Bleeding Hearts. Lindy Cameron
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Kit said, throwing her palms up. "The only ones who win in this game, are the men. Again. Still."
"She has a very valid point," Miranda stated again, prodding a different bit of air with her special emphasising finger.
"Yeah, the bastards!" Carmel agreed.
"And I bet you all just loved your husbands' other women," Kit teased. "You can't honestly tell me you didn't want to kill them or at least publicly humiliate them."
"Nah!" Tori stated. "Wasted emotion, wasted effort. It's not their fault, when it's his job to say no, or to choose not to start anything."
"Bugger that!" Paula exclaimed. "Boil the sluts in oil, I say! Take out ads in the paper."
"That's very unsisterly Paula," Carmel remarked.
Paula's reply was a loud and juicy raspberry.
"So, Katherine, I guess you're saying that you wouldn't have an affair with a married man," Paula observed.
"Not if he was the last man on earth," Kit confessed, flashing a smile at Miranda who smirked back.
"We're not talking commitment here," Carmel added.
"Or a sordid little fling in the back seat with some randy salesman with a comb-over. We're talking the fantasy option of long lunches and sexy afternoons with a gorgeous man with lots of spare cash," Grace extrapolated.
"Nope," Kit said emphatically.
"Why ever not?" Paula asked.
"Two reasons really. One, because if they're cheating on their wives they obviously can't be trusted with anything, about anything or for anything."
"What's trust got to do with it?" Paula asked. "We're talking about screwing their brains out."
"And letting them shower you with gifts," Grace added.
"And listening to their pitiful excuses for not staying," Paula snarled.
"The other reason?" Dee prodded.
Kit smiled. "I'd rather have an affair with a married woman."
"Why?" Paula sneered. "Because they're more trustworthy?"
"No. Because I'm a lesbian."
This time it was five seconds of silence before the raucous laughter.
"Wow," Carmel enthused. "I never met an official lesbian before. I mean, a real..."
"Yes you have, Carmy, don't be ridiculous," Miranda said, in that tone.
"Who?" Carmel demanded.
"Barb, Val, Chris and Needle," Tori checked the names off on her fingers.
Carmel's jaw dropped.
"Oh, and Freda," Tori added.
"But... but I thought they were all just good friends," Carmel said. The poor woman was probably never going to get her mouth completely closed again.
"They are, you fool. They also happen to be girl-friendly."
"Oh. Wow. Well I'll be... Do you know them, Katherine?" Carmel asked.
"Ah, no," Kit replied. "Not that I know of."
"For fuck's sake Carmel, you need to get out more often!" Miranda observed.
"Hey, there's no need to get all smarty-britches. Katherine might be one of those people who knows everyone," Carmel said defensively.
"She's a night-shift lab technician who doesn't own a television," Grace said incredulously. "She probably doesn't even know about Ellen - the show or the actor."
"Carmel, do you have any idea how many dykes there are in Melbourne?" Rebecca asked, trying to keep a straight face.
"Obviously a lot more than I thought," Carmel said politely. "And excuse my ignorance, but isn't 'dyke' an offensive term?"
"It depends who's using it," Kit smiled. "And why."
"Of the thousands of lesbians in this city, Carmy, it is vaguely possible that Katherine might know the only four that you've just discovered you know," Grace explained, "but it's kind of like asking a visiting American if she knows Richard Gere."
"Now him I do know. We had dinner last week," Kit joked.
"Your phone is ringing."
"What?" asked the guy who had left the supermarket at the same time as Kit and was now walking along beside her and three or four other people down Swan Street.
"Your phone's ringing, mate," Kit repeated, and then added to herself: "What's the point of having one if you don't answer it?"
"I don't have a phone, you stupid bitch. What do you care anyway?"
"I don't care," Kit said cheerily, feigning surprise. Well, actually she was surprised: firstly by his reaction to her statement - okay, not so surprising, she was being rude; but secondly, or mostly, by the realisation that it was her phone that was ringing.
Escape. That would be a good thing to do now.
Stepping off the footpath, in front of a BMW that had stopped traffic for two suburbs behind it while its owner tried to reverse park into a spot that was way too small, Kit thanked the powers that be that a stationary tram had also blocked all the suburb-bound traffic on the other side of the road. She darted across the street and in the front door that announced the Richmond premises of Aurora Press and O'Malley Investigations.
She pulled her phone out. "O'Malley," she said.
"Oh. Hi, O'Malley, I was just about to hang up."
Kit leant against the wall, for emotional and physical support, as all the connections between all her molecules were suddenly stretched to infinity at the subatomic level. Luckily they snapped back just in time to avoid a paranormal incident.
"Alex," Kit replied casually. "Hi."
"Um, listen I can't talk long. I just wanted to confirm lunch tomorrow and ask a favour."
"Lunch is definitely on," Kit replied, nodding a lot. "What's the favour?"
"Well, I've just heard from Quinn, and she can't get home for Saturday. She says she can't leave London for another two weeks. So I was wondering if you'd like to be my, ah, my best woman?"
Kit laughed. "I'd love to. I think."
"Great. Well, I've got to go."
"Fine. See you tomorrow. Oh, Alex?"
"Yes?"
"Do you like cats?"
"Ah, yeah. I'm more of a dog person, but I quite like cats. Sorry, I've got..." The line went dead.
"O'Malley, O'Malley, O'Malley," Kit remonstrated loudly, as she stomped upstairs to her apartment. Honestly! Is that the best you can do? You could have asked her if she likes you. Or better still if she loves you.
Do you like cats? Bloody hell, that's as deep as: what's your favourite colour, Alex; or what's your star sign? "Idiot!"
"Are you trying to remind yourself who you are?" came a voice attached to a body that loomed out of the small dark corner of her landing.
"Shit!" Kit swore. "And double shit, Hector! Will you stop doing that."
"Doing what?"
"Frightening the sticky-ickums out of me! Bloody hell!"
"Sorry O'Malley. Boy are you jumpy."
"Here, hold this for me," Kit requested handing him the local paper, her mail, a litre of milk and a brown paper book bag, with books, so she could get her keys out of her bum bag. She unlocked the door, took the milk from him and headed up the steps inside.
"Mwaankel-meee-ang?" demanded The Cat, from the