by Harper Bliss
“Good point.” Liz pulls up her shoulders. “I have no idea.”
“You’re just the messenger.” I plant my elbows on the table.
Liz shakes her head. “No, I just stopped by for a coffee with my friend, really.” She flashes me one of her winning smiles. “I honestly don’t think Caitlin would have a problem talking about her own experiences. She does that all the time these days. And wouldn’t you agree that hers is a voice that needs to be heard?”
“I do agree with that, but we should all be careful not to throw oil on the flame of the far-right, ultra-conservative populist discourse.”
Liz makes a throw-away gesture with her hand. “Oh, please. Those people have long ago made up their minds about us.” She leans over the table. “Look, I get it, Kat. It’s a matter of privacy.”
“Not just for me. I went on very public dates with women. What if their friends, or worse, their enemies, see me talking about being an escort on TV and put two and two together?”
“Fair point.”
“Surely Caitlin must have thought about all these things. She’s as sharp as they come.”
“She’s getting more and more radical, I guess.”
“Just tell her no again from me when you see her.” I shuffle in my seat. “Can we talk about something else now?”
“Sure.” Liz eyes me quizzically. “Not tired of the coffee business already, are you? You can say what you want about being a high-end call girl, but the hours are pretty good.” She waggles her eyebrows.
I pause. I’m not even sure I want to bring this up. But I can’t really talk about it with Rocco. “What are your thoughts on Hera?”
“The bigoted builder?” Liz asks.
I chuckle and nod.
“Why do you ask?”
“I’d like her to remodel my kitchen.”
“And?” Liz inclines her head.
“So I asked her to dinner at mine. Tomorrow.”
“Because you want her to remodel your kitchen?”
“Is that so strange?”
“Nope.” Liz shakes her head. “It’s crystal clear to me. You have the hots for the bigoted builder.”
I snort out a nervous laugh. Do I? I guess I can kid myself all I want, but I wouldn’t have asked Hera to dinner if I wasn’t at least a tiny bit attracted to her.
“She did apologize. Twice.”
“We should do a double date. Jess can tell her all the ins and outs of dating a call girl.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. So far, she’s been quite reluctant to even refit my kitchen.”
“But she has agreed to come to dinner?”
“She has.” I straighten my back. “And I have the tiniest of hunches that she kind of likes me back.” An involuntary smile spreads over my lips.
“There’s no underestimating a hooker’s instinct. Speaking of. Is Alana still on your case?”
I shake my head. “She has given up all hope.”
Liz glances around the coffee shop. “You have this now.”
“I know. You know what’s weird though? Free time in the evenings. Half the time, I have no clue what to do with myself.”
“I know something you can do next Thursday.” She reaches into her bag and hands me an invitation to an opening night at the Griffith-Porter gallery. “Bring the bigoted builder, if you like.”
“Can we stop referring to Hera like that as of now, please?” I study the invitation. “Alyssa Myles. Is that the Pink Bean’s Alyssa?”
“The one and only.” Liz taps a fingertip on the table. “She’s very talented. You should see her stuff. It’s going to blow your mind.”
“Really?” I study the invitation in more detail.
“It just goes to show, Kat. Most of us have hidden talents.” She sends me a wink. “I mean, who knew you could make your own coffee?”
“I’d be delighted to attend.” I ignore Liz’s remark.
“Caitlin will be there, though, so beware.”
“It’ll give me a chance to tell her no once and for all.” I put the invitation down. “Tell me, Lizzie…” I don’t really know how to ask this, but Liz is the only one I can ask. “What’s it like being in a long-term relationship after retiring from the job?”
“It has its challenges,” Liz says in a serious tone before breaking out into a huge smile. “But more than that, it’s simply wonderful.”
“Jess is a wonderful woman.”
“She sure is. Now you tell me something, Katherine Jones… Might you be on the prowl?”
“I might very well be.” I smile at Liz. I want what she has with Jess. It seemed so unlikely when they first met, yet look at them now.
Chapter Eighteen
Hera
I glance at myself in the mirror and run my hand over my hair. I trimmed the edges and I find myself worrying over something I usually never worry about—my hair looks a little uneven on the sides. Sam used to do this for me. She’d take the clippers in her steady hand and make me look as good as new again.
There’s a picture of us on the mantle next to the bedroom mirror. It shows us in our thirties, brimming with health and as careless as we could be. Sam wasn’t supposed to die four days after her fiftieth birthday. She sure as hell wasn’t supposed to die without giving me the chance to say goodbye.
“What do you think, babe?” I ask her picture. “Can I go out with hair like this?”
I try to imagine what she would say but the situation makes it hard. In my gut, I know this isn’t just me having a look at someone’s kitchen for a possible remodel job. If that were the case, I wouldn’t even have combed my hair. I wouldn’t be standing in front of the mirror stressing out about something that can only be noticed if examined closely.
“It’s just a job,” Sam might say. And if she were still alive, then it would just be that. But now that she’s been dead for more than a year, it’s something else.
I turn around, facing away from the mirror and the picture of Sam and me. Jill’s going to have a field day when I tell her about this next Wednesday. I can already predict her questions. I push those thoughts from my mind as well and walk to the closet. I guess a T-shirt is out of the question. Or is it? I’m not one for great sartorial debates but I realize that what I wear will send a message. If I turn up at Katherine’s in one of my work T-shirts—freshly washed because it’s a Sunday after all—it will tell her that this is nothing more than a work appointment. But most potential clients don’t cook me dinner so I should at least make some effort to reciprocate the gesture. And then there’s the small matter of what I want to project.
I’ve warmed to her since we first met and I can almost be myself around her without constant images of her… of her what? How does it even work when you’re an escort? Maybe I should ask her tonight. But no, best steer clear of that inflammatory topic. She’s Rocco’s friend and business partner and she and I might become friends, but never anything more than that. That’s probably the most important message to send. I accept who she is, but we can never have anything between us. Not only because she used to be a call girl, but because Sam’s sudden death plunged me into such a pit of despair. I’d rather be alone for the rest of my life than experience the loss of a partner again.
That’s decided then. I reach for a navy-blue V-neck T-shirt and pull it over my head. That should convey the message.
When I ring the doorbell at Katherine’s, I wish I’d worn a shirt. But at least I’ve brought a bottle of good wine. While I wait, I run my finger over the nick in my hair. I hear the lock being turned and hope she won’t be all dolled up—although all dolled up seems to be Katherine’s default mode.
As soon as the door opens, she sends me a wide smile.
“Hi,” she says, and ushers me inside. She briefly puts a hand on my shoulder and I’m happy she doesn’t kiss me hello. That would be very un-work-like. Maybe we have the exact same idea about tonight. I hand her the wine while I force myself to relax a little. Then I glance around.
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Katherine’s apartment is gigantic even though it’s just on the outskirts of Bondi on the right side to get to the city center. It must be worth a small fortune.
“Crikey.” I stifle a remark about how the escort business must be very profitable. I don’t want to start off the night that way. And of course it’s profitable. Why else would a woman like Katherine bother? “Nice place.”
“Thanks.” Katherine briefly glances at the label on the wine bottle, then puts it on the table. “Do make yourself comfortable.” She points at the largest sectional sofa I’ve ever seen and a thought pops into my head. Did she use to ‘entertain’ here? Did unspeakable acts happen on the very sofa she’s pointing at? Surely there must be some sort of protocol—and a smart woman like Katherine wouldn’t jeopardize her privacy like that.
“Shall I have a look at the kitchen first?” I ask.
Katherine cocks her head. “It’s a bit of a mess at the moment. I promise you that I can actually cook, but I tend to make a right mess when doing so. I’m a bit like Nigella that way, except that I have to clean it up myself.” Her eyes light up as she smiles.
“Is it going to be less of a mess at any point during the evening?” I ask.
She quirks up one corner of her mouth. “I’m afraid it will only get worse.”
“Then I’d best have a look now, don’t you think?”
She nods and I follow her to the kitchen. I take the opportunity to eye her from behind. She’s dressed in some sort of red jumpsuit that flows around her body as she walks.
“It does look like a bomb went off in here,” I say when I enter the kitchen.
“What can I say?” Katherine puts her hands on her hips the way I’ve seen her do a few times. “I’m a messy cook. It’s my style.”
I glance around the kitchen, trying to ignore the chaos of dirty pots and pans. The cabinets and work surfaces look almost new, no scuffs or scratches visible anywhere. And the appliances are all top-of-the-range as far as I can see.
“I’m not really sure why you asked me here. This kitchen doesn’t need to be refitted.”
“Maybe it doesn’t need to be, but I want it done. Would that be okay with you, Hera?” She narrows her eyes.
“How old are your appliances?”
“We can keep the appliances; I just want a different feel. All this marble is so cold. I want it to be warmer, more inviting, I guess.”
“You should have asked Rocco to re-design it for you then.”
“I will. After all, he’s made the Pink Bean look very special. But first I wanted to ask you whether what I have in mind is possible.”
She proceeds to explain that she wants the cooker on the other side, by the window, and the breakfast bar removed altogether.
I’ve been in this business long enough to know that it’s people like Katherine, with their surplus funds and permanent need to change their interiors, who bring in the most money. During my career, I’ve torn down houses that were in ship-shape condition just because the owner had a recurring dream about it being totally different.
“Everything’s possible, of course. But it’s going to be a two-person job. I can’t get rid of all this marble on my own. And I’m certainly not going to smash it to speed things up. It’s too beautiful for that.”
“You want to recycle my marble?” Katherine asks, hands on hips.
“I most certainly do.” For a split second, I’m not sure it’s actually the marble of her kitchen we’re talking about. I feel a bit light-headed—I need some food in me.
“Fair enough.” Katherine steps closer. “Does that mean you’ll take the job?”
“Why don’t you send me some pictures tomorrow, when all this mess has been cleared, and I’ll have another think about it?” I lock my gaze on hers.
“You’re a hard woman to get a straight yes out of, do you know that?”
“I simply don’t want to make any promises I can’t keep.”
Katherine nods. Did she just give me a once-over? I wonder what she makes of my T-shirt. If she thinks anything of it at all, even after raking her gaze from the crown of my head to the tips of my toes, she doesn’t let on. She does the mysterious sphinx smile well.
“Can I pour you some wine now?”
“Please do,” I say and follow her back into the living room.
Chapter Nineteen
Kat
I wanted this to be a date and so it feels like a date, although Hera certainly didn’t dress the part. She looks every inch the builder I met at the Pink Bean a few weeks ago. A woman who is here to assess my kitchen first, and eat my food second. Most likely a woman for whom getting to know me better is the least of her priorities. It looks like I will have to deploy all the tricks in my charm toolbox tonight.
As I pour us each a glass of wine, I remind myself that this is not a paid-for appointment. This is my home and I’ve invited Hera for a meal because I’m so intrigued by her—although that may just be code for finding her butch and rather blunt ways a challenge as well as quite a turn-on.
“I’m glad you came,” I say after I’ve sat down next to her, angling my body toward her. I send her a wide smile that, again, makes me feel self-conscious. I haven’t been on a proper date for far too long—if tonight is even that.
“Just a heads-up,” Hera says. “I have an early start tomorrow.”
I can’t help but burst into a chuckle. “No problem. Dinner will be served pronto.” I take a drink from the wine she brought. It’s a good choice.
Hera looks into her glass, then up at me for a fraction of a second, before her glance skitters away again. “I’m… quite direct in my ways and I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong idea about me.”
“What idea would that be?”
“I don’t know what Rocco has told you about me, but I’m not… looking for anything just because I’m single.”
“Wow. You really are quite direct.” I hear Hera’s words but I have trouble believing them fully. Next to me sits a woman with her guard fully up, no doubt about that, but there’s something else going on. Something even someone as direct as Hera can’t put into words.
“I wouldn’t want there to be any misunderstandings between us.” Hera drinks again.
“Great way to kill the flirty vibe I was trying to nurture here.” I tilt my head. “And I haven’t even served you my wooing dish yet.”
Hera chuckles. “You have certainly succeeded in making me very curious about it now.” She holds out her glass of wine. “Friends?” she asks.
I bring my glass to hers. “A small miracle in its own right,” I joke.
Hera doesn’t say anything, so I decide I can play it naughty for a little longer.
“Is that why you’re here then?” I ask. “To atone for your initial bigotry?”
Hera swallows hard. “And I thought I was direct.”
“Two can play that game.” I draw up my knee and it almost touches her hip.
“I’ve apologized for that so I thought that was behind us.”
“Is it really, though?” I ask even though it’s a futile question. It’s a question Hera doesn’t even need to answer because I can read her reply in her body.
“If it’s not, then I would certainly like to put it behind us once and for all,” she says.
“Does that mean you don’t want to talk about it anymore or that you’ve fully accepted my past as a call girl?” I wouldn’t have needled her so much if she hadn’t tried to thwart my intentions from the get-go. What else am I going to do throughout this evening?
“It’s not something for me to fully accept. In fact, it’s not really any of my business.”
“Would it help you if we did talk about it? If you knew more about it instead of getting hung up on all the images in your head? Most of which are, I dare suspect, based on false beliefs.”
“Oh, so you can read my mind now? Very impressive.” Hera shuffles in her seat and when she sits still again her hip is a few inches farther removed from
my pulled-up knee.
“You’re the one who toasted to us being friends earlier. I’d say, so far, the beginning of our friendship is rather shaky. I also have no intention of befriending someone who’s always judging me.”
Hera shakes her head. “I’m not judging you, Katherine. I’m here, aren’t I? All the things you’re saying to me, that you’re projecting onto me, they’re all in your head.” She pauses but doesn’t give me a chance to reply. “Yes, I was a bigot and judged you on what you used to do instead of how you were with me, which was always very pleasant. As I said before, and meant, I apologize for that. So why the need to drag it up again? Seems to me that you’re the one who has a problem with it. Not me.”
I have to put my glass down because my hand has started shaking too much. I can’t remember when I last got a dressing-down like this. The hardest fact for me to grasp is that Hera is probably right. I’m the one with the chip on my shoulder tonight.
“Okay.” I rise from the sofa. “Do you mind if I take a minute before I reply? Meanwhile, I’ll get dinner ready.”
Hera looks up at me, her gaze not flinching this time. “Take all the time you need. I’m not going anywhere.”
“It has been harder than I thought,” I say, after we’ve sat down for our meal. “I’ve always been so headstrong about my profession and I’ve always been able to defend my choice but, now that I’ve quit, there seems to be this… I’m not sure how to articulate it. A vacuum of sorts. Like I’m no longer the person I used to be. And I still get very defensive when anyone tries to slag me off, or even hints at it.”
“I, um, talked about you with my therapist,” Hera says.
I nearly drop my fork. Not only at Hera’s candid admission that she has discussed me with another person, but that she’s in therapy. “Really?” I quickly compose myself.
