Detained by Ainslie Paton

against her skin, silk on silk. She sat opposite him, devouring a fruit tart after a main course of salmon. She ate like she enjoyed food. Devoured it. She ate like she fucked. And she’d fucked like she was starving for good food. She could become a problem.
    But she wasn’t going to starve this weekend. They weren’t finished with each other by a long shot. All her reserve and hesitancy was gone now. She didn’t dodge his glance or default to shyness or caution. No more nibbling. From here on in it was full mouthfuls.
    He patted his thigh and she brought her feet up, let him massage her arches and her toes, groaned with delight when he pressed into her foot, sinking further in her chair. Her robe fell open, and she didn’t bother to try and cover her legs.
    He liked this comfort with him. He figured it was the opening act for the kind of brazenness she showed in debate. She had a plan, he could see it brewing. He just hoped it left him able to walk. Because at some point he’d have to. Without looking back.
    He parked the thought. They had hours. They had worlds to explore yet.
    She broke into his musings. “What are you thinking about?”
    “You.”
    She smiled, delighted. “Tell me.”
    He pressed his thumb into the pad of her foot and she jumped. “I was thinking about how real you are.”
    “You said that before. You’ve been hanging out with superheroes too much if you’re so impressed with my realness.”
    He laughed. “It’s a money thing. When you have money and influence people see you through its filter. They act differently. They act how they think you’re going to like them most.”
    “Is that why you don’t want me to know your name?”
    He stilled his hand, wrapped it over her foot. He didn’t want to think about this. “I get the feeling you’d see me the same way no matter what my name was.”
    “Are you sure you’re not a lawyer, or a bookie?” She was laughing at him. “You hedge your bets.”
    “Spoken like a journalist.”
    She waggled her foot under his hand. “Why do you say that?”
    “Because you’re made to question, and you don’t take things at face value.”
    She sighed. “That doesn’t do me any favours. It’s what makes it hard to love me, I think.” She looked wistful.
    “You’re just looking in the wrong places. You’re looking at men who see everything as a competition.”
    “Oh and you don’t.”
    “Sure I do. But I’m not scared of being beaten. Most men are.”
    “What makes you different?”
    He laughed and it sounded bitter to his own ears. “Because I started out beaten. Being beaten taught me everything I know. I appreciate its value.”
    “You don’t just mean the scars, do you?”
    “No. I mean beaten in a consciousness sense. Beaten so low nothing is expected of you, and you don’t expect anything of yourself.”
    “Where did you get the will to succeed?”
    “Journalist.” He shook her foot. “I’m not your lab rat.”
    She grimaced. “I know, but I can’t help wanting to understand how you did it.”
    “You mean got out of the gutter,” gestured to the room, “and into the palace?”
    She stood. Held out her hand. He let her led him into the lounge room. He sat beside her a minute then swung his legs up and stretched out, putting his head in her lap. Her hand went to his hair, like he hoped it might. But he knew the quid pro quo was a story.
    “It’s not success when there’s nothing on the flipside.”
    “I’m listening.”
    “I had a choice. Make good or subsist. Success for most people is a flexible measure. You can stuff lots of definitions into it: a job, a better job, a home, a better home, one kid or three. All depends where you started from. For me it was either never be poor again or live on the dole forever.”
    “Wait a minute. You just said, the measure of success was flexible and then gave me a rigid definition with extreme outcomes for yourself.”
    “Like I said—inconsistent.”
    She gave his hair a