A Woman’s Pleasure. Focus on woman. Men were welcome, but Lily hoped the feel of the shop would put off those looking for a porno mag and quick jollies.
Anticipation thrummed in her belly. Starting from today, she was open for business. Her business, not beholden to anyone else. She didn’t have to toe a company line, she was the company. Or rather, she was a sole trader. One side of her mouth quirked up. Even Bill Gates had started somewhere.
It was still early, so she went to the tiny space at the back of the shop and made coffee. She took the cup outside to feel the sun’s warmth for a few minutes. Resting against the veranda post, she looked down the sloping street to the centre of Grasstree Flat. A steady stream of cars passed, and people stepped into the grocery store, or took coffee at one of the outside cafés. Saturday was market day and many people carried bags of dark green avocados or ripe tomatoes.
She switched her gaze from the bustling main street to rest on the shop next door. Which of the women she’d seen peering in her window was the owner? With luck, it was the one with the curly hair and wide smile. The other woman, the older one, had a sour cast to her, as if life was hard and the world was looking the other way. Maybe they ran it together.
It was nearly nine. Lily threw the dregs of her coffee—the strong, sweet espresso her Cuban father always drank—into a large planter. The flowers in it were wilting slightly; she’d water them later.
A click made her look up. The sour woman she’d seen yesterday opened the door of the adjoining shop and switched the sign to Welcome, Friend.
Lily took a couple of paces towards her. “Hi, I’m Lily. You must be my neighbour.” She smiled and offered a hand. “I’m happy to meet you.”
“Freya.” She grunted the name, as if it were some secret code, shared reluctantly. She folded her arms. “What did you just empty into my flowers?”
Lily’s hand hovered in the air and she withdrew it. “Just the dregs of coffee. I’ll water them later.”
“Don’t touch them.” Freya stalked over to the planters and peered suspiciously at the blooms, as if Lily had tipped weedkiller over them. “I’ll care for my own plants.”
“They’re lovely.” Lily offered a conciliatory smile. “I thought the council maintained them, as they’re on the street.”
“Mine.” The word was clipped. “I take pride in my community.”
Lily chose to ignore the faint stress on the my. “Mine too now. I’m looking forwards to life here, to the space and peace after where I’ve been living.” It was an opening of sorts, designed to lead Freya into conversation. Most people would have responded with “Oh? Where did you live before here?” but Freya remained silent. Her nostrils flared slightly, as if she smelt something distasteful.
“I’ve come from Sydney. Newtown.”
“Did you own the same sort of shop?” Freya’s eyes were a piercing silver, and when she turned her gaze on Lily, it was as if she were pinned to the window behind.
“Yes. But A Woman’s Pleasure is my shop. Before, I managed other people’s.”
“And you didn’t stay somewhere that such a shop would be welcome?”
“Meaning the city?”
“Exactly.”
She forced a smile onto her tight lips. “I hope my shop will be welcome here.”
“It’s not.”
Tread softly, Lily. She’s your neighbour. She’s an arrogant bitch. She quashed the thought that jumped into her head. “Time will tell.”
Freya sniffed. The morning sun turned her thin body into silhouette. Her wiry hair escaped the confines of the wide rag band she used to keep it off her face. Strands of grey made silver by the sun glinted as Freya turned on her heel and strode to her doorway. “And I don’t appreciate you trying to connect your shop with mine.”
“What do you mean?” Lily frowned. “We share a porch. That’s not my doing.”
“I mean the name. It’s tacky. And it’s obviously designed to make people think our shops are related.”
Lily arched an eyebrow. The self-centredness of Freya’s comment was mind-boggling. “It’s nothing to do with you. My Australian Business Number is clearly displayed. Why don’t you look it up? I’ve owned this business name for the last four years.”
Freya pushed open her doors. Indian chimes tinkled a welcome. “I will.” And she was gone, leaving Lily staring at the sign. Welcome, Friend indeed. She hoped Freya was nicer to her customers than she was to her.
Lily didn’t expect to be busy, not on the first day, but she hoped for some curious passing trade. She expected some initial reluctance, but her research on Grasstree Flat told her this was the perfect little town. The population was younger than in many hinterland towns, a mix of commuters to the coast less than an hour away and the local alternative community. This sort of town, with its new-age energy and alternative vibe was perfect.
She just had to entice customers through the door.
Under the guise of putting out her chalkboard, she took a look up and down the street. A trickle of people were passing, but more people were bustling in and out of the naturopath, and the old-fashioned gentleman’s outfitters in the main part of town. Lily put her board on the footpath. A bright sunflower and a flight of bluebirds shaped like an arrow pointed to her door with the words Curious? Come and look.
The Indian chimes on Freya’s shop door tinkled. A young woman manoeuvred a baby stroller across the porch to the street. Lily smiled and stood aside to let her pass.
“Thanks,” the woman said, and smiled in return. After her neighbour’s snark and prickles, it was welcome.
Back inside her shop, Lily made another cup of coffee and took her tablet to one of the comfy chairs, where she could see if anyone entered. The document was still a jumble, but somewhere in the mishmash of words and ideas was the outline for a workshop. Sexual Fluidity. It was a topic close to her heart and was one that would hopefully be popular. Not immediately, but soon. She needed to get people comfortable with the idea of her and her shop before she could start her workshops. The outline took shape as she jotted some headings: Comfortable in your skin. I am who I am. Sexual identity—why do I have to fit into a box?
The buzzer on her door sounded, harsh and abrupt, so different to next door’s chimes. Maybe she could get something softer too.
Three girls entered the shop, giggling and nudging each other. One darted to the nearest table. “Hey, Evelyn, look at this. What d’you reckon this is for?”
Lily frowned. Her first customers, and if her assessment was right, she was going to have to ask them to leave. Standing, she went over to them. “Hi, girls.”
They looked up at her voice. Lily heaved a breath. If these three were older than sixteen, then she was a vicar’s uncle. “Can I see some ID?”
“Left it at home.” One, bolder than her friends, smirked as she looked Lily in the eye.
“All of you?”
“Yeah. Didn’t think we’d need it. Everyone in town knows us.” The second girl hung on to her friend’s arm and giggled.
“Well, as you can tell, I’m new here, so I need to see some ID before I can let you in.”
“Why?” The quietest of the three had a gentleness about her that her brash and sassy friends lacked. “We’re only looking.”
Lily softened her tone. “You need to be eighteen to come in here. State law.”
“We’re eighteen.” It was Miss Bold again.
“Great. Then you’re welcome to come back with your ID. But now I must ask you to leave.” She crossed to the door and held it open.
For a moment, she thought they were going to refuse. But then the quiet girl tugged on Miss Bold’s sleeve. “Come on, Ev. We better go.”
The first two girls trooped out, ignoring Lily. The quiet girl slipped out after them. “Thank
s,” she said.
Lily nodded, and stood in the entrance, watching them make their way down the street in the direction of the market. For a moment, she thought about going next door, taking a look inside Freya’s shop, but the memory of gimlet-sharp eyes and a clipped voice dissuaded her. There would be another chance, maybe at a better time.
The banging on the wall of her flat last night had probably been Freya. It made sense that she too lived above her shop. Lily had tapped the dividing wall after she’d turned the music off and been surprised at how thin it was. Maybe a single plank. No plasterboard, no insulation. No wonder her neighbour had been annoyed.
She went back inside and sat again, picking up the tablet. Emotional needs and sexual needs: what if they’re not satisfied by the same person? That was a topic for later in the course. Maybe.
An image of Freya participating in such a course leapt into her head. Sitting on the beanbags and informal seating she preferred for such groups, laughing with other women, sharing stories. She shook her head. No, she couldn’t imagine her neighbour attending.
Lily wrote for a while longer, but the empty shop yawned hollow and couldn’t be ignored. She went to the window and twitched aside the dark curtain that shielded the interior from the outside. Two women stood and chatted in the street right outside her window. They didn’t even glance her way.
Something was missing. Her chalkboard should have been exactly where the women were standing. Lily went to the door and looked out. The chalkboard was propped against the wall, the yellow sunflower and bluebirds facing inwards. The day was hot with not a breath of wind. It couldn’t have blown over
She went outside, tossing a hello to the women on the pavement. She placed the chalkboard back where it would be seen, close to the women.
One of them looked at the sign. “I’ll have to come in.”
“Anytime.” She didn’t push it, just went back inside and left the door open.
Chapter 3
“Thanks, Molly.” Freya handed over the brown paper bag containing the smudge sticks. “I’ve included the instructions for use and a meditation that may be beneficial before you begin. Namaste.” She turned to the woman waiting. “Jill, I’m happy you’re here. Your book came in this morning.” She reached under the counter and produced the Pilates book Jill had ordered.
“Thanks.” Jill caressed its smooth cover. “I hope this will be helpful. Can I leave it on the counter whilst I look around? I’m after more candles. My bloody dog chewed up the coconut one I got last time. I said it smelt good; Bolto obviously agreed. I better go for something less appealing.”
“Try something citrus. Dogs generally don’t like that.” Freya came around the counter and over to where the candles were. She plucked an orange blossom candle from the shelf and handed it to Jill.
“That’s good.”
“Or grapefruit.”
Jill sniffed the wax of the second candle. “Heaven. If Bolto chews this, I’ll slice him open to get it back.”
Freya took both candles back to the counter and wrapped them in tissue paper.
Jill browsed her way along the rack of books, pulling out a couple to read the blurb before sliding them back. “Have you been in to the shop next door?” She turned to face Freya, a book on jewellery-making in her hands. “I thought at first it was connected to you… The name, y’know, but the lady in there says you’re separate.”
“We are. The name is just a coincidence.” After her last exchange with Lily, she’d looked up Lily’s ABN. Sure enough, A Woman’s Pleasure had been registered to Lily Garcia for the last four years.
“They work well together.” Jill returned to the counter and pulled out her credit card. “The shop is good. Tasteful, don’t you think?”
Freya’s lips thinned. “I wouldn’t know.” She pushed the card reader towards Jill. “I haven’t been in.”
She hadn’t bumped into Lily either. The occasional snatch of song that drifted through the wall or an open window in the evenings had been subdued, as though the singer was now conscious of her neighbour and the thin party wall. Tension radiated through Freya’s shoulders at the memory.
“You should.” Jill continued, clearly oblivious to Freya’s withdrawal. “It’s welcoming. The owner is great. Very warm, but knowledgeable. Unembarrassable.” She grinned. “I guess that last one’s a plus in her industry.”
Freya handed the card back. “It doesn’t belong here, that shop. We’re a small town, a close-knit community. That sort of thing belongs in the city.”
Jill’s brow arched up. “I think you’d be surprised, if you went in.”
“I’m surprised the council let it through.”
“It took a while. My hubby works in the council offices, and he said there were a couple of conditions, but the owner was easy to work with.” She took the bag. “I’ll leave you to it, but I’ll see you later for yoga.”
“No worries.” Freya nodded and waited until Jill left before making a cup of spice tea. She needed the pick-me-up. Jill was the third customer in the last couple of days who had commented on the shop next door, and nearly all the comments had been positive. The only faintly condemning one had been from a schoolteacher, who mentioned that two of her students had boasted how they’d gone in. She had been about to quiz them on it, when their friend, quiet little Melissa, said the owner had asked them to leave. Nicely asked, she said.
It didn’t fit with Freya’s jaundiced view of sex shops and their predatory nature. She moved over to the wall that divided the shops. Most of it was covered with her displays, but if she pushed aside the hemp clothing, she could squeeze in alongside. She hesitated. What did she care what went on next door? But she did care, she acknowledged. She could justify that curiosity under the guise of gathering evidence to get the shop closed down.
Before she could talk herself out of it, she picked up a glass from the spring water fountain, and squeezed in behind the hemp jackets. From there, without the baffle of clothing, she could hear soft music. Something slow with a jazz vocal. Sensuous. The low buzz of voices filtered through, but she couldn’t make out the words. She put the glass to the wall and pressed her ear to it.
Nothing. Just the same voices, a bit louder, but still no words. Freya lowered the glass and stood with her palm on the timber wall. Really, what was she thinking? Eavesdropping like a teenager spying on her parents. She turned, glass in hand, and pushed past the clothing again to come face-to-face with a couple staring at her.
She flushed but lifted her chin. “There’s dry rot in that wall. I was checking the spread.”
The couple eyed her askance but didn’t comment, and after browsing half-heartedly through the pottery and cookware, they left without a backwards glance.
“… and into cat…” Freya, on all fours, arched her spine and dropped her head. “Tuck your tail bone underneath you. And now, back to cow.” Her back hollowed and her chin came up.
She broke the pose and stood, casting a glance over her class. Most of the twelve or so women were regulars, well used to the poses. Carly, who seldom missed a class, grinned up at her from the front row. Her bright floral leggings and loose pink T-shirt stood out from the other women’s more restrained garb.
Freya moved over to one of the two beginners. “That’s it, Cass. Relax your shoulders and lower back.” She placed a light hand on Cass’s spine to demonstrate, nodding as the woman’s body softened under her touch. Now her cow took on the sway-back posture of an old dairy cow.
The yoga room was bright with diffuse sunlight coming through the windows. Soft pan pipes played in the background. The humped backs of the women stretched out in hare pose made spots of colour on their yoga mats. Freya moved around the airy room, occasionally correcting a pose, sometimes returning to the front to demonstrate.
She let the class rise to their feet
and led them in a series of lunges. Nobody talked; even the beginners knew these poses. Freya concentrated on her breath and awareness of her body, moving slowly, sensing the stretch and flex of muscles, the strength and flow of energy down through the soles of her bare feet. She focused on the present, breathing into it to anchor her awareness in the moment. The soft notes of the soundtrack resonated quietly. Freya stretched into an upwards salute.
There was a rattle, then a series of bangs as if someone were shaking a stuck door. Freya frowned and glanced at the two doors that led to the studio: one from her shop, one from the backyard. Another rattle, then a thump.
“Warrior pose,” Freya said in a calm voice. “Focus on your breathing, on the position of your body.”
A puff of dust and a few flakes of paint fell from the old painted door near the front of the room. A door that had never been used in the seven years Freya had operated A Woman’s Spirit. Rusty hinges creaked, and then the door was flung open. Lily burst in as if she’d been shoved from behind.
She pivoted to face the room and her brows lifted as she took in the dozen women in leggings and oversize T-shirts now staring at her, their warrior poses in disarray.
“Hi,” she said. “Sorry to interrupt. I thought I was fighting my way into a very stubborn closet.” The comment appeared to amuse her for some reason; a grin formed and fled her face.
“There is a class in progress.” Freya grated the words. “Please leave.”
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