Fiction

The universal joint

It was the first anniversary of her father’s death and Angela was drifting in a world between magic realism and romantic fiction. She shut the massive front door of the elegant mansion behind her as she set out for the office, descending the steps to the pristine gravel drive that was lined with urns of flowers and writhing marble statues.

At the touch of a button, the garage door lifted silently, revealing her late father’s collection of vintage cars. Her life was lonely, but Angela drew comfort from running her father’s import–export business. Her favourite car was the Jaguar XKR from 2010. It squatted in its place, waiting for her, black and brooding.

She patted the Jag affectionately as she eased her slender body into the driver’s position. Her classic navy business suit and pure white Italian silk shirt concealed the subtle allure of her French underwear. The leather of the seat welcomed her with a soft sigh. As she checked her make-up in the mirror, her clear grey eyes gazed back at her steadily. Her long chestnut tresses flowed gracefully to her shoulders. Curls. A sudden image of her father’s arch enemy in business, handsome Cliff Steele, darkened her thoughts. She shook it away, twisting the key in the ignition. The engine surged into joyful life. Angela wriggled her toes in her Manolo Blahnik Hangisi flats (silk with jewel buckle).

She knew for a fact that the Jag’s universal joint was on its last legs, yet she chose it above the others. It carried such memories of her father. Abruptly, it shrieked. There was a shuddering, a tearing, a clang. She had, with one careless gesture, somehow destroyed the universal joint.

From the shadows of the garage, she heard the sound of a mocking laugh. Soft, animal, menacing. She knew that laugh. Cliff Steele. He moved towards her with the sure-footed tread of a hunting panther. His eyes glowed a dangerous shade of amber, glimmering in the gloom of the murky garage. Angela’s practised eye took in at a glance his immaculate Italian business suit, dazzling snowy Irish linen shirt, carelessly knotted burgundy Dior tie. Where on earth had he come from? How had he materialised, there among the vintage cars? She would never know.

“But, but…” she stammered, her voice thin, her breath in short gasps. “I thought you were in…”

“Tasmania? Huh! As if.” He growled, his lip curling with derision. “You were mistaken, my dear.” His horrible laugh, his amber eyes. His powerful hand reached for the doorhandle of the faithful Jag, which was unable to resist, and gripped Angela by the wrist, jerking her from the embrace of her seat.

As she left the Jag, she felt herself melting in his touch, and all her secret feelings for him came surging up in waves of longing. Was she about to betray her father? A tsunami of desire swept over her. Something primitive within her stirred and, almost before she knew it, she was inside the house. Cliff Steele, the old enemy, her secret passion, took her in his arms. Had she mistaken him in the past? Did her father have it wrong? She did not even pause to consider.

Grey and amber eyes met – and locked for an eternity. His voice was now a husky whisper of desire; his lips joined sweetly with hers. She suddenly heard her father’s voice: “Steele has the strength of an ox.” A hot and sweaty lethargy invaded her as he lifted her up and swept her into the bedroom where he placed her on the vast downy bed.

She flowed into his arms and the ceiling above them arched, a deep blue heaven. Looking up, he said: “Angela, I believe you have renovated.”

“Yes. It was a nightmare – and I am still unsure about the chandeliers.”

Her mind drifted back over the months of quotes and tradesmen and dust, the doof-doof-doof of the tradies’ music. A silent glissade of tears glittered and trembled on the pale peach of her cheeks. He reached out to comfort her distress. All thought of the Jag and the joint had long since dissolved. Angela’s body flowed into Cliff’s embrace as her business suit slid onto the soft mushroom carpet, new that week. Her suit was followed by his, and she felt the raw, vital masculine reality of him against her nakedness. The floor was a beach of crumpled underwear.

Her entire being thrilled. Her mind drifted. She could feel the primitive beat of her own heart, could sense the rare jungle perfume of his being.

A strange light, something more ethereal than the chandelier, meandered across the azure arch of the ceiling. A rainbow twinge in her shoulders. She was growing wings that spread in angelic waves until she, with Cliff in her arms, was aloft, soaring on his kisses, thrilling to his touch, lost in ecstasy, flying across the peaks of fulfilment, plunging in a moment of wild desire.

Afterwards, still floating aloft, she asked softly: “Why did you come here today, Cliff Steele?”

“It is a year since your dear father passed. I imagined I might comfort you in your sadness. I wanted to invite you to the local pigeon shoot. Will you come with me? Forget old wounds and come to the shoot?”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Angela said yes. She dropped her eyes and then she raised them again to meet his. Yes. The two soared heavenwards again. Their bodies mingled and fused.

Repairs to the XKR could wait.

This article was first published in the print edition of The Saturday Paper on September 13, 2025 as "The universal joint".

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