Page 5

Chapter Five

Bookleaf Mallee

( Eucalyptus kruseana )

An unusual and very attractive small tree with tiny, round, blue-grey, stalkless leaves which cling densely to the branches. Bunches of creamy-yellow flowers arrive between Autumn to Winter. The Bookleaf Mallee thrives in sunny situations. Prune at an early age to establish the desired form.

I passed the frowny-shaking-your-finger-you’ve-been-naughty letter back to Craig, and grinned.

“I reckon that’ll put the wind up them,” I said cheerfully.

Craig Grady, the lawyer who had taken on our official complaint pro bono, smiled in return. “It should do. It’s not the first time a large firm has ridden rough shod over small businesses.”

“Well, I can’t thank you enough. I wasn’t convinced that a law firm like yours would take on such a trivial thing.”

Craig had phoned me on Monday and explained how his friend Kat, who was friends with Steph, had asked if he had the time to do a favour for her, which he did, so would I meet with him at his office on Thursday? I hadn’t quite believed him, even more so when I’d turned up not half an hour ago at a beautiful heritage-listed house that had been converted into six offices. The brass plates at the front door announced a variety of professions, including an architect, an accountant, a creative media agency, a consultant—that label sounded exquisitely vague—one law firm, and then another law firm: Cooper, Marks, and Grady. I could tell from the law books and what looked like journals bound in leather on the oak bookshelf that lined Craig’s office—a Booktokker’s wet dream of a green screen—that the firm was successful. I was very glad that Steph knew people.

“It’s pro bono, Angel. We like to look after community. It’s what makes the world better, doesn’t it?” He quirked a smile, and I smiled in return. Craig was good people.

Back at the nursery later that day, I thanked Steph profusely.

“Craig’s a top bloke. He’s looking after everything, but he said to wait until the final week of the ninety days so the warehouse is stalled as much as possible.” I beamed with happiness.

Steph laughed. “Lawyers know all the loopholes and tricks of the trade. Particularly how to put the wind up local councils.”

* * *

Steph worked every day that week, despite being a casual employee. We seemed to have an influx of customers, double the amount we normally had mid-week, so I was glad she was around. To attend to customers. That’s all. Not because I liked looking at her. Our customers came in groups: one from another retirement village and another from a care facility which looked after young people with special needs who were mostly in wheelchairs. That group was thrilled at the wide aisles which I had set up so Kahlia could navigate easily amongst the plants. I smiled to myself when all the kids exclaimed at the spiky ferns, the furry flowers of the kangaroo paw, and the pungent scent that was released when they rubbed the leaves on the Eucalyptus kruseana . Then my eyes grew moist at how they were thrilled to purchase a living souvenir of their visit. One of the girls had run a string of happy face emojis on her touch pad which I was overjoyed to see when the carer turned it my way. I looked up to find Steph watching me, a smile on her face and a look of…something. Admiration? No, more like contemplation. Maybe affection. Whatever it was, I enjoyed the feeling in my veins.

I was starting to feel things for Steph, which was silly and irrational. Affection wasn’t that quick, surely. Attraction, sure. But bigger feelings?

Unfortunately, there’s always one customer who tries really hard to make their interactions with society very trying and ruins my musings. During the week, a husband and wife—I know this because he called her ‘my wife’ at the register—strolled in to investigate the stock. She grabbed his hand and dragged him over to the display of small-leaved Tamarinds.

“Gerry! Look at these! They’d look wonderful in that sunny part of the lounge room,” she enthused.

I didn’t quite hear all of a Gerry’s reaction, so I wandered over to offer my help.

“The Tamarinds are great indoors, particularly with muted sunlight.”

“See, Gerry?” She peered at my name tag. “Angel thinks it’s a great idea.”

“Yeah. Well, I’m sorry but the prices are inflated here, Susan.” He ignored me. “We’ll get one when that Walker’s opens. You’ll get your little plants there.” He picked up the pot plant I’d indicated and peered at the label. “Not just better prices but less boring plants, I’ll bet.” His smirk took in both of us.

I saw red. Not only because he’d just dismissed the small-leafed Tamarind which was an epic little shrub, but he had dismissed his wife who had excellent taste in plants, then he’d stood right there and insulted my nursery.

I levelled a glare at him.

“Well, that small-leaved Tamarind you’re holding is from northern New South Wales and thrives under indoor sunlight. It grows to be a small, dense bush that produces large red/orange fruits with a delicious, tangy pulp which is perfect for jams. Did you know that it has been recognised as part of the First Nations diet, and even though it often looks drab, the Tamarind is strong and has cute little cream-brown flowers in November to January, but by all means, wait until you can shop in the Walker’s nursery where all the noticeably half-dead potted varieties will be more to your?—”

A pair of arms wrapped around my torso and dragged me back a step. Then Steph appeared in front, facing Susan and Gerry, who were staring, their eyes darting between me and Steph.

“I’m sorry. Angel is needed in the office to sign some urgent paperwork so I’ll take her to that paperwork now and be right back.”

Steph spun around and grabbed my hand, leading me quickly to the office door. Tough looked up from his water bowl.

“Stay,” she whispered. Both Tough and I blinked and froze. Then Steph hurried off to assist at the counter where clearly Susan had won the debate and was purchasing her plant.

Steph bustled back to me, and I folded my arms.

“That was?—”

“That was necessary. I’m sorry I manhandled you a bit, but?—”

“A bit?” I glared. “I wasn’t finished with?—”

“Oh, yes, I really think you were.”

I shook my head. “Lucas and Kahlia don’t grab their boss.”

Steph laughed. “Consider it an intervention by a staff member who doesn’t want their boss to lose sales which would result in that staff member losing their job. I was going for self-preservation.” She grimaced at me then rolled her lips together, all sparkly eyes and cheekiness.

I laughed. “Fine”. Then I realised that I hadn’t actually minded Steph grabbing me around my waist. She had lovely arms. Strong. I imagined Steph riding pillion on my motorbike, holding onto me as we rode through the hills outside Melbourne. Yum.

“Are you mentally finishing your monologue of pissed-off-ness?”

I blushed. I wasn’t about to tell Steph what I had been thinking. That would have been awkward. Things like motorbike rides and picnics and maybe dates at the movies were not for open discussion.

* * *

The weird thing about attraction is that you can’t keep your eyes off the person you’re attracted to. Nor stop your body from being in their space. It’s a phenomenon that people should study. Perhaps they had and I should spend some time down Google rabbit holes. I needed to know, because all I was doing for a week after the let’s-grab-Angel yummy moment was gravitating towards, looking at, and thinking about Steph.

“It’s very distracting,” I muttered into the bonsai cupboard as I checked on the plants.

Jules’ revelation only a couple of hours prior only increased the delight that was Steph Thatcher.

“So, you’ll be interested to know that Steph speaks Greek,” Jules had said, leaning over the counter at her cafe.

I frowned. “She does?”

“Yep.”

“And you know this…” I faded off.

“She was chatting with Mrs G when I popped in to get a couple of battered pineapple rings for Pip. You know how she gets those cravings when she has several readings scheduled.”

“Okay?” I rolled my hand to move her story along.

“Well, Mrs G was saying that she hadn’t followed all of the meeting debate and had taken such a dislike to Benjamin Walker that she tuned him out. Then Steph launches into fluent Greek to fill her in, then Mrs G hugged her!”

“Looks like there’s more to Steph than meets the eye.”

“Your eye, anyway. I’ve seen your eyeballs wandering, mate.”

“I do not have wandering eyeballs.”

“When it comes to Steph Thatcher you do.” Jules waggled a finger at my face. “You’re attracted to her.”

“No,” I lied.

“You’re lying. If you sat down with Pip right now, she’d be pulling out the Lovers card and laying it in its position.”

My understanding of Tarot fortune telling was very poor despite our community of shops possessing a resident expert.

“‘The what?”

“The Lovers Card in the Future position. It means a future destined by love.”

“Oh, good grief.” I sighed dramatically. “I love you and Pip but I am not heading towards a future with my employee.

I returned to my chat with the bonsai, my thoughts meandering about Jules’ revelation that Steph spoke Greek and how she was convinced I had a thing for Steph. Then I looked up and my gaze landed squarely on Steph, who was looking right back at me. She quirked a smile, gave me a wave, then held eye contact until we both blushed and looked away.

Maybe I was attractive to Steph for her to blush like that. Or she was early menopausal.

If we were a Netflix series, the lesbians would be yelling “Just kiss already!” at their screens.

I wandered over.

“You speak Greek?” I cocked my head.

Another lovely flush pinked her cheeks. “Yes. I assume you know that information because Jules was in Mrs G’s shop at the same time I was attempting to explain council by-laws.”

I grinned. “Nothing gets by Jules.” That was true statement. Jules’ commentary to me about my supposed attraction proved that point.

“Where did you learn it? Duolingo?”

Steph cracked up, and held my forearm. “No. At school.”

“What school teaches Greek?”

Suddenly Steph’s face froze. Not for long, but just long enough for a person—me—to wonder why. “At Killington. Killington Girls Grammar.”

That probably explained the stilled expression for a moment. Generally there are three types of people who come from the private school system: the Look-at-me-I-am-an-enormously-rich twat, the I’m-sorry-I-had-no-choice souls, and the Mumble-mumble-extensive-apology-for-being-wealthy-I’ll-give-money-to-charity-forever folk.

Steph looked like she sat in number two quite comfortably. Killington cost thirty-thousand a year, her parents must have had some serious money.

“Nice school.”

“I enjoyed learning there. The subject list was extensive and I figured that if I was going to interact with people in Melbourne, which has the third highest Greek-speaking population in the world, then Greek it should be.”

Sounded sensible.

“Yeah, it goes Athens, then Thessaloniki, then Melbourne, then back to places in Greece. Melbourne multiculturalism right there.”

Steph grinned. “That was my thinking.”

I studied her: her slight frame, her hair that fanned away from her face, her brown eyes. It was a particularly lovely package to look at. “You’re a bit of an enigma, Steph Thatcher.”

She laughed again, then, almost as if she weren’t thinking about it, shuffled a little bit closer. “I’m really not. Ask me anything.”

I blinked as common sense left my body. “Okay. Do you want to go to the movies on the weekend?” I blinked again. Wow. That was unexpected. Who knew that question was lurking?

Steph’s eyebrows rose. “The movies?”

“Yeah. Like at the actual movies in a cinema where you can’t pause and duck off to the loo then cook a three-course meal then binge watch the next in the series. That sort of movies.”

She rolled her lips in thought or maybe to suppress laughter. Her expression was cheeky.

“Like the movies where people don’t talk all the way through?”

“Yes!” I exclaimed, thrilled that Steph was a convert. “You get it.”

“And have mastered the art of opening a packet of chips in silence?” Steph was on a roll and I was there for it.

“Oh my god. I love you,” I blurted out, then turned bright red, the skin on my face aflame. “Not, you know…It was more a turn of?—”

“We connected over our loathing of noisy packets of chips. It’s okay, Angel.” She did the forearm-grab, coupled with a smooth-slide-down to my wrist.

“That’s…that’s exactly what we did,” I stuttered. “So…?”

“I’d love to.” Then… then her gaze travelled up and down my body and I felt it in every stitch of my cargo pants and polo shirt. And undies, if I were telling the truth.

I wondered what Pip would make of this latest development. She was probably hunched over her Tarot cards gleefully predicting Steph and I were riding off into the sunset.

“Another question. How are you on a motorbike?”

* * *

Apparently, Steph was an enthusiastic pillion passenger, as she’d ridden all the way around Europe for six months on the back of a friend’s bike when she’d been on an extended holiday after finishing uni. Another piece of the chronological puzzle that was Steph Thatcher.

My pride and joy was a 1200cc Triumph Tiger. Black, white, and chrome, with gold forks. I’d fallen in love the moment I’d seen the ad for it in one of the magazines Jules kept in stacks for lost introverts who looked like they needed a prop so they could hide from the world for a bit.

That was four years ago, and here I was, pulling up to the apartment block in Steph’s swanky neighbourhood. I’d only turned off the ignition when Steph appeared at my side and brushed the leather on my back.

I felt it through the material.

“Hi! Thought I’d meet you down here.”

I pulled off my helmet. “Hi, right back.” I rubbed at my short, choppy locks, and we grinned at each other. Nope. This wasn’t a date date as such. Yes, it was. Oh boy. Grinning and shoulder rubs and…it was a date.

I kicked the stand down and climbed off, plopping my helmet onto the left hand grip. “I’ve got my spare helmet here for you.” I undid the back pannier and pulled out the flashy, eye-waveringly neon green helmet. Steph eyed it, then laughed.

“That’s been attacked by a wayward teen with a spray can, hasn’t it?”

I laughed and passed the helmet over. “Or something. Not so wayward. One of my Bonsai brainiacs last year did it for me. He had a way with street art. He’d even bonsai in a somewhat morally grey manner.”

“How…” Steph giggled. “How can you bonsai in a morally grey manner?”

I pointed to the very tip of my index finger. “That much. Just that much of the plant? Slice, don’t cut.” I nodded wisely and I don’t think Steph could tell if I was being serious or not, because she was definitely holding back a giggle. Then I winked and she let it out, still going as she set the helmet on her head. She reached through the visor window to brush hair away, then pulled at the tabs underneath. Her fingers fumbled with the catch, so I plucked the two connectors from her hands and clicked the pieces together.

“There you go,” I said quietly. My assistance had brought our bodies into each other’s space. Our gaze held. I reluctantly lowered my hands, my fingers missing their touch on Steph’s soft skin, and I breathed softly. Carefully. Steph’s lips slowly parted, then she stepped back.

“So, a Triumph, hey?” she said, zipping up her own leather jacket.

“Absolutely.” I threw my leg over the bike, kicked up the stand, and held the bike steady while Steph got on the back.

“Do you want to me to hold on to you or use the grip bars behind?” Steph’s voice floated in under my helmet and into my ears. I shivered.

I cleared my throat. “Hang on to me, if you like.” Please say yes. Please say yes.

Steph answered by wrapping her arms about my waist, holding fast to the front of my jacket.

My bike thrummed to life. So did I.

* * *

Popcorn duly placed in between our lush Gold Class seats in the cinema, we both sighed as we raised our footrests, and appreciated the luxury. I’d insisted on paying for the tickets since it was my invitation and because I’d wanted Gold Class, even though it was expensive with its recliner chairs. With a twenty-four patron capacity, it was a well-known fact that kids usually weren’t in attendance because a family usually had to shell out a hundred bucks or more to purchase Gold Class tickets just to entertain their eyeballs. And that was before buying food.

I like kids. I just don’t like kids who are brought up as pause-on-demand, talk through a show, self-entitled munching machines who think that empty chip packets are fidget toys.

Truth be told, I liked teenagers more, but then I could handle anything from surly grunts through to hyperactive excitement with obligatory arm-waving.

“This is lovely, Angel. Thank you,” Steph whispered, despite the screen still showing the ads and the ‘switch off your phone otherwise you’re a dickhead’ warning.

“You’re welcome,” I whispered just as quietly under the volume of the phone company ad that was blaring through the Dolby surround sound. “Wait until you see the movie. The reviews are great.”

We reached for a handful of popcorn at the same time and I paused.

“A little bit of a ‘Lady and The Tramp’ moment, hey?” I laughed awkwardly.

Steph hovered her hand over the bucket. “Somewhat. Touching fingers over popcorn is quite the movie cliche.”

Be bold, Angel.

“Well, cliche be damned. I say let’s go for the total package. Here, I’ll play my part.” I dropped my fingers into the bucket as Steph lowered hers, and we laughed softly as our skin became smooth with butter. I plucked out a few pieces of popcorn, tossed them into my mouth, quickly licked my fingers, then found the napkin the staff left on each section divider. I looked up to find Steph studying me in the half light, her hand still in the top layer of popcorn. Her lips parted, her eyes widened, then she shook her head, and refocused on the bucket, or her hand, or the popcorn, and looking remarkably like she’d been caught catching her breath by my unconscious gesture. I blushed, which was silly because I wasn’t the one getting all flustered by finger licking. Perhaps I was flustered because she was flustered. Oh God, this was a bad—good—idea.

Thankfully, the movie started as the cinema was plunged into darkness and we were taken on a sci-fi journey full of animatronics, robots, gun-toting women, and aliens. And not one flustered lesbian to be seen. Except me and the one I was sitting next to.

* * *

“Thanks for the movie,” Steph said as she hauled off her helmet outside her apartment building.

I leant back against my bike. “You’re totally welcome. It was even a good movie which was a bonus because sometimes reviews can be diametrically opposed to the actual film content.”

Steph grinned. “Do you want to come up and…?

Gah. I hated when that question in particular faded off because I knew the ‘and’ was always going to be sensational and out of reach and the amount of yearning I was experiencing made the ‘and’ full of potential.

“Um, I better get going. We’ve got an early morning delivery and I need to be there to sign it off.”

It was a weak excuse, but I wasn’t ready to let Steph know that I would be an enthusiastic participant if we’d decided on the ‘and’.

Steph’s face fell a little, which sucked because I guess she was all about the ‘and’ as well. But then she stepped forward. Close enough for me to see the sparkle in her eyes from the street light.

“Well, thank you again. I’ll see you tomorrow at nine.” She leaned down a little, and I truly thought she was going for a cheek kiss. Sensible, rational, first-date-platonic cheek kiss. So I moved my head infinitesimally to catch it, but I moved the wrong way and our lips touched for one brief moment.

Explosions.

Oh, yum.

Oh, shit.

I pulled back. “Sorry. That was…”

“No, sorry. I didn’t…”

We stared at each other, then laughed.

“Goodnight, Angel. Now stay still this time.” Steph gave a singular soft huff-chuckle then kissed my cheek and my entire forty-year-old body broke into goosebumps.

“Bye,” she whispered, then walked up the short footpath to the entrance, scanned a card, and turned and waved.

* * *

Work the next day was a funny mixture of smiles that recognised each other and blushes that saw right through our blasé and pedestrian conversations. Because We Were Not Going To Mention That Kiss.

“It wasn’t even a kiss, for Christ’s sake. It was a mere brushing of lips,” I muttered.

Which is generally known as a kiss.

Oh my god.