John Davis - Talk to Me Tenderly, Tell Me Lies

But it was true – she could fall off and injure herself. And that would be terrible.

Bullshit. She’d bounce.

Yeah, but if she doesn’t? It could be very serious. How do you call the Flying Doctor?

Well, all right, he said to himself reasonably, so you should put her to bed, shouldn’t you?

Ben Sunninghill sat, considering this, trying not to be excited at the prospect. Trying to feel chivalrous. And he was right, dammit – she could topple off that john and crack her head. So there was only one sensible thing to do …

He got up, and walked back to the bathroom. He stood looking at her.

No, she was not truly beautiful, but to Ben Sunninghill she was. Maybe it was because he had had a lot to drink – but no, he wasn’t that drunk. To Ben she seemed the loveliest woman in the world, and possibly the nicest. She was so sweet and defenceless sitting there.

He took a deep breath and tried to thrust carnal thoughts from his mind. He picked up her limp wrist and shook it.

‘Helen? Come on, pal. Bedtime.’

Helen gave a groan, then slowly toppled forward. Her head slid across the wall in an arc. Ben dropped to his haunches in front of her, his arms out. She slumped to a stop against his narrow shoulder.

He held her, his hands on her bare back. And, oh, the feel of her soft smooth flesh, her breasts brushing his bare chest. He closed his eyes, overcome by the soft female feel of her, the woman smell of her. Her hair against his cheek, her breathing against his neck. The defencelessness of her. And, for an instant, it almost felt like love.

He took a deep, shaky breath, opened his eyes, and considered the problem of moving her.

She was too heavy for him to pick up in a fireman’s lift. So? Drag her? He looked down at the bathmat. If he could get her on to that, he could drag her.

He reached out and pulled it nearer. Then he swivelled on his haunches and eased her weight forward, trying to turn her at the same time. She groaned, and slid slowly off the toilet, on to her knees. He knelt beside her, holding her tight, terrified of dropping her; then he shuffled backwards, grunting, and tried to control her dead-weight descent on to the mat.

She landed on her side with an alarming thump, but showed no sign of waking. Ben got to his feet, crouched and heaved her over on to her back.

She lay there, deep in drunken sleep, her legs half apart, her swimsuit stretched between her knees, her arms out as if in surrender.

He looked yearningly at her nakedness. Then he gently moved her arms to her sides. He put her legs together Oh, the lovely feel of them. He looked down at her again, at her pretty face in drunken repose, her full lips a little parted, her breasts lolling; then, trying to ignore her nakedness, he gripped the corners of the mat and began to drag her.

He manoeuvred backwards across the bathroom. Helen did not murmur. He had difficulty steering her through the doorway – her hip caught. He dragged her on down the side of the double-bed, shoving the other mats aside with his feet. He dragged her past the foot of the bed, up along the other side. He stopped and looked down at her. ‘Out to the wide, wide world …’ he whispered tenderly. He turned to the bed and pulled back the covers.

Then he hesitated – no way could he hoist her up there without giving himself a hernia. How? Legs first? Head first? All together and break his back? And he certainly didn’t want her to wake up and find herself naked in his arms en route to bed. In fact, having done his Good Samaritan number he should now make himself scarce; just put a pillow under her pretty head, throw a blanket over her and get out. He took one more look at her, and was reaching for a pillow when another thought occurred to him: he’d better get that swimsuit into a more decent position, because when she woke up and found herself neatly at her bedside she might think he’d pulled it down …

He got down on one knee, gripped the swimsuit in trembling fingers. He gently manoeuvred it up her soft thighs.

Then came the obstacle of her hips and buttocks – and there, there , was her pubic triangle.

Ben Sunninghill crouched over Helen McKenzie, his smouldering face eighteen inches above her, and with all his heart and loins he wanted to bend lower and lower, and then fiercely kiss her soft curly sweetness. For an agonized moment he hovered poised above her – then he screwed his hungry eyes closed, and hastily wrestled the swimsuit upwards. And Helen said:

‘… we’ll merry-merry be …’

Ben froze, his heart pounding. She was half-smiling; he crouched there, waiting to make sure she was asleep, then feverishly dragged the swimsuit up over her belly. Was that as far as he dared go? Yes. He got up, grabbed the sheet and blanket off the bed and hastily spread them over her. He grabbed a pillow, got a hand under her silky head, gently lifted it. He shoved the pillow underneath.

He crouched over her, his breath trembly, looking down at her.

Oh, it was such a woman’s face … it wasn’t beautiful in the classic sense, but beautiful it was, in the woman sense. And now that her nakedness was past, he felt only a throbbing tenderness. Of course he had lusted after that body under the blanket, but right now, looking down on that lovely, rather worn, half-smiling face, it was tenderness that he felt. And with all his heart he yearned to press his lips to hers.

But he did not. He forced himself to his feet. Make yourself scarce, Sunninghill … He looked down at her and whispered:

‘… we’ll merry-merry be, tomorrow we’ll be sober …’

He left, closing the bedroom door behind him.

And, oh boy, tomorrow we were sober. ‘Are we not ?’ she inquired huskily of her dressing-table mirror. ‘Is that really us, Helen? Or Granny come to give us a nasty surprise?’

She turned for the bathroom, holding her head. Then the fact registered that her swimsuit was hanging from her midriff.

She stared down at herself, trying to think, her heart sinking; then she closed her eyes. ‘Oh, God …’

She hurried to the bathroom, fumbled on the shower taps. She got under the hot water. Then she remembered Dundee.

‘Dundee!’ she shrieked. ‘Where are you? Oh God!’

She washed her hair frantically, trying to wash out her conscience. She burst out of the shower, slung a big towel around her chest and hurried through to the kitchen. ‘Dundee?’ she croaked. There was no Dundee. But on the table she saw a note. She snatched it up. It read: I’ve got Dundee.

She closed her eyes. ‘Thank God …’

She turned and slowly retraced her wet footprints to the bedroom, trying to remember what had happened. She brushed her teeth vigorously, her head hurting, and dressed, feeling terrible. She put on some make-up with exaggerated care. ‘Patch up the wounds …’ It seemed like the first time she’d worn cosmetics in a month. ‘It is a month …’ The last time she’d been to Burraville. Back in the kitchen she made a cup of strong black coffee, sat down and forced herself to eat a slice of bread and honey. It was hard work.

They’d been going to have a swim – she remembered that far. There had been a lot of heady crap about how she was going to write a book. Or was that the day before yesterday? She remembered deciding to have a brandy, taking it through to the bedroom to drink whilst she changed into her swimsuit. Then, kerpow – blank.

She gave a deep, hungover sigh. Then? Well, then, obviously, Ben had put her to bed on the floor. With only half her swimsuit on. How had that happened? Oh God – what else had he seen? What had he done ? And what would Clyde say if he knew? Oh God again …