white shirt unbuttoned to his navel, flashing tantalising
glimpses of extremely cut abs and large biceps. They were buff,
exceptionally well-groomed, smooth and tanned. They looked like
porn stars.
Noticing the sign, t hey walked directly over to us, ignoring
the curious, admiring and envious looks thrown by the mere mortals
surrounding them. The woman looked Bick and me up and down, her
almond-shaped, topaz-coloured eyes widening with interest as she
took in Bick’s muscular body, wavy black hair, midnight blue eyes
and cheeky grin.
“ We’re Biggen Harder,” she purred, and it
was almost more than I could bear.
I pinch ed my thighs viciously, my eyes watering with the effort of
not sniggering. But it was no use – the laughter erupted out of my
mouth and I tried to cover it by coughing, turning away.
“ Back in a sec . . . ” I gasped and ran off to find a water
bubbler, laughing all the way, tears streaming down my face. By the
time I had a few sips of water, splashed my face, thought of
something sad, thought of Heller getting angry at me for spoiling
Bick’s professionalism, and walked back, I had myself under control
and presented a calm demeanour.
“ My apologies for that. Annoying tickle in
my throat,” I said as charmingly as I could, introducing myself to
them both, still careful not to look at Bick. After all the
handshaking and ‘pleased to meet yous’, Bick hunted down a trolley.
We helped the married couple with their enormous pile of luggage,
more than anyone could ever possibly need for a visit of less than
a week. They’d brought at least four suitcases each.
It was hard to tell if they’d expected any fans to be at the
airport to also greet them, but they’d have been disappointed if
they had, because there were none to be seen. They didn’t appear to
me to be too bothered though, probably content enough with the
attention they attracted from everybody in the vicinity. The Biggen
Harder roadshow was not something people saw every day.
We barely managed to squeeze their entire
luggage into the back of the 4WD. Bick had to push hard to fit it
in while I quickly slammed the door. We crossed our fingers that it
wouldn’t burst open while we drove, spraying unsuspecting drivers
with Busty and Roger’s probably rather exotic undies. Bick and I
took the front, leaving the backseat for the clients. After
chatting for a while, we found them surprisingly likeable –
friendly and down-to-earth. If I closed your eyes and just listened
to them, not seeing their erotic personas, I would have sworn they
were Mr and Mrs Average from London.
“ Either of you s een any of our work?” Roger casually
asked.
“ Yes,” Bick and I said
simultaneously.
“Great. Did you watch it together? Are you
two . . .?”
“ Definitely not,” Bick assured with
indecent haste. I shot him an offended glanc e. “Tilly and my boss are . . .” He
searched his mind for the right term, coming up with nothing better
than a generic, “You know.”
“ Involved?” suggested Busty, with
surprising tact.
“ That’s the word. Heller and she are very
involved.”
“ I can speak for myself, Bick,” I snapped
at him, annoyed. “Especially about my personal
relationships.”
“ Whoops,” laughed Roger. “Looks as though
you’ve been put in your place, mate.”
“ So how did you meet Heller, Tilly?”
asked Busty, showing
what seemed to be genuine interest.
“I used to work for him.”
“ She was suspended for twelve
months.”
“ Bick!” I hissed at him. “They’re not
interested in my life history.”
“So working for Trent Dawson isn’t a
permanent job for you?”
“ No. I’ll return to Heller’s at the end of the twelve months.”
“ Won’t that be rather awkward for you?”
asked Roger, clasping his wife’s hand. They exchanged a glance. “I
know we found it difficult sometimes working together on the same
movie when we first started going out.”
“ It probably will be
glimpses of extremely cut abs and large biceps. They were buff,
exceptionally well-groomed, smooth and tanned. They looked like
porn stars.
Noticing the sign, t hey walked directly over to us, ignoring
the curious, admiring and envious looks thrown by the mere mortals
surrounding them. The woman looked Bick and me up and down, her
almond-shaped, topaz-coloured eyes widening with interest as she
took in Bick’s muscular body, wavy black hair, midnight blue eyes
and cheeky grin.
“ We’re Biggen Harder,” she purred, and it
was almost more than I could bear.
I pinch ed my thighs viciously, my eyes watering with the effort of
not sniggering. But it was no use – the laughter erupted out of my
mouth and I tried to cover it by coughing, turning away.
“ Back in a sec . . . ” I gasped and ran off to find a water
bubbler, laughing all the way, tears streaming down my face. By the
time I had a few sips of water, splashed my face, thought of
something sad, thought of Heller getting angry at me for spoiling
Bick’s professionalism, and walked back, I had myself under control
and presented a calm demeanour.
“ My apologies for that. Annoying tickle in
my throat,” I said as charmingly as I could, introducing myself to
them both, still careful not to look at Bick. After all the
handshaking and ‘pleased to meet yous’, Bick hunted down a trolley.
We helped the married couple with their enormous pile of luggage,
more than anyone could ever possibly need for a visit of less than
a week. They’d brought at least four suitcases each.
It was hard to tell if they’d expected any fans to be at the
airport to also greet them, but they’d have been disappointed if
they had, because there were none to be seen. They didn’t appear to
me to be too bothered though, probably content enough with the
attention they attracted from everybody in the vicinity. The Biggen
Harder roadshow was not something people saw every day.
We barely managed to squeeze their entire
luggage into the back of the 4WD. Bick had to push hard to fit it
in while I quickly slammed the door. We crossed our fingers that it
wouldn’t burst open while we drove, spraying unsuspecting drivers
with Busty and Roger’s probably rather exotic undies. Bick and I
took the front, leaving the backseat for the clients. After
chatting for a while, we found them surprisingly likeable –
friendly and down-to-earth. If I closed your eyes and just listened
to them, not seeing their erotic personas, I would have sworn they
were Mr and Mrs Average from London.
“ Either of you s een any of our work?” Roger casually
asked.
“ Yes,” Bick and I said
simultaneously.
“Great. Did you watch it together? Are you
two . . .?”
“ Definitely not,” Bick assured with
indecent haste. I shot him an offended glanc e. “Tilly and my boss are . . .” He
searched his mind for the right term, coming up with nothing better
than a generic, “You know.”
“ Involved?” suggested Busty, with
surprising tact.
“ That’s the word. Heller and she are very
involved.”
“ I can speak for myself, Bick,” I snapped
at him, annoyed. “Especially about my personal
relationships.”
“ Whoops,” laughed Roger. “Looks as though
you’ve been put in your place, mate.”
“ So how did you meet Heller, Tilly?”
asked Busty, showing
what seemed to be genuine interest.
“I used to work for him.”
“ She was suspended for twelve
months.”
“ Bick!” I hissed at him. “They’re not
interested in my life history.”
“So working for Trent Dawson isn’t a
permanent job for you?”
“ No. I’ll return to Heller’s at the end of the twelve months.”
“ Won’t that be rather awkward for you?”
asked Roger, clasping his wife’s hand. They exchanged a glance. “I
know we found it difficult sometimes working together on the same
movie when we first started going out.”
“ It probably will be
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