All is revealed

Rebecca stirred as Chris rose at 6AM for his usual regime of a high-protein energy shake and a run before heading over to Mr Pratt’s place to give the Bentley a bit of a polish before the old man drove into town for his busy day of meetings with competitors and legal proceedings.

But before that, Chris would get The Age and have a quick flick through it to see if there were any interesting environmentally themed stories. He loved nothing more than finding some story about how villagers in New Guinea or Costa Rica were cutting down rainforests or selling off their wildlife.

“It’s disgusting,” he’d say with a shake of his head, “Some people will just do anything for money. Haven’t they got any dignity?”

Today though, it would be different. Rebecca luxuriated in the warmth of the bed, comforted by the knowledge that Caroline would be arriving at the office at 10AM for a two hour session. She let her fingers run down her tanned flank and considered feeding the gerbil before she got up, but instead decided to restrain herself and allow Caroline the pleasure of awakening her flower later that morning.

It was lucky that Rebecca hadn’t begun a lady shuffle, because Chris burst into the room brandishing the paper.

“What the bloody hell is this? Have you been letting that old bag from the paper dine at the Y?” he demanded.

Rebecca froze, unsure of what to say. She blinked and saw what was unmistakably her office filling the front page of the paper. And in the examination chair there was … no, it couldn’t be, there it was, her own form draped across the broad leather expanse, back arched and legs akimbo, her lustrous mane tossed back with pure sexual release, while below, between her thighs, the unmistakable red mane of Caroline Wilson, so far engrossed in Rebecca’s most intimate place that her face was partly obscured.

“I, I, I … I don’t know what to say,” she spluttered.

“Well, you better bloody think of something,” Chris snapped, “Because when I get back from washing Mr Pratt’s car, we’re going to have to have a serious talk about this. It's already affecting my aura, I can sense it. I feel really unbalanced, like through the core babes.”

Meanwhile, at a dingy tramstop in Fitzroy, another person was reading The Age with a mixture of jealousy and disgust. How could Caroline do this? Her Caroline. And with that jazzy little tramp too.

The tram’s bell tolled ominously as Sam got up and pushed her way into the crush. This could not stand. Something had to be done. She knew her Caroline, her silly bloody lovely Caroline wasn’t to blame. Her head had been turned by the strumpet Twigley, with her long legs and her speech therapy.

Well Sam might not have a model’s figure, and she might just be a humble journalist, not some high falutin doctor type, but she did have a brain, and a steely will to get what she wanted.