Heat

Paint by numbers

 SO I'm never drinking again – ever – not with my little brother anyway – ever.

Not homemade Mai-Tai's, Pina Coladas and Mojitos – Not ever.

I never drink that stuff – ever. I'm a Scotch drinker.

Scott is evil.

Things out of my garden – evil!

Hang-over – deadly.

It's 4.30am in the morning and I'm standing kitchen in my new skimpy emerald green satin nightie, brought back from Melbourne by my sister as a thank you for babysitting her kids. As I said to Di when I pulled said garment out of the bag and Tom surreptitiously looked over clocking what it was and then smiling the most evil grin ever – hey I babysat the kids too why does he get the present. Though to be honest it feels cool and calming on my poor hung-over body.

I'm making hummus and cutting up fruit and vegies – in the dark - my head is swimming. Right now I want to kill my family because if it wasn't for them I'd be curled up in my bed with an Adonis wrapped around me and my nightie on the floor.

I hear a noise on the stairs and the aforementioned man-god sticks his head around the kitchen door and smiles so loud it hurts my head.

"No don't, don't be cheerful and bouncy at 4.30am – I may have to slap you!" I groan, my head is going to explode sometime soon I'm sure. He comes behind and puts his arms around me laying a gentle kiss on my hair like his touch can cure a hang-over.

He runs his hands over the satin of my nightie and sighs pulling me in closer to his body.

"I'm sorry darling," he soothes in my ear.

"It's not every day I get to go out fishin to Cook Island and the Bomie at the five mile," he says slipping effortlessly into an Australian accent.

I laugh and instantly regret it, groaning in pain.

"Oh no don't, don't make me laugh – can't we just go to bed and you can make me forget my hang-over," I sigh as he pulls me closer.

"I take it my beautiful GIRLFRIEND didn't sleep well?" he whispers. He's saying that word a lot, trying it on for size seeing what my reaction is to it. It's his way of making it clear that whatever it is we are doing it's not a summer fling- we'll see when the real world comes in, we'll see.

"Megan Thompson slept if you mean it in the sense of passing out on the lounge on the veranda and then waking up in her bed – alone - with the alarm screaming in her ears and a headache threatening to split her cranium!"

He laughs – "I didn't want to take advantage of a drunk woman – not the first time – from here on out you're fair game though," he says low and sexy and I really wish I could drag him to bed.

But no rather than spending the day with me, he's going out with my family.

Not knowing about Melbourne or Scott's plans for Byron, dad booked a fishing trip for today for him and his boys – a bit of bonding time over a beer or two. He'd forgotten about it until the phone rang yesterday after lunch to remind him. Usually he'd just take the boys out in his tinnie but he wanted to do it right and had booked a charter so they could have fun without worrying about boats and gear and stuff.  Mum had been dubious about this trip – what with Christmas and Boxing day and dad's hospital trip visit but dad had sweet talked her. He was good at that.

He's been doing it for 50 years. After finally taking the bullet in his teeth and asking her out at the old Cabarita Ski Gardens where she worked with his brother (after never even talking to her before) he managed to convince her to become engaged just 10 days later before he left for Vietnam. A fishing trip with the boys was nothing.