Although she was getting used to his little surprises, Liz was unprepared for the sight that greeted her in the top-floor boardroom of Bent Towers. ‘Johnny? What are you doing?’ She laughed. ‘You are so
out there,’
she exclaimed, stamping her feet in amusement as she took in the handcuffs, the scarf and the neat pile of clothing on the table.
‘Lizzy-pizzy?’ Johnny felt very tired and very sad. ‘I’m not sure if I’m in the mood.’
Liz stared at him, incredulous. Then she noticed something. The scarf. Liz had, as she was the first to admit, a poor memory for appointments, names and faces. But Liz never, ever, forgot an accessory. ‘That’s Nicola’s scarf!’ she gasped.
‘I can explain,’ he answered automatically, though he didn’t think he could.
‘You two-timing bastard.’
She grabbed the offending neckwear as she
spoke and yanked it for emphasis. Johnny’s neck jerked back, he choked and spluttered and she jumped back.
‘Petal?’ he squeaked, when he recovered his voice. ‘Who’s Nicola?’
Tears sprang to Liz’s eyes. ‘You’re jerking me around,’ she cried. ‘In fact, I suspect you’re jerking both of us around.’ She began to wail.
Johnny’s neck hurt. He felt nothing but pity for this woman standing over him and blubbering, and nothing but revulsion for himself. He was full of regret about the way he’d treated Nicola. Johnny felt a very alien sensation. He was starting to cry. His Adam’s apple strained against the scarf. He resolved to apologise to Liz. He’d ask her to untie him and beg her forgiveness. He wanted to change. He wanted to be good. Johnny B. Good. He opened his eyes—scarcely aware that he’d closed them.
Liz was wiping her dripping nose on the back of her hand. A long trail of snot ran down from her nose over her mouth. Johnny smiled, intending to comfort her.
Liz thought he was laughing at her. With an
anguished cry, and still wiping at her nose, she turned and ran out the door, slamming it shut behind her. She burst onto the street and instantly hailed a cab, just before Nicola returned.
It only occurred to Liz the next morning at work, when she was sneezing from the bubbles in her Berocca, that she’d left Johnny handcuffed to the table. He’d be so annoyed with her when he finally got out of there. On the other hand, he was a two-timing bastard. He deserved to suffer. She was so glad that she’d decided to tell Nicola everything. She couldn’t wait until seven o’clock.
Da Mann had been planning on getting himself and his fingerprints out of the building hasto pronto when Nicola had returned, piquing his curiosity. She’d got quite a shock when she’d opened that door.
That was when he came up with the idea of posing as a cop. He flipped through his wallet and found his security guard’s badge. That’d do.
The scammage went off better than he could have anticipated. He could scarcely believe his luck. It never occurred to her that he was not really a policeman. She’d even agreed to meet him again, after work. He wondered how far he could go with Nicola, how far he could push her. Maybe he should show her the videos. The one of her first time with Johnny was a corker. They might even come to some arrangement. Da Mann didn’t want to remain a voyeur the rest of his life. He deserved some action.
Whatever happened, Da Mann was confident he’d have a good time with Nicola. A very good time. She was dead sexy.
Other quality works by Linda Jaivin
‘My name is Miles Walker. Remember it. I’m keen on immortality. I’ve got to be. I’m twenty-three years old. I’m the best painter of my generation. And I’ve got four hours to live.’
On the eve of the millennium, Miles Walker has problems. His flatmate Thurston, a moody medievalist, thinks it would be a good career move for Miles to die young. His best friend, the pre-conceptual artist ZakDot agrees—and the chainsaw-wielding Maddie seems only too happy to help.
Then along comes Destiny, the beautiful politician who hates art but takes a shine to Miles. Now the others really want to kill him. By the time bare buttocks are squeaking over the prime ministerial dining table, it looks like Miles’ fate is sealed.
‘Miles Walker, You’re Dead
is rapier sharp. This is a witty, fast-paced piss-take of the art world, politics and culture.’
Juice
Baby, Doll and Lati, three alien babes, are trapped on Nufon, the most boring planet in the entire yoon. They steal a spaceship and arrive in Sydney, Planet Earth, in search of sex, drugs and rock n roll. When the babes abduct Jake, a minor rock star, and toss him in their saucer’s sexual experimentation chamber, the global warming begins.
The babes form a band and rocket to rock n roll stardom. Trouble is, Jake and Baby are falling in love, a posse of Nufonians is headed for Earth, the US military is on the case and Eros the talking asteroid wants to dive into the mosh as well. The babes are planning their biggest gig, but can they save the world too?
‘Jaivin gives us an intergalactic fairytale that ends in the biggest gig ever. Along the way, she challenges us to look at ourselves. And to be amused.’
Rolling Stone
THE INTERNATIONAL EROTIC BESTSELLER
Julia is a photographer. Chantal edits a fashion magazine. Helen is a feminist academic. And Philippa is writing a novel. The best of friends, they haunt the designer cafes of Darlinghurst, eyeing the passing talent and swapping stories. Sexy, intelligent and predatory, these four women are creatures of the nineties. But can we believe the wild and wicked tales they tell each other about their erotic exploits?
‘It’s erotic. It’s feminist. It’s like, way postmodern.
Eat Me,
it beckons.’
New York Post
‘Eat Me
is the sexiest thing to come out of Australia since Mel Gibson…This book does for sex what the TV cult hit
Absolutely Fabulous
did for fashion.’
Glamour
‘The qualifier beside her name says it all: “Linda Jaivin is a writer of some discipline but minimal bondage.” In other words, she wants it both ways—serious and funny. And who could blame her? She can do it both ways, and in this collection of her journalism and non-fiction she proves it, presenting us with not only the spicy author of the erotic bestseller,
Eat Me,
but also a China specialist, one who spent nine years living there and has been returning frequently ever since.’
Canberra Times
‘In this vastly varied and readable collection, Jaivin tackles subjects as diverse as the Tiananmen massacre and the trials of having a penis…Jaivin approaches communist China and penises with the same determined irreverence… the writing is excellent, her mix of humorous observation and hard facts perfect.’
Weekend Australian