their mid-thirties. They smiled a little tensely at each other, and Erin felt more than a touch of embarrassment at sharing their purpose.
“God, I’m so not in the mood,” she muttered to Alice, who rolled her eyes and pointedly started chatting with the others.
But, actually, Erin was pleased to be out of the city, and the gardens were really rather nice – meadowy, and patched with shade and sun. The late-afternoon warmth put a layer of down between her summer dress and skin, and she wished she could skip the Getting-to-Know-You part and stay outside. She dawdled, letting a gap open up on the path between herself and the group. Her eyes slid away from their smiles and their carefully chosen, cautiously sexy clothes. Only a few hours into the weekend, and already she could feel herself pulling back into her thoughts, into familiar silence. And she hadn’t even met the men yet.
It was the weather, too; the air pressed gently against her face, making it hard to release words. She walked with one hand held up against the sun, allowing her eyes to float from the pleasant contours of the lawn to the duller green corduroy of the vineyards. Ah well, at least there’d be cocktails.
The gardens tempted her. They reminded her of the sloping lawns at Kirstenbosch, irresistible to her when she was a little girl. She’d make her parents wait while she rolled down the hill like a log, over and over, until the skin of her arms and legs was red and her head spun. But later, trying the same thing when she was older, a student playing at kids’ games, she’d felt merely queasy. Same with the playground swings – that stomach-flip moment at the top of the swing, exhilarating up until the age when it suddenly became nauseating; which was about the same age you found you were too big to squeeze into the car-tyre seats. Free flight and dizziness and sick-making thrill … when did one stop wanting that feeling?
Down the slope, beyond a stand of bamboo, a topaz glint caught her eye. A teenage boy stood at the edge of a swimming pool, staring into the water. As the women passed by on the path above him, he glanced up. Too far away for much detail, Erin saw only that his hair was white-blond, cut so close to his head he looked shorn, and that he wore jeans. A white towel was draped over his bare shoulders.
She slowed, nameless recognition flaring with the scent of cut grass. Then the bamboo came between her and the vision of the boy.
It was hot, and she suddenly felt the wire of her bra stiff against her body, the elastic of her panties – reminding her that she was older, with womanly flesh that sat on her back and belly and hips. Her lips were sticky with too much lipstick. She walked on.
It was a long time ago now, more than twenty-five years. The swimming pool. The boy.
The air was hot with sound: cheers and screams, churned water, the starter’s gun. Bored and sweating in her school uniform, she’d edged away from the roar and gone to stand in the shade under the shaking stand. A bubble of furtive silence. Here were other skulkers – boys chatting up girls from different schools, someone with a cigarette in the darkest corner. The gun cracked for a new race and above her the shouts began again. Unnerved – one of the planks seemed about to give way – she stepped back into the sun to watch the race, hand shading her eyes, squinting into the spray and light.
Suddenly she was tackled, almost knocked off her feet. A bewildering body-check of limbs and skin and breath; it was several heartbeats before she untangled things enough to find that she’d been drawn into a one-armed embrace by a tall boy – older, from another school, almost naked in a black Speedo – and was now being rocked back and forth as he gripped her and yelled encouragement to the swimmers. Dark blond, deep tan. His right arm was slung around her neck and his hand, astonishingly big and male, lay casually across the top of her chest, thumbnail
“God, I’m so not in the mood,” she muttered to Alice, who rolled her eyes and pointedly started chatting with the others.
But, actually, Erin was pleased to be out of the city, and the gardens were really rather nice – meadowy, and patched with shade and sun. The late-afternoon warmth put a layer of down between her summer dress and skin, and she wished she could skip the Getting-to-Know-You part and stay outside. She dawdled, letting a gap open up on the path between herself and the group. Her eyes slid away from their smiles and their carefully chosen, cautiously sexy clothes. Only a few hours into the weekend, and already she could feel herself pulling back into her thoughts, into familiar silence. And she hadn’t even met the men yet.
It was the weather, too; the air pressed gently against her face, making it hard to release words. She walked with one hand held up against the sun, allowing her eyes to float from the pleasant contours of the lawn to the duller green corduroy of the vineyards. Ah well, at least there’d be cocktails.
The gardens tempted her. They reminded her of the sloping lawns at Kirstenbosch, irresistible to her when she was a little girl. She’d make her parents wait while she rolled down the hill like a log, over and over, until the skin of her arms and legs was red and her head spun. But later, trying the same thing when she was older, a student playing at kids’ games, she’d felt merely queasy. Same with the playground swings – that stomach-flip moment at the top of the swing, exhilarating up until the age when it suddenly became nauseating; which was about the same age you found you were too big to squeeze into the car-tyre seats. Free flight and dizziness and sick-making thrill … when did one stop wanting that feeling?
Down the slope, beyond a stand of bamboo, a topaz glint caught her eye. A teenage boy stood at the edge of a swimming pool, staring into the water. As the women passed by on the path above him, he glanced up. Too far away for much detail, Erin saw only that his hair was white-blond, cut so close to his head he looked shorn, and that he wore jeans. A white towel was draped over his bare shoulders.
She slowed, nameless recognition flaring with the scent of cut grass. Then the bamboo came between her and the vision of the boy.
It was hot, and she suddenly felt the wire of her bra stiff against her body, the elastic of her panties – reminding her that she was older, with womanly flesh that sat on her back and belly and hips. Her lips were sticky with too much lipstick. She walked on.
It was a long time ago now, more than twenty-five years. The swimming pool. The boy.
The air was hot with sound: cheers and screams, churned water, the starter’s gun. Bored and sweating in her school uniform, she’d edged away from the roar and gone to stand in the shade under the shaking stand. A bubble of furtive silence. Here were other skulkers – boys chatting up girls from different schools, someone with a cigarette in the darkest corner. The gun cracked for a new race and above her the shouts began again. Unnerved – one of the planks seemed about to give way – she stepped back into the sun to watch the race, hand shading her eyes, squinting into the spray and light.
Suddenly she was tackled, almost knocked off her feet. A bewildering body-check of limbs and skin and breath; it was several heartbeats before she untangled things enough to find that she’d been drawn into a one-armed embrace by a tall boy – older, from another school, almost naked in a black Speedo – and was now being rocked back and forth as he gripped her and yelled encouragement to the swimmers. Dark blond, deep tan. His right arm was slung around her neck and his hand, astonishingly big and male, lay casually across the top of her chest, thumbnail
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