There is what appears to be a small town not far from us. My feet are still aching as I attempt to lean against Jackson to put my shoes back on. My legs are dead weights. I can barely move them.
‘Here. I’ll carry you.’
‘Are you sure? I feel very heavy all of a sudden.’
He nods heroically as I clamber onto his back, clinging to him while we make our way towards the lights. I am conscious of every muscle that moves in his strong upper torso. It feels like riding a panther. His shoulders are round and firm. His latissimus dorsi is spectacular. I resist the urge to stroke it as we pass a huge sign welcoming us to Turgutries.
‘At least we know where we are,’ he says as we make our way to the main street, with me casually draped over his back like a French pullover. The only place open is ‘Club Cherry Lips’. There are no bouncers, and it looks as seedy as it sounds as we wander in. I’m immediately surprised at how packed it is, full of people dancing and music is blaring out, but at least Jackson can put me down. I spot a booth, and we hurry towards it, flopping onto the cushioned seats.
‘I can’t believe we fell asleep,’ Jackson says, still looking flummoxed.
‘I know.’
He has been repeating himself on a loop since the bus raced off and he checked his watch to see that at three in the morning it was probably the last bus of the night.
‘Are you worried you’ll miss your meeting tomorrow?’ I ask. Did he say he was here for work? I simply can’t remember.
‘Something like that,’ he says.
Within seconds, a barman flies towards us with a strange mix of what smells like a cherry-flavoured shisha to smoke and a beautifully decorated ceramic pot of apple tea with two dainty cups, a bottle of red wine and two glasses and a bowl of candied dates. ‘Excuse me. Are there any taxis outside the club? A taxi rank?’ I ask him as he sets it all out before us.
He shakes his head. ‘Sorry. No dolmus. No taxi.’
So, we have no option but to wait here until morning. We thank him and stare at the table.
‘Fair dinkum. When in Rome,’ Jackson says, picking up the shisha mouthpiece which is atop a long flexible red hose, connected to a strangely shaped blue glass water-filled bubble. And maybe because I’m still a bit drunk and high and self-conscious, because he’s so incredibly attractive, even with a bejewelled whistle-shaped pipe sticking out of his mouth, I collapse into peals of laughter.
We manage to smoke most of the shisha, drink the apple tea (deliciously sweet) and polish off half the bottle of wine before I find my voice.
‘Where exactly are you from?’ I ask. I love an Australian accent – I mean, who wouldn’t? – but they all sound the same to me.
‘Central Coast of NSW.’
‘Oh. Exciting.’Means nothing to me.
‘New South Wales?’
‘Uh-huh.’ I keep nodding. I’ve got nothing. Never even heard of the place.
A chuckle escapes from his kissable lips. ‘I can tell by the blank look you have no idea, do you?’
‘Nope.’
‘It’s just north of Sydney.’
Thank God. At last, a city I recognise. ‘Oh, yes, of course. EvenI’veheard of the capital of Australia,’ I say, accidently snorting.
He tilts his head. ‘Yeah, about that. It kinda isn’t.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘Have you heard of Canberra?’
‘No.’Has anyone?
‘Well, that’s the capital.’
‘Are you sure?’
