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Ramona raps on the window, a quick run of nails on glass. Dorothy startles up from where she’s been holding herself with her shoulders rounded stiffly over the wheel and with her hands at ten and two. Her hands are rubber as she fumbles to lower the window, watching a smile spread over Ramona’s face. Dorothy doesn’t put her fingers into the gap and cling to the edge as the window descends.
“Hi,” says Dorothy, over the mechanical hum. “I zoned out. I was-. Hi. Ramona, hi.” She can’t help but smile back. She skims a hand down to six o’clock, holding on by only a finger and catches herself leaning, helplessly towards the window, right into the cold wind dashing madly through the car park.
Ramona strokes a lock of hair back into the collar of her long coat.
“You were early,” she says, voice low and affectionate, caught on the wind and whipped straight into the car. Dorothy taps her fingers along the door handle, a tap, tap, tap, tap of her finger tips. Dorothy had allowed plenty of time for traffic. Ramona ducks to look at the dashboard. “And I’m a little late.” Dorothy cranes her neck to follow her. “I’m so glad you texted,” Ramona says.
“Get in the car. It’s freezing,” says Dorothy.
Ramona says, “Okay, baby,” and tucks her hands into her coat pockets to hustle around to the passenger door. The coat billows a little behind her, black and easily untied. Dorothy strokes the careful cream plaid of her own jacket. It’s a cape, really, and last winter it had felt like it was the height of sophistication. It needs to be buttoned or it flaps in an undignified fashion. She’d selected it carefully this morning, up well before her alarm for once and with eons of anxious extra time to fill before waking Lily up for school. Dorothy sets the window to close, pops the locks and starts up the engine and the heat with it. Ramona slides in and flings the coat around herself in an artless wrap. Artificially pink cheeked, eyes bright, she buckles herself into the seat and catches Dorothy watching.
“Love this car,” Ramona says. Dorothy turns away, eyes smarting, heart pounding. Ramona reaches for her, jumper balled up over her hand and dabs delicately at her cheek. Dorothy savours it, for a moment, the soft sweep of thin knit, even though there aren’t any tears to absorb, and then, catching Ramona’s indulgent smile she swats at her. Ramona catches her in chilled hands and knots their fingers fiercely together. “Don’t look so serious, baby,” Ramona says. “It’s all good.” She presses a kiss to their knotted knuckles. Dorothy breathes out half a laugh, manages to glance at her again. Her hand, clasped between Ramona’s is gently manoeuvred towards the hot air. Ramona keeps soft and undemanding eye contact throughout. Dorothy turns back to the wheel and tries to wipe surreptitiously at her nose with her other hand - the temperature changes, they’re lethal - and hold Ramona tighter with the other, even though the concentrated blast of heated air is baking all her moisture out of her hand.
“I need to drive.” She says eventually.
“This would be more fun if you drove stick,” Ramona says, and glides their hands over the gear stick. Destiny’s boot hits the brake without thought as Ramona guides their fingers to flick the electronic handbrake.
“Very nice,” says Ramona appreciatively. They pull away and she settles back, Dorothy’s hand cradled in her lap as she plays with the rings on Dorothy’s fingers. As they leave the car park, Dorothy reclaims her hand so that she can signal and turn the steering wheel without careening off the road and Ramona pouts exaggeratedly. Dorothy checks the brake a couple of times before she speeds up.
“Why are you living all the way out here?”
Dorothy carefully modulates her breathing.
“I kept my Grandma’s house for Lily. Could hardly have found anyone to take it for what we paid for a while there. At least, not someone who wouldn’t have knocked the whole thing down.”
Ramona touches a finger to her hand on the wheel and says, “It was always yours too. She'd want you to use it.”
“Maybe. The market’s recovering. Particularly here. I haven’t decided everything yet.” Dorothy says, and Ramona hums agreement. “Juliet?”
“You could text her,” Ramona says, “She missed you, Destiny, so much.” Dorothy peers at her out of the corner of her eye.
“I missed her too,” Dorothy says.
Indoors, once Dorothy has extracted herself from the cape, she finds Ramona running the tips of her fingers along the marble countertop in the kitchen, her heels are sharp against the tiled floor. Dorothy busies herself turning on every light she can find.
“This place is so calm,” Ramona says, black coat, black jeans, black boots, stark against the compact white sterility of the kitchen. She’s so casually put together. “Great for Lily,” she says. She runs her fingers sharply along another bit of marble countertop and looks at Dorothy, expectant. Dorothy waltzes carefully past her to hit the switch for the under cabinet lighting. Ramona flips her hair out of her collar and says, “You could put a hot pan down anywhere in here,” then she turns away and becomes inexplicably interested in twirling the rack of mugs Dorothy has installed on the counter, the kitchens one concession towards colour. Her hair is a little shorter, perhaps. She’s got all the same twisting layers and all the same brilliant highlights. Dorothy pats back her own hair. Ramona turns back and leans casually against the counters.
“This place is a good investment,” Dorothy says, “It’s difficult to get a foothold in the city, and then we came along, me and Lily. It worked out well. Room to park two cars. I have fresh orange juice. Coffee?” Ramona puts her hand on the fridge, quite at home already. “No. I’ll do it, Ramona. Go sit down.” Ramona flips her hands up like that’s no skin off her nose, slips out of her coat, abandons her bag and clips her way over to the sitting room door.
“It’s beautiful,” she says, “Really, Destiny,” and she unzips her boots, leaves her coat thrown over a breakfast stool, and pads off around the corner and onto the carpet. Her socks are glittery and turquoise, her jumper fluffy and cream. With her shoes on, she’d almost matched the decor. Dorothy tries to track her whereabouts by ear while fumbling through getting the filter in the machine.
“Milk?” she calls.
“Yes. He went to Columbia?”
Dorothy fails to find anything respectable to put the milk in and shoves a plastic measuring jug into the microwave. She grabs the orange juice.
Ramona is perched on the sofa, holding a framed picture of Lily and smiling down at it. Her long legs are elegantly crossed.
“New guy has all his certificates up in his office. He must be very proud. Let me,” She carefully places Lily’s picture on a cushion, lays out coasters on the coffee table like she’s laying out cards, and reaches up to take the glasses from Dorothy. She arranges them side by side, so that it would rude to sit in the armchair safely the other side of the room.
“Lily looks happy,” Ramona says. “That gorgeous smile. I’d love to see her.” She pulls her legs up under her, settling in.
Dorothy looks down at her, coiled up so contentedly on the cream sofa. She’d planned this out before she sent the first text, and now she can’t decide where to start. Ramona’s eyes drift back to the picture and soften.
“So what’s he like?” she asks, without it must be said, attempting to feign much interest.
“Hmm? Oh! Sweet. He’s hoping to get me a job in-.”
“In pharmaceuticals, yes, the journalist said.” That must have been over a year ago now. Ramona’s looks so understanding. Then she says, “There are worse industries, I suppose.” Dorothy smooths her shirt sleeves.
“He’s a good influence on Lily,” Ramona’s eyebrow ticks up. Dorothy flicks her own up in response. She’d stopped tweezing them when it became clear that you didn’t really have to anymore, but now they won’t grow back, so her display might lack impact in comparison. Dorothy turns her hands, in minor agonies. “He’s sweet.”
“Yes. Sweet. You’ve said.” Now she looks pleased. Dorothy narrows her eyes at her and Ramona slowly blinks and turns her shoulders, playing at innocence.
“I’ll get your coffee,” Dorothy says.
She froths the milk in the measuring jug and hands it over, faded plastic and all. Ramona doesn’t even blink at it, pouring it into her coffee.
“Have you heard from the others? Mercedes? Or Annabelle?”
“They went to prison and we didn’t, baby. They don’t want to speak to us yet.”
“Do you miss them?” Dorothy asks, breathless at having arrived, finally, at the subject to hand. “Do you think they got the call?”
Ramona tucks herself up sideways on the sofa. Dorothy twists too and takes big glug of black coffee.
“I don’t see why not. Maybe we’ll see them again, if it all really happens.”
“I miss them,” Dorothy says, then, barely able to exert some control and not rush to the grand finale, she says, “Did you get the script?” Ramona shakes her head.
“I didn’t know there was one to read.” Dorothy bites her lips.
“Don’t go back in the office, yet,” Dorothy says, and then she runs upstairs. She digs the script out of the bottom of the wardrobe.
Ramona does blink at the number of scrawled annotations.
“Baby, I don’t know if they’re interested in feedback,” she says carefully, and she reaches out to take it, flipping through the light pack. “I thought it was supposed to be a whole show?” Destiny tucks her feet under her and leans across to point out the first line of dialogue, right at the bottom of the page.
“This is the pilot,” she says. “It’s all they’d give me. I had to sign so much paper work. Possibly this is in breach of it all. But I speak first. In the pilot. It’s about me.” Ramona pages through again, more slowly, still too fast to be taking everything in. She stops, on the final page.
“They’ve changed my name to Angel Rodriguez,” Ramona says. She frowns, very delicately. Dorothy grins. Dorothy points to where she’s written lacks grandeur, next to the name Angel, underlined. Ramona frowns at that too.
“What could be grander than an angel, baby?”
“They said they were still workshopping when they sent me this. It was going to depended on casting. They’re filming already, but they won’t tell me anything else.”
“They’re not looking for extras, then,” Ramona says. Dorothy shakes her head. They haven’t paid her anything yet, for the phone calls.
“Yo Yo,” Ramona reads, she taps a finger under Dorothy’s chin. “Yo Yo. Like the cello guy? That’s kinda cute.”
“It’s not real,” Dorothy says, and Ramona says, "Why would it be real?"
Dorothy tries again: "It's not relatable. I’m relatable. Would I-. Would this me, choose to be called that?” She taps the script again. Ramona tries to hand it back to her, apparently over it.
“Destiny is a good name,” Ramona says, “so is Dorothy.” Dorothy laughs and taps the page again.
“Serious suggestions only,” she says. She’d puzzled over it for months.
“Matilda,” says Ramona quickly. “Lisa, Lucy, Kelly, Bridget.“ Dorothy gets out her phone and types studiously, leaving out Bridget.
Ramona puts an arm casually around Dorothy’s shoulders, pulling her back into the sofa cushions. The familiar rush of hair oil is a knock out blow. Dorothy closes her eyes and tilts their heads together.
“You’re not relatable,” Ramona says. “You’re aspirational. No one else dared to do what we did,” Dorothy presses her cheek into Ramona’s shoulder and shuffles so their legs are folded together. She could reach out and feel the metallic weave on Ramona’s charmingly glittery socks.
“Ramona, it was all so fucked up and dangerous. But, in this,” she taps the pages, spread across their legs, “I’m the person they’re trying to sell to the audience first. I should be Angel. Or something. It doesn’t matter. It’s going to get picked up. They’re confident. And then I’m going to be loveable, for at least six hours, on everyone's TV, and then I’m going to write a book.” Dorothy breathes out, lighter immediately.
Ramona rearranges them, looking down into Dorothy’s face. She seems genuinely to have been taken off guard.
“That’s why the orange juice is freshly squeezed? Girl, you know you can write what you want about me.”
Dorothy collapses back onto the sofa, triumph lighting her whole body up.
“You’re so smart, baby,” says Ramona, just like Dorothy’s fantasy Ramona had said in all the very best versions of this conversation that Dorothy has been rehearsing. She tries to drag Ramona down to hug her, but just ends up clutching at her arm.
“If you’re relatable am I a villain?” Ramona says. “You have to give me the chinchilla coat and nails out to here.”
“That’s just facts,” Dorothy says. “Wait, let’s drink to it.”
She gets up on her knees, throws herself up over the back of the sofa and rummages around on the bottle shelf. She emerges, triumphant with vodka, and pours a conservative dash into their orange juice. Ramona pretends to grab for the bottle. Her nails aren’t that long.
“No,” Dorothy laughs, “I’ve to go pick up Lily right after lunch. Traffic.” Ramona pretends to give up.
“Good influences,” Ramona says, raising a toast. She turns and kicks her legs, very deliberately this time, over Destiny’s. Destiny drinks to that, then she balances her glass up in between Ramona’s thighs and sets about neatening the pilot pages, where they’ve been crushed against the cushions. Ramona reaches forwards to stroke Dorothy’s hair behind her ear.
“Love your new hair,” she says. “You look so different without your fringe. But it’s good. I like this too.”
“You look just the same,” says Dorothy. It’s all just the same. So cozy and familiar. Still with a little edge that amps her up and gives purpose to the coiled tension in her chest.
Ramona sits back, into the end cushions, reclined, a stabilising finger on the rim of Destiny’s glass and says, “I could write a book too.”
Dorothy stops shuffling pages. Ramona shimmies a little in the cushions, tips her head into a more comfortable position and slowly blinks her eyes. Dorothy puts the script down firmly on the coffee table and folds her hands in her lap.
“It would be better if it were only one of us,” Dorothy says precisely. “I’ve been speaking to the journalist. Her contacts. This agent. We don’t want to oversaturate. Drown each other out. It’s-.”
“Baby, I’m playing with you. When would I have time to write a book.” Ramona holds out Dorothy’s glass. “To making Lily so proud,” she says. Dorothy blinks, toasts again. She looks down at Ramona’s sparkly socks on her sofa.
“These are pretty,” she says and puts a finger on the arch of Ramona’s foot. Ramona curls up involuntarily away from the touch for a moment, before carefully stretching back out.
“Staff discount,” she says. Dorothy feels her face fall, and then is embarrassed to have Ramona see it. She puts a hand on Ramona’s calf instead, feels the warm weight of muscle.
“Cut me in on that?” Dorothy asks.
“Of course,” says Ramona. “Will you give me a cut once you’re a best seller?”
Dorothy stops stroking Ramona’s calf.
“I haven’t written it yet. It’s pretty much contingent on the pilot getting picked up. It might not make any money at all.”
Ramona says, “You’ve written some or I wouldn’t be here. I know you.” Dorothy avoids her eyes.
“Shit,” Ramona says. “Dorothy, where is it? Never mind the money, you’re too fun to wind up, baby. Can I read it? Is it on that laptop in the office?” She’s climbing up off the sofa.
Dorothy hooks the back pocket of her jeans and yanks. Ramona spills back down into her lap and Dorothy puts her arms around her and holds. She buries her face in tickling hair and fuzzy winter knit and curls her arms up under Ramona’s ribs. Ramona tries to stand again, laughing, and Dorothy clings on, grateful for a reason to hold her so fiercely. Ramona gives up and slithers sideways back onto the sofa. Dorothy goes with her, keeping her arms clamped tight.
“I’ll give you a cut. You can consult. Advise. Whatever. It’ll be us, I promise.” She holds her cheek to the fluff of Ramona’s jumper. “Oh shit. Oh fuck. The glass-.”
There’s not much left to have spilled. Still, they dutifully dig out a spray bottle of fabric cleaner and a wet cloth. This whole house is so fucking white. Ramona kneels down next to her and they half-heartedly spot clean.
“We could unzip this cushion cover. Clean it up properly,” says Dorothy, making no move to pull the sofa apart. It’s difficult to tell if there is anything remaining, without waiting for the patches to dry. They arrange the scatter pillows over the dark spots. Ramona pretends to flick the warm, barely sudsy sponge at her, and sits back happily when Dorothy ducks and groans.
“Why bother?” says Ramona.
In the kitchen, Dorothy gets out the platter of crudités and humous.
“All organic,” she says, gesturing vaguely.
Ramona pulls out a stool.
“Did you think I might say no to the book?” she says, looking down at the careful arrangement. Then she picks off the plastic cover. Dorothy had been going to get rid of that before presenting it. That had been the plan. She shrugs. Ramona says, “Does your whole wardrobe match this house?”
Dorothy leans over the counter and says, “They’re going to give me an advance.” Ramona scoops dip onto the end of a carrot and tries to feed it to her. Dorothy swats at her.
“You need to be able to react to the show though, right. Isn’t that the selling point?” Dorothy shrugs again.
“It’s kind of a seize the moment, deal. And it’ll still take a long time. They want to release it while it’s in the public consciousness.”
“Correct the narratives,” Ramona says, “Whatever those narratives may be.”
Dorothy crunches her way through a carrot.
“The true, true story,” she says.
“What comes next,” says Ramona.
“I sign their papers?” Dorothy laughs. “We’ll have Champagne. Like old times.” Ramona raises a carrot to that, looking entirely satisfied for a moment.
Then she prompts, “And after the book?”
“I really haven’t got that far. I’ve barely started this.”
“What’s your book going to be about?” asks Ramona. “What are you selling them?” She leans forward, “Not contrition. Or regret.” Dorothy rubs her hands together and tries to stop her shoulders creeping upwards.
She says. “I want it to be about us. Family.”
“Family found and lost,” says Ramona. “That’s pretty dark, baby. Sad strippers. That’ll fly off the shelves.”
“Misery memoir.” She shrugs. “Convert that trauma into cash.” Ramona looks around at the designer light fittings and the shiny cabinets and very subtly raises her eyebrows. Dorothy runs her fingers rhythmically on the plastic platter to reclaim her attention.
Ramona says, “Surely it doesn’t have to be confessional.”
Dorothy crosses her arms.
“How much did you tell the journalist about my mother?” she says.
Ramona buys time heaving herself over the counter to retrieve her bag and rustling through it.
“You read the article,” Ramona says, and puts her phone and purse down on the table in front of her. “Not much.”
“Yeah. But she kept asking me about it. That can’t come as some big surprise, Ramona.”
“Okay,” Ramona says, then she gears up, sits forward, sharpening focus. Dorothy leans into it. “You can’t be all new man, new kids, new house, to sell some sad stripper story. That’s going to be a whole different narrative. That’s going to be redemptive. Found a man and made good. Got a job in pharmaceuticals.”
“What new kids?” says Dorothy. “What job in pharmaceuticals?”
Ramona says, “I don’t want the money, if I’m going to be some figure of pity. You can do whatever you want, but I don’t want any part in it.” Dorothy drums her fingers, and breaths out, like she’s about to walk on stage.
“I know it needs a better ending,” says Dorothy. “That’s why you’re here.”
“Closure?” Ramona pauses and puts her hand on her purse. “So today is about putting a bow on it.” Ramona turns her purse in her hands. Dorothy puts her hands over Ramona’s, to keep her there. “Did the journalist tell you about this?” Ramona shifts her hands, under Dorothy’s.
“About what?” Dorothy asks, but Ramona’s sliding out from under her, carefully unzipping three sides of her sleek new purse. She digs past the plastic and pauses.
“Grand finale,” she says, and she produces a battered picture, sliding it over with two delicately manicured fingers. Dorothy takes it. She stares down at herself. The overhead lights bounce off the shiny photo paper. She wants to ask where Ramona even got this. Very carefully, she picks the battered old edges up from the shiny new counter and holds it at an angle where the image is undisturbed by light.
“This is a good ending,” she says. She finds she can’t really look up quite yet. Her heart is rabbiting away in her chest. What she says is, “Have you spoken to Dawn?”
Ramona pauses, half way through opening her mouth to speak. She laughs. “That’s not what I expected you to say.” Destiny stares down at her own faded face. “Only put that line about endings in the book. We can leave Dawn out of it.” Ramona ducks down, trying to catch her eye. “Don’t leave me hanging, baby,” she says. Her hands are both on the counter, turned gently up, like she’s waiting for Dorothy to take her hands.
Dorothy says, “The journalist said it was like a love story. That’s what sold them on the series, I think. And the book.”
“What kind of love story?” Ramona says. Dorothy swallows. “Not this kind,” she says, and laughs, slightly hysterically. “That’s for sure.” She feels her face crumple and tries to rescue it. Looks up at the ceiling and holds her fingers up under her eyes.
Ramona says, “Don’t put this in the book,” and then she climbs up over the counter, sliding everything out of the way. She swings her feet around in front of her, glittery toes hanging over the edge of the counter and slides forwards. Dorothy starts laughing and then jumps up to say, “Careful! Your phone!” But Ramona drops lightly down on the other side, the entire scene unspoiled. She smooths back her hair and performatively adjusts her jumper.
“Completely unnecessary,” says Destiny, and she reaches up to tug the R on a bright gold chain back into place, in the deep knit dip. She keeps her fingers in place, feeling the bone of Ramona’s chest rise and fall.
“That was part of a dramatic gesture where I kiss you,” Ramona says, “With the guarantee that it doesn’t go in any misery memoir.”
Dorothy says, “The book's over. Bittersweet ending. Picture perfect.”
Ramona dips down and kisses her, soft mouth, soft jumper, soft hands on the small of her back. Dorothy lets shoulders drop and sinks into it, new and exploratory. Ramona smiles into the kiss, and Dorothy’s heart turns over. When Ramona tries to stand back up straight, Dorothy tugs at her belt loops and presses up into her arms until Ramona’s smile turns into a grin.
Dorothy disengages, and with great dignity - feeling the colour high on her face and the sweat prickling at the back of her neck - she says, “On second thought, I’m absolutely stopping with you climbing over a countertop to get to me.”
Ramona sobers and pulls her back in, pressing into her neck and wrapping her arms so tightly around Dorothy’s shoulders that Dorothy struggles to expand her ribs. It’s wonderful.
“Write what you like,” says Ramona. She rocks Dorothy a little, a slow dancing shuffle on the tiled floor, “but happy endings sell best.” Dorothy fists her hands in the back of Ramona’s jumper, careful not to pull at her hair. “You’re stretching out my newest jumper,” says Ramona, “No, baby. Don’t stop.”