by Pene Henson
“No worries. Okay. So, journalism I get. And music. Tell me about fashion.”
“It’s interesting too. The choices people make, the aesthetics and culture and fun of it,” says Lien. She crunches up her face as though in apology. “But yeah. I see. Not your area.”
“Are you saying my outfit isn’t the height of style?” Claudie waves her hands over her clothing. She’s glad she’s wearing one of her better black T-shirts; this one fits well across her chest, and her jeans are decent.
Lien laughs. “I’d never say that.” She frowns at Claudie and takes on a serious persona. “I have some insight into the industry, Claudia Ranger. Wilderness chic is the next big thing. We’re going to see this aesthetic in New York and Milan.” She looks Claudie up and down and says, “Gorgeous.” She’s laughing, but something underneath the laughter is not false. Her glance runs across Claudie’s skin. Claudie tamps down on a shiver. Lien’s eyes catch on hers, then swing away.
The silence stretches between them.
By mid-afternoon, the power hasn’t miraculously re-connected itself. Lien uses some of their limited phone battery to call Beau.
“Yeah, I’m fine. No way, babe. No, I’m just glad you’re okay,” she says. She moves to the corner of the room. “Okay, I can’t talk now. Love you.”
When she hangs up, she laughs. “He’s feeling guilty about having a good time in town and leaving me here all alone.”
“Yeah,” Claudie says. “I’ll bet you wish you could be with them.”
“No, I don’t—I don’t feel like that. It’s not like I’m alone up here. I mean. I’m sorry for taking up your—”
Claudie interrupts. “Hey. You promised. No more apologies.”
They smile at one another.
Claudie goes into the kitchen and opens the silent fridge. She doesn’t keep too much food around. She knows herself too well; if she had food for a month she wouldn’t see another human that whole time. But they need to eat, and what's here will go bad.
“Any chance you cook?” she asks Lien.
“Oh.” Lien eyes the fridge as though it might attack her. “I guess, not really. No. Not usually. I used to, but I haven’t done much since I was a kid helping my mother.”
“You don’t cook at home?”
“We’ve got really good take-out where I live.” Lien blushes.
Claudie grins at her. “No worries. You want to try something for us now?” Lien’s eyes widen. Claudie goes on. “Hey, I’ll help. But I only cook a few different things. I’d love to try something new with what I’ve got here. I’m sure you can manage something.”
“Okay,” says Lien. “I mean, I really don’t—Is the stove working?”
“Yeah, it’s gas.”
Lien doesn’t answer for a long minute. “You’re serious.”
Claudie steps out of the kitchen. “Sure am. I have to put you to work somehow. I’m not expecting cordon bleu. You can use anything here. I’ll help.”
“Okay.” Lien nods to herself and pushes to her feet. She hobbles into the kitchen. She hunts through the freezer, then opens the fridge. She chatters to herself. “You’ve got so many vegetables. Can I use them in a stir fry? And ginger. Frozen peas. Those’ll do.” She looks up. “Any chance you’re hiding a lime somewhere?”
“There’s a good chance,” says Claudie. “I freeze lemons and limes when I get them.”
“And what about some mint?”
“Not sure. I’ve been fighting the birds over my herb garden for the past few months. The bloody cockatoos keep chewing their way through the mesh. I’ll see what I’ve got.”
It’s not raining heavily. It’s a steady patter on Claudie’s head and shoulders as she bends over the herb garden. The world outside smells drenched and warm. Claudie doesn’t need to rush. The plants are mostly okay, overly wet but protected from the wind by the wall and eaves. She stands the cover supports up, empties water from the tray at the base, then drapes the mesh cover back to give the herbs room.
Lien takes the mint. “I… Hey. It’s not like I really recall how to do this,” she says. “My mother would marinate everything with lemongrass, but I think if I use the lemon zest and the mint, and you have soy sauce… I don’t know. It might taste similar. This could work.”
Lien’s eyes are hopeful, as if she’s offering something. It’s instinctive to reassure her. “Sounds good to me. You’ll be fine. What could go wrong?”
The first thing that goes wrong is that Lien turns, gasps in pain as her knee twists, and drops the knife she’s using to zest the lemons. It misses her toes by an inch.
They freeze.
“Sorry,” says Lien.
“Okay. You don’t need to apologize. You need a seat,” says Claudie. She pulls over a stool. Lien perches on it above the kitchen counter. She’s graceful but it’s going to prove difficult to cook if she can’t move around the kitchen.
“And you need a sous chef,” Claudie says.
It’s a tiny kitchen, enough space for one person. Claudie is comfortable in it alone. But now she moves around Lien, trying not to touch her, sliding past her from behind when she asks for the chopping board.
“Do you have a larger knife?” Lien asks. Claudie moves past her again. “And maybe a metal wok or a thin fry pan?”
Claudie nods. “Yep.” She bends to get into the drawer. Lien is close. Her hip brushes Lien’s thigh. When Claudie straightens they look at one another. Claudie steps back out of Lien’s space.
Lien moves her stool closer to the bench. She cuts the vegetables carefully, then marinates them in lemon and lime and ginger and mint. She might not cook much, but her hands are precise, beautiful to watch even when they’re unsure. Claudie stands to one side, gets the oil, scoots behind Lien for peas, tries not to brush up against her. As she works, Lien seems more sure of herself. She lines everything up, then throws oil and vegetables into the hot wok. It’s done. Then well done. And suddenly everything seems to be on fire at once.
Lien gives every appearance of calm as she lifts the wok from the stove top and lets everything settle down. “Okay,” she says. “You got a fire extinguisher here, Ranger?”
Claudie widens her eyes.
“I’m joking, I’m joking.” Lien puts the wok on the burner and adds the herbs and some honey.
The night’s still warm, but it’s seven thirty. The light from outside is growing soft and pink. Claudie lights candles. Lien serves the food. They sit at the dining table.
“It’s not great,” says Lien. “I’m not really an improviser. Not with food. And I only partly remembered how to make it.” She’s beautiful in the flickering gold light.
Claudie looks away from her and down at her plate. “It looks amazing.”
She takes a bite. The broccoli is overcooked but the flavor is good. Lien frowns. Her eyes seem worried, so Claudie smiles. “This is delicious.”
“It’s really not.”
“It really is. You didn’t have all the ingredients and you were stuck on a stool with equipment you’d never used before. I can only imagine how incredible it could be. But it’s still good.” Claudie rarely finds apologetic endearing, but on Lien it is. “You have hidden talents.”
Lien grins then and huffs air through her nose in a soft laugh. “Deeply hidden talents, my housemate would say.”
“Beau.”
“That’s him. He does most of the cooking at home. He’s a wonder.”
The table is small. They’re close, sitting across from one another. Claudie avoids Lien’s eyes; she looks out the window to the dark, then back. Lien toys with her fork as she chews and swallows.
Claudie scrambles for something to say. “Doesn’t seem like the rain is going to let up anytime soon.”
“Yeah?” Lien shifts in her chair. She stretches her leg past the table leg in front of her and winces
.
Claudie says, “So the knee’s an old injury?”
Lien nods. “An old injury that wasn’t helped by falling down a cliff.”
“I’ll bet. But it could have been worse. Tell me about the injury?”
Lien’s face is cloudy. “Yeah. I was—look you don’t want to hear about this. It’s late.”
“I’d like to hear. Unless it bothers you. We’ve got plenty of time until this storm goes.”
Lien’s frown is dubious.
“The least you can do is make that time interesting.” Claudie crooks a smile at Lien to soften her words.
Lien laughs, and her face clears. “Okay. It’s not that exciting, but sure. When I was young I had dreams of a career in soccer. I was scouted by an agent when I was a kid. A lot of people supported me. I mean, it’s tough for women to make a career of any sport, but I had plans. They were—going well. I’d gone to the best academies. I was playing for a good team; my coach was incredible. I was on my way.
“And then a dirty tackle killed that. I fought to get back, but I guess maybe I didn’t fight hard enough. It was months before I could walk on it properly. It was never going to be the same and, well, the trouble is I had no savings. I needed a job.”
“How old were you?”
“Nineteen.”
Claudie considers her. Lien’s compact, not slight but small. She could disappear into the wide open space out here. But Claudie’s aware of the powerful muscles in her legs and arms, of the unexpected steel in her spine that got her here without whimper or complaint. “So you reinvented yourself.”
“So I reinvented myself.” Lien takes a breath. “That’s a kind way to put it. Don’t get me wrong. I love what I do. I get to talk about fashion and music. I’m fortunate; somehow I’m doing well in it. I work some magazines and I get to report on the festivals. The fashion there can be pretty amazing. I can’t complain. This is a dream too. It was only—it was hard to give up that first dream. I let everyone down. I let myself down.” She blinks and shakes her head. “But, hey. That was a long time ago.”
“Do you play at all anymore?”
Lien shrugged. “No. I don’t really have the time, and it’s not like I’ll ever be that good again.” She blinked. “Huh. Sorry. I’m not usually so—I don’t always blurt out everything to someone I just met.”
“It’s different here,” Claudie says. “Out in the bush.”
There’s a strange, forced closeness, with all the noise and dark outside the cabin and just the two of them in the bubble of quiet lamplight inside.
Claudie continues. “It’s not the same as meeting someone anywhere else. And you’re stuck sitting down all day. We’ve got nothing else to do. We might as well talk.”
Lien looks at the dark, rain-streaked window. “It feels as though you could say anything here.”
“Exactly. That’s ’cause you can say anything here.”
The long silence is not really awkward. “Anything gives me a lot of options,” Lien says. Her glance is warm. The heat runs up and down Claudie’s back before she can get a hold of herself. She needs to get more accustomed to friendly and attractive company. She takes a bite of her stir-fry.
“So you live in Darlinghurst,” Claudie says after she finishes her mouthful. “I saw Janie Edge play at Shady Pines. That’s near you, right?”
“Yeah, that’s a good bar. Bit of an outlier for Sydney. I always think I should be wearing one of those frilly gingham shirts and cowboy boots.”
They talk about music and Sydney, then about places they’ve traveled and how much they love New York.
“Though when I think about it,” Claudie says, “I’ve never heard anyone say, ‘Eh. New York. Boring. It’s not what I hoped.’” They’ve both finished eating, but neither of them stands.
“True.” Lien laughs. “Okay. We’re predictable. Tell me. Favorite city that’s not New York.”
“I’m still predictable. London,” says Claudie. “Though I love Sydney and Melbourne. You?”
“Singapore.” Her eyes are bright. “And Sydney. Of course.”
“You’ve spent time in Singapore?” Claudie leans back on the wooden chair as Lien speaks. The chair’s not comfortable but Claudie’s loathe to move.
“I lived there. With my parents. That was ages ago.”
Claudie laughs. “You’re twenty-seven. There is no ‘ages ago.’ What was Singapore like?”
“I mean, it’s like everywhere. Some good, some bad. I loved living there. I made use of my summer clothes. And met people from all over the world. It’s majority Chinese so I had to brush up on my Mandarin. I studied fashion and journalism. Fashion Week there is amazing.”
“What made you move to Sydney?”
“I—well you know I was young, and my parents are amazing, but they aren’t exactly comfortable to be around. It’s a busy society, and they’re busy people, and sometimes that’s hard to navigate. I wanted to be somewhere I felt safe.”
Lien stops talking.
“Makes sense,” Claudie says.
“I guess we should do the dishes,” Lien says.
Claudie nods. “I’ll wash.”
“Have your parents visited you here?” Lien asks a bit later as they stand side by side over the soapy water in the sink.
“Sure. They’re not far really. They live north of Sydney. Their place is pretty cool. It’s almost in the bush. They grow their own vegetables and make bathtubs full of wine and drink herbal tea and walk everywhere. This place is more their style than mine, almost.” She hands Lien a plate to dry.
“Do you miss them?”
“Yeah. Definitely. But we talk. My dad and I talk about the stars and MasterChef and whether people can be truly good. My mum and I talk about biology and anthropology mostly, and whether her chickens are being weird. They stopped worrying about me back when I was a teenager.”
“Sounds idyllic,” says Lien.
“How about your folks?” Claudie turns her head to Lien.
“I mean, we’re not really like that. They’re still worrying about me the same way they always have. But they live in either Hong Kong or Dubai, depending on the calendar, so I don’t see much of them. They’re good people. The work they support in Hong Kong is vital.” She turns back to the dishes. Her profile is pinched.
“Is that… okay with you? Not seeing them?”
“Yep. It’s not that we don’t get along. But I don’t think I’m quite what they hoped for. We’re all better for one another in small doses.”
“Got it.” The dishes are in the drainer. The soft candlelight gleams on them and bounces from the windows. “You want a glass of wine?”
“Yes, please.” Lien beams. “Especially if it was made in your parents’ bathtub.”
Claudie brings a candle when they take their glasses and sit on the deep chairs that face out over the bush. The rain’s eased a little, or at least it’s cycling through a quiet phase, but the sky hasn’t cleared.
“First love?” she asks into the quiet.
“My first love?” Lien’s cheeks are flushed in the shifting light. “Charles. Charlie. Nice guy. Snappy dresser.”
“Snappy?” Claudie teases. She can’t ignore the fact that she’s disappointed it’s a guy. Not that she assumed that if Lien were gay she’d want anything to do with Claudie. It’s only that there is this connection—“Snappy dresser?”
“Hush,” says Lien. “We were fourteen. We’re Facebook friends now. The boy is hot.” She thinks. “My second love lasted longer. Hansi. She was funny. Unbending and gorgeous. Sri Lankan. Her parents weren’t too keen on me, though. I’m not Sri Lankan and not male either. They thought I was a bad influence. It was tough, especially for her.”
Oh. So she’s not only into guys then. Claudie keeps her voice light. “How old were you?”
Lien na
rrows her eyes. “When I fell for Hansi? Sixteen. We were in boarding school together.”
Claudie chokes out a laugh.
“I know. But honestly it’s not like it sounds.” Lien’s eyes are twinkling. “School uniforms are not that sexy.”
Claudie’s heartbeat flutters. She looks into her drink. “Okay then.” Her cheeks are hot. She’s not going to talk about it, but she also won’t deny the attraction.
“So, what about you?” Lien asks.
“Me?”
Lien nods; her eyes are dark on Claudie’s. “Tell me about your first love?”
“Oh.” Claudie hesitates. “Dani. Danielle. Yeah.” She falls silent. “She—There’s not much to tell there.” Claudie gropes for something else to discuss. She doesn’t want to blurt out how much Lien’s own vibrancy reminds her of Dani.
Lien’s glance is searching but it’s not unkind. “That’s cool, Claudia Ranger. I’m not about to push you to talk about things if you don’t want to,” she says.
“You’re not that kind of journalist?”
“Only if it’s called for. Definitely not to a rescuer. Or my friends.”
Claudie believes her. “Call me, Claudie,” she says. “Everyone does.” She taps Lien’s almost empty glass. “More wine?”
Lien nods. “Yes, please.”
On Claudie’s way back to the chairs with the bottle, she lifts the six string guitar down from its place on the wall. She’s not sure why she wants it. She doesn’t play for people, ever. She leans the guitar against a chair and pours the wine. Then she sits and pushes her chair back a bit to give herself room to hold the guitar. It fits comfortably in her arms.
“Is it okay if I play?” she asks. Her insides twist with nerves.
“God, yes, please. I’d love that.”
Claudie keeps her eyes lowered and starts with something simple. She’s not rusty; she plays often, but she’s uncomfortable. She doesn’t sing. In the other chair, Lien is still. She holds on to her glass. Her eyes are warm; her chest lifts with her breath. Claudie keeps playing.
Three songs in, she stops.
“We’ve got ice-cream in the freezer,” Claudie says.
“Oh. We can’t let that go to waste.”