5. Chapter Five
Chapter Five
The next evening Alison sat in her car outside the wine bar, still unclear quite what in the world she was walking into. Was this dinner with a… new friend? Did she make new friends? Did she make friends with overly hip, overly familiar, much younger women? Was that a thing she wanted or was even capable of? She wasn’t sure.
Plus, there was that… other thing. That thing that was Hope quite clearly flirting with her. She’d known it from the first meeting; I never could resist a damsel in distress . The obvious flicker of interest in the younger woman’s eyes had registered, even as she’d been too stressed to process it. The playful teasing in the dark of the beer garden accompanied by the swoop of Hope’s eyelashes down her body had been perfectly blatant, followed by the confident declaration of appreciation yesterday, in her car. It was quite clear that Alison shouldn’t be here tonight at all.
And yet, here she was .
Alison had been a society wife for almost exactly half her life. She’d been prized for her looks above all: paraded around at dinner parties, law firm functions, fundraisers, political occasions, all manner of events. She’d been a badge of honour, arm candy, an enticement to powerful men to stay a little later, invest a little more.
Even now, in her forties, aware that her looks were on their way towards fading, she still attracted more than her fair share of admirers, both pre- and post-divorce. Sometimes it was flattering, sometimes uncomfortable. Sometimes, like right now, it was downright confusing. She rolled her eyes at herself. If she could smoothly handle the wandering eyes - and, occasionally, hands - of half the powerful men in Melbourne, she could manage the attention of one petite blonde. Besides, who else aside from Harry wanted to spend time with her these days? Stay home any longer and she’d forget how to speak to another human being. She pushed herself to get out of the car and headed to the door.
As she entered, she shrugged out of her coat and smoothed down her dress. This was a wine bar, she’d told herself, and even in the countryside, on a Thursday, meeting a friend , a wine bar meant a dress. Mindful of her messaging, she’d kept her neckline and hem-length modest, but she wasn’t robust enough to go for dowdy when her companion was a clearly noted younger bombshell , so the soft drape of the maroon dress fit her body like a glove.
Perhaps, she noted, as she saw her dinner date turn toward her from her seat at the bar and watched Hope’s eyes blow wide, she’d overshot the assignment .
“Hi,” Hope said, slowly slipping off her bar stool, her hands light on Alison’s shoulders as she reached up on her toes to drop a quick kiss to her cheek. “God,” she added a little breathlessly, “do you just casually rock up everywhere like that? I’m not sure how we’re all going to function.”
“I suspect you’ll cope.” Alison smiled. She couldn’t help but feel the flattery as Hope took her in. Hope wore a somewhat more casual black jumpsuit, but because she was Hope she looked stunning. Her hair was out, tumbling over her shoulders, the red lip back again, her arms bare. The neckline was deceptive, Alison suddenly realised. It looked like a modest v-neck, but as Hope raised her right arm to tuck her hair back, the soft fabric swooped slightly on the left to show a devastating glimpse of bare skin, before her arm dropped and the view disappeared. That was… quite the trick. Alison was sure it was deliberate, because Hope, all of a sudden, looked incredibly smug.
“You look gorgeous,” Alison said smoothly, because it was the truth and she wasn’t going to pretend it was some elephant in the room, that Hope wasn’t beautiful, that she had to hide that she’d noticed. It was perfectly innocuous for one woman to notice another’s attractiveness. Innocent, even. Hope tilted her head and Alison was sure she’d read the message.
“Thank you,” Hope said, with exaggerated politeness. She tossed back her hair with her fingers again, exposing that same glimpse of bare curve, and Alison swore to herself that the next time it happened, she’d be ready for it .
“Shall we?” She found her voice, looking solidly away toward the dining tables.
“Let’s.” Hope’s smile was back. Alison cursed herself internally. She wasn’t used to this kind of coquettishness being used against her. She was usually the one dishing it out. She took a breath and remembered who she was.
They were guided to their table. To her surprise, they were one of only two sets of diners, the sizable wine bar almost empty. Gold Hill really was a different place on a weekday. Hope introduced her to the server by name - Possum, apparently - and Alison greeted them, unsure if she’d heard right.
“Possum?” she asked in a low tone, leaning toward Hope after they’d been left with their menus. Hope grinned, her eyes sparkling in the candlelight.
“Listen, it’s Gold Hill, okay? Sometimes it’s better not to question it.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning the hippies still run this town,” Hope whispered, in the exact tone she’d used to reference what she’d thought was the mafia. “You have to go with it.”
Alison laughed. Gold Hill, she knew, despite being first a gold rush town, then a rural farming community, had been re-established by a wave of original hippies in the 1970’s, drawn by the cheap real estate and beautiful surroundings. She glanced over at Possum, noting the hemp fibres of their clothing and the jingle of small bells on the hem of their pants. Perhaps a child of one of the originals, perhaps a Melbourne transplant, seeking community, who could tell? Either way, their face was open and sweet and a waft of patchouli followed in their wake.
“The hippies and the hipsters,” Alison mused as she perused the trendy menu. “No offence,” she added.
“I’m sorry?” Hope raised her eyebrows, her menu tipping forward onto the table.
“I mean you, and your friends, obviously,” Alison said. “All that ink and oversized glasses.”
Hope snorted a small laugh.
“I see,” she said. “And what do you think that means about us?” She sounded interested as she raised her menu again.
“I just mean…” Alison foundered slightly. What did she mean? “You’re all very cool ,” she pointed out .
“Thank you,” Hope said simply, though her eyebrows were still raised. “We are, in fact, extremely cool.” Alison let her own menu fall forward at the faint bemusement in Hope’s tone.
“I’m not cool,” she announced, to clarify her position.
“Okay?” Hope seemed happy to let her dig her own hole, and Alison, apparently, was intent on falling directly into it.
“I mean, I don’t care about what music is cool, or about hip film directors making art I don’t understand.” She didn’t know why this conversation had to happen before they’d even ordered food. Or maybe she did. Maybe this was her way out of this.
“ And you think… I do?” Hope looked faintly confused at the track they were headed down. It was no wonder; Alison couldn’t quite seem to let the accusatory note in her tone go.
“I mean, yes.” Alison declared.
“Because of these?” Hope trailed her index finger from her wrist up over her colourful skin to her shoulder, not dropping her eye contact. “Or because Flynn’s glasses are too big?”
“You’re all just very young and cool,” Alison huffed out, annoyed that Hope wasn’t letting her out of the trap she’d built herself. “Your lives seem very different.”
“I see.” Hope smiled up at Possum as they delivered their glasses of wine to them. “Are you ready to order?” she asked Alison, who hadn’t really read the menu yet, but quickly ordered the first main course that she saw.
“Don’t look now,” Hope said as Possum wafted towards the kitchen, “but your menu choice was extremely hip.” Alison huffed at her and Hope just smiled. “Tell me some more about my life,” she dared Alison.
“Oh, stop.” Alison screwed up her nose and Hope laughed.
“No, really. Tell me. What do I do for a living?”
“How on earth would I know that?”
“Just take a guess. You seem so clear on who you think I am.”
“You’re being obnoxious.”
“Come on. Even if you can guess what one of my friends does for a living?”
“Who was the friend that snatched you away the other night? ”
“Snatched me, huh?” Hope curled her fingers around her wine glass, her expression amused. “That was Camille.”
“Camille, of course, how extremely hip.” Alison nodded sagely. Hope scoffed. “She’s some kind of artist,” Alison said confidently.
Hope reached up to scratch her forehead slightly.
“I mean, Camille’s not the best example.” She seemed to be rethinking the game.
“Oh my god, she is!” Alison was delighted. Hope rolled her eyes.
“She’s a sculptor,” she sighed.
“I rest my case.”
“No. Absolutely not ,” Hope denied her. “Guess me. Go on.” Her eyes were sparkling with the dare and Alison felt buoyed by her last success. She looked closely at Hope, saw the coolness radiating from her skin.
“Tattoo artist,” she said immediately. Hope looked disbelieving.
“Seriously?” she said. “From the ink alone? ”
“I’m right?”
“Not even close.”
“So not a body piercer then,” Alison mused. Hope took a sip of her wine, not remotely amused. “Hair stylist,” she tried. Hope just raised her eyebrows. “I’m not just guessing hip jobs,” Alison defended her attempts. “I figure with eyes that colour you’re probably not a natural blonde, but I can’t see a trace of root colour either.”
“Wrong again,” Hope told her. “Doubly wrong, in fact. Though I’m intrigued to hear you’ve paid such close attention.”
“I give up,” Alison rapidly diverted her from that point. “I mean, I’d throw in a quick DJ to round out the guesswork, but I suspect I’d just piss you off at this point.”
Hope took a solid swig of her wine.
“I’m disappointed,” she told her. “How old are you Alison?”
“You understand that’s supposed to be a rude question, don’t you?”
“Only if you think being older is a bad thing. ”
“Older,” Alison repeated, as if she wasn’t the one to bring it up in the first place.
“Yes,” Hope said, with the slightest trace of exasperation. “It seems to be what’s underlying this whole conversation, so can we get it out the way please?”
Alison stared at her. Hope had a trace of steel amongst all her blondness and curves and she couldn’t help admiring it. Most people let Alison wriggle out of whatever she wanted to wriggle out of; it was another of the many unfair free gifts that came with being white, attractive and privileged.
“I’m forty-five,” Alison said, refusing to drop her gaze.
“Mm,” said Hope, a clear note of appreciation in her tone. “I’m thirty-one.”
“Oh.” Alison blinked. She’d thought it was more like twenty-six.
“So as you can see, I’m a legitimate adult. Tattoos notwithstanding.”
Alison took a moment. Hope watched her, waiting to see where she’d go next. Alison sipped her wine and realised it was time to roll over .
“Hope,” she said, letting her apology seep into her voice. Insecurity was making her behave like an asshole. “What do you do for work?”
Hope watched her for a beat longer. She reached up to tousle her own hair. The black fabric parted and Alison was caught out again. She swallowed. How did Hope keep winning this? Hope smiled slowly.
“I’m a vet,” she told her. “I own the local veterinary practice.”
Alison swallowed. She looked at the thirty-one year old, gorgeous, professional woman across from her, her fingers caressing the stem of her glass of wine.
“Oh,” she said faintly.