The Qantas Longreach Boeing 747 banked over Sydney's magnificent harbour, the famous old bridge standing out blackly against the lovely blue of the water, the area dotted with bays, inlets and many of the houses revealing large swimming pools.
One of them, I knew, belonged to my delightfully randy Uncle Rick and my father's sister, the equally lovely – but much more randy! - Aunty Jackie. From several thousand feet, of course, I had no way of telling which one, I only knew that within an hour or so I would be wallowing in its warm waters.
As I pushed the tray in front of me away and put my seat into the upright position before landing I stirred and stretched in my seat. The flight from Heathrow had been long, with only a brief stopover in Singapore. Once more, as it had done so often during the long, droning hours in the air, my mind wandered back to my first visit, almost exactly 10 years before. What a visit that had been!
I had been a child, really. I was 24 on that first visit, but apart from a few trips to London – which I hated – I had hardly strayed from my East Sussex home of Hastings. Now, thanks to Uncle Rick's wealth, I was going to enjoy a month's holiday with him and my aunty.
Uncle Rick, I knew, was 50 years old, and that Aunty Jackie was 15 years his junior. She was my dad's youngest sister – dad was Uncle Rick's age.
When I say I was a child, I certainly did not look like one. I had short-cropped dark brown hair, which I thought was stylishly cut and very chic. I had large breasts, which filled my 36D cup bras to perfection, an ample arse, but an arse which was in proportion to my bust, thighs and legs. I was fit, I was sexually active, and I had a lust for life. But, as I say, apart from sex with boys, which was very unsatisfactory, I was no woman of the world.
Much of the problem was, of course, impetuous, hasty, unworldly boys. All they wanted, as any woman knows, was to first get their hand in my panties, then their tongues and finally their cocks. When they did get to that so-called "third base" – or should that be "home plate"? - they would often ejaculate within a minute or so of entry, then roll off and leave yours truly lying in the sticky patch.
No, for Carly – that's my name because dad was a big Carly Simon fan – the only way to reach a half-way decent orgasm was to use my own devices. In 1996, those devices were one, or two, fingers.
Uncle Rick was a famous Australian author, he wrote novels which were blockbusters and sold millions. Then they made them into movies, which were blockbusters and
they
made millions.
He had met Aunty Jackie when she had interviewed him for the magazine she was working on in London, they had "hit it off" and within a month they were married, and Aunty Jackie was winging her way Down Under with her dark-haired, handsome man and a life in far-off Australia.
That had been 15 years before my first visit to them in 1996, and apart from vague memories of a dismal, dreary rainy English day when they had married, I could hardly remember them. But when Uncle Jack had "shouted" me – an Aussie term, possibly, "to shout"? – a trip to visit them in Sydney I had jumped at it.
I had already decided I was going to like Uncle Rick if he was anything like the steward in the business class section, who had been flirting like crazy with me since take-off out of Singapore. He was tall, handsome and don't believe everything you read about Qantas male cabin crew. They are not all "three pound notes", as the Aussies have a quaint way of putting it.
But he was a little too young for me. He must have been in his late 20s or early 30s, and the way my boyfriends had treated me in the sexual department, I was looking for someone more mature. None of this "Wham, bam, snore" for me, any more, I decided.
I got through customs and agriculture, after answering seemingly interminable questions about whether I was bringing fruit or honey into the country. I felt like answering "Only my sweet-tasting pussy, thank-you", but I'd read somewhere that smart-arsed cracks like that can get people into trouble, so I bit my tongue.
Outside the arrival area, I was stopped by a tall – six feet, two inches, actually – black-haired man, with flashing, dark brown eyes. His hair was greying at the temples and I liked the look of his rakish figure.
He held out a strong hand, grabbed me by the shoulder, pulled me to him and I felt a wonderful aroma of some sexy after-shave as he whispered: "If you're Carly, I'm Uncle Rick."
I kissed him on the cheek and laughed: "I don't care if you're Ned Kelly, take me home with you!"
Uncle Rick roared "Crikey, a Pommy sheila with a sense of humour", added "You'll do me, mate" and took hold of my trolley and pushed it out of the terminal into the blinding sunlight. I liked him already!
His vehicle of choice was a big, fire-engine red Holden V8. "It's a bloke's car, Carly," he explained, as he drove towards the lovely mansion home on a point overlooking Sydney's majestic harbour. "It's a real Aussie beast, none of your continental crap for your old Uncle Rick," he said, driving it quickly but seemingly effortlessly towards our destination.
At the mansion, which must have eaten a couple of million or so out of his royalty cheques, Uncle Rick took my bags and ushered me into the air-conditioned comfort of the house.
"Jackie," he bellowed, "get your sweet Pommy arse down here, your niece's arrived."
Down the stairs, wearing only a stunning red bikini and a pair of matching leather high heels came dad's sister. Aunt Jackie was a sight to behold and I instantly saw what Uncle Rick must have liked so much back when she was a mere 20-year-old.
Her light brunette hair fell in waves onto her superbly sun-tanned shoulders, bleached slightly blonde by the sun she obviously bathed in much of the time. Her body was an all-over sort of chocolate brown which was obviously not the result of an application of something from a bronzing bottle.
Aunty Jackie had deep blue eyes and a great "set of jugs", as the Aussies have it. They were about the size of mine, they looked as if they wouldn't sag much when the bikini top was taken off, and her belly was taut and toned. Her thighs were to die for, her legs ditto. Like Uncle Rick, I immediately liked her.
"Welcome to Sydney," she smiled, with a hint of an Aussie accent – after all, she had lived there for 15 years, "and take no notice of this loud-mouth writer I married, he's full of Aussie bullshit."
Rick roared with laughter: "Bullshit that keeps you in the manner to which you've become accustomed, you delicious Pommy bitch, you!" I could see there would be a lot of this kind of banter.
"Right, I'm going to throw a few prawns on the barbie, as we have a way of saying down here, Carly, and we'll wash 'em down with a bottle of Krug, or two, whatdya say?"
I smiled and trying to adopt an Aussie accent, replied: "Bring it on, sport."
Again he laughed and turned to my aunty and said: "This one's going to be a hard case, I'm giving you the tip."
After I'd unpacked and settled into my room, I went down and found Aunty Jackie lounging on a poolside recliner, and Uncle Rick attending to the prawns he'd "thrown on the barbie". He was dressed now only in a pair of tight-fitting shorts, to reveal a body as tanned as his wife's and a physique which spoke of either hours in the gym or hours in the pool, or a combination of both.
Aunty Jackie passed me a glass of Krug, clinked glasses with me and smiled "Here's to a great holiday!"
After the prawns and Krug for lunch, I was feeling a little light-headed, but then my intention to ask if I could pop upstairs for an afternoon nap was thwarted by the arrival of a young man aged in his late 20s. A blonde, surfer-looking type, he was introduced to me as Bruce. It's true, I thought, most Aussie men
are
named Bruce!
He turned out to be a man who worked for uncle's publishers and said he was going to a "retro party" that night, would I care to go with him?
