What did he think - that she was a nymphomaniac looking for a sugar-daddy, or that he was going to turn into a child-molester overnight? All she'd suggested was that he used the couch at her place until he got his act into gear. How could that make matters any worse than they already were?
He heard footsteps approaching and the door opened. Her image was blurred and he could only see it through one eye, but he could tell it was Liz. He couldn't recall being so relieved to almost see someone for a long time. Dizziness made him unsteady and he used the door-frame for support.
"Jesus!" Liz stared for a moment, drinking in the spectacle, trying to rationalise it. Finally, she said: "What happened to you?"
Del felt a smile coming, but held it back because he knew it would hurt. "Can I come in? I'll try not to mess up your carpet."
She ushered him gently into the small hallway, then through to the kitchen. "Sit down. I've got a first aid box somewhere." She rushed out and was back in less than a minute. When she looked at his injuries again, the small kit she had just opened on the table seemed nothing short of useless. "I think you need a hospital. Did you get run over by a truck or something?"
"Just the driver and some of his mates." His explanation came across as a mumble which had as much to do with his physical condition as the booze. "Nothing's broken."
"You can't be sure."
"I know...," he began angrily, then managed to calm himself. It wasn't her fault. "I know what I feel, Liz. Do the best you can. I'll be right."
She went to the sink, part-filled a plastic bowl with water, then returned and splashed a generous measure of Dettol into it. She began dabbing at his face with cotton wool drenched in the solution, biting her lip each time he flinched. "You should have come straight back with me and this wouldn't have happened."
"I know that now -ouch! - don't I?"
"You guys make out you're so tough."
"But we're pussycats, right?"
"I didn't mean that. You just seem to think you can handle everything."
"Out on the rig we can. It's different here. People are different."
"When do you go back?"
He had to wait until she had cleaned up his swollen lip. "Day after tomorrow."
"It's not much of a break. There." She straightened up and stood back to review her handiwork. "Christ, Del, you're a mess," she decided and began to clear the table. "I didn't notice your bags. Did you leave them somewhere?"
"I can't remember."
"It doesn't matter."
"Don't tell me," he slurred smugly, or tried to, "There are some of your boyfriend's clothes here that might fit." He finished with a chuckle that ended as a groan.
Liz paused and stared at him. "You've got a smart mouth, Del Presswood. I don't wonder those truckies tried to take your head off. I was going to say that I'll borrow something from my Dad for you tomorrow, but if you want to go out in the street looking like a...."
Del had got up and limped over to her. He placed a finger gently on her lips. He was about to say something, an apology perhaps, but instead he found himself just looking at her. She, in turn, was gazing at him. Her lips were parted, silent but for the faint whisper of her breath. It was a moment in time, fleeting, but it was there and would not be forgotten. Even as he drew her to him and she pressed her cheek against his shoulder, the closeness didn't have the same power as that brief spark of magic which had already passed between them.
Del sighed. He wasn't sure if it was caused by relief or disappointment, but he did feel strange inside. They remained holding each other for a while; then parted as if by mutual consent. Liz pointed at a doorway. "Go through. The fire's on. Are you hungry?" She caught the shake of his head. "How about a drink, then? There's some in the cabinet by the TV."
Where had this girl been all his life? By now, Sally would have been half-way through the temperance lecture, but Liz...? "I think I'd prefer something hot." He flicked his tongue carefully around his mouth and could still taste blood. "Well, warm, anyway."
"Okay," she said in a cheerful, sing-song tone. "Make yourself at home. I'll only be a minute."
She was actually three or more, time enough to fix an instant coffee, take it through to the lounge and find Del flopped on the couch and out to the world.
He had no idea of the time when he woke, only that he was in a sweat and didn't know where the hell he was. He stumbled around, tripping over furniture which shouldn't have been there, searching for an apparently non-existent light switch. He was in so much confusion that he didn't hear her come in, and even when she put on the light, he simply squinted through a dazzling haze at a mere ghost of a figure. "Sally?"
The blur advanced until he could distinguish some features, then he knew he was wrong. She went to him, took his arm and led him back across the room. "No, Del - it's me, Liz. You're in my flat. Don't you remember?"
He frowned briefly as the haze cleared. "Yes, sorry. I think I must have been dreaming." A switch clicked and they were in darkness for a while. His bare feet touched the chill smoothness of glazed floor tiles although he couldn't recall taking his shoes off. Then they were entering another room. Tufts of shag-pile carpet were curling under his toes and the air was sweeter somehow, not heavily scented, just decidedly feminine. She lowered him and he found he was sitting on the edge of a bed. She left him for a moment. Another light clicked on, a softer one this time. He looked around, bewildered and a little hesitant. "But this is your room. I shouldn't be in here, Liz. It's not why I came. I didn't intend ...."
"Neither did I Del." She came over to him and stroked his hair. "And I'm not forcing you into anything. I just don't think you should be alone tonight and I don't fancy the lounge-room floor." She chuckled. "If it makes you feel better, I'll put on one of Dad's boiler suits and you can sleep in your clothes. I just want to be with you, Del."
He nodded. "Thanks, Liz, but I'm an oil man, not a saint. I couldn't guarantee to__." He suddenly realised how little he knew about John Stanley's secretary. Suggestive comments across her desk in the office were one thing, but here in her bedroom they could drop him into more hot water than a little. “__to do the right thing," he finished awkwardly.
"Del." She crouched before him and looked into his eyes. "I'm not after a lasting relationship and I don't consider you a one-night stand. I'd just like to be your friend. Any way you want - I don't mind."
He shook his head sadly. "I don't know what I want any more, Liz. Things keep going sour. It's getting to the stage where I daren't form any attachments because I know I'm going to make a mess of them. I know oil, and that's all I know. Maybe I'd better stick to just being a toolpusher."
She bowed her head and glanced at the floor between his feet. "I've never been screwed by a toolpusher before." When she looked up, she was trying to wipe a smile from her face. "I'm sorry. That was crude."
"No, it's called being honest. Maybe I ought to try it. Might be good for me. Just don't say I didn't warn you. Now, which side do you want - left or right?"
She reached forward and began to unbutton his shirt. "It's a single bed, Del - all it's got is a middle." She opened the front of the shirt to reveal a massive scrape and the start of a bruise on his chest. "Oh,
