The jeep jolted along the ruts of the bush track. We'd travelled for an hour through eucalypt forest, shaded by the massive trees, but now as we neared the coast the soil had become sandy and the forest had given way to scrub and the sunlight was slanting into the front of the cab.
Marion slid down in the passenger seat and lifted her feet onto the dash, into the warmth of the sun. She wiggled her toes and admired the red-painted nails. "This Paul," she said. "Tell me about him."
"I work with him," I said. "He has the office next to mine. I don't know him that well - occasionally we go out and have a coffee together. Some lunchtimes we play a game of squash. He mentioned he likes the bush, said he knew about this place. So I suggested we could take a day-trip here together.
"He's a nuggetty bloke," I went on, thinking that she might like a physical description, "shorter than average, stocky, thick across the shoulders, bull neck. Like a rugby player. Maybe he lifts weights. His hair's thinning at the front, so he crops it short. Ginger-haired, he is, sandy complexion. He isn't married - maybe divorced, maybe separated, maybe just never married - I never asked."
I didn't tell her the most interesting thing about Paul, though. I was going to let her find that out for herself.
The cab was warming up now, under the direct heat of the sun. I wound the window right down. The cicadas were sending a wall of shrill sound across the bush. I stole a glance at Marion. I'd told her there was nowhere to change at the beach we were going to, so she'd worn her swimmers under her clothes, a one piece costume cut low at the back, and over it a pair of cut-off jeans and a check shirt.
She was a creature of the warmth, like a lizard. She reached into the back of the cab for the water bottle. Her generous breasts rolled as she twisted around. She lifted the bottle to her lips, took a long draught, swallowed, and drank again until the container was empty. A trickle of water ran down her chin, and she wiped it with the back of her hand. She closed her eyes and sighed contentedly.
After another ten minutes the track entered a clearing. Paul's four wheel drive was pulled up at the far end. He was squatting next to it, in the shade of a tree, having a smoke. I drew up alongside. He threw his cigarette into the sand, stood up and walked across to greet us. "Found the place OK?" I introduced Marion. She looked him up and down. Barefoot, wearing only shorts and a tank top. In spite of his sandy complexion, he had a skin that could take the sun. It was burnt a deep, golden brown. The hair was thick all over his body. On his legs, his arms, his shoulders, a mat of hair the colour of copper.
"How far to the beach?" Marion asked. I couldn't hear the surf pounding, so I knew it must be some way off. "It's half an hour's walk," he said. "So let's go." He pulled on his pack and set off. I made to follow him, but Marion held back. She looked around the clearing. I thought of all the water she had drunk, the length of time we had been in the jeep, and wondered whether she needed to relieve herself. But then she shrugged, pulled on her pack and followed Dave.
We descended into a gully and the scrub became thick, melaleucas and banksias, pressing in from the sides, arching over our heads. Bees hummed in the bottlebrush flowers. The track was rough and narrow. Dave took quick, sure steps, holding his arms out occasionally to balance himself as he descended. His buttocks were large and firm and they worked under his shorts as he walked. Marion, I could see, was studying them.
I studied her: tall, square shouldered, straight backed, dark hair, unfashionably long, which she had woven into a single plait which hung down her back and swayed from side to side as she walked. Narrow waist, which, with her full, shapely buttocks, formed an inverted heart. Long, brown, smooth legs.
