Eat Me Read Free

it—‘both erotic and empowering.’ Helen liked words like ‘empowering’. She was a feminist academic and film critic, and terms like that came with the turf. She paused, primly smoothing her longish skirt over her knees, and added, ‘I think you could’ve done more with the whip, though.’
    Chantal pursed her lips and lashed at the pavement with an imaginary whip, startling a rollerblader. An older European at the next table stared, utterly rapt, over the rim of his espresso.
    Philippa nudged Helen, and pointed at Julia with her chin. Chantal looked over at her too. ‘Wonder what she’s thinking about?’ Philippa mouthed to the others.
    Sex. That was what she was thinking about.
    Julia had recently had one heaven of a night. As much as she’d tried to concentrate on Philippa’s story, her own steamy little narrative insisted on replaying itself in her head and she was having trouble finding the off button. She was up to the scene where she was watching Jake spoon up the final morsels of beef chilli khadi with the last of the naan. She smiled to herself. She was glad she’d taken a punt and called him.
    Jake was on the dole, a struggling musician with a clapped-out car that was about to be repossessed and a troublesome band so beset with internal strife that he referred to it as ‘Bosnia’. He lived in a grungy share-house in New-town and called his dreadlocks his only accomplishment in life. Julia had met him at a party she and Philippa had attended last weekend in Glebe.
    At the party, she and Jake had danced. Afterwards, he’d gone into the kitchen to fetch some beer. He’d pressed the cool can against her neck before handing it to her, and suggested they find somewhere to talk. Snuggling into a sofa in one of the less populated rooms, they’d asked each other most of the usual questions and a few unusual ones as well. He told her about his band, she told him about her photography. She mentioned her fascination for China, he said he’d once thought of learning Mandarin. Their legs just touched. His seemed to go on forever under his grey Levi 501s; he was improbably long-limbed. Jake had smooth, honey-coloured skin, warm brown eyes, a small neat nose, a wide mouth, and a dry, laconic wit. He seemed sincere when he said he’d like to see her photography. When Julia had laughed loudly at something and rocked forward in her mirth, causing her long black hair to cascade in front of her face, Jake had reached out and flipped it back over her shoulder in a surprisingly intimate gesture. He sent her Latin blood racing.
    In the style of his generation, which, depending on how you counted, was one or two behind hers, he was so laid back that she wasn’t sure what his intentions were, or if he had any intentions at all. When an old acquaintance of hers approached with an endless list of have-you-seen-so-and-so-latelys, Jake excused himself and slipped off into another room. Julia hid her disappointment but felt consoled by the fact that—at her instigation—they’d already exchanged phone numbers. She caught sight of him later, but he was deep in a conversational scrum in the kitchen.
    Eventually Philippa approached to ask if Julia wanted to share a taxi home. Philippa lived in the Cross; she could drop Julia off at her warehouse in Surry Hills on the way. In the cab, they talked about the party. Julia neglected to mention her meeting with Jake. It wasn’t that she didn’t want Philippa to know. But she was superstitious about such things and believed that telling tales too early on might put a jinx on the whole enterprise.
    Anyway, there they were, five days later, in a discreet Indian restaurant on a side street in Glebe. After a brief stocktake of the dishes to check that nothing edible remained, Jake suppressed a burp and extended his hand across the table to cover hers. She let her middle finger curl lightly into his