‘You live a pretty unique existence,’ I said, and I smiled at her. ‘Not many people think of Circular as a suitable venue for a quick after-work dinner but I have to say, in spite of the delay, this meal is amazing.’
And it was – the food was exquisite – both of our dishes were a culinary work of art. As we each finished eating, I reached for the carafe of water at the same moment Molly did, and our hands collided awkwardly. I withdrew mine automatically and felt almost guilty, as if the accidental contact might have happened through sheer force of will on my behalf. It struck me that Molly had also pulled her hand back. I gazed at her face, expecting to see awkwardness or embarrassment, but I only saw the same quickening that I felt running riot within myself. Even in the dim light of the restaurant I could see that her eyes had darkened somewhat. She was staring at me with an open, unashamed hunger.
Her hand was on the table, away from the carafe but resting near her cutlery. I now moved my own very slowly across the table. She watched its passage, and I sensed her holding her breath. Millimetre by millimetre I brought my hand closer, and then carefully brushed the back of my forefinger all the way along the top of hers, from her fingernail down to the back of her hand. When I reached her wrist, I curled my fingers away from hers, leaving our hands just touching.
I was giving her the chance to pull her hand away, but I knew she wouldn’t take it – what I was really doing was prolonging the delicious tension and anticipation that had been humming between us all night. Although it had been a simple movement, in no way could it be misconstrued. Our gazes locked again and there was only us, and only that moment – a first moment of brutal, unspoken honesty between us.
The desire was palpable. It was intense, it was strange, and it was a beautifully mutual thing. She raised the fingers of her hand upwards and towards mine, pressing her palm into the table. I repeated the motion, then linked my fingers through hers and twisted our hands so that mine rested over hers. And then I swallowed, hard, because even this palm-to-palm contact was good. Very good.
She stared down at our hands, my dark fingers linked through her pale ones, and then she looked back at my face. ‘Have you ever been inside the Bennelong Apartments?’ she asked me softly.
‘No, I have not,’ I said. I looked at her sharply as a sudden, shocking thought struck me. ‘Is that why you picked this restaurant – because it’s close to your home?’
Her fingers contracted around mine just a little, and the corners of her mouth turned upwards. If I’d caught her out, she didn’t mind at all.
‘I like to be prepared for all possibilities,’ was all that she said, but the intensity in her eyes left me in no doubt at all that I was right. I glanced at her plate, which was clean.
‘Would you like some dessert?’ I asked her.
‘Oh yes,’ she murmured. ‘Let’s go.’
11
Molly – July 2015
It’s early afternoon before I make it to the rehab clinic the next day. The quick visit to the office I’d intended stretches to several hours, and then there is the long drive across the city to reach Leo’s temporary home. I’m feeling harried and guilty by the time I reach his room.
I find him sitting up in a wheelchair talking to Teresa, who is curled up on the couch near his bed. I’m relieved that she hasn’t brought the kids with her – the hospital room is not at all child-friendly; the boys would have wreaked havoc.
Teresa’s eyes are red, and she’s clutching a tissue in one hand and her mobile phone in the other. Her relationship with Leo is generally defined by their non-stop insults, but I know that beneath the bravado, they almost revere one another. I give her a hug then I sit next to her.
‘Sorry I’m so late,’ I grimace. ‘Busy morning. Everything okay here?’
‘I’ve been busy too,’ Leo assures me. ‘It’s been like a production line of visitors and bossy therapists since you left last night.’
‘Good,’ I smile. ‘You’re feeling okay?’
‘Better every hour.’
‘Do you just love his new haircut? Have I not been saying for years that he should cut it shorter?’ Teresa says pointedly, and I realise belatedly that Leo’s bandages have been removed. The hasty buzz cut he’d been given before his surgery is now exposed, and so is the huge scar running vertically along his skull. I can see the marks of the thick staples that were holding him together. It is daunting – but Leo’s hair grows so fast, the scar will disappear beneath his thick dark waves in no time.
‘He looks terrific,’ I say. It is difficult to believe this is the same Leo who was still in a coma a week ago – harder still to believe it’s the same man who was so furious with me that, just a few weeks before his accident, he left his wedding ring sitting on our basin for me to find.