed signs of aging. They both looked better than ever and their cunning suntan plan had worked as well as their lovemaking. Although it was still easy to see which areas had once been white, they were white no longer. And even if these areas weren't yet an exact match, they were definitely well-tanned, not pinky or red.

Talk about happy endings!

But even the finest idyll can't last forever. They'd been there over three weeks and were down to just four days of provisions when the interruption came.

CHAPTER TWENTY

(March 2004)

Heather had waded out for a pee and was on her way back to the beach when she saw them. Four, maybe five figures headed their way from the east, shimmering like mirages. They still had to be the best part of a mile away and it wasn't possible to make out any detail yet, but she thought they looked like harmless holidaymakers. Which was fine. It would be good to speak to other human beings, even if they were invading their privacy.

Ingrid was laid out on her back like a starfish, head shaded under a months-old magazine. Heather sat beside her and put a wet hand on her tummy to attract attention.

'Better put your G-string on. We have company.'

Sitting, Ingrid looked up and down the deserted sands. 'Where?'

'Around that headland. We should be able to see them in a few minutes.'

When the figures did come into sight there were indeed five of them: two guys and three topless girls. As they got closer Heather realized one of the guys had all the Viking attributes Ingrid always went for. She glanced at her friend . . . whose eyes were out on stalks . . . and chuckled.

'Down, girl, he's probably already spoken for.'

'I don't care if he is,' Ingrid replied. 'I only want use of him for an hour. Surely that's not too much to ask.'

'I suppose not. Just remember to be more forceful if your luck is in. Pretend he's me. Exert your personality on him.'

'My personality?' Ingrid laughed. 'I'll exert something on him, but it won't be my personality.'

The five had been walking along the tideline, the smaller guy holding one of the girls' hands. Seeing Heather and Ingrid they waved and changed course towards them.

'Hi,' the hand-holding girl said. 'I'm Claire. We've come looking for you.'

Heather stood up and returned the girl's grin. Claire was brown-eyed with close-cropped fair hair and dreamily good-looking. The attraction was instant. 'Why? What have we done?'

'Nothing, we just heard pop music and figured there must be life out here, somewhere.'

The radio was still playing away and the current song was "Car Wash". Heather could hardly believe it. She'd been waiting for that tune for nearly a month, wondering if Ingrid would twig. And now, when it was finally being aired, the blonde's attention was elsewhere.

'It's the cliffs,' the smaller guy said, perhaps thinking she was lost for words. 'They make it like that place in London . . . y'know, the one where you can hear the whispers.'

'Do you mean the Whispering Gallery, in St Paul's?'

'Yes he does,' said Claire. 'That's his way of letting you know he's travelled the world too. Assuming that's what you two Brits are doing.'

'It is,' Heather said. 'But are we so obviously Brits?'

'The flag on your campervan gives it away a bit. Looking at you I would have struggled to guess.' Claire whistled softly. 'That tan! It makes us all look fresh off the boat. Don't take this the wrong way, but what colour were you to start with?'

'Nearly as white as Ingrid's hair,' Heather exaggerated. Turning, she saw her friend was standing almost totally naked, deep in conversation with her new Viking who, to his credit, seemed totally absorbed with her face and whatever it was she was saying.

'That's Ingrid. I'm Heather, by the way.'

'Hi again, Heather. This is my bloke, Brett. And the two lovely twins are Lauren and Leigh.'

The twins looked to be about twenty and were utterly identical. 'Hi Heather,' they said as one.

'That's Bradley,' Claire pointed to the Viking. 'I was going to say he's down from a broken relationship, but . . .'

'But Ingrid's getting him back up,' Heather said, and they all laughed.

*****

Heather woke to find herself in a small red tent, sandwiched between Claire and Brett. The other two were both asleep, Claire almost nose-to-nose with her, Brett snuggled behind. She suspected Brett was having a sweet dream because she could feel his hard-on poking into the small of her back.

What a party that was! Heather thought, stifling a laugh.

While Ingrid and Bradley continued their intimate conversation, Claire and the others had explained they'd travelled out from Albany to prepare for a beach party that night.

'It's going to be a wild one,' Claire had said. 'There's going to be about a hundred of us. And take it from me, after a few joints and a lot of beer, anything could happen. And I mean anything. I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to it. I'm even giving Brett a few hours of freedom. Why don't you join us?'

There was no point in even asking Ingrid, who was only too obviously smitten. And besides, once she got over a couple of pangs of jealousy, Heather had had to agree it seemed like a good idea. She'd volunteered their last case of Margaret River Chenin Blanc as admission and, within the hour, they'd moved camp to Claire's beach and were helping with preparations.

The party had kicked off late afternoon, with possibly thirty partygoers present when the barbies were fired up and beer and wine started to flow. From then a constant stream of new arrivals swelled their numbers and, as Claire had predicted, as the light began to fade and the first of three bonfires was lit, anything started to happen.

Ingrid had been gripping Bradley's arm for ages by then. She muttered something Heather didn't quite catch then led her captive Viking away, towards the campervan. And that was the last she saw of the two of them that night. Smiling to herself, determined to be open-minded, she'd set off towards one of the enormous ice buckets to get another drink, only to be intercepted by the twins.

'We've something to show you,' Leigh had said, taking her right hand.

'We're sure you'll like it,' Lauren added, taking her left.

They'd taken her a couple of hundred yards away from the party then, without out so much as a by your leave, had her on a dry patch of sand, working as a team and putting her through an endless string of orgasms, each better than the last. As an experience it was simply awesome. There seemed to be ripe boobs and taut bums rubbing against her everywhere. Not to mention all the erect nipples and the wet tongue and fanny tracks on her legs and torso. Towards the end the beautifully deadly duo went into overdrive, their mouths doing exquisite things, fingers busy in all the right places.

Best-ever in a thousand wonderful ways!

As they'd walked back they came across a guy laid out on his back. He was naked from the waist and had a dark-haired girl bouncing up and down on his groin. Heather didn't know the dark-haired girl but saw straightaway that the guy was Brett, enjoying his freedom. She'd looked for a reaction from the twins but they didn't seem surprised.

'I want to do that,' Lauren said to her sister. 'Let's try a bloke next.'

Heather got her cold tinny (at last!) then joined her hostess by one of the bonfires. Claire had her arm around some surfer-type.

'This is Heather, my friend from England,' she said brightly. 'Believe it or not, Heather's never had a good Aussie donger in her.'

'No way!' said the surfer. 'She's got to let me put that right.'

Heather had looked at Claire, who was grinning. At that moment Claire reminded her of Mary Rose in mischievous mode: a top witch minus the wicked green eyes. It had taken her all of a second to rise to the challenge.

'I will if you will,' she'd said.

Claire nodded. 'What do you think, Jez? Can the old donger cope with both of us?'

'Too right it can,' he'd said.

And before so very long he'd proved good to his word.

Heather had stuck with Claire after that and they'd been restrained, mostly due to Claire's status as not just hostess but "hostess-in-chief". That revered position apparently meant they couldn't keep on sneaking off into the night. Instead they'd concentrated on drinking lager and watching everyone else, only groping each other occasionally and necking every five minutes or so . . . necking very fiercely, like oversexed, overheated teens.

Wow! How hot had that been!! And biding their time had been more than slightly thrilling!!

Eventually, fairly drunk, Brett had found them and dragged them to this tent for what turned out to be his last (satisfactory but slightly stuttering) performance of the evening. Then, while he slept, the two girls had done a few of the things Heather had wanted to do ever since they'd met on the other beach . . . most of them twice over.

Twice, thrice, fourfold, and whatever came next.

Fivefold . . .

Yes, it had been quite an occasion.

Claire woke and yawned. Without speaking she crawled backwards out of the tent, beckoning for Heather to follow. Outside resembled a disaster area. The three bonfires had burnt themselves into ashes and were surrounded by millions of empty tinnies and stubbies, all gleaming in the early sun. Around the carnage there were perhaps forty multi-coloured tents, a lot looking less than shipshape, as if put up in a hurry after too many drinks. Quite a few couples hadn't bothered with tents at all and were lying entwined on the sand in varying degrees of undress. One couple was still conscious and actually in the act of coupling.

'Helluva party,' Claire said. 'Did you enjoy it?'

'You bet I did,' Heather said. Then, looking towards the campervan: 'Can you see any sign of Ingrid and Bradley?'

'It's been rocking on its springs all night.' Claire laughed. 'They must be sleeping it off.'