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Chapter Text

tuesday, 20th december

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10:00

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At ten a.m. on the Tuesday before Christmas—forty-eight hours before she was due to arrive on her family’s doorstep, forty-eight hours before she would participate in her first family Christmas since that Christmas, forty-eight hours before she would see her father for the very first time since that Christmas—Beatrice Turner was sat at a window table in the Old Coffee Shop, waiting for a miracle to arrive.

To the casual observer, the young woman in the corner was neither pleased nor displeased, but she was a touch intimidating. Not the kind of person one might ask to look after their bag when they stepped away to the bathroom, nor to hand over the menus on her table, which were tucked beneath novelty salt-and-pepper shakers (chess pieces, a white-salt knight and black-pepper king). She was unapproachable in the same way fine art was—beautiful, elegant, guarded—but enticing for the very same reasons, with a face an artist could dedicate their life to, could spend decades committing to stone (paper would be too light, paint too forgiving—marble would be the very thing). There was a sense, too, that everything about her had been expertly curated. Her clothes, ironed. Her hair, pinned into a sleek low bun. Her posture—like a ballerina posed, or a soldier standing at attention—was exacting: knees at precise right angles from hips to floor; back straight, like a ruler had been shoved down the spine of her black linen blouse; hands neatly folded on the table in front of her.

To the not-so-casual observer—her best friend Camila, for example (who was less observing and more out-and-out spying)—Beatrice looked terrified. She hadn’t moved in twenty minutes and it was getting to the point where Camila wasn’t sure she’d breathed in that time either.

‘Ah…Camila?’

‘Mm.’

Had Beatrice moved? Her head, a little? Jesus. She was going to get a cramp sitting like that; it was making Camila’s back hurt just looking at her.

‘Cam–’

‘What, Todd?’

‘The milk , babe, you’re gonna burn—’

The steam wand hissed. Milk bubbled. Camila yelped, yanking the milk jug down before it could scald. She poured out a perfect latte, complete with latte art (started as a heart, turned a bit phallic, made it into a fern at the last second) for,

‘Zoe? Medium two shot skim latte for—hi, Zoe? Great, thank you so much, have an awesome day!’ Her attentive smile held until Zoe was gone and then Camila dropped it, whirling on Todd. ‘I’m taking my break. Hold down the fort.’

It wasn’t the best decision. Todd had a hangover that came, in his words, “direct from Santa’s asshole” and he’d spent the last fifteen minutes pretending to scrape the remains of a breakfast croissant off the toaster so he didn’t have to, you know, move or talk or think. But this was more important and Todd couldn’t care less. He waved her away with a nod, until the movement made him wince.

Camila made another coffee and stepped out from behind the counter, taking her offering to Beatrice’s side. And it was an offering, not an obvious ploy to get close to her and figure out what the hell was going on.

The Old Coffee Shop—or OCS, according to their loyalty cards—was tucked into the ground floor of a stately skyscraper. It wasn’t city-centre but it was close enough that they ran a comfortable trade off the thousands of caffeine-addicted business types on their morning commute. Where the building itself was all square concrete pillars and huge panes of glass, the OCS was what you might get if a roadside diner fucked a library: red-vinyl booths lined the walls, separated every few tables by narrow floor-to-ceiling bookcases crammed with student art sculptures, battered second-hand books, and drooping plants. The walls were covered too—by neon crosses and road-signs (some of which looked to have been sheared off from their posts violently, crumpled and scraped up as they were), old-fashioned lamps and new-fashioned lamps, theatre production posters, and a wall of polaroids and postcards—and, in the back corner where only the waitstaff could get at it, there was a very fancy jukebox currently hooked up to Camila’s phone. It was a fifth of the way into her Christmas playlist, which became progressively, imperceptibly, ever so slowly less orchestral Nutcracker and more (entirely) Mariah Carey remixes. 

Beatrice was sat primly at a booth in the far back corner, half her attention on her phone and the other half on the door to the café.

‘You still breathing over here?’

Camila hadn’t meant to sneak up. She hadn’t thought it possible! Her apron was an eye-catching (yucky) orange and she had a tendency to hum, both of which made sneaking hard. Nevertheless, Beatrice was startled. For a painful moment, Camila looked into the eyes of the girl she had met first year of university—all tension, all the time—and then she blinked and the haunting, haunted version was gone. 

Beatrice smiled. ‘Ah, Camila. Hello. Yes, I’m breathing.’

‘ And blinking?’

‘When necessary.’

‘I’ll take your word for it. But from where I’ve been standing, it looks like you’ve been glued in place so I came to get you unstuck. And to give you this!’ Camila switched out the untouched coffee in front of Beatrice for the fresh one.

‘Oh. Thank you.’

Beatrice let her set it down. Then, touching a finger to the saucer, repositioned it two inches to the left.

Camila lingered, expectant. 

‘Was there something else, Camila?’

‘Was there someth –Honestly .’ She swatted at Beatrice’s shoulder. ‘What’s going on ? Have you heard anything?’

Beatrice arched a brow. Totally serene, to the casual observer. Camila, not casual, could see the unease lurking in her eyes and wasn’t surprised when her friend stalled, glancing around the café.

‘Aren’t you, ah, supposed to be working?’

Camila smiled very sweetly and, undeterred, sat opposite her. ‘I’m on my break.’

Beatrice pressed her lips flat. ‘Wonderful.’

‘Which I am using to check on my dear, dearest friend, whom I love very much, instead of relaxing in the back.’

‘You wouldn’t relax in the back. Larry is smoking.’

‘You don’t know that.’

‘Larry’s always smoking.’

Camila’s eyes slid over to the kitchen—past the propped open door, past the wall of tinned food, past the walk-in fridge—to Larry, spatula in one hand, cigarette pinched in the other. There was a plate of ash and crumpled cigarette butts on the window ledge and a chimney of wispy smoke drifted out the window; on the ceiling, the fire alarm hung open, battery removed. 

‘Don’t order the chilli. So! Any word yet?’

She didn’t wait for an answer. If Beatrice managed to stall, she’d win—Todd  would cry if forced to use the register, Camila would be called back to help him out, and then she’d have to wait for her lunch break—or, worse, for Beatrice to get home—to find out anything . No way, no thank you. And so desperate times, desperate measures, all fair in love and war, know thine enemy, and all those other sayings that meant that when she reached across the table and swiped Beatrice’s phone, she was being helpful and not meddlesome. Was it an invasion of privacy? Sure, maybe. But was it for a good cause? Sure, maybe . But, most importantly, was she ever so desperately curious? Yes. Absolutely. 

‘Camila!’

‘No notifications. Did Mary say anything?’ Ignoring Beatrice’s noise of dismay, she unlocked the phone and pulled up her messages, skimming through. ‘Huh. Said she’d be here at ten. Wonder what the hold up is.’

‘How did you get my password?’

‘Maybe we should text her.’

‘Mary will block me if we text her before eleven. How did you get my password?’

‘Not Mary . The girl!’

‘Absolutely not.’ Beatrice plucked the phone out of her hands and disappeared it beneath the table. ‘I don’t have her number and you are not cyberstalking her to find it.’

‘Oh, you want us to play it cool? Hm. It’s like my affirmations—be direct, be calm, be patient.’ If she never made it through to the end of her very short affirmations, well, that was between her and the bathroom mirror. ‘I like it. We don’t want to come across as overbearing.’

‘ We, ’ Beatrice said, voice tight, ‘aren’t going to be anything . This is my date. Meeting. Business meeting. Arrangement.’ Her eyes snapped shut. A flush of mortification crawled up her neck.

Camila took careful note—Beatrice had always been hard to read and her blush was a useful meter, as precise as everything else she did. Light pink across the back of the neck? Embarrassed, but not to the point of upset. 

Dragging in a breath,  Beatrice said, steadily, ‘Thank you for the coffee, Camila.’

‘You’re welcome.’

It was a dismissal (the politest now fuck off please imaginable) yet Camila lingered. There was a part of her, very intense, that told her to stay. To sit at Beatrice’s side throughout this, hold her hand, glare threateningly at the new girl. None of which would be particularly helpful but it would soothe that protective beast. It had been four years of friendship and she knew Beatrice better than anyone; she was brilliant, insightful, passionate, clever, kind, funny, thoughtful and a thousand more things besides—but she sucked at meeting new people. 

And this was more than a business arrangement, more than a business meeting, more than a date. This was important. This had such potential for disaster. It had to go right. It had to. 

Camila steeled herself, gave Beatrice a supportive nod. ‘You’re going to be fine. Great, even! Just… Remember to smile, remember to go easy with the dossier—’ At that, there was a flicker of guilt, quickly masked. But it was too late to edit. Camila could only hope this girl was a good sport. ‘And Bea?’

‘Yes.’

‘ Try to relax a little?’

‘Yes. You’re right. Of course, you’re right.’ Beatrice made a concentrated effort to do just that—everything Beatrice did was concentrated—and smiled. 

‘And,’ Beatrice’s smile dropped.  ‘Be nice.’

‘Thank you , Camila.’

Camila laughed. Hands raised to fend off a glare, she stood at the dismissal this time and twirled away—in time to notice poor Todd poking miserably at the register as a trio of costumed elves tapped their belled shoes at him. She rushed to help. When their orders were taken, she turned to Todd and asked the question that had been on her mind all morning.

‘When you said it was like Santa sitting on your head–’ Todd grunted. ‘Did you mean Satan?’

‘Nah. My mate was trying out this peppermint schnapps recipe. I’ve been smelling candy canes ever since.’

‘Oh.’ Camila handed the coffee out to “Elf Number Three” with a smile. ‘Sounds fun. Can I have that recipe?’

//

10:08

//

For a long minute after Camila left her, Beatrice focused on not frowning. It was important—vital, really—because she didn’t want the first impression Mary’s friend had of her to be one of anger or distress. Beatrice returned her attention to the window and the world outside and fixed a placid expression to her face that she didn’t entirely feel. 

Not at all, in fact. 

There was a nervous itch in her stomach that grew more intense with every minute that passed without word from the girl. A small voice in the back of her head spoke in defence of that total stranger, reminding her that if she hadn’t arrived well before the agreed time—nine forty-five, for a ten a.m. meeting—she wouldn’t have had so much time to entertain the myriad ways it could all go wrong.

The voice sounded an awful lot like Mary. 

Beatrice ignored it in favour of over-thinking some more.

If her date—no, if this girl, friend of a friend,  who had agreed to meet with her but to nothing more—had shown up on time, there would have been less time for nerves. She checked her watch with a twist of her wrist. Ten oh nine. Almost ten minutes late and—yes, the blank screen of her phone told her, still no word. What did that mean? Had she decided not to come? Had she thought Beatrice’s request too strange? Did she think Beatrice was some kind of - of freak?

Now that voice sounded an awful lot like her mother. It was harder to ignore but Beatrice had years of practice; she squashed it viciously and swallowed it down. Chased the bitter taste with a gulp of her coffee.

Beatrice checked her watch again. 

Ten past ten.

How long was she willing to wait? Forever , Beatrice acknowledged ruefully, if it meant that she didn’t have to go to Christmas alone. More realistically, she had to leave by half past one at the latest if she wanted to make it to Vincent’s before he closed up shop. Most realistically, she was certainly willing to wait more than ten minutes. 

For now, Beatrice sat and sipped her coffee and watched out the window for anyone who might be Mary’s mysterious friend. 

It was a hot, bright day. 

Summer was making itself felt in spectacular fashion. Over the last few days, storms had  swept down the coastline—grey and bloated, lined with a hail-sick green. They had eaten up the sky over the city entirely; tongues of lightning stung rooftops and trees, hail shattered windows, and the streets flooded with a month’s worth of rain in a matter of hours before the storms had moved on.  

Today, the sky was a blistering blue and the only clouds in sight were tiny and white, little cotton puffs adrift. It was hard to imagine it was the same sky. The only real evidence was some pock-marked cars and fallen trees. Storm-washed skyscrapers dazzled. Rainwater slicked the roads, pooled in the gutters where the stormwater drains overflowed and puddled on the sidewalks. 

The streets were awash with people. So close to the city centre, it was a flood of black suits, black coats, black umbrellas. The most daring dressed in tan. 

And then Beatrice saw her. 

A column of light; a girl. 

The light spilled through past the boundaries of the city, falling in great ribbons of gossamer gold, and everything it touched was made miraculous; the girl within it, illuminated. Unbidden, Beatrice recalled the cathedral of her youth. She recalled the saints, ever-watchful, ever-silent, unwilling to comment on what transpired in the pews beneath them; she recalled feeling alone in a crowd, in a long history of crowds who had walked the same stone aisle smooth; she recalled staring up at the cross and wondering if He had ever felt His palm pressed against another’s, soft and sweaty with nerves, whether He had ever met a girl who made Him feel like rebelling, like defying, like the idea of dying young was no longer sweet between his teeth, like he wanted to grow old; she recalled sneaking back into the cathedral after Mass and standing in the apse, empty of everything but light, her breath heavy with dust and something that might have been guilt, might have been holy. The glass had painted her hands red. She had stirred her hands through the light, dipped her fingertips into pools of blue and green. There was science in it—she knew, of course, that light could be quantified and qualified, that it was heat and energy and distance and time, that the spilling colours were refracted off mathematical certainties, a spectrum—but knowing that hadn’t stopped Beatrice from being moved, from feeling something between and beyond what she could see, something more . 

She felt the same way now. 

Logic said that the girl had stepped off the bus now disappearing around the corner. But a bone-deep resonance, immediate and unshakeable, said that she had stepped out of the light itself. 

If there was a god, he had taken his time with this girl. 

Sun-kissed skin, brown hair gone gold where light caught in her curls, a smile that warmed Beatrice even at a distance. There was a vibrancy to her, energy, joy —eagerness had her bouncing up onto the balls of her feet as she waited at the crossing, like at any moment she might grow tired of walking and take up into the air. 

When the traffic lights changed, the crowd moved. She surged forward, leapt over one of the glittering puddles—caught the edge of it with her heel, water splashing up around her ankles—and where she went, heads turned in her wake. She was captivating; having seen her, the whole world seemed dull in comparison. 

What would it be like, Beatrice wondered, to live like that? To run down the street, dodging pedestrians with ease and cheerful aplomb. To not check whether those turning heads were drawn by interest or irritation. To be carefree and unrepentantly herself.

The girl cut across the road, waving to the waiting cars. Now that she was closer, Beatrice could see she wore denim shorts and a button-up shirt in bright purple, which she had knotted to expose an inch of her waist. Over one shoulder hung an over-full backpack that she held tightly to her side as she ran. She made a beeline for the door of the OCS, hand outstretched, and—

Thud.

Slammed into the pull door. 

Beatrice winced in sympathy—sound echoed by several people inside the café—but the girl, staggering back, only laughed when a group from the outdoor tables stood to check on her. Soon, they were laughing with her. She talked with them for a minute and made a big show of gearing up for a second attempt. 

This time, she pulled the door open—‘Success!’ Beatrice heard her cheer—and stepped inside. 

Camila met her at the door with a handful of napkins. 

‘Oh my god, are you okay?’

‘You should see the other girl,’ she joked. ‘Um. It was a door. And we’re both still standing. Also, before you ask, that smudge in the shape of my face has always been there. Swear to god. Did I look tough? Am I bleeding?’ Crossing her eyes, she tilted her head back.

Camila peered up her nose. ‘I don’t see any blood. Does it hurt? Of course it hurts, you hit it so hard you bounced.’ The girl winced. ‘Do you want me to get you some ice?’

‘Would you?’

‘Of course! Find a seat, I’ll bring it over to you.’

‘Thank you? That’s - amazing, thank you, you’re a total angel.’

When Camila left her, the girl turned in a slow circle, scanning the café. Beatrice wondered what she was looking for—an empty table? Boyfriend? Friend? Work associate?—when the girl’s eyes caught on Beatrice and her face brightened tremendously. She waved with her whole arm and, hitching her bag higher on her shoulder, hurried over.  She didn’t stop at any of the tables between them. No, she came closer and closer and finally—tattered converse crossing without hesitation over the invisible line that divided Beatrice’s table from the rest of the café—Beatrice realised that she was headed for her. That she had, in fact, already arrived. 

‘Hi!’

The girl shone —eyes bright, smile brighter. Blinding, especially directed wholly at Beatrice. Though that might have been the shirt. It looked like it was made of old cinema-floor fabric, vibrant purple covered in squiggles of yellow and random shapes in neon pink and green. 

Beatrice blinked the sun spots out of her eyes. She felt dizzy. Was she breathing? Maybe Camila was right; maybe she was forgetting to breathe.

‘Hello?’

The girl tilted her head to the side, smile fading. Before Beatrice could mourn it, it was replaced by a new smile, disastrously unguarded, soft and amused. It wasn’t the kind of smile one gave a stranger—certainly Beatrice had never been party to a smile like that. And the way she looked at her! Like she knew Beatrice—though that couldn’t be, Beatrice would remember a girl like this, would never forget a girl like this—like there was a connection between them, and she was just waiting for Beatrice to catch up. 

Beatrice felt it too. Just for a moment. The skin on the back of her neck prickled and her heart gave an uneven thump, doubly quick. Like it was beating for two.

‘Hi,’ she said again, amused. ‘Are you Beatrice?’

‘I am. Yes. Hello. Turner.’ 

‘ Turn ‘er? Whoa! Buy me a drink first!’ She laughed at her own joke. Was still laughing when she said, ‘I’m Ava.’

‘Ava,’ Beatrice repeated.

‘Yeah!’ The girl tilted her head the other way, nodding to the seat opposite Beatrice. ‘Can I join you? Or are you totally rethinking this whole thing? It’s fine if you are - no worries - but you gotta let me know today because I was kind of hoping to have something lined up for the big day and I don’t know if you noticed but this year is–’ She made an odd noise. A speeding car? An explosion? ‘–going fast . Swear to god it was October yesterday and now here we are! December! When did that happen?’ She shook her head, a commiserating look on her face. ‘But hey - at least I’m not the only one, right? You’re running out of time too. Oh - I’m not your last choice, am I? Should I be offended? Also, I don’t want to rush you but can I sit down? This bag is killing me.’

The chatter pulled at Beatrice. Everything about her tone and posture and energy was an invitation to jump in, to join her, speak as freely and easily as she did. But Beatrice had never been good at ease; rigid by design (whose design, she couldn’t begin to fathom), she sorted through Ava’s rapid questions—most to least important—and grabbed for the most vital. Are you rethinking , she had asked, so easily, so carelessly , like Beatrice’s life didn’t hinge on this arrangement. 

Heart in her throat, she blurted, ‘No!’

‘No?’ Ava’s smile flickered. ‘Oh. Okay? I guess I can stand—but I’ll be honest, I’m for sure going to say no at the end because that’s pretty rude.’

‘No—I didn’t mean—‘

The pieces of the puzzle (a toddlers puzzle, very simple, just two pieces) finally slot together— this was Ava, the Ava she was supposed to meet, this was Ava , with whom she had arranged to meet. She was the only person who could help! And if she left now because Beatrice didn’t know how to talk to people, the whole plan was fucked.

Beatrice shot to her feet. 

As always, rash behaviour threatened to ruin her. Her thighs crashed into the underside of the table, jostling it. She watched in horror as her coffee tipped in its saucer and knew—anxiety or premonition—that if she didn’t stop it from spilling everywhere, it would be over before it began. 

That would not— could not—be borne. 

Slapping a hand down on the table to keep it level, Beatrice lunged for her cup. Caught it, fingers tight around hot ceramic, and corrected it before more than a few drops could spill. She froze like that—half-standing, thighs bruising where they’d hit the table, a droplet of coffee scalding a path down her pinkie finger.

Slowly, with the hand not involved in the coffee rescue, Beatrice covered her eyes.

What a disaster. Had her poise fully abandoned her to make room for additional homosexuality or was it only taking a quick break to recalibrate? God only knew—but she wasn’t about to ask him. 

‘Is everything alright?’ Ava asked. Her tone was so kind. Also extremey amused, which made sense.

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘No, no you’re fine. You seem, um…’

Beatrice let out a sharp breath and lowered her hand. Ava was trying very hard not to laugh. The effort of it squashed a smile up into her cheeks and crinkles around her eyes.

‘Stressed,’ Beatrice said, deadpan. 

A dimple popped next to Ava’s smile. Her voice shook with laughter. ‘ Extremely stressed, yeah. I didn’t want to say it first. But you’re calming down now, right?’

‘Yes.’ She mustered up a smile to prove it but it was impossible to tell how successful the lie was; Ava merely glanced down at her lips and back up, expression unchanged. ‘I’m sorry. I’m making a mess of this. I wasn’t telling you not to sit. You asked if I was rethinking this and I wasn’t. I’m not . Though I understand if you are now. This is going…poorly.’

‘ Pour -ly, you mean.’

Beatrice wrinkled her nose—which made Ava laugh more than the pun had—but had to laugh, a reluctant huff. God. She was perfect. Smile huge and unabashed. It was like staring into the sun, if the sun also made puns. Her parents wouldn’t know what to do with her.

Her parents. Right.

‘Could we…start over?’

Ava shrugged easily. ‘Sure. I haven’t even sat down yet. Do you want me to leave and come back?’

‘Should you risk fighting the door again?’

Ava’s jaw dropped. For a second, Beatrice was worried the joke hadn’t landed and then Ava swooned, hands pressed to her heart. 

‘Mary said I’d like you but she didn’t say you were funny . Or a little bit mean.’ Beatrice grimaced—that was truer that she liked to admit—but Ava’s eyes were sparkling and somehow an apology didn’t seem necessary. ‘This is the jackpot. I’ve gone to heaven, I’m in love. Wow. How about this—I’ll go order a drink and when I come back, we pretend we’ve never met. I say hi, you say hi, we start over. Sound good?’

‘That sounds—’ Extremely generous . ‘—acceptable. Thank you.’

‘Awesome!’ Ava spun away, stumbled as her bag pulled her sideways, and turned right back around. ‘Actually, can I leave my bag with you?’ She slumped, abruptly boneless, and made pleading eyes as she clutched her bag to her chest. It was bulky and obviously heavy. Her arms barely wrapped around it. ‘Please, please, please? It’s so heavy. And if I bash someone with it, they’ll sue me and then I’ll go to jail and I don’t do well in confined spaces, I’ll languish in there. You don’t want that on your conscience, do you?’

‘You’re quite dramatic.’

Ava preened. ‘Yes. Bag?’ Beatrice nodded for her to leave it. ‘Thanks!’ 

The grunt of effort as Ava heaved the bag off her shoulder was only slightly exaggerated, judging by the heavy thump of it hitting the floor. She rolled her shoulders out. Her shirt—unbuttoned, only tied at the mid-section over her crop—gaped open. Beatrice’s eyes darted away, to the pink, purple, and blue OPEN sign that flickered neon over the door. The gas glowed, buzzed inside the pipes. She understood that. 

‘Oh my god, that’s so much better.’ Rubbed circles into her shoulder where the strap had dug in, Ava sighed. Bounced once, twice in place, testing gravity now that she lost her anchor. ‘Alright! I’ll be right back. Don’t let anyone steal my shit - actually, fuck it, good riddance. Just let them have it. But you?’ Ava pointed at her. ‘Don’t run off.’

Her protest that she wouldn’t let someone take the bag, nor run, went ignored. Ava winked clumsily—a blink, really—and jogged away to the register.  

Beatrice watched her go, feeling quite strange. 

The dizziness could have been a side effect of abject mortification (or intense lesbianism) but she thought it more likely due to the world having shifted around her. How could it be that she would be drawn to a stranger by chance sighting, only to find that same stranger drawn to her in turn by coincidence? How improbable. How bizarre! It was as though something electric— magnetic —had transpired; it was as though the entire world had been moved an inch, caught in the grip of some powerful force. Or was it Beatrice who had been moved? The thought had her gripping the side of the table—the metal edge pinched into the soft of her palm, her fingers, grounding. If she or the world had been moved, it wasn’t far. 

Ava chatted for a long time with Camila, who took down her order diligently. When Ava moved away to check out the pictures and signs on the walls, Camila whipped around to lock eyes with Beatrice. 

Ava? she mouthed. 

Beatrice nodded.

Holy shit .

Beatrice nodded again. There wasn’t much else to do. 

In the spirit of wiping the slate clean, Beatrice wiped the table clean with a napkin, following up with a sanitising wipe from her own bag. She folded them over once and slid them between cup and saucer. Table clean, she pulled a folder from her bag. It was red—because Mary had mentioned that red was Ava’s favourite colour—and there was a post-it note on the cover that declared it to be the FAKE GIRLFRIEND DOSSIER in Camila’s square script. Beatrice laughed but peeled it off. After all, it wasn’t anything so intense as that. It was…an itinerary. An instructive manual on how to make it through the weekend. That was all. 

And a few small notes about her family.

Camila called for Ava, handing over two cups. Then, all too soon, Ava was back at her table. 

‘Hi there, person I’ve never met!’

Beatrice swallowed a smile. Rested her hands on top of the folder— her folder—and brushed her fingers over the smooth plastic. She was ready (if one could ever be ready for Ava Silva). 

‘Hello. I’m Beatrice Turner.’

‘Turn ‘er? Buy me a drink first,’ Ava joked. Again. She laughed just as much as she had the first time. ‘I’m Ava. Can I sit this time?’

‘Please.’

Gesturing to the seat opposite her, Beatrice was intent on recovering an element of the job interview atmosphere she had prepared for. Ava didn’t feel the same. She dropped into the seat and slid along it until she hit the café window, turning sideways to lean her back against it. She draped one arm along the back of the seat and swung her legs up, stretching them out.

Beatrice cleared her throat. 

The legs—which, it had to be noted, were toned and as golden as the rest of her—lifted up off the vinyl and swung back the way they had come. Ava shot her a guilty smile. 

Once she was comfortable, Ava pulled her cups toward her—one frappé, topped with whipped cream and chocolate flakes; one cup of ice, presumably for her nose—and immediately sipped her frappé, pink lips wrapping around the straw. She groaned. 

‘Oh my god . This is so good? Holy shit. I need to come here again—what’s it called? OCS?’ Ava lifted herself off the seat to grab her phone from her back pocket and made a note, taking a photo of the drink for good measure. Satisfied, she dropped her phone carelessly to the table, face up, and looked expectantly at Beatrice. 

Who couldn’t think of a thing to say. 

A dot of cream clung to Ava’s top lip. It made Beatrice’s brain whir and stutter like a scratched record. 

‘Hello. I’m - I’m Beatrice.’

Ava blinked. A smile spread across her lips so slowly and by the time it was half-formed, Beatrice realised what she had said—now for the third time. Beatrice dropped her chin to her chest, covered her face again with a quiet groan. Magnetic and opposite, Ava threw her head back and laughed. 

‘I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s got into me.’ She had some guesses. Mild terror at the prospect of this family “holiday”. A sizeable dose of self-recrimination for putting herself in this position at all. And, again, intense lesbianism. 

‘It’s okay,’ Ava laughed. ‘Really. Really . I’d listen to you say your own name forever–though if we’re being honest, I’d like it more if you were saying my name, probably.’ There was just enough suggestion in the words to coax Beatrice to lift her head; Ava met her wide-eyed look with a wink (again, more of a blink). ‘I’m just messing with you. But your accent - you’re British, right?’

‘Yes.’ Finally. Safe ground—something she knew how to answer. ‘And your own? I hear an Australian accent but other places as well.’

‘What is this, an interrogation?’ Despite Ava’s laughter, her smile stuck at the corners of her lips and something complicated moved behind her eyes. She glanced away. 

Outside the window, a sleek border collie—spirited, bright-eyed, in a turquoise running harness that matched the shoes of its owner—trotted past the café; Ava pointed it out to Beatrice and waved, a little wriggle of her fingers. The dog caught the movement and looked over, tongue lolling out of its mouth in a doggy grin. When the dog was gently drawn away, Ava said,

‘Do you wanna guess? Something tells me you like a challenge.’ Ava waggled her brows—with no trace of her brief discomfort—and flicked her eyes over Beatrice. She didn’t settle her attention anywhere long enough to tell Beatrice what, precisely, had given her that impression. 

Not that she was wrong. 

Beatrice narrowed her eyes, focusing on the other girl. ‘Spanish. Or – Portuguese? And something else. Canadian?’

‘Whoa. Not bad.’ Beatrice demurred, but was pleased to impress. ‘You were right the first time. Lived in Spain for seven years, moved here. Stayed here.’ She paused to drink. Cleared her throat. ‘Took off after highschool to see the world. Started with Spain again and just…ended up backpacking all over. Europe, Asia, America, Canada. Some places, I guess I stayed long enough that the accent stuck a little. And some places - they make an impression, you know? You fall in love with a place or a person , and…’ Ava shrugged, looking a little wistful and a lot angelic. ‘They stay with you. Don’t you think?’

‘I couldn’t say. I haven’t travelled much.’

Ava looked at her closely. Far too closely, in Beatrice’s opinion, than such simple and empty words ought to have inspired. There was a spark glinting in those brown eyes. Beatrice wasn’t sure if it was the light cutting in through the window, or something else—something curious, something knowing. (It was deeply unsettling to feel that she was sure - it wasn’t sunlight, it was Ava’s light; it was far too soon to know that. Connection be damned, recognition be damned.)

Ava didn’t press, just shrugged. ‘Maybe it’s just me.’

‘It sounds like fun. The travelling and the everything else.’ The falling in love. ‘Do you know many languages?’

‘Five, maybe? Not fluently or anything but enough to get by. Spanish and Portuguese are my best but I know a little German, some Italian, the tiniest bit of highschool Mandarin. You?’

‘Three. French, German, Spanish.’

‘Wow. That’s incredible.’ Ava sounded like she meant it. 

‘Me?’ Beatrice shook her head. ‘You know five.’

‘Not fluently . I just know,’ She waved a hand in the air. ‘Basic stuff. What do you want to drink? and Can you drive me to the airport? and If you think I’m paying more than fifteen euro for these knockoffs, you’re insane. Normal backpacker stuff. Helps at the bar, too, we get people from all over. I probably could tell you a thousand words for beer!’ Ava laughed. She did that a lot. Beatrice wanted to hear it again. Many more times.

// 

10:55

//

Conversation flowed easily between them. It surprised Beatrice, who had never been very good at talking about herself; she had once spent the majority of a date explaining the intricacies of a contract law case (very dull, especially since she had been under non-disclosure and couldn’t share any details). They’d never made it past the first question of, So, what do you do ? Not so with Ava. She pried information out of Beatrice with finesse, with ease. 

Beatrice would turn twenty-three in about a fortnight, was an only child with two parents, about to start the fifth year of her dual degree—Law and History—at the state university, was a black-belt in aikido, and worked part-time at a law firm in the city.

‘It isn’t as glamorous as TV makes it look. Mostly, I spend my days making photocopies and fetching coffee. But it’s good experience.’

‘Do you get to wear one of the wigs? With the curls?’

‘A short wig?’ Beatrice imagined wearing one, which was silly. Then, she imagined her very stern and never foolish boss in the very foolish wig, and had to press down hard against a smile. Still, it tucked itself into the corners of her lips and bled through into her tone. ‘No. No, only barristers wear them. And almost always only in court.’

‘Pity.’

For every question Ava had for her, Beatrice followed up with one of her own. Ava was open and, when she wasn’t, she was entertaining. Twenty-one years old—‘Twenty-two, soon though. I’m an Aries, if that matters to you. What are you? Capricorn? You’re a year older than me, wow, total cougar.’ Beatrice choked on nothing. Ava laughed. ‘We’ll either drive each other nuts or we’re soulmates, no inbetween really. That’s something to look forward to.’—she didn’t have much of a family (a fact she didn’t linger on, and Beatrice didn’t press), was taking her university degree a few classes at time while she worked at a bar downtown—‘Boy Blue, do you know it? Stupid question, of course you do, Mary’s your mate too, duh.’—and had no martial training unless one counted fighting doors, lamp posts, cracked and uncracked sidewalks, and gravity itself.

The frappé was muddy dregs by this point. Ice chips grumbled against the side of the plastic cup as Ava stirred it idly. In the lull of conversation, Beatrice admired the bend of Ava’s wrist, the delicate way the straw twisted between her busy fingers. 

‘Okay, tell me something.’ Ava leaned heavily back into her seat. She abandoned her drink, dropping the straw down into it; a bit of the cream flecked onto the table and Ava didn’t pause before she swept it up with her thumb and popped it into her mouth. 

Whatever she said next was lost to Beatrice, whose pulse roared in her ears. It had never felt like this before—life, Beatrice , had never felt like this before—and she was struggling to focus on anything that wasn’t the golden length of Ava’s neck, the sweet bow of her lips, the dart of a pink tongue, the glitter of dangling earrings, the tender press of her collarbones against skin. She tore her eyes up from Ava’s chest, only to find Ava watching her with the expectant-sliding-to-awkward look of someone who had asked a question some time ago. 

Beatrice cleared her throat. ‘Pardon? What was that?’

‘I said, are we going to talk about it? Why you need a date for Christmas?’ The sudden reminder was ice water tipped over her head. Shock first, then a braced discomfort as she sat in the cold. Across from her, Ava’s eyes went wide and worried. ‘Sorry. Sorry! I shouldn’t have - I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable–’

‘You didn’t.’

It wasn’t a lie, exactly. Beatrice wasn’t sure it was the truth either. 

Ava worried at her bottom lip. Watched Beatrice for a second like she was afraid to press, in case she shattered. 

‘You can ask,’ Beatrice said, tone brusque. ‘You should ask.’

‘Okay. So, why then? Don’t get me wrong, I want to help, and it’s nothing I haven’t done before–’

‘Really?’

Ava shrugged. ‘Sure. You’d be surprised how many people need dates to office parties, holiday events, whatever. All my mates know I’m up for it. They just pay for the ride there and back home and they’re not allowed to be embarrassed when I eat everything. Starving student, et cetera, et cetera.’ A flick of a hand pushed all of that aside, immaterial, like Beatrice shouldn’t or wouldn’t have a dozen followup questions. (She did.) ‘But you ,’ Ava said. ‘Why do you need me?’

There was a crease forming between Ava’s brows and a wild urge rose in Beatrice to press her thumb there. Her skin was a little shiny with sweat—despite the air-conditioning, the day was hot and getting hotter—but Beatrice didn’t care about that. The idea stuck in her head, stuck in her fingers. Sweat and oil on her thumb. She was losing her mind. She needed some water. God. Beatrice refocused. Why do you need me? Ava was still talking. 

‘I mean, look at you. Jesus Christ. You’re smart, funny, successful. And - I mean this totally respectfully, okay? You’re hot. You could get a date easy .’

‘Oh. Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome,’ Ava said, matching her prim tone. Laughter shone in her eyes. ‘So? You’re not dating anyone? What happened? Bad break up? Boring break up?’

‘No, nothing like that. It’s…’

‘Complicated?’

Beatrice shook her head. ‘Nothing so interesting as complication .’ She wrinkled her nose at the word. ‘I’ve been busy, that’s all.’

The crease between Ava’s brows deepened.  Then it was gone. Ava sat up straight in her seat and, with utmost confidence, said, ‘No.’

‘What do you mean no ? It’s true.’

‘There’s more to it than you’re saying.’

Beatrice pressed herself flat. Spine rigid, firm against the back of the seat. Lips flat. Hands flat on either side of her folder. Redirecting her attention to her hands—anywhere other than Ava’s searching, knowing look—Beatrice stroked one finger down the spine of the folder. It was a week’s worth of compiling. A week of anxiety neatly printed out in size twelve font, one point five spacing, Times New Roman font. Her nail tapped against the bumps in the plastic where it wrapped around the metal hinge. 

Suddenly aware that they were not the only two people in the world, Beatrice said in a low voice, ‘There’s always more. How much did Mary tell you? About me. About—’ Beatrice lifted her hand very slightly, flicked a finger to point at Ava and then back at herself. ‘This.’

‘Um. Not a lot?’ Finally, Ava looked away. Coming out from under her stare was like being able to breathe again. (Breathing, Beatrice thought, might actually be overrated.) Ava ran a hand through her hair. She squinted hard up at the ceiling like her memories were hanging there, slightly out of focus. ‘She said…you needed someone to pretend to be your girlfriend for Christmas. And that I’d like you—right about that, by the way—and…that you weren’t very weird.’

‘How flattering.’

‘She was wrong about that,’ Ava teased, eyes back on Beatrice. ‘What did she say about me?’

Beatrice’s memories did not hang in the air. They were pinned neatly to the page, for easy reference. She flipped the folder open to Appendix A (A for Ava, naturally), where she had typed out that very limited information. 

‘Ava Silva. Short. Hyperactive.’ She hesitated a moment before accurately conveying, ‘Pretty. Kind. Favourite colour - red. Favourite food - all? She wasn’t sure. Favourite drink - Cuba libre.’

‘Pause. I like to make Cuba libre but it’s not my fave. Will I drink it if someone buys me one? Of course. But I like other stuff more. Mm lemon drops, maybe. Tequila, always fun. Vodka—vodka I don’t like on its own, definitely not enough to do shots, but I don’t mind it mixed. Is that really all she told you about me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Huh. Surprisingly sweet of her.’

‘Maybe she thought I wouldn’t turn up if she were more honest.’

As before, Ava only laughed at the biting joke. ‘Ouch! What did I ever do to you?’

‘You were late.’

‘Not by much!’

‘By fourteen minutes,’ Beatrice corrected. She hooked her bag and pulled it up onto the seat beside her. Reaching into it, Beatrice found her pencil case; from it, she took black, blue, and red pens—for new information, corrections, and vital information respectively—and set them neatly beside the folder. She uncapped the blue. She crossed out Cuba libre and wrote in its place, Lemon drop - tequila - vodka, mixed . 

Ava was staring when she looked up. 

Beatrice flushed. ‘What?’

‘You’re so…organised.’

‘That is painfully true, yes. I’m sorry.’

‘What? No, don’t apologise, it’s awesome. This is going to work out so well—it’s the whole opposites attract thing, you know?’

‘That’s your way of telling me you are not organised, I gather.’

Ava batted her lashes. ‘You understand me so well already.’

She had to laugh. And note it down. Uncapping the red pen—for vital information—she wrote, Ava - disorganised, tardy . 

Ava made a thoughtful sound. Reached across the table to trace the words with her fingers. 

‘Do you object?’ Beatrice teased.

Ava shook her head. ‘I like the way you write my name.’ 

The words curled between them, warm and smoky, like the burning edges of paper on fire. Something was burning, Ava had set something on fire with those words, and Beatrice wouldn’t know what was gone until she went searching for it. For now, it set off every alarm in her head; this girl was going to kill her before they ever got to her parent’s house.  

Beatrice looked down again, avoiding Ava’s eyes. Looked at her hand instead, which turned out to be a magnitude more dangerous. Ava’s hand was small. Her nails were neat, rounder than Beatrice’s own, and unpainted though there were traces of something blue beneath her nails, like she had been painting and hadn’t washed it all off. She still felt warm— I like the way you write my name —and moved eagerly to change the topic. 

‘Are you an artist?’

‘Huh?’ Seeing where Beatrice’s attention had gone, Ava slowly pulled her hand out of Beatrice’s space. Scraped at the blue with her thumbnail. ‘Nah. Or - maybe! I don’t know! I’ve never done much crafty stuff, maybe I’d be really good at it.’ The thought distracted her for a moment; with a shake of her head, she returned to the matter at hand. Literally. Wiggled her fingers at Beatrice. ‘No, this is from work. There’s this new promotion—it involves a ludicrous amount of blue paint so now every shift I walk home looking like an extra from Avatar and Avatar two, wet and wild—’

‘I don’t think that’s the title.’’

‘—and it’s all over my shower and my bedsheets and my clothes and it’s just, ugh.’

‘Why don’t you tell your boss you don’t like it?’

Ava looked at her like she was speaking a different language, one she was struggling to understand. After a second, she laughed. ‘Because it’s fun?’

‘Hm.’

‘It is! You should come! Basically it’s called the Blue Bucket and we have this, like, fundraiser at the holidays—it’s Pride Foundation Australia this time—and every time someone donates, we add to this tally. When we hit the goal, whatever it is—Mary knows, it’s like a couple hundred bucks or something—but when we hit the goal, one of the bartenders gets paint poured all over us.’ Beatrice imagined it. Blue dripping down Ava’s neck to her collar. Clothes plastered to her skin. She promptly stopped imagining it. Spun the pen in her fingers and made a polite noise of interest. Ava glanced down to the pen, catching the movement. She sat open-mouthed for a second, clearly distracted, and then said, ‘Y-You should come. Um. To the bar.’

‘No.’ That was a little curt, even Beatrice could hear that. Ava certainly could; she quirked a brow. Spinning the pen again, Beatrice tapped the capped end of it against the paper, drummed it onto the word bartender . ‘I don’t disapprove. But I don’t partake.’

‘Partake,’ Ava repeated slowly, taking her time with the word. ‘In…drinking? Or going out?’

‘Both, I suppose.’

‘ Never ?’

‘I’ve drunk before. It was…fine. But I prefer to be in control.’

Ava’s eyes brightened. Her jaw clenched tight and she fought a smile. Swallowed hard. In a strained voice, so obviously amused, she just said, ‘Oh, interesting.’

‘That’s not what I meant.’

‘Sure, but now it’s all I can think about, so… Distract me. Tell me about this wild night.’

The story wasn’t wild and it wasn’t particularly flattering. The thought caught Beatrice off guard; flattering was hardly the point of this meeting. Ava needed to know stories about her if they were to sell the idea that they were in a relationship—which Beatrice needed to circle back to, at some point, but Ava had been so kind in letting herself be distracted. A few more minutes. Then she really would talk about it. But first - this was precisely the sort of story that her bartender girlfriend would know about her.

‘First year of university–’

‘Oh, it’s one of those stories. Okay.’

Ava’s tone was knowing, fond. Beatrice felt it too. There was something to being eighteen and free. That first year of university—the open prettiness of the campus, the openness of classes and what the future could be , the prettiness of the college girls, the hungry rush for experiences like if you paused for even a moment you would miss out. Beatrice wouldn’t be eighteen again, not for all the money in the world, but she remembered it fondly. Mostly fondly. It wouldn’t be first year without a little embarrassment. 

‘I had just turned eighteen–’

‘Very dangerous.’

‘Are you going to interrupt the whole time?’

Ava grinned. ‘Honestly? Yes. Bad habit, sorry.’ She reached forward, into Beatrice’s side, into her space, and plucked up a pen. Blue. Waggled it invitingly. ‘You should write it down.’

‘Incurable, is it?’ The pen dropped, soft, onto the thick printer paper. Beatrice picked up the pen and a slight change in Ava’s mood. ‘Sorry,’ she offered, not quite sure what she was apologising for.

Ava shook her head. Her smile brightened by a distracting magnitude. ‘You were eighteen and looking for a party…’

‘I wasn’t looking for one. I was invited,’ Beatrice corrected. She traded the blue pen (corrections) for black (new information) and made a note at the bottom of the page— Chronic interrupter. A smile wriggled free of her control as she did. Interrupting was a habit that Beatrice would ordinarily find irritating, if not rude, but—whether it be Ava’s energy, self-assured, confident in her own charm, or Beatrice’s rampant lesbianism—it wasn’t. In fact, it was rather nice. Like a constant feedback loop that she was being listened to, that Ava found her interesting .  

‘I had just turned eighteen,’ she said again, ‘and a friend invited me to a toga party. It really isn’t interesting, I don’t remember all that much about it—which is why I haven’t done it since. I know that we started on campus and then we were on a boat or ferry at some point and the boys we were with pulled out a bottle of hundred proof rum. They threw the cap off the side of the boat.’

‘Littering?’ Ava tsk ed. ‘Naughty.’

‘Yes,’ Beatrice drawled. ‘We are single-handedly responsible for polluting the harbour.’ After a moment, she confessed, because it was true and because she suspected that it would make Ava laugh, ‘I did volunteer for Clean Up the Harbour that weekend.’

Ava did laugh. A slap the table, throw back her head kind of laugh. 

Success flushed through Beatrice, a sticky, full-body heat like stepping into the humid air after a day—a lifetime—stuck indoors. Sweat prickled in her palms, at the back of her neck. Beatrice tucked her hands beneath the table, wiped them discreetly against her jeans. 

‘Of course you did. So – what’s the problem? Something had to have happened if you don’t drink anymore. It was just the lack of control? Or the rum didn’t go down well?’

‘It was very expensive so, no, it went down very well.’

‘Just like me. Up top.’ Ava lifted her hand.

The joke startled a laugh out of Beatrice. She bit down on it after a split second but it was already too late; Ava had heard, and she looked extremely pleased with herself. She wiggled her fingers. 

‘High five me, Beatrice.’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘Aw, come on. It was funny. You laughed .’ Her hand dropped after a moment but she pouted about it. ‘I’m guessing I shouldn’t make sex jokes at your fancy event, then.’

‘ Absolutely not.’

The rawness in her tone set both of them aback.

Ava opened her mouth. Closed it again. Those eyes, which Beatrice had so admired for their warmth, took on a dangerous light. Curiosity, of the kind that would drive someone to touch open flame. Beatrice wanted to look away—it was clear that there was a sudden reassessment going on behind those eyes; what wasn’t clear was whether she would like the outcome of it—but she  couldn’t. She was caught on the way Ava’s lashes, sticky with dark mascara, looked like the aftermath of sunrays, like scorch marks; caught on the slope of her neck when she dipped to get Beatrice’s attention; caught on the way her teeth pushed colour from her bottom lip when she bit it, thoughtful and apologetic all at once.

‘I’m sorry,’ Beatrice blurted. ‘I didn’t mean to snap at you—'

‘No, I’m sorry. I’m not an idiot. I pretty much gathered from you and Mary that this is a shitty – er, delicate – situation. I shouldn’t have joked about it like that. Sorry.’

‘Please don’t apologise. To be perfectly honest, I wish I could joke about it. Or talk about it, without… I’m not always like this. I can laugh at myself. But when it’s about me and my family…’ Beatrice grimaced. ‘I’m not there yet.’

‘Do you want to talk about it?’

A smile was a generous word for what Beatrice did. It smeared over her lips. It made her feel more sick. She let it drop. ‘If I say no, can you ignore that and ask me anyway? Because I—I need this to work out – you and me and Christmas, ’ she bit out. 

At some point, without her feeling it, she had balled her hands into tight fists on her knees. Her nails bit into the soft of her palms. Her knuckles creaked with the pressure. The thought almost made her laugh, tossed a real—but not happy—smile to her lips, which she fumbled and dropped. All of her, she amended, was creaking with the pressure.

She pushed her hands open, flat, against her knees.

 ‘I know it wouldn’t be fair to ask you to he- to join me without understanding, without explaining what it is—’

‘Whoa, Beatrice, hey.’ Ava lurched forward. Reached out a hand between them, palm up. ‘You could tell me nothing else and I’d still be there. Mostly because you give off insane levels of rich girl vibes and I really wanna see how high society does Christmas—’ She grinned when Beatrice laughed, ‘—but also because I’m getting the sense that your family kinda sucks and you need a friend at your side.’

‘That’s… They’re not terrible.’

‘Ringing endorsement.’

Beatrice looked down at Ava’s hand. Lifted one from her knee. Let it hover for a moment as she considered where it would be safe to touch Ava; before she could decide, Ava reached up and folded Beatrice’s hand boldly in her own. There was a smudge of blue in the divot of Ava’s wrist, very faint. Beatrice wondered if it was a vein close to the surface of her skin, or the start of a bruise, or merely leftover paint. She wanted to touch, to find out.

‘They’re very conservative. Most of my family lives in England and things being what they are, my being—’ Beatrice glanced across the café but no one was paying attention to two girls tucked into a corner booth. Except for Camila, who was staring wide-eyed at their joined hands and who quickly pretended to be interested in cleaning a spot on the counter. ‘My being gay ,’ she said quietly, placing the word carefully between them. Ava smiled, so gently. Squeezed her hand again, and nodded for Beatrice to continue. ‘My mother considered it embarrassing. My father considered it a moral failing.’

‘Shit.’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m sorry. That sucks .’

Beatrice shrugged. ‘It is what it is.’

There were some things she was willing to talk about and accept advice or instruction for. The way her family had treated her was not one of those things—it was done, it was over, and there was no point in thinking of it again. What mattered was today, and what she planned on doing with it.

‘Christmas is particularly hard because that was when my parents found out, originally. It went…Poorly.’

That was one word for it. Apt enough. It certainly hadn’t gone well. Beatrice recalled raised voices. Her keen mind retained only a smattering of what had actually been said—something about image, worth, a waste of my time . Mostly, she remembered being cold. And scared. She recalled how her father’s silence had snapped closed around them like a steel-toothed trap, a silence she had yet to try to break in case moving, struggling, would close it tighter, draw blood. She sometimes wondered if she had, in the four years since, ever actually escaped that trap or if a part of her was not still held there, eighteen and afraid. 

‘So why this Christmas?’

Beatrice sighed. ‘It’s the first Christmas in a while that our family will be together. My aunts and many of my cousins are flying in from England and it would be strange if I were the only one who didn’t attend.’

Ava narrowed her eyes. ‘Your parents don’t want the rest of the family to know they fucked up,’ she translated. 

It made Beatrice smile. She didn’t need to be defended, nor did she necessarily want it, but it felt…nice that a near total stranger was so irate on her behalf.

‘Yes, I suppose.’

‘Wow. They sound like total cunts.’

‘Ava!’

‘Sorry, or whatever,’ Ava sulked.

Beatrice pressed her lips together. Shook her head. ‘I don’t think you are.’

‘I’m not! But I don’t want to be rude. Not to you, anyway.’ She pulled back, squeezing Beatrice’s hand one last time, to run both hands through her hair. Made an annoyed sound and lifted it all off the back of her neck. ‘Do you have a hair tie I could borrow? Take, let’s be honest.’

 Beatrice nodded. Snagged one from around her own wrist where it sat by the band of her watch and handed it over.

Ava tied her hair up in a messy high bun. Strands immediately spilled free of it but she didn’t seem to mind; one lucky strand hung low enough to brush against her neck and shoulder and Beatrice wondered how low she had sunk to be jealous of it. 

‘Okay. Can I ask another question? You’ve been invited back,’ Ava said, a little slowly, like she was figuring out what to ask as she said the words, ‘but do you want it to go well? Like. We aren’t going for the express purpose of starting a fight? No - wait - just, before you answer, picture this—we turn up there dressed to kill, of course.’

‘Of course.’

‘You make a distraction for me—I’m thinking, take out the security guard with your sick aikido skills. At the same time, I tackle your dad onto the driveway, no finesse required. Start a brawl - sorry, you’re English, I mean engage in fisticuffs .’

‘Show him the old one-two.’

‘Exactly, exactly .’ Ava slapped the tabletop, bounced in her seat. 

‘The only problem I see with that—’

‘Okay, sure, you have notes.’

‘—is that we would be removed and probably arrested immediately.’

‘Ah,’ Ava clicked her tongue, tilted her head. ‘So you do want to stay.’

It was a little startling to realise both that Ava was right—she did want to stay, she did want to see her family—and also that Ava had tricked her into admitting it. Beatrice narrowed her eyes. 

‘Do you cheat at cards?’

The accusation, and her sour tone, made Ava laugh. ‘Of course. How else would I win?’

‘Hm.’

‘I have a heap more ideas, by the way. Fisticuffs–too much, too soon, fine. But you know what isn’t? Some minor dishevelment. We wait for dinner and ask your grandma–’

Beatrice shook her head. ‘My grandparents will be staying in England.’

‘Ask an aunt to pass the gravy. She does. I say, oops—up to you how genuine you want me to be—and spill it all over him. He’s furious, he leaves, we lock the door behind him. Easy. Not what you want? I can improvise. How about - oh, okay - I wrap up a present for him but instead of one layer of wrapping paper, I use a hundred. After two or three layers, he starts getting pissed and pops an aneurysm. Bit dark,’ Ava acknowledged, seeing Beatrice’s wince. She pivoted instantly to, ‘Bad papercut?’

Beatrice listened, smiling, as Ava outlined yet more of her plans: removing every second button from his dress shirts; putting yoghurt in his shoes; speaking in a different language around him—‘We both speak German and Spanish! It’s perfect!’; breaking out Ava’s prized collection of whoopie cushions—‘Prized?’ - ‘Don’t judge. I bet you collect coins or something.’ The plans grew more elaborate, building toward Looney Tunes sketch levels of ridiculousness. She laughed when their thoughts synced and Ava described painting a tunnel on the side of the holiday home and luring Beatrice’s father to walk into it. Ava beamed back at her, looking so pleased with herself that Beatrice wondered if her goal was less to make a real plan and more to get Beatrice to laugh.

‘You’re a little diabolical.’

‘You like it.’

Beatrice nodded. A husky trotted past the window of the cafe—she pointed it out, smiled when Ava twisted in her seat to watch it. When she resettled, Beatrice said,

‘I don’t want to start a fight. You might think that’s boring or pathetic but I just want to come out the other side of this holiday without having a breakdown.’

‘That’s not pathetic.’

‘A little boring, though?’

Ava grinned but pushed on. ‘Here’s what I’m not a hundred per cent sure of, and what we got super distracted from. You need me to come with you because…?’

‘Ah. The deception.’

‘The deception,’ Ava repeated with a little wiggle. ‘ That’s not boring.’

There wasn’t a good way to explain the situation without sounding ridiculous so Beatrice didn’t try. She went for straight facts. Well. The facts. She sucked in a breath and thought back to the start. 

‘A few weeks ago, my parents—my mother—sent me an invitation to the Eve’s Gala.’

‘What’s that?’

‘A fancy party they host on the evening of the twenty-third. It was originally a Christmas Eve event but they moved it to the twenty-third for people who have families and obligations. It’s called the Eve’s Gala because…’ Beatrice crinkled her nose in thought. ‘Because they never changed the name? I’m not entirely sure, actually. Sorry.’

‘I forgive you,’ Ava told her promptly. ‘So you got an invitation.’

‘Yes. I put it in the bill drawer and forgot about it–’

‘The bill drawer?’

‘Yes. Where one collects their bills.’ At Ava’s blank look, she hazarded a question. ‘What do you do with your bills?’

‘Automatic payments or pray that I don’t forget about ‘em.’ Her fingers itched for a pen. Ava’s hand got there first, pinning it to the table. ‘Nope. You don’t need to write that down. Keep going. Bill drawer. Invitation. Mother. Wait–follow up–was it on fancy paper? Letterhead? Family stationery? Oh my god - do you have a crest ? Are you one of those families? This is so Gossip Girl, lives of the rich and famous.’

Poor bill maintenance, Beatrice added mentally to the list. Out loud, she said, ‘When I didn’t respond to the invitation, my mother turned up two weeks ago. At my apartment. On my doorstep. My housemate, Camila, refused to let her inside so she had to wait in the hall.’

‘Good.’

‘I wasn’t prepared–I should have been. When she asked me if I was coming, I told her yes. But… only if I could bring my girlfriend.’

Ava nodded slowly. ‘But you don’t have a girlfriend.’

‘I do not.’

‘Tragic.’ She didn’t sound all that disappointed. ‘You thought—what? That she’d say no?’

‘It was a possibility. We hadn’t talked about it since—since I came out. And I thought if I were to show up at a family gathering without a girlfriend that it would all be forgotten. Or worse, that maybe she would try to pair me with one of their friends' sons for the whole weekend, I don’t know. I don’t know. It would be extremely generous to say I was thinking at all. It just—’

‘Came out?’ Ava waggled her brows. 

Beatrice stared at her and said, deadpan, ‘Okay, I think we’re done here,’ and flipped the folder closed.

Ava laughed, flinging out a hand to stop her. Caught her loose around the wrist before she could move far at all. ‘Uh uh, no way. The time to think was at literally any point before now. Now is the time to be very stupid and very gay with me and have the best Christmas ever.’

‘Best Christmas ever,’ Beatrice repeated softly. ‘You certainly think highly of yourself.’

‘If you have any doubts about my abilities, I can put together a list of references.’ When Beatrice looked too interested in that offer, Ava said, ‘Starting with our mutual friend and my current employer, Mary?’

‘Right, yes, of course. No, no more references required. I trust Mary.’

‘So I’ve got the job?’ Ava wriggled in her seat. ‘Amazing! Awesome! Oh, I swear, I won’t let you down, this is going to be great !’

Beatrice allowed herself a moment of incandescent hope, imagining nothing more than this exact feeling—smiling at Ava, and having her beam back—filling the entirety of her holiday, which had seemed just this morning so terribly bleak. When that moment was over, she took her hope in purposeful hands and bent it into something more useful.

‘I hope so,’ she agreed, tone brisk. ‘But hope isn’t enough. Which is why I’ve taken the liberty of putting together this folder for you.’ Beatrice tapped her finger against the folder in front of her, flipping back from Appendix A to the table of contents. 

‘Wait, this is…for me?’

‘Yes. I have a matching one at home. It’s thirty-two pages. Divided into categories—an itinerary, naturally; an overview on the family history; individual family profiles, including suggested conversation starters and topics to avoid at all costs; a list of some notable individuals who often attend the Gala.’ At Ava’s look of dismay, Beatrice shrunk in her seat, just a little. ‘Is it not enough? I was worried it might not be but Camila advised me to keep it to the bare essentials. I removed what I thought might be unnecessary—information on tangential family members who won’t be present, nor likely to be discussed. Hm. I can send that information to you directly, if you’d like.’

 ‘Um. Wow. Having some mixed feelings right now.’

‘You’re reconsidering.’

‘Helping you? No! No. Just—Jesus, this looks like it took a lot of work. I bet it’s, um, very informative.’ Ava glanced over the table of contents from Itinerary to Appendix D. ‘It’s just that I kinda do better talking to people than I do memorising information about them. Maybe–’ Ava lifted her hands as one might to soothe a charging bull, or beg someone not to shoot. ‘Maybe. You could tell me what you want me to do or act like. Clingy? Bored? Do you want me to pretend to like them? I don’t care about embarrassing myself, if you need anything like that—I already told you I’d fight your dad - please let me fight your dad - but I’m open to suggestions. I could feign my death or we could make a break for it, you know, elaborate heist - or, what’s it called - yeah, a jailbreak! But I’m rambling and you should tell me what you need.’

‘I don’t know,’ Beatrice admitted, a little shakily. ‘Even you talking to me about this… I appreciate it more than you know. This holiday–this event—’ Beatrice rubbed at her eyes. She found herself abruptly close to tears. The only thing that kept her from crying was the fact that there was nothing worse than crying on a first date except, of course, crying on a fake first date in front of a girl who was going to pretend to be her girlfriend. ‘I know this is ridiculous.’

‘It’s not. Okay, it is, a little. But family is different for everyone. And if you need to lie to them so you can bring a friend along and get some peace and quiet, then that’s what we’re going to do.’ We, Beatrice heard, and had to blink hard. ‘I’ve got you, Beatrice. We can do this.’

She put her hand over Beatrice’s and squeezed. Eyes filled with such sincerity and kindness that Beatrice couldn’t help but stare back. 

‘Who are you? Truly. Are you some kind of Christmas miracle?’

Ava laughed. ‘Not a miracle. Definitely not.’

They would have to agree to disagree on that point. 

‘Okay.’ Ava clapped her hands. ‘One more question before we go through your serial killer binder. If we’re going to pretend to be girlfriends—how long have we been dating? That’s not the question.’

Beatrice shrugged. ‘Two months?’

‘Wow, you must love me. Meeting the whole family already. Okay. Here’s the question–What are you comfortable doing? In terms of PDA, I mean.’ At Beatrice’s hesitance, she continued blithely, ‘We’ll start from zero and go to a hundred, stop me when I go too far. Holding hands, hugging, kissing, kissing with tongue, hickeys, mild groping, advanced groping—over clothes. Mild groping with less clothes—this one is like, if we were in our togs, or whatever. Advanced groping with less clothes—you are letting me get very far, which I love by the way, this is turning into a very different holiday than I had anticipated.’

Beatrice flushed. ‘I was going to hear you out entirely and then let you know.’

‘Oh. Well.’ Ava wriggled in her seat and continued. ‘Topless making out. And then I guess anything that follows is basically having sex in public. Oh, and then, if we got arrested it would be public indecency. Okay! I’m done. What do you think?’

‘Very informative. I should have stopped you at hugging.’

Ava burst out laughing. Beatrice scanned the café, cheeks flushed, but no one was paying attention to them in their private corner. She relaxed and found herself smiling as Ava’s laughter tapered away into shaking shoulders and quiet little huffs as she brought herself under control. 

‘I’m – ha – oh my god. Okay. I’m down for whatever, I’ll follow your lead.’

‘Where is your stopping point?’

‘You don’t want to know.’

Beatrice flushed hotter. The heat spilled down her cheeks to her neck. She cleared her throat. ‘Okay.’

‘Honestly, I just love touching people. Mary is desperate for me to get a partner so that I stop hanging off her all the time and stop trying to kiss her after, like, one beer. That’s something you should know, actually–here, let me–’ She grabbed Beatrice’s folder and spun it around, stealing a pen as well. She scrawled across the page, not seeming to bother with lines. Her handwriting moved in a dreamy sort of way, changing from spiky to round at a whim. ‘Sorry in advance, I’ve got terrible handwriting. It’s legible though. Most of the time.’

She pushed the folder back in front of Beatrice, tucking the pen behind her own ear. 

In big red letters, Ava had written WARNING: CLINGY. Beneath it, she had included a list: hugs, holding hands, making out—literally whenever . 

‘Okay,’ Beatrice said again. She thought about kissing Ava, eyes dropping briefly to her lips. She felt insane, half wild with the thought, half calm as another piece of her plan found its place. She nodded. ‘I don’t know if my family would believe it. If we were that affectionate. I’m somewhat reserved.’

‘Because you’re actually reserved? Or because your family sucks balls?’ A fair question. But one Beatrice couldn’t answer. Ava continued after a moment, ‘It’s also been four years since you hung out with them though, right? Heaps can change in that time.’ The smile Ava gave her was gentle, soothing. ‘I’m not saying we make out twenty-four seven, or even at all. I’m just saying, whatever happens, I’m gonna follow your lead. If that means making the ultimate Christmas sacrifice and letting you stick your tongue down my throat, I am willing to do that. For you.’

‘I appreciate that,’ Beatrice drawled. ‘If worst comes to worst–’

‘Wow. You are not good for my self-esteem.’

‘–and I need to make out with you in front of my homophobic family, it’s important to have set these clear boundaries.’

‘Absolutely necessary in situations like these. You’d be surprised what people try to get away with when you’re fake dating them for the holidays.’ Ava clapped her hands. ‘Now - onto the important stuff. What’s your favourite food?’

//

12:00 

//

Two cups dropped between them. Beatrice looked from rattling ice to pink-painted nails–bitten to the quick–up to Camila’s carefully blank face. She was vibrating with the force of suppressing a smile.

‘Hello, guests of the OCS! I hope you’re having a wonderful day! Are you after anything to eat? We’ve just redesigned our lunch menu!’ 

Beatrice winced. She could hear the exclamation points that followed each statement, like Camila was smacking her over the head with them. Ava, thankfully, didn’t seem to have noticed. She was eyeing the new frappe set in front of her with borderline lust. 

‘Is this for me?’

‘Yes!’

‘But I didn’t order it?’

‘On the house!’

Beatrice closed her eyes. ‘Oh my god.’

‘I’m so happy to get you anything you might need!’

‘ Camila ,’ Beatrice snagged Camila’s arm, yanking her over. Quietly, she hissed, ‘ What are you doing? Take it down a notch. Or twelve. Please.’

Camila tried to shake her off but Beatrice hung tight. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she pouted. 

‘Yes, you do.’ 

Ava had picked up her frappé at some point during their aside and was grinning, leaned back in the booth to watch them as one might watch their favourite TV show. All she was missing was some popcorn.

‘If you don’t want me to be weird,’ Camila started, and yelped when Beatrice tugged at her again. She shook free, successfully this time. ‘If you don’t want me to be weird,’ she said out of the side of her mouth, and smiled at Ava brightly, ‘introduce me.’

‘I was going to do that when you finished your shift.’

‘Bullshit you were going to—‘

‘Well now you’ll never know , will you? You’re so impatient!’

‘I’m not impatient, you’re—‘ Camila huffed, going a little red in the face. ‘The word is on the tip of my tongue, ooh I’m so mad. It’s like secretive but mean about it.’

‘Private.’

‘No. No! I’ll text it to you later when it comes to me. But - ‘ Camila poked her in the shoulder. ‘ You are it. Whatever it is.’

‘I’m still here, by the way,’ Ava interjected, grinning broadly. ‘In case you forgot.’

It would be impossible to forget that Ava was near, Beatrice thought, but did not say. 

Camila bit her lip. Slid her eyes to Ava and back again. ‘ Beatrice. Introduce me.’

She gave in as graciously as possible. Folding her arms across her chest, she introduced them curtly. ‘Camila, Ava. Ava, Camila.’

 ‘ Ava, ’ Camila sighed, hand to heart, like she was going to swoon. ‘That’s a beautiful name. Isn’t that a beautiful name, Beatrice? It’s so lovely to meet you—I’m Camila.’ She curtsied, gripping her apron like it was a medieval skirt. ‘Beatrice’s best friend.’

‘Are you sure about that?’ Beatrice muttered.  

‘Wow, hi! It’s so nice to meet my girlfriend’s best friend!’

Girlfriend, Beatrice thought, stomach swooping. Then she saw the broad grin on Ava’s face, matching Camila’s exactly, and groaned. ‘Oh god. There’s two of you.’

Her words went unheard or ignored when Camila shrieked, a high-pitched noise that made the dogs outside bark and rattled the glasses on top of the espresso machine. 

‘You’re going to do it? Really? You will?’ 

In a show of strength and lack of personal boundaries, Camila yanked Ava out of her seat and into a hug. 

Ava froze. Like a little turtle on its back, her expression baffled, uncertain of how to get back on her own feet, under her own power. She remained frozen for long enough that Beatrice started to tell Camila to let her go—but stopped, made a little uncomfortable by the parade of emotions crossing Ava’s face. Startlement, surprise, the barest flicker of something profoundly and privately moved. Then delight, and Ava finally put her cup on the table and swayed into the hug, wrapping her arms around Camila too. 

 Beatrice frowned. First a strand of hair, now her best friend. It was silly to be jealous of them but the jealousy didn’t care if it was silly; it gnawed at her as Ava melted into Camila’s arms and stayed there for one minute and well into another.

She cleared her throat. 

‘That’s quite enough, probably.’ 

‘Spoken like someone who enjoys her hugs to last for three seconds exactly,’ Camila teased. ‘What’s your ideal hug time, Ava?’

‘Five more minutes,’ she sighed happily, wriggled deeper into the hug. Hooked her chin over Camila’s shoulder. ‘I love a hug.’

Camila laughed. The sound was edged with a mischievousness that Beatrice doubted Ava would notice. Beatrice noticed. She pulled her eyes away from Ava—the glimpse of skin where her shirt rode up, the hint of definition in her arms—to find Camila watching her. 

What? 

Camila shook her head. Released Ava with one last squeeze. ‘So. Ava. What do you think about our plan?’

‘Our plan?’ Ava slid slowly back into her chair, reluctantly. She palmed the frappé, brought it to her lips. ‘The bring a girl to Christmas thing?’ Camila nodded. ‘I love it. Wait—are you Camila Camila? Housemate Camila? Leave Mrs Turner out on the doorstep because she sucks balls Camila?’ A smile flickered across Beatrice’s face. As irritating as Camila was being now, pushing into this meeting, she had more than earned the right to do so. Ava looked at her questioningly; Beatrice nodded. ‘ Awesome . Obviously, I’m a huge fan. And totally honoured to be asked to help. Or - offered up? Mary just told me to “be there or be square, or whatever the kids say these days” and I try to never be square.’ 

Camila took a seat beside Ava. Blocking her in, Beatrice noted. ‘So… You’ll do it? Definitely?’

‘Huh? Yeah, yes. Sí! Absolutely. I mean, the dream was to get something fun to do over Christmas or even go somewhere—and this is both! Plus, tormenting homophobes? Literally a dream come true.’

Camila clapped her hands. Leaned in toward Ava like she was a sunflower and Ava the sun—a feeling Beatrice empathised with. ‘This is wonderful. Just wonderful. Free drinks for life!’

Ava laughed. ‘I’m happy to do it, really. I don’t need anything.’

‘At least let me hug you again.’ Ava gave in to that very happily. She didn’t seem the slightest bit bothered that Camila kept her arm around her shoulders, in fact snuggled right into the open affection. ‘I’m so relieved. Beatrice has been stressing about this—she mutters when she’s stressed, keep an eye out for that, okay? And she gets mean.’

‘I’m not mean .’

‘Sorry. “Curt”,’ Camila amended, in air quotes, and rolled her eyes. 

‘That’s alright,’ Ava told them. Her eyes on Beatrice were soft. ‘I like my girls mean.’

Camila laughed. Beatrice smiled. There was a lot of laughter at their table and that was good, actually, even if that feeling she thought was jealousy was gnawing at her again, climbing up from her guts into her throat. She picked up her coffee. It was too hot to drink but she sipped at it anyway. 

‘I’m really glad. Not about mean girls–’

‘Great movie.’

‘—but that you’re going. It’s such a relief. I can’t believe we haven’t met yet, I know Mary has been trying to set something up, and I’m just—‘ Camila put a hand to her heart, shook her head. ‘I’m so glad that someone nice is going with Bea. I would have tried but my family is holidaying in the mountains this year and my brother just got a puppy, so.’

‘Way more important than saving your friend from torment.’

‘She’s very cute, I’ll send you photos. But also Bea’s family already knows me and that we aren’t together. And her mother does not like me. I do think we could have sold it though, if we’d leveraged the best friends to lovers route.’ 

Beatrice wasn’t so sure of that. The sharklike way Camila eyed her was terrifying, to be blunt. And Beatrice was no actor. She was incapable of feigning “lovers” with her best friend; in fact, for this to have a chance at working, it had to be with a girl she wasn’t friends with. The thought of kissing Camila made her wither. Not because she wasn’t beautiful, or lovely, but because she was Beatrice’s friend. And though therapy helped immensely, there was a lingering worry, a fear, that scratched at the door of her mind and spoke through the keyhole in a growl, wolf at the door, that she was the monster.

Her stomach twisted. She wished she hadn’t drunk two coffees now; they bubbled in her stomach along with her nerves. 

Ava and Camila were talking, laughing, touching. They made it look so easy . 

Her breath caught, strangled. 

One, two, three. 

Out, two, three. 

‘Bea?’ Camila reached a hand out to her across the table (across the years, Beatrice thought, remembering a moment so similar, that warm hand wrapping around hers, coaxing her to breathe, sweetie, breathe ). Beatrice yanked her hand away. 

‘Excuse me a moment,’ Beatrice said, and stood. ‘Bathroom.’

She moved direct to the cramped toilets tucked behind the café. It was occupied, which was fine. Beatrice waited outside. She focused on her breathing and on the wall of food that divided the toilets from the kitchen–tins, cans, packets, containers, huge bags of rice. It was the food pantry for the OCS dinner drive they held every night, now that it was nearly Christmas. She needed to add a reminder to her calendar. Fumbled in her pocket for her phone. Added Donate to food drive to her list. Stared across at the image of a huge cartoon bean. Wearing a hat. 

‘What the fuck am I doing?’

‘What?’ someone said from inside the toilets. 

‘No, not you. Sorry.’

‘Uh. Okay. I’m almost done.’

‘Okay.’

A moment later, a girl stepped out. She wore huge sunglasses and a mean look on her face, which Beatrice almost deserved, and pushed past her into the café.

Beatrice shut herself in. 

It was hot. She was hot, skin clammy. An anxiety attack. Today of all days? Now of all times? Why? 

Twisting the tap open, she shoved her hands into the stream of lukewarm water, letting it pour over her hands, her wrists. After a few seconds, the water ran cooler. She let out a long breath. 

Consider it logically, Beatrice. 

She was stressed. That was all. That could be managed. She was taking steps to manage it. And it wasn’t that bad, was it? The approaching holidays, buying gifts, the disruption to her typical routine, the prospect of seeing her family—her father—all together under one roof after all these years. Her mother . Turning up here , to the city , to her home that she had made and fortified, filled with everything that was precious to her. That stung, perhaps most of all. 

Midnights working on the dossier— manual —probably hadn’t helped. 

Wetting a paper towel, Beatrice pressed it to her neck, her forehead. Droplets slid down past her collar, irritating, but the coolness was such a profound relief that she could ignore it. The heat stinging the back of her neck faded. Her heart rate settled. 

She was managing this. 

And she now had Ava to help. 

Above the sink was a tiny, lopsided mirror. Beatrice stared into it; her reflection stared back, wide-eyed, cheeks still a little pink. Pressing her cool palms against them, she let water drip down her wrists and into her sleeves. It dampened the cuffs of her black linen shirt to a deeper black. A strand of hair had fallen from her bun and it drifted down her cheek, framing her face. Beatrice pushed it back behind her ear. That looked more like herself but—she frowned. Brought her hand up and slid the strand free once more, re-examined. It lent a softness to her features that was novel but not unpleasant. Her lips, she noticed, tilted ever so slightly upwards at the corners. Had they always done that? Or had it taken—she twisted her wrist, stared in disbelief at its face too—less than two hours of knowing Ava for her burdens to lift enough to allow it? Two hours. That couldn’t be right. She felt like she’d known her forever. 

Beatrice wadded up the paper towel and chucked it into the bin. Camila would know why she had left; she hoped Ava wouldn’t but with every additional minute it became more and more likely that she would ask. Drawing in a sharp breath, Beatrice and her reflection nodded to one another. She turned on her heel and left. 

The table was more or less how she had left it.

Ava had pushed her folder to the side, elbow pinning it protectively; Beatrice wouldn’t be surprised if Camila had tried to sneak a peek at it. Their heads were bent close together as they spoke. Beatrice returned just in time to hear, 

‘—tell you that it’s Portrait of a Lady on Fire or something else equally award-winning, but what she won’t tell you is that she’s watched Legally Blonde a thousand times.’

They were talking about her? 

‘I’m a lawyer, Cam.’

‘Almost.’

‘Almost. Of course I’ve watched it a thousand times.’ Beatrice was very focused on not making eye contact with Ava—one needed eye contact to ask prying questions, right?—which meant that she was looking instead at Ava’s arm, and at the folder, and noticed that the other girl relaxed. Beatrice wondered why. Because she had returned? Ava’s still posture loosened and a playful fidget returned to her, spinning the pen she had stolen between her fingers (and promptly dropping it). 

Beatrice slid into the booth. Ava’s fingers stretched out toward her, minutely. She glanced up and found Ava watching her—other hand holding the frappé to her mouth in such a way that Camila could not see her mouth. You okay? Beatrice offered a small smile, a braced nod. 

Trusting that was true, Ava immediately jumped in on the teasing—but on Beatrice’s side. 

‘It’s listed in the curriculum, isn’t it? Week one - contract law, week two - torts, week three - in depth analysis on Legally Blonde one, two, and the musical.’

Camila shook her head. ‘Once or twice, I would get. But Ava - Ava . Six times? In a week ?’

‘Over achiever, our Beatrice.’

Was it more likely, Beatrice wondered, that she would die here and now? Or in several minutes when her racing heart finally gave out? Our Beatrice , Ava said, with more fondness  than Beatrice had ever heard her name said before. With more—everything. And she was right, of course, but Beatrice didn’t understand how she could be, couldn’t recall anything in her notes that pointed to traits of perfectionism. Oh, well. Besides the entire dossier, maybe. 

‘Camila was giving me info for the dossier .’ Ava said the word with relish. 

‘It’s not a dossier. Did I leave something out?’

‘Uh, yeah. Everything about yourself.’

‘About–’ Beatrice touched a hand to her forehead. ‘About myself. Yes. I completely forgot.’ Somewhere between stalking her cousin, twice-removed, on Facebook—awful site—and writing a list of her mother’s favourite beverages in order of preference, she had quite forgotten to write down more than her own most basic information. 

‘It’s cool. You told me plenty and Cam–can I call you Cam?–just gave me heaps more.’

‘I don’t want to know.’

Their matching grins assured her that she really didn’t. 

‘I just have one question,’ Ava continued. ‘How long have you two been friends?’

‘Four years.’

‘Almost five now. We met in first year.’

‘Cute! Immediate follow up—Has Beatrice always been…’ Ava waved her hand toward Beatrice, loosely encompassing all of her. Camila laughed and nodded.

‘What does that mean?’ Beatrice asked. 

‘Buttoned up,’ Ava said.

‘Uptight,’ Camila said at the same moment.

They both said it in the same fond tone and Beatrice realised that she had been right earlier. Oh god. There’s two of you . She thought it again now, still amused but faintly overwhelmed. It was a lovely thought because Camila was nothing less than an angel—a guardian angel, nigh-violently supportive—in her life and the thought that there might be two people who brought her that much joy… It was too much to feel for a first meeting, certainly, but there was a fatefulness to it that Beatrice wasn’t about to question. 

She sighed. ‘Yes. I am always like this.’

Ava patted her hand. ‘That’s sweet. I’ll break you in a month.’ Camila hid a laugh behind her hand; Ava’s hand, she left precisely where it was on top of Beatrice’s. Even going as far as to lace their fingers together. She squeezed. ‘Is this too much? We’ll have to get used to it you know.’

‘It’s fine.’

‘Try to look like you’re enjoying it,’ Ava suggested. ‘Or less like you’re holding a cockroach. Which is super bad for my self-esteem, by the way.’

Beatrice forced herself to relax. ‘Pardon me.’

‘You’ll have to excuse her, it’s been a long time since she dated anyone.’

‘Camila! I can speak for myself.’

‘Yes, of course you can, but you never want to talk about girls. I can tell you everything,’ Camila said in a stage-whisper. ‘How many, where and when they made out, how far they went - ‘ 

‘I think probably that’s not necessary,’ Ava cut her off, much to Beatrice’s relief. She began moving—had they frightened her away? Unlikely, given that her smile hadn’t dropped a millimetre—and shuffled Camila out of the booth so she could stand and stretch. Her shirt rode up. Beatrice caught sight of a freckle on her hip and moved her gaze to stare resolutely at the tabletop. ‘Okay. I’m going to the bathroom too, that frappé is running right through me. While I’m gone, feel free to gossip about me.’

‘We would never ,’ Camila lied, aghast.

‘Thank you, we will,’ Beatrice said, daring to lift her eyes again. 

Ava gave her another wink-blink and wandered off in the direction of the bathroom. She lingered at the wall of road-signs, took a picture on her phone. Touched the drooping leaves of a gigantic green fern on one of the shelves and, eventually, disappeared around the corner.

‘What do you think?’

Beatrice frowned. ‘She’s different. Funny.’

‘ And ?’

And… Was it too much to ask Camila if she had ever met someone who made it easy to be her favourite version of herself? 

Perhaps. 

Perhaps definitely.

‘It’s easy to talk to her,’ Beatrice said instead. ‘I think… Yes. I think this will work.’ She looked away from the corner where Ava had vanished. Camila was watching her intently. ‘What?’

‘Nothing. I’m just—I’m so relieved.’

Beatrice reached across the table to grab Camila’s hand. ‘I know you’ve been worried for me. I’m sorry. I’ve been difficult.’

‘No, never.’

‘I’ve acted abysmally,’ she disagreed, firmly. 

‘You only redid the pantry twice. Nothing like the five-pantry problem of 2020.’

‘And I made you rearrange the lounge.’

‘At ten pm. Yes. I was there.’ Camila laughed. Patted her hand. ‘It’s fine. I know you, Bea.’

‘You do. And you are very kind to me. I don’t deserve it.’

‘I don’t think friendship has much to do with deserving .’ Camila looked at her for a long moment, lips scrunched to the side thoughtfully. Her thumb ran over Beatrice’s knuckles. ‘I love you, Bea, you know that. Don’t you? And if you need me, at any point in this holiday, I’m only ever a phone call away. I’ll come and pick you up, if you need. Or - or I’ll send a car, or something.’

‘I know.’

‘No matter what time it is.’

‘I know,’ Beatrice said again, and felt it settle in her chest, a pleasant weight. ‘I love you too.’

Camila only patted her hand again. It was a warm and tender moment. Then, 

‘She’s hot , by the way.’

‘Camila!’

‘I mean - and that shirt ? Those shorts ? I don’t know if I want to be her or–’

‘Please don’t finish that sentence.’

‘–be with her. Respect women and all that and I would love to respect that woman.’ She waggled her eyebrows and grinned, tongue pinched cheekily between her teeth.

‘Camila - what - you’re straight -’

‘Less and less every day.’

‘... What ?’

Camila shrugged. ‘We can talk about it later. But we have a very limited amount of time to gossip about her like she said. And you can’t tell me you didn’t notice–you were looking at her like she was the last apricot ball on the plate.’

Beatrice rolled her eyes at the somewhat pointed reminder of last week’s Apricot Incident—no one had been grievously injured, no hospital visit required—and scanned the café to make sure Ava still wasn’t back before agreeing, ‘She’s beautiful, yes.’

‘Hot.’

‘ More importantly, Mary trusts her and something tells me that I can as well.’ She touched her fingers to her watch, ran them along the band of it, the soft leather, the bump of the metal clasps. Twelve twenty-seven. ‘It’s been two hours. More than two hours.’ Camila looked at her, confused. ‘I hadn’t noticed. I didn’t notice. I got distracted.’

‘That’s understandable,’ she said slowly. ‘She is distracting.’

‘It’s more than that.’ How to explain? Beatrice’s whole world operated like clockwork. She liked it that way. Everything happened in its time, precisely when it should, and any deviations—her mother turning up, her computer breaking down, the train running late, yet again—were repetitions of the same patterns. Observable, known. But Ava? ‘When I saw her, it was like the whole world stopped to let me look for a second longer. And now all the clocks are wrong. Or I am. I haven’t looked at my watch.’ It felt like a confession, tucked up in the quiet booth with her friend. ‘Not once while I was with her.’

Mercifully, Camila didn’t tease her for the sentiment. She only nodded. Patted Beatrice’s hand yet again. They sat like that until Ava returned. 

Camila stood to let Ava back in but didn’t sit down again. She smiled at the both of them. ‘Alright, I won’t interrupt anymore, I’m sure you have a lot more to talk about. I’m going to head out. Bea - I’ll see you at home, okay?’

Beatrice frowned. ‘Aren’t you working?’

‘Nope. Finished at twelve.’

‘You offered us food.’

‘I needed an in. You wouldn’t have introduced me otherwise.’ Ignoring Beatrice’s glare, Camila said, very cheerfully and sincerely, ‘Ava, it was so lovely to meet you. Bea–don’t look at me like that. I love you. Sorry for embarrassing you.’

‘You aren’t. Sorry, I mean. You are embarrassing.’

That made Camila laugh. ‘Well, it’s still true that I love you. Very much.’ She swept over to Beatrice’s side of the table and put a hand on her shoulder, pressing until Beatrice leaned toward her. She dropped a kiss onto the top of Beatrice’s head. ‘I want daily updates from both of you. A text, a call, whatever. Every day. Otherwise, I’ll fret.’

‘One from each of us, or one from either of us on behalf of both?’

‘At least one from either of you - but you know I love attention so even better if I get one from you both.’

Beatrice nodded. Sliding the folder out from under Ava’s elbow, she made note of the stipulation on the front page of the dossier in red. ‘I want photos of Duncan’s dog.’

‘I’ll send so many it’ll be like you’re there with me,’ Camila vowed, and hugged her tight around the shoulders. To Ava, she said, ‘I know I already said this but thank you. Truly. And I hope this isn’t the last time we hang out.’

Ava smiled warmly up at her. ‘It won’t be. I’m friends with Mary so it’s bound to happen eventually. It’s actually wild that we’ve never met before.’

‘And I’ll tell her exactly that. I think I’ll scold her, even, for keeping you from us.’

‘Mary doesn’t really do scolded.’

‘Don’t be so sure. Camila is quite good at it,’ Beatrice whispered and ducked out of the way with a little smirk when Camila tried to flick her ear in retribution. ‘ Goodbye , Camila.’

‘She seems awesome,’ Ava said when Camila had gone.

‘She is. She’s… The best person in the world, I think. Very funny, very sweet, very smart. Far too smart for her own good.’

‘And you don’t want to date her?’

‘No. She’s my friend.’

‘Those aren’t mutually exclusive,’ Ava pointed out. ‘But good. I was wondering if I should be jealous.’

Beatrice smiled. ‘No. No, you don’t need to be jealous. Are you inclined toward jealousy?’

Ava shrugged. ‘Not really. But for you?’ She took a long moment to regard Beatrice, eyes drifting over her face, the breadth of her shoulders, down her arms to her hands. Beatrice wasn’t sure what to do under such intense scrutiny so she stayed very still. Ava met her eyes again with a crooked smile. ‘I could be.’

The air was thin, strained. Beatrice felt a little dizzy again. She touched the wristband of her watch. 

‘For the deception?’

Ava smiled. ‘Right,’ she agreed, not trying too hard to sound sincere. ‘For the deception.’ She must have been able to see that Beatrice was caught off guard because she blinked and shifted and just like that, air rushed back into the space, tension broken. ‘I didn’t spend a full fifteen minutes in the toilet, by the way. In case you were wondering.’

‘I wasn’t.’

‘I would have been. No judgement but as soon as we get to your house, I’m looking through all the cabinets. Kitchen, bathroom, medicine, linen. Bedside drawers. I’m a snoop.’

‘Okay. I doubt I’ll unpack, if I’m being honest.’

‘That bad?’

Beatrice shrugged. ‘We’ll see, I suppose. And in the medicine cabinet… Panadol. Sunscreen. My skin care products. Nothing too interesting.’

‘Of vital interest, actually.’ Ava’s smile wavered. ‘Um. Speaking of medicine. The topic that I brought up. Flawless segue, Ava, good one,’ she muttered to herself quietly. ‘Okay, I’m just going to say it and if it will be a huge thing to you then I’ll go, no worries, but it isn’t a huge thing, actually, so if you think it is you’re also ableist.’

Beatrice frowned. ‘Pardon?’

‘That’s the deal.’

‘...Okay?’

Ava shifted in her seat. Glanced out to the café, and over her shoulder to the door, before looking back. ‘I have epilepsy,’ she said bluntly. Her confidence was belied by the way she scooted right to the edge of the seat, one leg swung out and to the side, like Beatrice’s No was a given. ‘It’s totally fine, I hardly ever have seizures anymore because I’m on a cool and effective anti-epileptic medicine. The only reason I’m telling you is that it does still happen. It’s unlikely, it’s very rare, but it can look scary when it does, and you should be aware of it obviously. They mostly happen when I’m asleep anyway—you look like you’re about two seconds from googling this, so, hold on.’ Ava pulled the folder back to her side of the table. ‘What colour pen do I use?’

‘Black for new information, red for vital.’

Ava nodded. After a moment’s hesitation, she took the black pen. ‘They’re called tonic seizures and, like I said, they mostly happen when I’m asleep. They can happen when I’m awake. It’s only happened, like, a handful of times and not for years , not since I got on this new medication. It affects the muscles in my back and my legs, which means if it did happen while I was awake, I’d probably fall over.’ She curled herself over the folder and wrote quickly, tongue a pink dot pressed to the corner of her mouth again. She switched to the red pen for a moment, and then back to black. When she sat back, Beatrice saw a website address and a list titled Seizure Triggers. The title was done in big bubble letters. She took a photo of each. ‘The ones with red hearts next to them are triggers for me. The others are just general epileptic triggers—I thought you might appreciate a more extensive list.’

‘I do. Thank you. May I ask a question?’ Ava nodded. ‘In the unlikely scenario that you do have a seizure, what do I do?’

‘Oh. I’ll add a list of do and don'ts. Do not call triple zero. Don’t call an ambulance. Unless it lasts more than five minutes, that’s not great, but I’d prefer you called my doctor anyway. I’ll get her name and number for you.’

‘Alright.’

‘What else? Make sure there’s nothing sharp around me, mm, put something flat and soft under my head. I won’t be spasming, that’s not the kind of epilepsy that I have. I’ll just…be a bit paralysed.’ Ava’s smile was reassuring but a little stiff. 

Beatrice nodded. ‘Okay.’

‘Okay?’

‘Yes, okay. I see you don’t have taunting homophobes as a trigger,’ she noted, and Ava beamed. ‘I see no reason that we shouldn’t proceed as planned. When Camila interrupted us, we were about to go over the itinerary. Shall we pick up again from there?’

//

13:30

//

They were most of the way through Beatrice’s list of cousins—okay, so it was a dossier—when Beatrice’s phone rattled against the table with a loud clatter that made them both jump. She flipped it over and stared in disbelief. Her alarm? Her alarm !

‘I’m so sorry—my alarm— Vincent —I’m sorry, I need to go,’ she said, swiping the notification off her screen. How— Where on earth had another hour gone? 

Ava shrugged easily. She was, Beatrice had learned over the course of the morning, extremely accommodating. ‘No worries. What time is it? Oh fuck, are you serious? Two already?’

‘One thirty. One thirty one, now.’

‘Basically two. Thank god for your alarm, I should run too. Last shift before the break.’ She swept her things into her bag—taking care with the folder, Beatrice noted—and slid out of the booth. Trying to lift her bag, Ava stopped. Sighed. Looked down at it like she was wondering whether she could simply drag it. 

Beatrice bent and snagged one of the straps, lifting it up onto her shoulder. 

‘What do you have in this? Bricks?’

‘Textbooks. I thought I would get time to study. And I did,’ Ava teased. ‘Just not the study i though I’d be doing. You don’t have to carry that for me.’ 

‘Wouldn’t want you to hit anyone with it,’ Beatrice murmured.

Ava smiled and shrugged, looking very pleased, and gestured for Beatrice to lead the way. They walked out together. 

‘Why aren’t you working over Christmas?’ Beatrice asked her. She sped up a little to hold the door open for Ava and was rewarded with a light brush of Ava’s fingers against her shoulder, a thankful smile. ‘If you don’t celebrate. I imagine it would be a good time to be a bartender, tip wise.’

‘For sure. And you’re right, I don’t really celebrate, I’m so far from religious it’s not funny. There’s traditions…’ she said, and shook her head. ‘Mostly I took the time off to study—I have my exam—’

‘On the twenty-third,’ Beatrice nodded, and followed Ava out of the café. They didn’t walk far, stopping at the corner of the street. 

‘Right. At nine-something? I think? I’ll have to check my email. But it’s not going to interfere with anything in our itinerary, promise. But yeah! Mary was super chill about it, she let me take the whole week off. And now I’m with you! So it all worked out perfectly. Who’s Vincent?’

‘My tailor. He’s making adjustments to some suits.’

‘Suits?’ It was hard to tell in the bright daylight but Beatrice thought Ava might have given her a quick once-over. ‘For you?’

‘Yes. For work, mostly, but I’ll be wearing one to the family dinner on Christmas Eve.’

‘Oh cool. Cool.’ Ava frowned. ‘What about the Eve’s Gala? You said that’s a fancy event, right? Is there a dress code? I’m assuming this won’t cut it.’ She stuck out one leg, wiggled her hips to show off her outfit. Her shorts. Beatrice was reminded once again that they were, indeed, short. 

‘Formal wear is required. Will that be a problem?’ Beatrice frowned. ‘Dammit. At such late notice too—maybe—yes, you could join me this afternoon, perhaps Vincent would know someone. Oh, but you’re working. Alright. I could organise something, if you tell me your dress size. And I would pay, of course, I would never ask you to go out of your way to help me and then make you pay —’

‘Whoa, Beatrice. Relax.’ Ava put a hand on her wrist. Smiled up at her. ‘How formal is formal?’

‘The invitation is black tie optional.’ When Ava squinted at her, confused, Beatrice added, ‘Dressier than cocktail, but not quite as formal as black tie. Do you want me to send you some references?’

‘If you’re asking for my number, that was very subtle. Way more subtle than you needed to be. If not, you should have been.’ 

From behind her ear, Ava produced the black pen—Beatrice hadn’t noticed it going missing and wondered if she should ask for it back—and uncapped it with her teeth. Beatrice decided she could keep the pen. Ava pulled Beatrice’s arm toward her, turned her wrist slowly; her fingers slid down, grazed the crook of Beatrice’s wrist. It sent a shiver right through her. Ava’s glanced up at her, and away. Cheeks apple round with a smile. The sun burned down over them, painted Ava all in gold, and Beatrice thought dazedly of Eris and her golden apple of legend, wondered what disaster Ava might wreck and on what great scale. Already, Beatrice was in ruins as Ava gently, carefully, scrawled her phone number into the centre of Beatrice’s palm. 

It struck her as being somewhat unnecessary but she didn’t complain. Just stood stock still as the pen tickled her skin, and tried not to stare. 

‘I don’t need references, by the way, I know a girl who can help,’ Ava told her, voice a little warped by the pen lid she still held between her teeth. ‘This is so you can text me photos of you in a suit. Very hot, by the way.’

That startled a laugh out of Beatrice. She felt hot all over but this wasn’t anxiety; it was much better. Cheeks hot, skin hot, palm burning where Ava’s hand curled around hers. 

‘Noted.’

Ava frowned up at her. Capped the pen. ‘Please don’t add that to your dossier about me.’

Beatrice smiled back. ‘I might. I might not.’

Ava’s eyes glinted with mischief. ‘So, formal dress—that means mid-thigh, right? A little slutty?’

It did not. Beatrice looked away for a moment. ‘If that’s what you’re comfortable wearing–’

‘Beatrice.’

‘Please don’t.’

‘There we go. This is all going to go a lot more smoothly when you just tell me what you want me to do,’ Ava told her, as she had before. She dragged her thumb over Beatrice’s palm, lightly. Squeezed her hand. ‘Hey. Beatrice. Look at me.’ Ava’s smile was impossibly reassuring. ‘I will find a dress. It will be knee length or longer, I promise. It will be black tie optional appropriate.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Do you have opinions on sequins?’

‘My mother will have some.’

‘Sequins?’

‘Opinions.’

‘Got it. Okay. Formal dress, knee-length or longer, no sequins.’ Ava squeezed her hand again. ‘Want me to send you photos?’

Beatrice entertained that thought for a split second—Ava in a dressing room, Ava getting dressed, Ava getting un -dressed—and promptly shut that down. ‘No. No. No. That’s fine. No, I trust you.’

‘Awful lot of no’s there.’

Beatrice looked straight up at the sky and said, a little strangled, ‘I will pay for the dress, of course. Before you decline, please know it is trust fund money.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘And as much as I despise the idea of money and wealth and fashion being used as a measure of worth, that is what people will be doing at the Eve’s Gala. You’re doing me an immense favour going with me, let alone dressing up. Please allow me to pay.’

‘Okay.’

Beatrice nearly cricked her neck looking down at Ava so quickly. ‘Really?’

‘Yep.’

‘And, to clarify, all of this—coming with me, pretending to be my - my girlfriend—you’re still on board?’

‘Yes.’ Ava’s smile widened. ‘You had me at your third hello,’ she teased, laughed when Beatrice’s cheeks flared with colour. ‘Relax, it was very cute.’

Beatrice couldn’t defend herself. What could she say? That she had been so startled and so entranced by Ava that she hadn’t realised who she was? Absolutely not. The moment stretched on and on. Ava kept holding her hand. Beatrice was finding it difficult—impossible—to leave, despite knowing that she had to. Vincent ’s would close soon - there was barely enough time to get there now, let alone try on the outfits he had tailored for her - but it had been a long time since she felt so… Well. It had been a long time. She stood and waited. After all, Ava didn’t seem in any hurry to leave either. 

Another minute passed. Ava’s thumb brushed over her wrist, the band of her watch. 

‘I— I have to go.’

‘Yeah, of course.’

‘You’re holding my hand,’ she pointed out quietly.

Ava startled. Dropped her hand with a stumbled apology. ‘Sorry! Right, of course.’

Beatrice let her hand fall to her side. Flexed her wrist subtly, fingers closing into a fist like the ink would melt, fade, if she didn’t hold it tightly. Her skin buzzed everywhere Ava had touched her; she felt flooded with neon light. She spoke very softly, foolishly afraid that if she opened her mouth too wide, Ava might be able to see the way she was lit up inside. 

‘Thank you. For agreeing to this.’

The words were too small for what she really meant, which was— I think you’re saving my life. I think you’re changing my life . 

‘Thursday morning,’ Ava said. Her words, too, were perfectly ordinary. It was only her eyes, brimming with an undefinable something , that told Beatrice she felt it too. ‘Bright and early. I’ll be waiting.'

//

14:08

//

‘Ah! There you are!’

Vincent’ s was a small shop, narrow and dark. It smelled of leather and polish and dust and, whether it was on purpose or a consequence of its owner, was a deeply quiet and private place. Beatrice had always found great comfort in it for precisely those reasons. 

Today, sunlight speared in behind her. The noise of traffic flooded into the store, rattling Vincent up and out of his seat. She didn’t know how to stop it. She was fairly sure she had brought it all in with her. Light cracking out of her, noise all around. 

Vincent hurried out from behind the counter. A tall man, about as old as Beatrice’s father and not dissimilar in appearance, with salt-and-pepper hair and beard. But where her father was rigid and forbidding, Vincent was far more gentle and, for as long as she had known him, moved through the world with a sad kind of grace. He wore a handsome suit, as she always did. The jacket was draped neatly over the back of his chair and in deference to the heat he had cuffed his sleeves to the elbows, revealing two full sleeves of tattoos. That, too, was unlike Beatrice’s father. Religious iconography—saints and their halos, numbered verses—sat alongside images and phrases not found in any bible—roses and their thorns, a sword, the profile of a man rendered immutable, love in every line, grief in every line. Across his skin, inked in black and blue, a life fought and won and lost.

‘ Hola , Beatrice—I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.’

‘Apologies, Vincent. I was…delayed. Is there time, still, for my fitting?’

She must have looked strange because he approached her with the wariness typically reserved for wild animals. 

‘Yes, of course, my friend. But, is everything alright? You seem… Forgive me, you seem flustered. And you are late. You’re never late.’

Beatrice stared at him. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. Then, almost immediately, blurted out, ‘I met someone.’ The words tasted strange and wonderful, citrus bright. She wanted to taste it again, so she did. ‘I met someone.’