She has a way of sliding easily under his skin; it's always infuriating. The way she can press his buttons without having to try. The lance of her humour always finding its mark; connecting gently, with affection, in a spirit of teasing, but always powerfully enough to dismount him from his confidence and knock the wind out of him. The whole thing's secretly about power, Tim reckons. That's the most infuriating thing of all, that she has the power to reduce him to a...


"What's this?" she says, holding up his new stationary caddy. It's in the form of a ridiculous bird, its fat body divided into compartments for pens, paper clips, etcetera. Its balloon­ish, cartoon head, wobbling on its long spring neck, as though it fears her. Her mocking smile slowly growing up into her face, despite the fake expression of disinterest.

"Mary bought it for me," he says, disowning the thing. Trying to grab it out of her hand. But she spins away, cooing: "Aww! How sweet! Your wifey bought it for you. A lickle friend to keep you company at work.."

"Leona, please..."

She can see, she's done it already; hit the mark She replaces the bird on his desk, giggling.

"Sorry, sweety," she says. "Anyway. I've typed up those letters you wanted - do you want me to send them as well?"

"Please...”

"Fine. Just thought I'd check Anything else you need me for today? Or have you and your mate here got it covered?" The smile again, a little nod at the stationary bird.

"We're ... No. Its fine, thanks Leona. I'll be fine."

"I'm off to the Post Office then. See you tomorrow... lover boy." Another direct hit, as she swirls out of the room, her red mane and her long skirt swishing. Tim wishing he'd never ended up in her bed all those years before, when he started as the office junior.
…
It's a small outfit; a regional office for a packaging supplier. But all Tim ever sees is paper. Monitoring sales figures and negotiating orders. Quite boring some might say but a job he takes pride in, a job demanding self motivation and ... maturity.

He'd been surprised to find himself promoted to office manager, when old Mr. Johnstone retired. Alarmed, actually, but Leona has nursed him through it. She's nursed him through since the beginning. Tim arousing some latent matemal instinct in her. She administered drinks and encouragement down at the pub after work, which led to...

Sex. With Leona. The secretary who's now fifty, though still an attractive woman. But more like an annoying big sister now. Tim is thirty-five, the age Leona had been back then. But Leona is a man-eater essentially, and not a mother. She soon lost interest in the sexual side of their relationship, off to hunt in other pastures. She retains the power though; of having seduced him and knowing him intimately, his vulnerability...

He's always had a thing for older women. He remembers his therapist, a middle-aged balding man, entirely passionless:

"Text book case," the therapist had told him, stifling a yawn. "A rejecting, critical mother whose affection and acceptance you're still seeking."

…


What nonsense, Tim thinks. Thirty bucks an hour - for that? No wonder he's stopped going. He's not a child, looking for his mummy. He's a thirty five year old adult, managing an office. And besides, he has Mary now anyway.

Mary is Maori, with long glossy black hair and a curvaceous figure. An easy going nature and a harmless sarcastic wit. She has this way of folding her arms and looking at him side-on as if to say, 'idiot'. But really it means, 'I love you'. She seduced him too, kind of. She pursued him; took charge of things and helped him tidy up his act. She's nine years his senior but the age difference has never been a problem. There has never been any problem, until now.

Tim hadn't really considered Jacob, Mary's twelve year old son, when they'd impulsively married in the first throb of romance. Jacob had rarely been mentioned; the youngest child from Mary's former marriage, he'd been sent to be raised by Mary's elder sister in the far north. Mary had always referred to Jacob as her 'baby', and he had remained with her in a sense; the totemic photograph in its wooden frame taking pride of place on the mantelpiece; a dark skinned, currant- eyed boy with a white slash of a smile; a mischievous, cunning smile. An arrogance perhaps... Tim imagined he might be the sort of boy who would delight in pulling the wings off flies. But it mattered little; it was as though he had been drugged by Mary's love, and her child remained only an absent presence, revered but powerless to affect, like a Buddha. Trapped beneath a glass plate, motionless and silent, and Tim never believing or considering for a second that he might easily escape the parameters of that carved wooden frame; spill out into their actual world. Which is what has happened

…

Jacob is waiting when Tim pulls into the driveway; standing removed on the front lawn with a devilish smirk on his face. One hairless shin crossing over the other and hips rocking slightly, casually. Too casually. Pretending to examine his precious remote-control car but glancing up expectantly every time he thinks Tim's not looking. Very suspicious.

Tim has to be careful. Jacob is extremely immature for his age, and it turns out Tim was right about him being sadistic. Images flash in Tim's mind, images from over the year since Jacob arrived; Mary offering the pudding bowl for Jacob to run his finger in (she always used to let me do that); Tim being so adult, taking his ready-made family to the beach and Mary buying her and Jacob an ice-cream and not even thinking that Tim might want one, not even noticing as she walked ahead holding Jacob's hand, engrossed in their catch­up conversation (we used to laugh and. talk together like that); Tim lowering a sandwich he's about to take a bite from as he realises the wiggling feet placed deliberately on the coffee table in front of him (hold on, those are my socks!). And every time, there's that look on Jacob's face - the look that Mary never catches. Delighted at having discovered yet another button to press. So that now there are images of Tim strangling the little brat. A recurring fantasy. The currant eyes wide with terror, realising too late that the line has actually been crossed, and not pushed further back as usual. Ha Ha! Who's laughing now? You little...

Tim is jolted back to reality. The car shakes and there's a loud crack of plastic. He's overshot the mark and hit the garage wall; but how did that happen? The tennis ball hanging from the roof to mark the stopping point is ... hang on. Someone's moved it. As Tim gets out and examines his damaged bumper, he can hear stifled giggles coming from the direction of the front lawn. He rushes out, roaring: "Oi! Come here, you!"

Jacob laughs at first, running like it's a game. But when he realises Tim's not playing around he starts straight for the kitchen and his mother, bleating for her protection.

"What's going on," Mary snaps, annoyed.

"That bloody little... He moved my tennis ball, in the garage. He made me run the car into the wall...”

"I didn't realise what it was for, mum, honest! I was playing a game, hitting the ball on the string with a stick. I had to move it, to get it to bounce off the back wall, so I could do volleys. I never realised! I'm sorry!" Eyes wide and whimpering, the picture of innocence as his mother's arm slides protectively around his little shoulder. But Tim isn't satisfied: "He did it on purpose, Mary."

So Mary fixes her son with a serious, intense look, and says "Jacob, tell me the truth. Did you do it on purpose?"

So that all Jacob has to do is hold his mother's eye, swallow down the feigned dread of her authority and state:

"No, mum. I promise, I didn't."

"Oh - Come off it!" scoffs Tim. "He's lying through his teeth,can't you see that? He's playing you Mary."

But Mary just gives Tim that look that says, 'idiot' - only this time it doesn't mean 'I love you' at all. Tim feels that maybe he has been an idiot. A complete sap perhaps, since the beginning of their relationship.

"I trust my son", she says. "And I know he'd never lie to me."

And Tim looks down at Jacob, this twelve year old kid; and even if he IS a menace that's deliberately out to make Tim's life a misery, Tim can understand why. The boy nuzzles into Mary's breast, making the most of the situation. Twelve years old but still needing those arms about him every so often.

Tim sees the stupidity of his previous ideals; how he imagined he could be admired, in a fatherly sort of role perhaps, and he could teach the boy things and take him places and the two of them would become fast friends, and the three of them would all live happily ever after. When all he ever was, in the boy's sight, was a rival. When the whole thing, since Jacob's arrival, was only ever a tournament.

But Tim is the adult. He will be the bigger man, he assures himself. He will not be drawn into combat over the prize of Mary's love, but will leave it for the one who needs it more. He feels very noble, an hour later, dropping a suitcase into the boot of his steed, preparing to ride off into the sunset. Reversing out of the garage while Mary remains in the kitchen, staring out at the back yard with her arms folded and her jaw set in defiance, refusing to care. And Jacob is waiting, standing as before on the front lawn. A triumphant grin on his face; a look of satisfaction that says, 'victory is mine'.

It was an accident, honest, thinks Tim, as he steers the car a little off the drive and over the edge of the front lawn. The look of triumph on Jacob's face dissolves with the loud crack of plastic; his precious remote control car crunching beneath the tyre. Tim straightens again and reverses out onto the street then puts the car into first and rolls slowly away. He leans out of the driver's window and pokes his tongue out at the now distressed Jacob. Tim is an adult. Starting from. . . Now!

He finds himself at Leona's flat.

"You just packed up and left? I'm impressed," she purrs, raising one eyebrow and looking genuinely surprised. "And crushing the little monster's car, too. I've never seen that aggressive side of you before, sweety. I think I like it."

She produces a bottle of wine and slips into something a little more comfortable, a lot more revealing. They sit and talk together, like the old days. Leona stretches, luxuriant and licentious, and announces that she can make up a bed for him on the couch, or if he prefers... She glances promisingly toward the bedroom. Fifty years old but still needing those arms about her every so often. . .

"No thanks, Leona," he says, grinning sheepishly. "No offence, but..."

She shakes her mane of hair as if to say, it's quite alright, I'm not hurt in the slightest.

"Your loss, Sweety," she jokes, leaning over and giving him a peck on the forehead as he settles back on the couch. She pulls the spare quilt over him and runs her fingers through his hair, and he can see the large wobbling breasts, pale and pendulous. Trapped beneath but hardly contained by the lacy border of her night-gown, threatening to spill out. Nipples poking out from under the satin. She's immediately close, leaning over him, and her smell awakens hundreds of sensuous memories.

"Goodnight, Leona," he says; determined. And he thinks he hears a little broken sigh as she withdraws.

"Awww," she coos at last. "Little Timmy's growing up", and she squeezes the cheek of his face. But she continues to squeeze, harder, until it hurts, until he reacts. Tim pushes her hand away and pleads helplessly:

"Get off, Leona! Leave me alone!"

As she begins to tickle him, reducing him to a squirming, giggling mess. Until he picks up his pillow and beats her away with it. She runs shrieking and laughing into the bedroom, and Tim hears the door close softly behind her. He watches the dust motes swirling in the air, and smiles. Maybe he'll always be a kid at heart. But maybe that's not so bad.

---

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