Mothers and Daughters (18 page)

Amira laughed. ‘Believe me, I wasn’t expecting it either. I didn’t think there were this many men on the Dampier Peninsula.’

A waitress appeared at Morag’s side and stood with her pencil poised above her notepad.

‘Are you ready to order?’ she asked.

‘Well, where’d they all come from, then?’ Fiona cried, ignoring her. ‘This is like something out of my fantasies. It’s Boys R Us.’

The waitress leaned into the table, dropping her voice.

‘They’re an AFL development squad. You know, the ones that eventually go into the draft. Kids hoping to make the big league.’ She smiled conspiratorially. ‘We probably should have warned you when you booked, but we didn’t think you’d mind.’

‘We don’t mind,’ said Fiona, unable to tear her eyes away from the dazzling array of young flesh.

‘Stop drooling,’ Morag told her. ‘Or at least put your serviette over your mouth. You’re putting me off my lunch.’

Fiona raised one finger in response, lasciviously licking her lips. ‘Not me. I’m working up quite the appetite.’

The boys were just kids, Caro realised, at least some of them. Most didn’t look as if they shaved yet, and only a handful would be old enough to drive. What were they—sixteen, seventeen? Their biceps and bravado made them appear older, but really they were teenagers. Was it necessary to be grooming them for the draft already? She picked up her glass, but quickly put
it down again. The wine was lukewarm. Nothing stayed cool in this climate for long. The waitress took Morag’s order and moved on to Amira. Caro bent over the menu and tried to make a decision.

A wolf whistle sliced the air. Caro’s head shot back up. Three seats away, Tess giggled. Janey had risen from her chair and was sashaying towards the railing at the end of the deck, tight shorts clinging provocatively to her equally tight buttocks. She looked innocent enough, as if she was just going to take a picture of the view, but Caro sensed that her daughter knew exactly what she was doing, the reaction she could provoke. Another whistle. Caro turned, accusingly. This one came from a dark-skinned boy at the table to her left. Actually, they were all dark, or almost all of them.

‘Hey, gorgeous,’ he called out, holding up his phone. ‘Give me a ring. It’s 1800-SEXY.’

As usual, Janey’s head was bent over her own mobile, but she tore herself away from it long enough to throw him a dazzling smile over one shoulder.

‘I’m in love!’ exclaimed the boy, thumping his hands and phone to his chest and falling back into his seat as if shot. Tess laughed again, eyes ablaze. Janey coolly returned to her texting, one hip slightly cocked, her legs honey-brown in the afternoon light.

‘Boys,’ Amira said. ‘They never change. Remember when it was us who used to get whistled at?’

Caro nodded and picked up her glass again, swallowing a mouthful regardless of the temperature. She did. She did remember, and the fact that it was now Janey’s turn made
her feel both proud and piqued. Proud because her girl really
was
beautiful, really did turn heads; piqued because once upon a time that had been her. She’d never been as slim as Janey, true, but she’d had lovely curves—hips that swung, a décolletage that demanded the attention of any male within a hundred-metre radius, thighs that Alex had loved to sink into. Caro glanced around the deck. Almost every male face was turned towards her daughter, focused on those white shorts and golden legs.
Stop it!
she wanted to scream at them.
Stop looking at her!
She needed to protect Janey, she told herself. No matter what Janey thought, Caro knew she wasn’t old or experienced enough to manage this sort of situation. Caro opened her mouth, but nothing came out. There was no point. No one was paying any attention to her.

It was him, she was sure of it. Janey had recognised him, the man-boy who had dived into the darkened pool with her on their first night in Broome, as soon as his group had arrived at the restaurant. He hadn’t seen her yet; he’d been too busy talking and laughing with his mates. She’d watched them covertly from behind her sunglasses. There were twelve or so guys at the pool boy’s table, all tall, all lightly muscled, all wearing matching black polo shirts with a red insignia printed on the left side of their chests. Not one of them, it seemed, could sit still. They jostled each other as they took their seats; they flicked menus and serviettes across the table; they pushed up their sleeves and fiddled with their cutlery. Energy radiated
from their restless fingertips, from their taut calves jiggling as they waited to order. The atmosphere in the restaurant changed, thrummed, moved up a gear. The new arrivals were like chimpanzees in a circus, Janey thought; probably quite well trained but not entirely predictable.

She pushed her chair back. ‘Where are you going?’ Tess hissed.

‘I need some fresh air,’ Janey replied, jamming her phone into her pocket.

‘But we’re already in the fresh air,’ Bronte said, gazing around the deck.

Janey sighed. Poor stupid Bronte. That scholarship clearly wasn’t for common sense.

‘I’m going to look at the view, OK?’ she smirked. ‘Or create one of my own.’ She shook out her hair and made her way between the tables to the railing. Damn the pool boy for not noticing her. She would make sure he knew she was there.

It only took a few moments. She glanced his way when that other guy called out to her, and was gratified to see recognition spreading across his features. Then she turned back to her phone as if she couldn’t care less and scrolled through some old texts, leisurely counting to one hundred in her head. When she had finished she tucked it back into her shorts, turned around without making eye contact with anyone and sauntered off in the direction of the beach. She hoped her mother wouldn’t notice. The other adults were already on their second bottle of wine and could hopefully be relied on to stay where they were, getting slowly sozzled in the afternoon sun, but if her mother saw that she was missing she’d worry and come looking for
her. Janey sighed. Her mother was
always
worrying, that was the problem . . . about her dad when he flew, or whether Janey had had enough sleep or had eaten her vegetables or if her top was too tight. She felt her hands clench. It drove her nuts, all that worrying, her mum barely ever looking at her without that half-frown of concern, her eyebrows drawn together. It was just so irritating, so . . . weak. It made Janey want to give her something to worry about.

Janey followed a sandy track down to the beach, the clamour of the restaurant gradually fading behind her. She positioned herself in the shade of a red cliff, taking in her surroundings for the first time. Aquamarine water lapped at the shore; a translucent ghost crab dug at her feet, diligently rolling its leavings into tiny spheres that festooned the shoreline like cachous on a cupcake. It was beautiful here. For once Amira hadn’t been laying it on. Janey kicked off her sandals and stretched out her toes in the sand, admiring their fuchsia polish. Then, when the pool boy didn’t materialise as she’d expected, she reached for her phone and switched it on, waiting impatiently as it came to life.

There were two messages in her inbox. Janey clicked on them greedily, impressed that even here on the beach she could get a signal. It was almost like being back in civilisation. The first was from a girlfriend in Melbourne whom she had texted as soon as they’d arrived at Wajarrgi. It didn’t say much, but then neither had Janey’s. They were just touching base, reasserting to each other that they still existed, were still relevant.

The second was from her father.
Hey Janey girl, hope you are having a good time up north. I went shopping today and bought
you and April some DVDs. Do you still like One Direction? Kidding!! Srsly, tell me what colour (black? brown?) and I’ll get a handbag for you. They’re beautiful here. Be nice to your mum and have a great time. Dad xxx
Huh. Janey grunted. Be nice to her mum? He should be telling Caro to be nice to her. She began composing a reply, and opened the file containing the photos she’d taken on the trip so far to choose one to attach. Maybe one of the lagoon, or the selfie she’d taken on their first night in Broome, at the Aarli Bar. She peered critically at the shot. God, that seemed ages ago now. She looked so white. Janey scrolled through the images: Tess smiling from beneath a sunhat; Amira and Caro with their arms around each other at dinner in Kalangalla; Bronte in the shower. Janey scowled. Just seeing Bronte maddened her.
But we’re already in the fresh air.
Idiot. Goody-goody. She was probably sitting hunched over her lunch right now, scared to look up in case a boy tried to talk to her.

Without pausing to think, Janey opened Facebook on her phone and uploaded the photo, then added a caption:
Shower scene, WA-style. Watch out for the psycho!
It wasn’t very funny, but it didn’t give anything away either. Hardly anyone would even know it was Bronte. Besides, she’d just leave it up there for a bit and delete it as soon as they got back to Broome on Saturday. Bronte was so stupid she’d never even know it had been there.

‘Hello, mermaid. I thought I’d find you here, on the beach.’

Janey looked up and smiled, though more out of triumph than pleasure. The boy from The Mangrove loomed above her, his broad shoulders almost blocking out the sun.

‘What took you so long?’

‘I couldn’t just get up and go—they watch us like hawks. Told the coach I didn’t feel well and had to go to the bathroom.’ He snuck a look at his watch. ‘I’ve only got a few minutes.’

‘Coach?’ Janey asked.

‘AFL development squad. It’s our end-of-season trip—we play a few games against the local teams, pose for photos, do some “team bonding”.’ He made a wry face at the term. ‘God knows why though; in a few months we’ll all be fighting each other for the same few spots.’

He wasn’t just tanned, Janey realised. His lips, that hair . . . he was Aboriginal, at least partially. A thrill went through her. This would spice up the story back at school. None of her friends had ever had an Aboriginal boyfriend. Hardly any of them had had a boyfriend at all, but that was beside the point.

‘Are you enjoying it?’ she asked. ‘The trip, so far?’

He shrugged, then looked at his watch again. ‘It’s OK. Hey, I really do only have a few minutes.’

Janey eased herself back onto her elbows, the white sand soft beneath her. ‘How should we spend them, then?’

‘I can think of a way,’ he said, dropping lithely beside her. Before she knew what was happening, his mouth was on hers, his tongue pushing its way between her teeth. She put her arms around him and let her body go limp. He tasted of beer and fried food; every boy she’d ever kissed had been the same. She should get a photo of him, Janey thought. Proof to show her friends, plus maybe he’d actually be famous one day. She could friend him and put the picture on Facebook, and then if he got drafted she could say she knew him first. She hoped he’d play for Carlton, who her father barracked for, or even
Essendon, or Richmond. Then he’d be in Melbourne and she could go and watch him and tell everyone she was going out with an AFL player, and invite him to the formal once she was in year eleven. She kissed him passionately, turned on by the thought, then froze as she felt his hand slip beneath the waistband of her shorts.

‘Are you wet, mermaid?’ he breathed against her lips. ‘You should be.’

Janey fought the impulse to sit up, to push him away. Instead she arched her chest towards him, hoping to divert his attention to her breasts. Wasn’t that the way it was usually done? Kissing first, then if she liked the boy she’d let him feel her tits through her clothes, and once, with Bryce Jennings, even under her clothes . . . No one had ever touched her below the waist before, never mind without asking. Maybe if she could undo her bra . . . She made an attempt, but the clip was at the back, and the boy’s weight was pushing her down, pinning her arms. She held her breath as his fingers moved between her legs, pulling aside her undies, the first person other than herself to stroke the soft skin. Or her mother, Janey thought, mind racing, back when she was a baby and needed changing—but why the fuck was she thinking of her mother right now, as the boy’s fingers slipped inside her, one then two? She opened her eyes and stared up at the sun. It didn’t hurt, as she’d feared, but it didn’t feel like much either—no more than inserting a tampon.

‘God, you feel good, mermaid,’ he sighed against her ear.

Janey forced herself to relax, to keep her legs open. He
probed further and she took a deep breath, up from her diaphragm, as she’d been taught in squad.

‘Touch me,’ he commanded, pulling her hand to his body.

She fought against flinching, against pulling away, repulsed and then intrigued by the swelling in his shorts. It was harder than she’d expected, and warmer too, almost burning through the fabric. She grasped it tentatively, frantically trying to remember everything she’d ever read in
Cosmo
.
Hold his penis like a tennis racquet, with a firm grip, but not too firm.
That was all very well, but she’d never played tennis.