Pants on Fire Read Free Page A

with riding boots and a blue and white striped shirt. It should have been dorky, but it suited him so well it didn’t matter. In fact, he looked bloody gorgeous. He didn’t seem the type who’d ask a girl in a pink Pucci catsuit to dance, but he did look like he might have a house with verandahs round it, so I wasn’t arguing.
    â€œIt looks like quite a few horses have trodden on that hat,” I said, as he whirled me into his arms and rocked me from side to side.
    â€œThey have. And quite a few cows.”
    â€œAre you a farmer?”
    â€œOnly at weekends.”
    â€œWhat do you do during the week?”
    â€œI’m a stockbroker.”
    I took advantage of a two-hand double up-and-under to hide my grin. A good-looking broker who liked the country enough to have his own farm. This was the kind of man I’d been searching for. Someone like me, who loved the fast pace of the city but also needed to escape into nature. Someone who liked horses and gardens as well as dancing and parties. This was the man I had come to Australia to meet. A million miles from Mr. Advertising Genius and his taste for jail-bait. A man with solid values, good teeth and a sheepdog. Just perfect for a girl like Georgia.
    By the time he pulled me into a waltz hold I was wondering where to get the towels embroidered. B&GR—a very nice monogram, good round letters. Georgiana Ryan, how do you do? I was considering names for our second son and worrying about where to send him to school when Billy stuck his tongue in my mouth. A real oral invasion. Squirmy and slimy, like a conger eel, not at all erotic.
    â€œYou’re a great dancer,” he said, while I gaped at him, speechless. “I’ll find you later for another boogie,” he added, kissing me again, this time on the cheek, and then he just left me, alone on the dance floor.
    Still too stunned to say anything, I watched him go over to a tall, lean fellow, wearing the same kind of hat, who was standing by the wall. The tall guy shook Billy’s hand enthusiastically and then they did some kind of primitive display of male bonding that involved a lot of back-slapping and grinning and head-shaking. I wished David Attenborough was around to do the commentary. Whatever they were up to, they both seemed to find something very amusing. I sincerely hoped it wasn’t me and began to wonder whether coming to a party full of strangers had been such a good idea.
    As they disappeared into the next room, still slapping and grinning, I caught sight of a familiar penis on the other side of the studio and made for it. I was just about to tap Jasper flirtatiously on the shoulder when I realised he was holding court to a group of about ten people crammed on an old sofa. I stood to one side to watch.
    â€œThen Toohey comes into the room, like this . . .” Jasper crossed his eyes and trudged with bended knees, his teeth in the goofy position.
    â€œ ‘I jus’ wanna kiss ya, Raylene,’ ” he said in an exaggerated Australian accent. “ ‘I jus’ wanna kiss ya. I won’t do nothin’ else, I promise, Raylene.”
    Then he stood up straight, stuck out his bum and chest and pouted. “So Raylene says, ‘Well, you can kiss me, Toohey, but don’t touch me hair.’ ”
    His eyes blazing, arms waving around as he made his points, Jasper held his audience rapt.
    â€œ. . . So that’s the whole point,” he continued. “Toohey is all of us. He’s the quintessential Australian. When he can’t tell Raylene he loves her, he is all of Australia—he’s a kangaroo, he’s a jackaroo, he’s an Aboriginal kid playing with a stick, he’s Olivia Newton-John, Kylie Minogue and Natalie Imbruglia on smack, he’s a Mardi Gras queen with a sparkly jock-strap up his arse, he’s a shark, a dingo, a traffic cop in tight pants, a Bondi lifesaver and a bent Kings Cross copper, he’s