Tiddas (28 page)

She lay in bed, the sound of peak hour traffic humming in the background. She smiled, knowing she could let her mind relax a little after the two draining funeral services of the day before. The next, thankfully, was two sleeps away. Two days off mid-week was another reason Ellen loved working for herself; she thrived on the independence and control, having a say about her everyday life and routine. In fact there were
few things that Ellen didn't love about being a self-employed career woman as her fortieth birthday approached. She mightn't get four weeks' paid holidays, or sick leave or automatic superannuation, but the luxury of lying in bed later than usual on a Tuesday morning, the joy of taking a nap on Wednesday afternoon, and even having time to head out to QUT in the middle of the day to support Veronica – well, they were good enough reasons for her to be a sole trader.

Her phone beeped and she nearly fell out of bed reaching for it.

Babe, what're you wearing right now?

Ellen smiled, but she still wished Craig would just ask about how she was doing some time. It was only ever footy, bodybuilding and sex with him; anything else was too highbrow, or just boring. The girls were right. What did they have in common beyond satisfying each other sexually?

Babe, u there?

Craig was also impatient. Everything had to happen as soon as he decided; he wanted instant gratification. The girls had looked sceptical when she mentioned him to them at the NAIDOC debrief.
Who cares?
She was grateful for the sex and the attention, and even if she didn't want a relationship with Craig, she still had someone to play with until the next fella came along.
This is a pretty good place to be in right now.
She thought back to Aunty Molly's funeral and the love she
saw that day; it had affected her deeply. But she also remembered her father walking away, and how – except for her tiddas – everyone else in her daily life died.

She punched the keypad.

Red panties, no top.

She ran her hand across her erect nipple and wished Craig was there to kiss it. The phone beeped again instantly.

Send pic

Ellen was fine having eyes on her at the altar, by a graveside or in a crematorium, but she was always clothed. She didn't like the idea of being an exhibitionist via iPhone. Besides, the girls had already warned her about what football players did with photos of half-naked women.

Of what?

She asked, feigning naivety.

U. ur sexy.

She couldn't help herself; even though she knew she looked all right disrobed, she also knew footy players were indeed, players. And the whole sexting things wasn't something she'd ever get into, especially after accidentally sending a salacious text about ‘fucking like a tiger' to a priest she was working
with on a service down the Gold Coast. The days of embarrassment she endured after that slip-up taught her one very simple lesson a very hard way.

Are you like the Shane Warne of footy or something?

She knew fully well you didn't have to be a cricketer to know about spin. She wasn't naive. She knew Craig was a player on and off the field, and she was happy to play some of his games. But with media stories of football players involved in group sex scandals and women open to late night sex requests via text, it wasn't a culture she wanted to be part of, even though she wasn't averse to a little adult fun. More concerning was that she was actually starting to like Craig, a lot, and she wondered how many other women he had photos of.

Are you the Brendan Favola of Bris-Vegas then?

She wasn't really expecting any honest answers; after all, who'd admit to being like either of those fellas with their off-field reputations.

What? No!

Craig went silent, as if offended. Ellen waited a while.

Why do you want a photo then?

And why doesn't he just call me?
she thought.

Make me smile

She hesitated, tempted, knowing she had boobs men craved and loved to bury their faces in. She sent Craig a headshot taken at the Story Bridge Hotel one night when she had spiky jet-black hair and sparkly earrings.

Fuck ur sexy

She knew she had him then, even if other women had him at other times.

You want to see more of me you know where to find me

You're a tease.

Ellen was getting turned on.

So are you.

And so was Craig.

I'm hard.

Even though she was wet with desire and had one hand in her knickers, Ellen wasn't going any further on text. She was about to climax when her phone beeped.

I'm on my way over.

She took a huge breath and stopped herself from finishing. She wanted to see how many orgasms she could have with Craig, if he really was on his way over. She jumped out of bed immediately, her flat unprepared for visitors and certainly not ready for a bloke she fancied. It was 7.30 a.m. but she figured she could make love to Craig and still meet Veronica at 10 a.m. at Kelvin Grove if she cabbed it. She had a quick shower, threw on a mauve knickers and bra set she'd been wanting to break in and a silk wrap, and by the time she'd remade the bed and tidied the living room Craig was at the door, bulging biceps and bulging shorts at the ready.

‘Babe, you get me hot just thinking about you.'

He kicked the door closed behind him, grabbed Ellen by the arse, and gently pulled her against him. She melted into his body as he put his thick lips on hers. She ran her hand through his hair as they kissed ferociously, as if eating each other for breakfast. The silk wrap dropped to the floor and Craig guided her down the hall to the bedroom.

‘I want to take you to heaven,' he said, licking her cleavage and then up her neck.

‘I'm almost there already,' she whispered, desperate for Craig's touch and grateful he was so into pleasing her.

Veronica sat at a popular café on Musk Street and looked at the QUT brochures for Creative Industries. She wasn't yet convinced university was the best idea for her, but Ellen and
Xanthe had been putting pressure on her to at least check out the campus, speak to staff, and give serious consideration to what might be possible. She was thinking about the Bachelor of Arts (Fine Arts), which required a three-year commitment full-time. With nothing else on her schedule, she could do it.

Veronica read slowly, taking in what the degree was designed to do, mentally ticking off what she liked, and more importantly, what she was equipped to manage with her current skills set. Key words and phrases leapt out at her: explore your artistic potential, a cross-disciplinary approach, both studio practice and art history, work as a professional artist. At that moment Veronica couldn't see herself as a professional anything, but she allowed herself to dream about having an exhibition of her own work one day. She was starting to at least believe that the degree might give her the structure and the practical support to make her dream come true.

If nothing else Veronica liked the atmosphere of the Kelvin Grove community; cafés, shops, people from all walks of life, it was like the little urban village it claimed to be. She hadn't previously been aware of the mixed-use development that was designed to be sustainable and function at less cost than other similar land and housing projects. She was impressed with the attempt to integrate public housing, private dwellings and a university campus into one space. The fact that the local Turrbul mob had provided input into the native vegetation chosen for the site almost sealed it for her, as did the naming of two of the parks in Turrbul language. Kulgan meant path or road, and Kundu Park was named after the tallowwood tree native to the area. Just by spending time at
Kelvin Grove as a student, she'd be learning much more about life and culture than simply visual arts.

Veronica watched the stream of people walking by and wondered if they were students, lecturers or professors, or just wanna-be students and dreamers like her. She wasn't sure she would even fit in. She certainly didn't have the ‘uni look', or so she thought, considering her chocolate jersey skirt and denim jacket. She wasn't even sure if denim jackets were in anymore. Or jersey, for that matter. Everything she wore was the best money could buy, but that didn't make her fashionable and nor did it make her feel like uni student either.

A woman in a fitted floral frock and red shoes sat at the table beside her. Veronica guessed she was the same vintage, but looked much more relaxed in the uni environment, and certainly more glamorous. Fashions had never been part of Veronica's routine, especially when raising her boys; cooking, homework, sports carnivals, car pools, school camps and projects were where her focus had lain. At the age of forty she now sadly realised that over the past two decades she'd spent very little time at all on herself; her health, her looks, her spirituality, her own personal goals. She had never been one to enjoy shopping that much; the NAIDOC Ball gown had been the first splurge in some time.

‘I need a make-over,' Veronica said with a sense of urgency as soon as Ellen sat down opposite her.

‘Okay,' Ellen responded, unsure of what was going on with her tidda.

‘I need a new look. New clothes. A new identity. I'm just a frumpy mummy.' Veronica felt a burn of depression hit her.
Seeing some of the other women her age on campus had hit her like a brick to the head, and the heart. If she was going to be a student here, she needed a stronger sense of self, one that was about who she was as a woman in her own right, right now.

‘I can help you with a new style, but first you need to understand that you are not a frumpy mummy at all. You're a vivacious vixen who perhaps just needs to let her hair down, literally.'

Veronica's blunt bob had been pulled back into a ponytail and it made her thin face look a little more severe than usual. She raised her hand to the elastic band but didn't pull it out.

‘I've got tomorrow off and don't really have any plans,' Ellen said, wondering if Craig would return for another serve of what they'd just indulged in. ‘We could do some shopping then if you like.' Ellen took out her diary and began making some notes.

‘Oh, can I have some time to think about it?'

Veronica was surprised at the speed at which Ellen moved, in spite of her own sense of urgency. But there was a reason her funeral celebrant friend had a thriving business, and it wasn't simply because people were dying. She was the perfect coordinator, whether it was for someone's death or for someone's new life.

‘Seriously, Vee, you said it out loud like you meant it. We're on the new journey already, aren't we? Look where we are and what we're doing today.' Ellen smiled as her gaze darted up and down the street.

Veronica watched a woman, in her mid-thirties and
looking incredibly chic in a black tunic and boots, take a seat. She didn't need to think anymore.

‘Yes, we are on a new journey.'