by Jane Frances
“Your liver keeps the rest of your body clean,” Heather explained as she pulled the ingredients for a vegetable stir-fry from the fridge. “The more junk you feed your body, the harder your liver has to work to clear it away. Every piece of rubbish you consume is shortening your life.”
Toni listened to Heather’s “love your liver and live longer” epiphany, watching as the vegetables were tossed in an oil-free wok. She agreed that Heather’s dietary beliefs made sense, even if they did seem a bit drastic in the long-term. Although, Toni conceded as her eyes followed the movements of a body glowing with good health, Heather’s long-term practice of her beliefs certainly didn’t appear to be doing her any harm.
While Toni silently thought loving your liver might not make you live any longer—it would just feel like it—she had to admit the plate of steaming, still-crisp and brightly colored vegetables presented to her certainly looked appealing. She tucked in and it was delicious. Despite being hungry again an hour later, she decided to give liver-cleansing a go.
So, for the past three weeks she had followed the principles to the letter, even forgoing her absolute favorite meal, the chicken Caesar salad, at the restaurant she and her boss—Cathy Braithwaite—visited at least once a week for lunch. Toni considered ordering the salad so it was “liver-friendly,” but by the time the non-hormone-free chicken was removed, as well as the parmesan cheese, the bacon and the anchovy dressing, there was little left but cos leaves and croutons. And probably the croutons had been cooked in non-liver-friendly oil and would also have to be discarded. So she’d ordered the grilled fish and a dressing-free garden salad instead. It was nice enough. As was her long glass of mineral water with a wedge of lemon.
Cathy questioned the menu choice; Toni had been ordering the Caesar salad for practically the duration of the five years they had worked and lunched together. She initially laughed at Toni’s explanation, but overall she was supportive, telling Toni how well she was looking and even forgoing her usual glass of red wine in favor of a pineapple juice.
The compliment cemented Toni’s determination to stick to her new healthy eating plan. And she was very successful, having only one slip-up in three weeks. The slip-up occurred only the day before. It was the day the lure of a Snickers bar overshadowed her long-term aim of being a trim, taut and terrific centenarian.
Toni had woken feeling tense and fidgety, and hungry for something sweet. Her resolve faltered not far from the corner store she drove by every day on her way to work, and before she knew it, she had pulled into a parking bay outside the store. Once back in the car, will power returned and she resisted the urge to rip the wrapper off the Snickers bar, instead tossing it into her briefcase. When she stepped out of the lift to the reception of the accountancy practice where she worked, Cathy was talking to Sue, the receptionist. Toni nodded a greeting and hurried to her office, sure both of them were staring at her briefcase, knowing contraband was being smuggled.
The Snickers bar played on Toni’s mind the entire morning and throughout her lunch of tuna salad and organic wholemeal bread. Finally unable to stand the thought of it any longer, she checked that her office door was properly closed and dug into her briefcase. The wrapper was torn open and the bar consumed in guilty rapture. Throughout, Toni kept an eye on the door, sure this would be the time Heather, who had yet to pop in on Toni at work, would choose to make her inaugural visit. Either that, or Cathy would suddenly change her idea of office etiquette and barge into Toni’s sanctum without knocking.
The bar was scoffed without interruption and Toni leaned back in her office chair, patting her tummy, which felt replete for the first time in weeks. But the smug sense of satisfaction accompanying the celebration in her stomach did not last long. She picked up the Snickers wrapper and stared at it, wondering why on earth she, a grown woman, was sneaking around like a thief for the sake of a chocolate bar.
Toni put it down to pride. She didn’t want to admit to what she saw as failure. That ill-placed pride also made her bury the wrapper right at the bottom of her wastepaper basket—just in case Cathy or one of her other coworkers paid a visit, rounded her desk and looked into the bin. She knew the odds of that occurring were less than slim, but she did it anyway. She also knew the notion that the cleaner would notice the buried wrapper and tell Cathy her employee had blown her diet was even more ridiculous. But that didn’t stop her from retrieving the wrapper and putting it in a zip-up pocket deep inside her briefcase.
The wrapper was still there.
Toni placed her empty water bottle onto the bedside table. Even now, a whole day later, and with the briefcase miles away in her home office, the hidden wrapper taunted her. It became almost symbolic, a sign she was heading down a road she just didn’t feel right traveling upon. Why was she molding herself to fit another person’s idea of what was right? And, if she were to be honest with herself, she would admit that—apart from regular orgasms—Toni found her relationship with Heather, on the whole, unsatisfying.
Upon hearing Heather pad back down the hallway, Toni sat upright, tugging at the sheet that lay in a knot at the end of the bed. She shook her head at the fresh water bottle that was offered.
“Heather,” she began, arranging the sheet so it covered her breasts, “I think it’s time I went home.”
Heather glanced to the clock sitting on her dresser and furrowed her brow. “But it’s only three-thirty. Virgil won’t be howling for her dinner just yet.”
“I know.” Toni took a deep breath, in a split second her mind constructing and deconstructing numerous explanations. “I wasn’t thinking of Virgil. Heather, I just don’t think this is working out.”
Heather’s brow furrowed further. “What do you mean?”
“I mean—” Toni raked fingers through her hair. God, she hated doing this, almost as much as she hated having it done to her. “I mean, I don’t think we should see each other…like this…anymore.”
“But, why?”
Toni blinked. Heather looked genuinely confused. Surely she didn’t see what they had as a fulfilling relationship? Or maybe she did. Maybe she read more into their great sex than Toni did. Toni took another deep breath, this time acutely aware of the potential to cause hurt. “Because…” Because I want someone I can talk to as well as have sex with. Because I want to go out to dinner and not worry my menu choice will turn into a lecture. Because sometimes I’d rather go to the theater than lift weights. Because…Oh hell, everything sounded terrible. But it was all the truth. Toni raked her fingers through her hair again. “Because…”
Not too much later, Toni turned her car into her leafy, treelined street.
“Hi, Virg.” Toni was only halfway from her driveway to the front door when Virgil trotted up to rub against her legs. She scooped the part-Burmese, part-moggie female cat with a male name into her arms for a cuddle. “Mum’s home early for a change, isn’t she?”
Her answer a satisfied purr, Toni carried her feline friend to the entrance, cradling her so her back legs stuck up in the air.
It was only when Toni opened the fridge to peer inside that Virgil leapt from her arms. Virgil stood on her hind legs, front paws on the second-to-bottom shelf, also peering in, her nose twitching at a rate.
“Pretty poor pickings, huh?” Toni scanned the liver-friendly contents, no longer hankering for a burger, but hungry enough to hope some delectable treat would materialize.
Nothing did. Toni closed the fridge door and Virgil, having moved away fast enough to avoid being snap-frozen, looked up to her servant and gave a short “what’s up?” meow.
“Oh, Virg.” Toni leaned down to give Virgil a nose-to-tail stroke. “You won’t be seeing Heather over here anymore.”
Having left Heather’s house directly from the bed, Toni left Virgil in the kitchen and headed for the shower. Her shower was long enough that the water began to run cool. Most of the time was spent deep in thought, water streaming over her short, dark hair.
Her thoughts took h
er back to those last few minutes in Heather’s bed. She had stumbled through her explanation for wanting to leave, head bent low, feeling worse with each reason she gave.
“You want the fairytale.”
More than a little surprised to hear her own, unspoken, sentiment articulated, Toni lifted her gaze to find Heather regarding her with an almost sympathetic look. “Yes,” she said softly.
Heather shifted to sit cross-legged in front of Toni. “Sweetheart.” Toni found the hand that cupped her cheek was warm, but the expression she received was almost cold, and it was totally humorless. “The fairytale doesn’t exist. It’s just that. A fairytale.” Heather seemed to sense Toni was about to argue the point, continuing before she could get a word in, “And anyone who tells you otherwise is either a liar or delusional.”
Toni was immediately intrigued, more than a little curious at the circumstances that had led Heather to this conclusion. She wanted to break open the shell, find what was lurking inside. The ego in her said she could be the one to save Heather from herself; she could be the one to show her true love did indeed exist. But that thought was fleeting. Heather was not a project to be worked upon. “Then I guess I’m just delusional.”
Heather gave what appeared to be a genuine smile. Her palm brushed Toni’s cheek again. “My little accountant turns out to be a romantic.” She tsk-tsked. “And I thought we were having such fun.”
“We were having fun…” Toni quickly corrected herself, not wanting Heather to think her performance was in question. “I mean, we still are…” Shit, that wasn’t right either. “I mean…” Toni slid off the bed and bent down to pick up her clothes while she tried to figure out just what she meant. “I mean…it was great, Heather. Really, it was.”
Still sitting cross-legged on the bed, Heather watched Toni get dressed. “You know, we could still have fun together—while you go looking for your romance.”
The thought made Toni hesitate. Heather was the first physical contact she’d had with a woman since…since a long time, almost a year. She took her attention away from the buttons of her shirt and asked, “No strings?”
Heather crossed her heart. “No strings.”
Unexpected tears welled in Toni’s eyes. She quickly blinked them away. A no-strings relationship had been the carrot she dangled in front of Cathy. And that had ended in disaster, primarily because Toni had been unable to keep her side of the bargain. Instead of keeping her emotional distance, she’d fallen in love. “Sorry, Heather. I’m just not built for no-strings. Been there, tried that.”
“The fairytale got in the way?”
“No.” Toni stooped to give Heather a last soft kiss on the lips. “Reality got in the way of my fairytale.”
Heather twisted so her legs dangled over the end of the bed. “Reality bites.”
“Sure does.” Toni plucked her car keys from the dresser, turned and left the bedroom.
Now, shower-fresh and dressed, but still hungry, Toni did another sweep of the fridge contents. Nope, still nothing. Maybe the pantry held some delicious secrets. Toni did a cursory scan then delved deeper, rifling through packets of dry goods—brown rice, wheatgerm, corn and spinach pasta spirals, wholemeal flour—and shunting aside cans of crushed tomatoes, beans, beans and more beans. Toni picked up a can and screwed up her nose. What had she been thinking? The can was put back on the shelf; maybe one day she’d make her own falafel, or hummus, or whatever else one did with a can of chickpeas.
Toni hit pay dirt on the very top shelf. A packet of digestive biscuits was retrieved. The biscuits had been there long before the start of her liver-cleansing regime, and let’s face it, they were not the most exciting members of the biscuit family, but to Toni they could have been manna from heaven. Like the Snickers bar of the day before, the packet was torn open.
Toni loped down the hallway to her home office, packet in one hand and biscuit with a big bite out of it in the other. “Let’s go see if there’s anyone interesting online.”
Virgil followed her servant to the study, more likely due to the promise of some crispy crumbs than any interest in Toni’s keyboard globetrotting.
Late afternoon in Perth did not make for an exciting chat-room session. As usual there was no one else from Western Australia anywhere to be found, and it was still only early evening in the Eastern States so things wouldn’t heat up on that end for a few hours yet. The other side of the world was also relatively quiet, probably getting late for even the most dedicated night owls. Toni had a quick exchange with Minxy, a New York art student who, no matter what time of the day or night Toni logged on, was also online. She then found FallenAngel and Rabbit—from Adelaide and New Zealand respectively—in the “Hot Tub” but after a few unanswered hellos figured they were, as was usual, in a private room and not available for communal chat. Five digestive biscuits and six empty chat rooms later, Toni put her computer to sleep. “Well, that was about as boring as bat shit.”
Virgil’s wide-mouthed yawn showed exactly what she thought of the whole affair.
“Come on, Virg.” All of a sudden lonely for some human company, Toni eased Virgil from her lap. “Let’s get you some dinner. Then I think your mum might go out for a while.”
Chapter Three
The moment Cathy opened the door to her home, the aroma of cooked onions and garlic filled her nostrils. Her afternoon running around a tennis court had made her hungry, and now the enticing smell made her stomach growl. She ran up the stairs to the main living area, wondering what fabulous creation—Italian, no doubt—Lisa had whipped up this time.
“Mmm, something smells divine.” Cathy rounded the island bench to give Lisa, who was busily stirring what appeared to be a roux, a hug from behind. She settled her chin on Lisa’s shoulder to peer into the pan. “What’s cooking?”
“Ciao, honey.” Lisa moved the pan off the heat and reached for the carton of milk and whisk sitting on the bench beside the stove. The milk carton was offered. “You pour. I’ll stir.”
Cathy slowly added milk to the roux while Lisa whisked it to a smooth white sauce.
“What’re we having?” Cathy didn’t really need to ask. She could quite plainly see the rich Bolognese sauce in another pan, and the oblong baking dish and sheets of pasta sitting farther down the bench. Lasagna was obviously on the menu. But she wanted to hear Lisa say it. In her very bad Italian. It was a practice Lisa had adopted a couple of weeks ago, ever since Cathy announced they would be celebrating their first anniversary in Italy. Lisa had promptly bought herself an Italian phrase book and now many of her conversations comprised a splintered combination of English and Italian. No thought was given to syntax or grammar; if the phrase wasn’t in the book, individual words were just replaced. The result was shockingly inaccurate, but Cathy loved it.
Lisa continued to whisk, silent for a moment as she considered. “Lasagne e insalata mista e rosso vino. E tiramisu for dolce.”
Cathy laughed delightedly, and not just at the mouthwatering promise of pasta, salad and a decadent tiramisu for dessert. Lisa topped off her bad Italian with what she called her “George voice,” a very broad Italian-Australian accent, picked up years ago from her boss at the time, George Giavanni. Before they left for Italy the coming Friday, Cathy would suggest Lisa tone it down a bit, but for now she kept silent, finding the total effect hilarious. “Have you made the salad yet?”
Lisa took the few steps to the island bench to grab her Italian phrase book, flipped a couple of pages and scanned. The book was tossed back onto the bench. “Non ancora.”
Apparently not yet. “I’ll do it if you like.”
“No, no, no,” Lisa said as Cathy was ushered from the kitchen with a pat on the bottom. “This is my dinner. You go freshen up. I’ll have a bichierre of vino waiting for when you get back.”
Cathy didn’t argue, the lure of a hot shower followed by a glass of wine silencing any further attempts to contribute to the chores. “Okay, honey.” Her sports bag and racquet were retrieved
from the floor and she headed up the stairs to the bedroom level of their home.
Their home.
The phrase had a lovely ring to it. And it was finally a phrase Cathy could utter with accuracy, their shared living arrangement becoming official that very morning. At eleven a.m. the last box had been carted from Lisa’s home to Cathy’s. As soon as it had been deposited in the garage they rushed to the street for a little name-changing ceremony at the mailbox.
“Bravo!” Cathy applauded as the label with her name was removed and a new one—C. Braithwaite and L. Smith—was inserted into the clear plastic casing.
The label change marked the end of nearly a year of shuttling between their two homes, a coin toss finally deciding the debate over which house they were to live in. Lisa won the toss and announced her desire to shift permanently into Cathy’s house overlooking the ocean.
Despite the fact that Lisa’s house was to be rented fully furnished, the move was still a protracted one, most evenings seeing them sorting and packing, carting and unpacking. Her yard also benefited from a spruce-up—garden beds were weeded and turned, shrubs pruned and lawns mowed—and of course every room given a thorough spring cleaning. Their efforts, while leaving them both worn out as they combined it with their normal workloads, were worth it, the agent confident of a quick rental at a good return.
“But it’s our first afternoon together,” Cathy had argued when Lisa shook her head at the suggestion she give her recently joined Saturday afternoon social tennis club a miss.
“You can’t, honey. It’s your first turn as afternoon tea provider, remember? There’ll be a riot if there’s no tea and tiny cakes to nibble on.” Lisa screwed up the old mailbox label and put it in her pocket as she said, “You go whack some balls around. I’ll stay here and get a few more of my things organized.”
