‘Well, no, of course not – just…’
‘Molly,’ I interrupted her, because I couldn’t bear another second of her uncomfortable back-pedalling, ‘you do realise that more than half my career has been reporting from war zones? Are you really asking me if I feel unsafe in an inner-city suburb of Sydney? Redfern is a wonderful community. There’s a rich heritage there, cultural and physical. My neighbour is an eighty-something woman who still lives in the house where she was born. At my gym the community comes together every weeknight to donate meals to kids to make sure they have good nutrition after they work out. Yes, there have been some problems and yes, there are a lot of underprivileged families, but the underprivileged families are not the problem – they never are.’
Molly’s intense focus on my rant was flattering, but when I finally stopped talking, she tilted her head to the side and said quietly, ‘You should go into politics.’
‘I wouldn’t last ten seconds on the campaign trail.’
‘True. Your controversial and antiquated views on “the toaster” building would offend too many wealthy people,’ she laughed.
I glanced around. The waitress was looking towards us, but she was empty-handed and visibly nervous. She kept glancing at Molly, as if she was likely to throw a tantrum any second. I wondered if Molly was generally a difficult patron or if it was just her family’s reputation that made the waitress so anxious.
I looked back at Molly and found she was staring at me. Our eyes locked and the moment stretched and intensified; neither of us seemed capable of looking away. The world seemed to have paused all around us, and only picked up again when another diner brushed past us on his way to a table.
We hadn’t even had our first course yet, but I already wanted to touch her – take her hand, or touch her face, her hair. She smoothed her fringe across her forehead. I was already familiar with the gesture but I hadn’t figured out yet how to interpret it.
‘So, you grew up in Redfern,’ she said suddenly. ‘Is your mum still there?’
‘She lives in Alexandria now, with my step-father – although I don’t actually call him a “step” father,’ I said. ‘He is just my dad – he’s earned the title.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘He’s an incredible human being.’
‘Do you have siblings?’
‘Just the one – my sister Teresa; she and her husband Paul live at Cronulla. She keeps telling me she’s the favourite child at the moment because she’s going to give them a grandchild at last. She’s probably right.’
‘Are you the eldest?’
‘Yes, Teresa is quite a bit younger than me; she’s only twenty-nine. She’s a beautician; her husband is a graphic designer.’
‘Quite a bit younger,’ Molly repeated, and she laughed. ‘She’s the same age as me. How old are you?’
‘I’m thirty-eight,’ I admitted.
‘Jesus, you’re ancient!’ she feigned horror. I laughed reluctantly. ‘Seriously, thirty-eight and not even retired yet. That’s remarkable. Is it some kind of world record?’ she said cheerfully. I sank back into my seat and stared at my wine, processing this. It wasn’t an outrageous age gap, but it was still the widest I’d dealt with in any woman I’d gone out with. ‘Well, who cares if you’re a senior citizen?’
‘I’m so sorry for the wait,’ the waitress was back, but this time she was carrying our main courses. Her eyes were swimming with tears and her hands shook as she set Molly’s plate down first. Molly opened her mouth – I knew immediately that she was going reproach the waitress because we hadn’t yet had our entrées. I leant towards her and tapped her wrist gently with my hand. She shot me a confused glance, but only murmured a quiet thanks to the waitress as she left.
‘She’s having a pretty bad night,’ I whispered, as soon as she left us. ‘Give the kid a break; she’s already close to tears.’
Molly looked back at the waitress, who had immediately moved to a booth further along the wall, where some other frustrated diners were now loudly expressing their disappointment at their delayed meals.
‘I should have noticed that,’ she said, a deep frown crossing her face. ‘I don’t mean to be hard on people. What is it they say about familiarity breeding contempt?’