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Chapter 32: Lunch Agenda

Everyone gathered on the sand, where regular beachgoers with their kids and coolers now outnumbered the surfers and serious swimmers by 10 to 1. The sun was riding high in a sky dotted with set-ups of puffy cumulus clouds. Pia's Mondrian suit had begun to dry to streaks of salt.

"I'm exhausted. Surfing is officially nearly as tough as rowing. Or croquet," Pia quipped, in her low key English style. "It’s been awesome. Now let's get some lunch. I bet you know all the best places around here."

Victor tossed his board down on the sand with a theatrical grunt and flopped beside it, beads of seawater still sliding down his chest. His curls were drying into sun-streaked chaos, and his cheeks were flushed with a mix of salt, sun, and watching Pia carve through that last wave like she was born to do it.

“Oh yeah,” he said, grinning up at her. “Surfing, rowing, and croquet. The trifecta of brutal endurance sports. I’ve seen grown men cry at a poorly judged mallet angle.”

Dan, towelling off nearby, snorted. “That’s because you cheat. You can’t just kick someone’s ball off the pitch and pretend it was a strategic breeze.”

Kiri, sitting cross-legged and cracking open a flask of chilled water, leant toward Pia with a smile. “You killed it out there. But yes, lunch. My limbs are jelly.”

Vic stretched like a cat, then rose with an easy bounce, brushing sand off his shorts. “There’s a place just up the road. Outdoor tables, good shade, best tuna melts in the Eastern Suburbs. Unless Pia wants to veto me again and demand caviar and champagne.”

Pia’s salt-streaked rash suit clung to her in blocks of black, white, red, blue, and yellow, catching the eye of several kids nearby, who thought she might be a superhero on day off.

Vic leant close and murmured, “You are hungry, right? Or do you just want to show off your new board to the lunchtime crowd?”

"Don't diss croquet!” There was a dangerous light in Pia's eyes. “It's started more feuds and ended more marriages than any sport in history."

Vic raised both hands in surrender, eyes wide with mock alarm. “Alright, alright, peace on the lawns of Hampton Court. I’ve learned not to provoke women holding mallets.”

Dan grinned, slinging his board under one arm. “She’s not kidding. I went to a garden party in Melbourne once. Thought croquet would be a laugh. Ended up with a bruise the shape of Tasmania on my shin and a death glare from an eighty-year-old named Audrey.”

Kiri cackled. “You so deserved that.”

Pia’s dangerous glint hadn’t gone unnoticed by Vic. He gave her a slow once-over, eyes twinkling. “Mental note: never suggest couples croquet. Unless we’re ready to test the strength of our union.” He slid an arm lightly around her waist, and added under his breath, “You really gonna let me show you off in that suit? Because I’m pretty sure half the café will forget their orders when you walk in.”

"That's exactly what I want! I am as beautiful as the moon and as terrible as an army arrayed with banners. Everyone shall look upon me and love me, or die of despair!” Pia beamed. “More seriously, Kiri said she knows the absolute best places for dumplings.” She grinned, “Fun factoid, Japanese gyoza are both fried and steamed at the same time. Let's go somewhere we can get gyoza and seafood.

Vic groaned happily. “Yes, Queen of Salt and Seafoam. I’ll worship at the temple of your gyoza cravings.”

Kiri stood, brushing sand off her dress, eyes dancing. “Okay, I know just the place. It’s tucked away in a laneway off Hall Street. Family-run, Japanese-Korean fusion, barely on the radar unless you’re local. The gyoza are crispy-bottomed perfection, and they do these chilli oil scallops that make grown men weep.”

Dan, who had just pulled on a ratty T-shirt with a faded Noosa Surf Club logo, perked up. “Do they do that cold soba salad with pickled ginger and wasabi mayo?”

“They do,” Kiri confirmed, linking her arm through his.

Vic turned to Pia, lips curving. “You heard the lady. Dumplings and despair. It’s the perfect lunch date. Though I can’t promise not to stare at you. You’re very distracting when you’re victorious and salty. In both senses of the word.” He bent to grab her board, slinging it under one arm. “Come on, Pia. Let’s conquer Coogee one gyoza at a time.”

Pia shaded her head under her usual white cotton bucket hat, with the colourful Marimekko flower print. She pulled on bright pink rubber ballerina flats, and clapped a pair of Bailey Wilson Marita sunglasses in red and brown crystal over her eyes. She simply ignored the growing scratchiness of her drying skinsuit. British, she was made of stern stuff, conditioned by years of summer holidays with the most primitive beach facilities. "Let's go. The champagne's on me, though Vic and Dan can't have any because they're driving. Ha ha ha ha ha!" Her cheerful laugh rang out.

Vic gaped at her, mock-wounded. “Deprived of champagne and mocked for my mallet trauma? Harsh, Pia. Harsh.” Dan patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, mate. You can sniff the cork while we toast.”

“Sniff the cork!?” Pia snorted with laughter. “Like that doesn’t sound so wrong!” Glittering in her flowery hat and pink flats, she looked glamorously absurd, fresh from the sea like a damp comic book heroine. Even Kiri gave a low whistle.

“You’re basically fashion revenge walking. That outfit’s going to haunt the dreams of every influencer in Coogee.”

Vic slung Pia’s board and his own onto the roof rack with a series of practiced bungee cord tugs, then tapped the bonnet of Ziggy fondly. “You hear that, boy? She’s buying bubbles. Try not to explode en route.”

They piled into the cars, Kiri in the Prado with Dan, Pia and Vic in the increasingly suspect Audi, and pulled out toward the laneways, with the windows down and salt wind chasing them through Sydney’s sunny sprawl. Vic glanced at Pia at a red light, grinning as sunlight flashed off her sunglasses. She had pulled off her hat to let her hair dry in the breeze, and was teasing it into choppy, salt-held peaks, with the help of the vanity mirror in the sun visor.

“I’ve never looked forward to dumplings so much in my life,” he murmured.

Pia smiled serenely. She was about the happiest she'd ever been. It was Saturday lunchtime in the greatest city in the world. She had just conquered the waves, and now her best boyfriend ever was driving her to a garlic laden dumpling spot, where she planned to wow all onlookers, male and female alike, with her skin-tight, salt-streaked surf suit. While swilling a bottle of fizz! She reached out to grip Vic's hand on the automatic selector lever.

Victor’s hand curled around hers instantly, like it was always meant to be there, warm, slightly callused, steady as stone. He glanced down at their linked hands, then across at her, that smile on his lips softening into something quieter. Not just amused, moved. The traffic rumbled. A big rough dog barked from the back of the ute in front of them. Somewhere nearby, a busker’s saxophone filtered through the open window, slow and sultry.

“You know,” he said, voice low, “I reckon this is the best version of Saturday I’ve ever had.”

The light turned green. He drove one-handed, not letting go of hers. Pia's short hair was crusting as the sea water dried. She had once wanted flowing locks to style in mermaid curves, but now her scalp was full of choppy crests, a chaotic blonde seascape to challenge or delight her boyfriend.

"Me too, Vic. Remember this special day, because we want to surpass it, but if we don’t we’ll still always have it anyway."

Victor glanced over again, just briefly, with that special kind of focus men sometimes get when they’re suddenly thunderstruck by a moment. Pia, radiant and ridiculous in her salt-crusted suit, looked like something from a surrealist postcard that had fallen in love with a Coogee Saturday.

“I’ll remember,” he said, voice rougher than before, the words slipping out like truth escaping a locked box. “I’ll bottle this day. And yeah, we’ll top it.” He gave her hand a small squeeze. “But fair warning, it’ll take at least a five-wave combo, a Vespa race, and a whole tower of gyoza. Possibly also a croquet duel.” Then, glancing back to the road: “And if your hair gets any more oceanic, I might start calling you Sea Queen. With all due reverence.”

"Not a problem, Bae."

That unlikely movie magic which sometimes manifests in the real world enabled Vic and Dan to find parking slots within a couple of minutes walk of the dumpling objective.

“Bae,” Vic echoed with a lopsided grin, pulling into the blessedly empty space like it had opened by divine command. “I accept the title. As long as I don’t have to wear a crown in public. Or explain it to Dan.”

Dan, parking half a block ahead, stuck his arm out the window and gave a thumbs-up with the smug pride of a man who thought he had manifested the spot himself. Kiri could be seen unbuckling her seatbelt to jump out with the brisk efficiency of someone who definitely didn’t trust Dan’s reverse parking technique.

Vic cut the engine and turned toward Pia, his hand still in hers.

“You ready to turn heads and slay crustaceans?”

He stepped out into the sunshine, and watched as she emerged from the car like some beach-born rock star: shades, salt-streaks, bold prints, and confidence radiating like heat off city pavement at noon.

The laneway up ahead bustled with locals in post-swim attire, the aromas of garlic, toasted sesame oil, and grilling seafood curling on the breeze.

“I swear,” Vic murmured as Pia opened the café door, “the restaurant should pay you just for walking past.”

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 33: Dangerous Fun

Pia paused just outside the café. "Eclectic. That's what we are. You definitely could not dress like this in Paris, unless you absolutely planned to." She led them into the restaurant in her role as today's host. It was a five minute wait for a table. Takeaway orders flowed out smoothly, their hot, delicious scent a provocation of appetite for the hungry surfers.

"Kiri, I already know this is going to be amazing,” Pia grinned.”When a place is this busy it's a guarantee of top quality. How did you find it?"

Kiri beamed, brushing a few strands of wind-whipped hair off her cheek. “Maternity cravings,” she said, glancing at Dan like they were sharing a secret joke. “Back when I was pregnant with Leo, I got obsessed with dumplings. I tried every spot from Bondi to Burwood. This one won by a landslide.”

“There are worse things to be obsessed with than dumplings,” Pia said.

Vic leaned against the wall, one foot up, fingers still loosely linked with Pia’s. He gave Kiri a sideways glance under his sun-bleached fringe. “I can’t believe I’ve never been here,” he murmured, mock-offended. “What kind of locals are you and your high standards, keeping it a secret from your best friend?”

Dan chuckled. “We’re the kind who hoard good food intel and release it only when it’ll make us look cool.”

“It’s okay Vic, we’re here now,” Pia smiled. “You can eat all the dumplings you like.”

Inside, steam fogged the glass display at the front counter, where bamboo baskets piled high with plump dumplings vanished as fast as the servers could restock them. The four of them were eventually shown to a corner table, a bit cramped but cosy, with sunlight slanting in through the slatted blinds. A portable fan whirred nearby.

Vic slid into the seat beside Pia and bumped her shoulder playfully. “I reckon I could eat about forty. Minimum.” He looked around at the others. “Alright, what’s the go? We doing safe bets, or is this the day Pia accidentally orders chicken feet and pretends she meant to?”

"I've eaten weirder stuff than you, Vic.” Pia grinned. “Also, I can read the hidden bits of the menu, the things written in Japanese. D'you fancy some crab brains?" She had learnt to read Japanese menus because it was a vital function. There weren't any crab brains on this menu, though, just regular Chinese, Korean, and Japanese types of dumplings and soups, and snacky side plates, like edamame beans, popcorn chicken, and kimchi.

"How about I order for you, Bae?" She still had the instinct to manipulate her boyfriend in fun ways.

Vic raised an eyebrow, clearly torn between suspicion and amusement. “I mean… that sounds slightly threatening,” he said, eyes narrowing as he leaned in conspiratorially. “But also kind of hot.”

Pia’s eyes sparkled with mischief. Vic let out a mock groan and draped an arm along the back of her chair. “Alright, boss. Order for me. Just no feet, no eyeballs, and nothing that might still be twitching.”

He paused, then added with a smirk, “Unless it’s you.”

Dan choked on his water, and Kiri swatted Vic’s arm. “Jesus, Vic.”

The waiter arrived with a notepad, glancing politely around the table. Pia, already poised and relaxed, flipped casually into fluent charm mode, gesturing in a combination of English and menu kanji references, asking for a mix of xiao long bao, sheng jian bao, spicy wontons, Japanese gyoza, and a few sides. Popcorn chicken, edamame, pickled cucumber. No chicken feet. No twitching. A bottle of prosecco because there wasn’t any champagne.

Vic gave her a low whistle when the waiter walked off. “Okay, okay. You’re dangerously good at that. Who taught you dumpling diplomacy?”

He wasn’t joking. Something about watching Pia in control, stylish and breezy, but also a little intimidating, was making his heart behave irresponsibly. He tugged gently on the rim of her bucket hat.

“You do realise this only makes me want to kiss you more, right?”

"Claim your territory, Bae."

Vic didn’t need telling twice. He shifted in his seat, angled in close, and with one smooth hand at the nape of Pia’s neck, warm, thumb brushing that sensitive spot just under her hairline, he kissed her. Nothing over-the-top. Just a warm, beach-salted, slightly giddy kind of kiss. The kind that made time pause for a few seconds, then tumble forward again with flushed cheeks and a smile.

From across the table, Dan pretended to study the laminated drinks menu like it contained the meaning of life.

Kiri sipped her prosecco and drawled, “God, you two are disgusting. I love it.”

Vic sat back, smug and satisfied, though his thumb lingered lightly along Pia’s shoulder. “Territory claimed,” he said, grinning. “But I reserve the right to reassert my ownership hourly.”

Their food began to arrive, steam rising, vinegar sharp in the air, the unmistakable crackle of freshly fried oil. Vic’s eyes widened. “Okay, that one’s oozing. What is that?”

“Spicy pork wonton soup,” Kiri offered. “Eat it with a spoon, trust me.”

Vic chose gyoza and picked a dumpling up with his chopsticks, wobbling it dangerously. He looked to Pia. “Do I blow on it or just commit and suffer?”

The dumpling sizzled ominously.

"Wait, Vic! You might burn your tongue. This stuff is straight out of the kitchen." Pia had taken a more measured approach, twirling her disposable wooden chopsticks between her palms before she split them. She folded the paper wrapper into a neat little bridge, a 'hashi-oki', which she arranged in Japanese table style. She did this on auto-pilot, because her attention was subtly flicking around the table, to check her guests were enjoying themselves, and had what they needed.

Vic paused mid-lift, dumpling suspended like a live grenade between chopsticks. “I didn’t think this meal would require a WHS briefing, but here we are.”

Kiri reached across to clink her glass lightly against Pia’s. “You’re such a host. I love it.”

Dan, who had already eaten half a gyoza in one bite and looked mildly betrayed, muttered through a full mouth, “Nobody warned me.”

Pia’s movements were elegant, not showy, the kind that came from habit, not display. She poured a little soy sauce into a dish, added a dash of vinegar, swirled it with precision. Vic caught her eye across the rim of his tea cup. She was glowing. Not from makeup or sunlight, though both helped, but from that subtle confidence that came when she was in control of the moment. It made his chest tighten. He touched the paper bridge she’d made. “You always this civilised, or just trying to impress my inner gentleman?” Then he added, leaning in with a spark behind his lazy grin, “Spoiler: he’s not that hard to impress. He mostly likes girls who stop him from setting his mouth on fire.”

"I learnt it when I was hostessing in Tokyo, because I got taken to a lot of different places by my temporary boyfriends." Pia dropped this potential convo bomb calmly, and directed her attention to the dumplings, snatching up 1, 2, 3 with pro-level chopstick technique.
Vic blinked.

Temporary boyfriends...?

A faint static hummed in his ears. He covered it by reaching for his tea, sipping slowly while watching her stack food on her plate like it was an army supply dump.

Kiri raised both brows. “Oh wow! That’s a casual little Hiroshima you just dropped, Pia.”

Dan snorted and whispered to her, “I don’t think that’s how geography works.”

But Vic was still half-hung up on the phrase. Temporary boyfriends. The words bounced around in his brain like loose change in a washing machine. He was fine. Totally fine. Not spiralling at all.

He cleared his throat. “Right. So you’re saying I’m, what? A seasonal hire?” He leaned his forearms on the table, a very thin smile on his face. “Just one of the current roster of boyfriends who get dumpling privileges?”

Pia’s chopsticks snapped up a fourth dumpling with surgical precision.

Vic waited for a moment. Then added quietly, “Or have I made it out of the temp agency?”

Pia set her chopsticks down carefully. "They were just guys who came into the club, Vic. My role as a hostess was to flirt with men. It was just a job, a kind of play-acting. Nothing serious. Nothing like you."

She reached out for Vic's hand, her eyes searching his, wondering how badly she'd blundered. "Think about last night, Bae. Was that play-acting, or rock-hard serious?" Her eyes watered, as she thought about how her casual repartee might have hurt him.

Vic’s heart gave a thud, like it had been knocked sideways and was realigning. He didn’t say anything at first, just stared at her, her fingers wrapped around his, her voice soft but shaking, her eyes glassy with something that hit him like a gut-punch.

God, she really means this.

All the ridiculous, caveman panic that had flared inside him at temporary boyfriends dissolved, leaving something raw and real, the certainty that he was falling in love with a woman who scared him a bit, because she was smarter, cooler, tougher than anyone he’d dated before, and yet somehow vulnerable right now, just for him.

He squeezed her hand gently.

“Nah, Pia,” he said, his voice low and firm. “Last night wasn’t play-acting.”

He let that sit for a second. Then leaned in, lips brushing her ear with a cheeky whisper. “That was me being rock-hard serious. In multiple senses.”

Kiri groaned. “Oh my god, Vic!”

Dan shoved a dumpling in his mouth to stifle a dirty laugh.

Vic sat back, still holding Pia’s hand. His thumb brushed the inside of her wrist, soft and steady. “You didn’t hurt me. Just startled me. But I get it now. Where the real you lives.”

Pia felt her heart open. Her former career as an undercover detective made it second nature to present a front while concealing her true identity and feelings. The Japanese idea of 'tatemae' versus 'honne' was a useful conceptualisation. But it wouldn't do in this civilian life.

*I'm not that girl any more,* she thought. *I'm just me. I'm going to act with authentic freedom. And style.*

Without releasing Vic's hand she plucked up a gyoza, held it between her pursed lips, and offered herself for a kiss where he could take the fragrant morsel right out of her mouth.

Vic’s breath caught.

Holy hell.

The heat that lit behind his ribs wasn’t just desire, it was that wild, stunned awe you get when someone you care about suddenly steps into the light and lets you see them whole. Pia, effortless, stylish, and entirely herself, was offering him something deeper than the dumpling. It was trust, flirtation, and declaration all at once.

He didn’t hesitate.

Leaning in, hand still wrapped around hers, he kissed her. Soft lips, then the gyoza, then her lips again, lingering just a moment longer. The flavours, ginger, garlic, chili oil, blurred into heat and heartbeat. He pulled back, just enough to meet her eyes.

“God, you’re dangerous,” he murmured, a little dazed. “And I hope you never stop.”

Kiri had buried her face in her hands, peeking through her fingers. “I swear if you two keep being sexy around my dumplings, I’m charging you a finder’s fee.”

Dan nodded solemnly. “I didn’t know a person could feel this single while married.”

Vic didn’t care. His whole focus was on Pia, her hand in his, her eyes shining, her walls down.

She was being real with him.

And he was all in.

"I promise only to be dangerous in a fun way,” Pia said. “Like the ocean, a rogue wave you can ride or wipe out on but it's your skill and the Zen moment, not malice. I'll never do you wrong deliberately, Victor."

Pia's use of Vic's full name emphasised her serious feelings. She was remembering her last serious boyfriend, a relationship that became so disastrous, it ended with violent sexual assault and three rounds of .380 Colt ACP.

Those bullets sent Kevin to the mortuary and Pia to a purgatory of self-recrimination, which she could only shed with Vic's unknowing help. She hadn’t yet told Vic about this part of her violent past. She was afraid to. Afraid she might scare him away, revolt him, and lose him, who was becoming the focus of her hope. Pia stroked Vic's face, staring intently into his eyes, rapt in the moment, when she was still hiding the whole story. Hoping he never had to hear all of her past. Knowing if she was completely honest, she must tell him. Fearing the day she unburdened herself to him. Terrified that in that fraught moment she would lose the centre of her new world. For now, Pia clung to happiness with her arm around Vic's neck.

Vic rested his forehead against hers, his eyes soft, his smile a quiet thing, gentler than usual. “That’s all I want, Pia,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Dangerous fun sounds perfect.”

He didn’t know what it was, not exactly, but something had shifted. He could feel it in the way her hand lingered on his cheek like she was memorising him, in the way her eyes searched his, as though trying to anchor herself. She wasn’t just flirting. She was reaching out from somewhere deeper, where she didn’t let many people go. And that made his chest tighten again, that strange ache of wanting to protect her, without knowing what the danger was.

He ruffled her choppy blonde hair and kissed her salty forehead, slow and deliberate. “I don’t care about your past,” he murmured into her skin. “Only that you’re here with me now.” He pulled back to give her room to smile or cry, to crack a joke if she needed to deflect. He didn’t push. Didn’t pry. Just held her close, letting her breathe.

Across the table, Kiri tapped Dan’s wrist. “We should grab dessert down the street. That mochi bar?”

Dan got the hint. “Yeah. Let the lovebirds marinate. Or just get a room.”

Kiri winked. “Text me when you’re done being smitten.”

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 34: Afternoon Delight

Vic barely noticed them go. He was tracing light circles with his thumb on Pia’s arm, trying to memorise her expression in this exact moment.

“You’re my rogue wave, Pia,” he said at last, voice low. “And I’m not afraid of falling into you.”

"Are there Love Hotels in Sydney? You know what a Love Hotel is? You can get a room for two hours," Pia asked eagerly, her erotic furnace stoked by the morning's exercise, a great lunch, half a bottle of prosecco, and her current emotional turmoil, all piled on the peak of her hormonal cycle.

Vic’s eyes popped with surprise. He felt wildly turned on. “I mean… I don’t know, but I suddenly feel like it’s my civic duty to find out.”

He laughed softly, but it sounded rough-edged, hungry. Pia’s eyes had that molten-gold look, like a storm just behind the horizon, and it hit him with a rush. The way she held herself, deliberate, composed, but trembling at the edges, told him this wasn’t just heat. It was an escape hatch, a lifeline, a plea for intimacy that went deeper than sex. He brushed his thumb across her lower lip. “Or we could just grab a room at a hotel somewhere close. Doesn’t need to be boutique, with themed furniture. Just needs a door that locks, and a bed I can kiss you into.”

He pulled his phone out, Googling with one hand while his other cradled the small of her back. “Do you want glamour, or no-frills and fast access?” He paused, glanced at her sidelong with a teasing glint. “Also, uh, do I need to swing past my place for anything? Or are we going straight from dumplings to debauchery?”

Pia flipped into detective mode. She didn't know where Vic lived. This could be her chance to scope it out, discover some background info, and assess the traces of his last girlfriend, as well as make a mess of his bed.

"Have you got condoms at home? And lube? Or we can swing by a chemist on the way."

Vic looked up from his phone, caught between awe and hilarity. “Wow. Straight to logistics. You really are a woman after my own heart.”

He tucked the phone away and gave her a slow, wicked smile. “Yes. I’ve got condoms. Yes, I’ve got lube. Yes, my sheets are clean. No, Emma doesn’t have a toothbrush there anymore.” Then, more gently, almost shyly, he added, “You want to come over?” His voice had lost its flirty bravado for a second, revealing something softer underneath. Hopeful. Vulnerable. “I mean, it’s not super glam. Bit of a beach-bachelor vibe. But it’s mine. And I’d really like you in it.” He slipped some notes under the soy dish to cover lunch, then stood and offered her his hand, grinning now. “Come on. Let’s make a mess of my place.”

Pia looked stony-faced when Vic put down cash for lunch.

"This was going to be my treat, Vic." She took the banknotes and shoved them back to him. Pia still had dollars in her purse left over from her recent computer crime caper. She used them now to cover the bill and leave a generous tip. "No arguments. Now get me back to yours and naked, stat."

Vic opened his mouth like he might protest, but then caught the flash in Pia’s eyes. Cool, controlled, and absolutely in charge. He pocketed the returned cash with a sheepish grin. “Yes, ma’am.”

As they stepped out into the warmth and salt of the Sydney afternoon, he slung his arm low around her waist, guiding her with urgency toward his rattly old Audi. The sky was wide open above them, the sun beating down like a dare. Vic only had one thought in his head, and it had nothing to do with the weather.

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 35: Crime Scene Investigation

Vic lay sprawled across the rumpled bed, one arm thrown up over his eyes, the other wide-flung, resting palm-up, like he’d been stunned by beauty. His clothes were scattered around the floor. Pia’s plastic ballerina flats had landed in opposite corners of the living room. Her skinsuit was flung over the back of the sofa. The sheets were tangled, the air heavy with heat and skin and eucalyptus drifting through the open window.

Pia was moving quietly, her bare feet soundless on wooden boards. The floor creaked a little under her weight, not loud, but enough for her to mark it. Habit. The bathroom door opened with an old hinge squeak.

*Needs a drop of 3-in-1*

She wandered back into the lounge, finding Ikea Billy shelves lined with battered surf mags, old Lonely Planets,and dog-eared novels. A photo of Vic and Dan as teens, grinning beside a rusty Holden. No sign of Emma. Nothing visible, anyway. But Pia wasn’t just looking for physical clues. She was detecting absence. There were gaps in the books that Romantasy novels might have filled. A dent in the carpet where a standard lamp probably stood. An empty shelf in the bathroom cabinet, no doubt once crowded with cosmetics.

Her eyes scanned the kitchen counter. A bowl of peaches and two overripe bananas. An old envelope used as scrap paper, with Vic’s handwriting scrawled as badly as if he’d written it left-handed -- Buy toothpaste. Pia = peach. A tiny heart drawn like an afterthought --

She didn’t smile. Not exactly. Her expression flickered with something more like calculation. *This could be real,* her heart whispered. *This man could love me.* But her brain told her, *Don’t trust comfort. Search for patterns. Love needs to be proved sustainable.*

She leant against the kitchen counter and pressed her fingers to her lips. Her heartbeat was still slightly fast. From the sex. From the quiet. From the fear that she might have started she couldn’t control, and maybe didn’t want to.
*You can’t interrogate your way into a good future, girl, * she told herself. *Not if you want to be free.*

Vic called lazily from the bedroom, “You okay, babe?”

"I'm peachy, Bae."

When she was younger, Pia would have elaborated on this excuse, saying she wanted a glass of water or something. But she had learnt the value of saying the minimum. Now she left the words naked in the air, while she thought about synchronicity.

The Japanese word for peach was 'momo', which was the name of the dumpling place where they ate lunch. 'Momo' also meant 'thigh'. 'Futomomo' literally meant 'fat thigh', a word used colloquially to describe beautiful young women’s thighs. Pia's thighs were beautiful if you liked your girls toned and hairy. There were certain aspects of her life she would not surrender to the Patriarchy.

Fine art photos of expensive, soft-skinned Japanese peaches floated through Pia's mind, reminding her of luscious female buttocks. *Men's arses are so thin and muscly,* she thought. *So very... A lovely handful. To grab onto.*

"Vic?” She said suddenly. “I forgot that Renée invited us for dinner tonight, and I accepted on your behalf. I need to buy some chocolates on the way back." It wasn’t presented as a challenge, though it actually was. The sudden need to change into more formal clothes. Perhaps bring an overnight bag. Who was Renée anyway? The name sounded French the way Pia pronounced it.

Vic stretched like a lazy cat, the sheet slipping lower over his hip, and gave a slow, contented sigh. His muscles were soft from heat and exertion, brain still fizzing from Pia's kiss marks and momentum. But when she said, ‘Renée invited us for dinner’, his eyes opened. Blinked once. He sat up, rubbed a hand over his face. “Wait, the Renée who's your French neighbour? That Renée? Like, tonight?”

His tone wasn’t annoyed, just suddenly trying to shift gears from postcoital bliss to grown-up logistics. A challenge had been laid, and Vic wasn’t dumb enough to miss it. He stood and padded out toward the kitchen, the sheet slung casually around him like a toga, catching Pia wrapped in thought as she leant against the counter, deliciously nude.

He took her in, the storm behind her eyes, the casually provocative stance disguising analytical tension. The electric space she held, half raw instinct, half strategy. Vic ran a hand through his hair, still damp. “Alright. No worries. Chocolates. We can stop somewhere on the way.” He leaned in, kissed her shoulder. “Do I need to wear a shirt with buttons? Is Renée the scary French auntie type, or like… your lesbian ex from Paris you forgot to warn me about?”

He was teasing, but his gaze lingered, reading her, trying to see if there was more under the surface. He felt the shift. Something had changed, and he wanted to stay on her frequency. “Tell me what you need, Pia,” he said quietly. “I’ll adapt.” He wondered if Pia would trust him with a deeper sliver of truth, or keep her mystery alive.

Pia levelled her gaze at Vic, to project honesty and truth.

"Yes, Renée's the next door neighbour I told you about. The one with the cognac. About 40-ish. She gives that cool auntie vibe, not scary at all. Well, maybe a bit for a boyfriend she wants to evaluate. But you'll be fine, Vic. Jeans and a button down shirt are okay if they're clean. Bring an overnight bag. You'll want to stay over with me, because we'll be drinking."

Pia withheld the secret of her bisexuality, thinking it irrelevant to the current scene. She didn't feel that kind of attraction to Renée anyway.

Vic nodded, letting the information slot into place like puzzle pieces; next door neighbour, cool auntie vibe, possible boyfriend-evaluator. Got it. He didn't feel threatened. Not exactly. But the bit about drinking and the overnight bag sent a thrill through him, low in the gut. *Staying over again. At her place. In her space. In her life?* He could feel it happening; whatever the thing growing between them was, it was accelerating. And he liked it.

“You want me to pass this mysterious neighbour’s test, huh?” he said lightly, stepping in to nuzzle her neck. “Because I can do charming. I can do clean jeans. I can even bring a bottle of wine if you let me raid your stash.”

“Never bring wine to a French woman’s dinner party. It’s about as classic an error as starting a land war in Asia.”

He pressed a kiss just below her ear, softer now. “Okay, no wine. I’ll pack an overnight bag. But I’ve got one condition.” He leaned back enough to meet her eyes again, serious but smiling. “Tomorrow morning, I make you coffee in your kitchen. Real, greasy, post-party coffee. And you let me look through your bookshelves while you roll around in your sheets.” He brushed her fringe back from her face. “Deal?”

A slow, lazy smile spread across Pia's face. "That sounds. Fuccing great!"

Vision moment over, she snapped into action, swiping up her clothes to make herself decent for a click+collect pickup of luxury chocolates on the way home. She would use the situation as an excuse to rifle Vic's drawers and make up an overnight bag for him.

Vic watched, faintly awed, as Pia transformed from sensual feline to efficient whirlwind in under five seconds. “Jesus,” he muttered under his breath, grinning. “How do you make chaos look so composed?” She was already into her Mondrian skin suit, swiping the zip closed, and tidying her hair with a flick of her fingers that said mission mode: engaged.

“Click and collect in thirty-five,” she murmured, skimming her phone. “We need to go.”

She vanished into his bedroom and began to pillage his meagre wardrobe, picking items with surgical directness. A soft white tee-shirt, the least-wrinkled button-up shirt with a collar, navy pleat-front chinos, a belt, spare boxers, socks. Toothbrush. Aftershave. She moved with purpose, folding items neatly into a weekend bag that Vic hadn't touched since he went to Manly Beach last summer.

“Should I be concerned,” he said, as he leant against the doorframe, “that you now know the full layout of my underwear drawer?”

Pia didn’t even pause. “Concerned? No. Impressed.”

Vic let out a low whistle. “If this is what I get every time I make you come, I’m gonna need to buy more clothes.”

"Every time you make me come?” She sniggered. “Dangerous words, Mr Davern. One woman can beat any 10 men on the ultimate battleground between the sexes. At least, maybe I can try it." She dead-panned. "Now hurry up and get dressed. I must be home in time to do full party make-up."

Bag zipped, hair fixed, Pia was fire and grace again, ready to hit the road with military precision and movie star flair.

Vic caught her wrist as she passed him. “You really are great, Pia.”

His voice was soft this time. No tease. Just the truth, laid gently in the space between them.

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 36: A Salon with Renée

The sun had begun its golden descent over the rooftops of Surry Hills, glazing the cream façades of the Victorian townhouses with a warm blush. Pia’s apartment caught some strong light. It was west-facing, breezy, and flickering with her laundry pegged out to dry on the balcony that hung over the communal gardens. Click-and-collect chocolates, expensive, ganache-filled squares in a blue-linen box lined with gold foil, sat ready on the kitchen counter.

Vic was buttoning his shirt with mild confusion. “Does this actually match my chinos, or am I just colourblind from the sun?” He glanced at Pia in the mirror. She was across the room, assembling a full face with a precision that suggested sniper training; eyeliner sharp enough to cut a diamond, cheekbones popping, lips soft and plush like the Japanese peaches she'd been daydreaming about earlier. Her pixie cut was artfully messy, tousled with sea salt spray and just the right amount of hold. Her dress was a classic little black number, square neck, half-sleeve, fitted bodice and a knee-length sheath skirt. Fully lined.

She looked like a woman who was in total control of her image, even while straddling a fault line.

Pia anointed her pulse points with unisex Creed Erolfa, her favourite scent, and waited for the alcohol to evaporate and bond the fragrance to her skin. She checked the look of her earrings, white gold crescent moons filled with sparkling diamonds, to honour the Goddess. Pia's spiritual feelings were confused and might not be truly deep, but she still had them.

"You carry the choccies, Vic. I'll introduce you. Don't be nervous." Ensuring that Vic would be nervous. "Try to remember your schoolboy French, it will please her however bad it is. What's the time?" Pia could easily have referred to her tiny silver cocktail wristwatch, but it was good to command her boyfriend. She added a princess necklace of pearls to her assemblage of jewellery.

Vic smoothed his shirt down, still half-suspecting he’d got the buttons misaligned. “It’s… half six,” he said, glancing at the wall clock instead of Pia’s wrist. He’d learned long ago that pointing out a girl’s illogicality was a bad mistake. He picked up the blue-linen chocolate box reverently. “This looks like it should be kept in a wine fridge. Is it bribery or a tribute?”

“Both.”

Vic stood by the open window a moment, letting the breeze wash over him. Pia really did look breathtaking, like a character in a dream involving stolen yachts and underground Tokyo jazz clubs. His own reflection looked surprisingly decent too; sun-warmed skin, clean-shaven jaw, hair pushed back and tousled with a bit of the sea-salt spray Pia had chucked at him earlier. No board shorts tonight. Navy chinos and a light blue shirt, creased mostly along the fold lines.

His French was rusty. Somewhere between Year Nine oral exam and trying to order beer in Tahiti.

“You think she’ll like me?” he asked, adjusting the box under one arm. “Or at least not call me ‘the colonial’ under her breath?”

There was a light tension in his posture. He knew this wasn’t just dinner. It was an audition. Renée wasn’t just the neighbour. She was a woman of influence in Pia’s new world, and maybe, an oracle. Vic could perform. But he didn’t always know his lines.

"Renée is important to me, of course, Vic. A connection to my French side, and a sounding board, a wise aunt. But I will make my own decisions about my men."

Pia reflected briefly that her romantic decisions had been very bad in the past 18 months. One boyfriend in prison, another in a crematorium urn, and two more who were lucky that they were just confused as to where it all went wrong. She also had suffered physical and psychic wounds. She frowned briefly.

Vic caught the shadow as it crossed her face, a flicker of something heavy behind the eyeliner and sea-salt poise. He didn’t press. He just stepped closer and nudged her elbow with the back of his hand.

“I wouldn’t dream of interfering with a woman’s decision-making process,” he said lightly. “Especially not one who can shoot straighter than I can surf.”

He dipped his head slightly to meet her gaze. “But, just so you know, I’m not here to impress your wise aunt. I’m here because you opened the door.”

Then, with a little smirk: “And because I was promised wine and philosophical debate in an accent that makes everyone sound slightly drunk.”

Pia threw her head back and laughed. The low sunlight caught her earrings, throwing tiny sparks across the earth tone walls.

The sounds of Surry Hills trickled into the room, distant music, someone revving a scooter, the clang of a tram on the main road line. Vic felt the edge of nerves again, but also that hum of anticipation, like when you were paddling out past the breakers, waiting for the next wave to rise beneath you.

“Shall we?” he asked, holding the door open with exaggerated gallantry.

Pia made a last adjustment of her cocktail dress, checked her make-up and jewellery, and stepped into her strappy black sandals.

"Anyway, it's not so serious, is it, Vic? It's not like we're planning to get married," she threw off lightly, completely controlling her features as she scanned Vic's face in the hallway mirror. "Then you would have to deal with my parents."

Vic laughed, instinctively, with warmth, but there was a slight pause as her words settled.

“Right,” he said, adjusting his grip on the chocolate box, as if it were suddenly a bit heavier. “No marriage. Just a charming evening with a wise French witch and her salon of existentialist wine drinkers. Casual.” He smiled at her in the mirror, but his eyes flicked to hers a little too quickly.

Not serious. Not planning to get married.

Of course not. They’d only slept together a couple of times. Holiday fun. Rebound sex. They were just figuring things out. Still, something in his chest gave a little creak, like the lines of a boat shifting at its moorings. He shook it off.

“Your parents, huh? Let me guess. Your mum terrifies people into civility and your dad smokes in brooding silence while judging everyone’s cheese?” A glint of humour returned to his face. “Or is it the other way around?”

"Mummy and Daddy are half the world away, Vic. You're safe enough, because I haven't told them about you. Yet. Let's approach this party with light hearts. I'll try not to talk too much in French." She opened the door and stepped out. Renée's apartment was next door, an absurdly short distance to travel. Suddenly Pia stopped to check her watch.

"Oh dear. We're on time. Let's go back and wait five minutes." She tried to hustle her beau back through the door of her own flat.

Vic chuckled, letting himself be herded like a gentleman sheep.

“Oh no!” he said, grinning as he backed into the doorway. “We wouldn’t want to offend the salon by being punctual. Next thing you know, I’ll be offering to do the dishes and the Revolution will collapse.”

He leant against the wall just inside Pia’s flat, tilting his head toward her. “You haven’t told your parents about me?” He said it teasingly, but there was something behind the tone, curious, gentle, maybe a bit wistful. Then, shifting gears with a dramatic whisper, “Do you think she’ll have a test for me? Like, I don’t know, ask me to quote from Camus? Or pair wine with obscure jazz records?” He tapped the box of chocolates lightly. “What’s the etiquette if she tries to read my aura?”

"I don't know what Renée will do but it will be interesting to find out. I won't let her tease you too much, Bae. Besides, she's going to be charmed by your male beauty. Perhaps we will play cards. If that happens, don't make any serious bets. Remember the saying, ‘Lucky at cards, unlucky in Love.’ It works the other way round, as well.” Pia smiled and massaged Vic's upper arms to calm him. "I'm glad now I had my toenails done in taupe, to match my fingers. Don't they look nice in these sandals?

Vic looked down obediently, like a man freshly converted to the Church of Pedicure Appreciation.

“They look impeccable,” he said with mock reverence, then added more softly, “Like something from a Bond film, and I’d be the henchman who switches sides halfway through because I’ve fallen in love with the heroine.” He slid his hands up her arms, just enough to brush the silk sleeves of her dress, and looked at her with a kind of playful open admiration that wasn’t joking at all.

“I like it when you say things like that,” he murmured. “When you care how you look. Not because you need to. Just because it’s your power move.” Then, more lightly: “And no serious bets. Got it. I’ll try not to gamble away my surfboard or my heart.” A pause. “Too late on one of those, actually.”

Pia heard Vic's line. He tried to make it throwaway but a surfie as dedicated as this boy couldn't be more serious about his plank, so it was his heart he was gambling. And Pia was gambling too. She used to tell her men not to fall for her, because she was dangerous to love. And she was right. Hearts were broken, hers included. Now she was gambling again, that she might have found her guy. Gambling that she might be able to commit fully, finally, forever, to a good man. Her face was frozen in a half smile as she searched deep in Vic's eyes, inside her own heart. Wondering how she could tell for sure. Wondering what he would think if he knew the full truth of her past.

The seconds ticked away. Pia looked at her watch.

"It's time to go."

Vic didn’t speak. He just nodded, quietly, solemnly, as if he too had felt the shift in the air. The way her eyes locked with his, something unreadable flickering behind them. He didn’t push or press. He just let it hang there, that almost-smile of hers, like a key hovering above a lock. He offered his arm with a faint flourish. “Mademoiselle Reese, shall we make our scandalous entrance?”

The hallway was warm with lamp light and the low hum of the lives in other apartments. The chocolate box nestled under his arm. Her perfume, oceanic and crisp, lingered in the small space between them. Just like that, they stepped out together, crossing the absurdly short distance to Renée’s door, gambling everything on a polite knock.

The door swung open with an almost theatrical flourish.

Renée stood framed in a waft of orange blossom and woodsmoke, one hand resting lightly on the door jamb. She was statuesque, her silver threaded auburn hair swept up into a loose twist, pinned with what looked like a carved bone hair stick. The indigo silk of her tunic dress shimmered like a river at night, and her earrings, long brass spirals, swayed as she smiled.

“Ah. Voilà, les amoureux,” she purred, her voice touched with Provence and Marlborough Street. “You are precisely fashionably late. I admire your nerve.”

Her eyes travelled from Pia, one raised brow of silent appraisal and warm recognition, to Vic, whom she considered with a feline slowness. “And this must be Victor.”

Vic handed her the chocolate box like it was an offering to the gods. “For you,” he said, smiling in a way that was mostly genuine and only a little bit terrified.

“Charmant. Merci beaucoup.” Renée took it with the grace of a priestess receiving sacred offerings. “Come in, both of you. Everyone is here. We have Crémant de Loire and some amusing opinions about literature to get through before supper.”

The scent of garlic, butter, and something faintly nutty curled from the kitchen. The apartment was low-lit and atmospheric, cushions thrown across antique settees, shelves groaning under paperbacks and curios. From within, the murmur of voices and clink of glasses suggested a lively group already mid-discussion.

Renée turned briefly over her shoulder. “Claude! Archer! Camille! Les jeunes gens sont arrivés!”

She ushered them in with a flourish of her hand. “Leave your coats, your inhibitions, and your dull conversation at the door.”

Vic leaned toward Pia, sotto voce: “I think I’m about to get spiritually undressed.”

"Nothing will go wrong if you just be yourself, Vic. I will talk in French a bit. Please don't mind it. I can't help but want to use my mother's tongue."

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 37: Repartee and Persiflage

Pia advanced elegantly, to make her best entrance, whoever was within. There were three other guests; two older men and a young woman of about Pia's age. Their accents were French and Australian.

The room tilted subtly as Pia entered. Her presence recalibrated the atmosphere. Conversations softened, eyes turned. Her voice, British and polished, carried the soft power of decades of James Bond and Merchant Ivory films, and the BBC World Service.

“Good evening, everyone, I’m Olympe.”

Claude, lounging by the sideboard in a rust velvet blazer, yellow trousers and loosely tied paisley cravat, straightened with a delighted twinkle. “Olympe? Comme Olympe de Gouges? How marvellous. And this,” he gave Vic an up and down sweep of his eyes, “Must be the Australian offering.”

Archer chuckled from a leather wingback by the window. He was in his sixties, tan and lean, with silver hair swept back like a newsreader from the nineteen seventies, wearing jeans, a white shirt and a green tweed waistcoat. “You brought a bloke! Brave woman.”

“I’m Victor,” Vic said, giving a sheepish smile. “But I answer to most things if the wine’s good.”

Camille looked up from her glass of something golden. She had dark, sculpted brows and a cap sleeve linen midi dress the colour of terracotta clay. Her expression was unreadable, partway between curiosity and polite disinterest.

“Enchantée,” she said crisply.

Renée swept between them, a glass of Crémant in each hand. “Let us not delay. We toast first, we judge later.”

She handed one to Pia and one to Vic, eyes twinkling. “To risk, romance, and the art of reinvention.”

Vic raised his glass. “I’ve always preferred risky romance to safe accounting.”

Claude sighed theatrically. “Mon dieu, il est charmant. I shall never recover.”

Renée led Pia toward the settee with Camille. “Olympe darling, sit. Camille is from Lyon, and still recovering from the disappointment of Australian tomatoes.”

Vic, meanwhile, found himself swept toward the drinks cabinet by Archer, who muttered, “Better brace yourself, mate. They’ve all got opinions. And Renée? She’s got strategies.”

"Camille? It is my mother's name.” Pia swapped into fluent French, though a sudden impulse of deviltry made her choose to speak with a British accent, a trick which had sometimes been useful as disguise, and sometimes a way of charming people. "Lyon is a lovely city. I have been there once only. You must have a good reason to leave and travel so far away."

Camille looked up with sharper interest now, the corners of her mouth curling into the suggestion of a smile, not quite friendly, not quite hostile. She responded in French, her tone articulate but dry, her Lyonnais accent softening the consonants:
« Ma raison, c’était l’ennui. Lyon est belle, mais elle ne bouge pas. Je voulais… autre chose. »

She tilted her head slightly, studying Pia’s British inflection with a flicker of amusement. « Et vous, Olympe? Vous avez fui ou cherché? »

Renée, passing behind them with a tray of olives and fig toasts, interjected before Pia could answer. « Toutes les deux, sans doute, » she said lightly, setting the tray on the low table. « Fuir et chercher, c’est le sport des femmes intelligentes.” »

Claude raised his glass. « À toutes les fugueuses élégantes!” »

From across the room, Vic glanced over toward Pia, caught a few of the French phrases, and gave a helpless little shrug to Archer. “Am I being praised or recruited into a resistance cell?” he whispered.

Archer, already halfway into his second drink, clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re doing fine, mate. When in doubt, nod wisely and refill their glasses.”

Pia wondered if Camille suspected her British accented French was false. It was only a deception in the sense that Pia could speak French as well as any Parisienne. To admit to a deception would confirm it, though, so she pressed on regardless.

“I like to think of my Australian adventure as an escape rather than running away. It seems more proactive.” She tried to change the subject. “Is your dress linen, Camille? I love the colour.”

Camille’s eyes narrowed a millimetre, just enough for Pia to clock it, but not enough to be rude. She clearly suspected something about the accent, though whether she was more intrigued or affronted remained unclear. Still, Pia’s compliment slid in with perfect timing.

« Oui, c’est du lin, » Camille replied, then switched easily to English, her voice cool and level. “From a boutique in Marseille. The dye is volcanic clay. Very… grounded.” She took a small sip of her drink, then added, almost as an afterthought, “Escape and running away. Aren’t they the same, in the end? One just has better shoes.”

Claude gave a delighted gasp from his perch near the record player. « Camille, tu es cruelle, mais stylée. »

Renée, settling into an armchair with the ease of someone who ruled from upholstery, smiled over the rim of her glass. “Ah, good. The younger women are circling each other like fencing students. I was afraid we’d get through this evening without drama.”

Vic, catching Pia’s eye across the room, raised his glass in a silent, amused toast. He was already halfway through decoding Camille as ‘the sleek French cousin in a noir film who maybe poisons people for money,’ but Pia was holding her own. In fact, she was glowing. When even slightly provoked, she lit up like a match struck in a wine cellar.

Renée reached for a piece of fig toast. “Olympe, tell us something about Sydney through fresh eyes. What do you see that we natives have forgotten to notice?”

“Anyone can run away except a prisoner, but to escape, you must free yourself,” Pia replied in French, hardly tasting her drink as she formulated her repartee. She continued in English. "That’s the important difference. I won't argue about the quality of footwear, though I'd rather never go somewhere I didn't need a lot of expensive shoes. However I've noticed that many Sydney-siders walk about the place in cheap sandals called flip-flops, which they name thongs. That means something else where I’m from. I don't wear them." She deliberately left it open to interpretation, whether she meant that she wouldn't wear the cheap beach sandals, or the expensive women's underwear. She glanced at Vic, to see if he was enjoying himself.

Vic caught the glance and nearly choked on his wine. As far as he knew, Pia didn’t wear thongs. At least he’d never seen them on her or her washing line. He stifled a laugh with a cough into his fist, shaking his head slightly as if to say I heard that, eyes gleaming. His grin was boyish, conspiratorial, like someone who’d just been slipped a love note under the table in a deadly serious exam.

Camille’s expression didn’t shift, but there was a noticeable silence before she replied. Perhaps calculating whether she’d been outflanked. Eventually she just murmured, “Chic et provocatrice,” and picked up an olive like it was a chess piece.

Claude broke the tension with a bark of delighted laughter. “Mais j’adore cette fille! Renée, if I ever host another dinner in Paris, I must steal her.”

Renée chuckled, pleased. “You’ll have to fight Sydney for her. And Victor, I imagine.”

She turned her keen gaze to him. “And you, mon cher garçon, what are your impressions of Sydney through her eyes? Is it all still golden light and mystery?”

Vic blinked. “Uh, well. Golden light, definitely. Mystery?” He looked at Pia again, warm and sure. “Yeah. But the good kind. The kind that keeps you leaning forward to find out what’s going to happen next.”

Archer muttered, “Smooth operator,” into his wineglass.

“Isn’t he?” Renée replied, watching Pia’s reaction now with a new flicker of curiosity. “Very charming. Not just beautiful.”

Camille offered a small, ambiguous smile. “We’ll see.”

Pia smiled as broad as the sun at Vic. Now her hostess club instincts told her to shift her attention to another guest. She used the excuse of taking a snack to turn towards Claude. She spoke in French again, keeping up her British accent.

« Ça fait si longtemps que je ne suis pas allé à Paris que j'aimerais bien y retourner. Étez-vous là pour les Jeux olympiques, Claude ? J'ai regardé la cérémonie d'ouverture à la télé. Je me suis dit : « Après le déluge, quoi ? » Mais ca était très courageux et très français. J'ai eu tellement de peine pour tout le monde.” »

Claude gave a theatrical groan, pressing one manicured hand to his chest as if Pia’s question had opened an old wound. « Ma chère Olympe, j’étais là. Hélas. And let me tell you, never have I seen such magnificent chaos in formalwear. » He plucked a fig toast from the tray with two fingers, as if the recalled trauma required nourishment. « Il a plu sur les dignitaires, les danseurs ont glissé sur les péniches, et Macron, » he rolled his eyes, “ « Macron a souri comme s'il avait tout planifié, naturellement. Mais oui. Courageux. Et Français. Nous aimons crier victoire au milieu d'une catastrophe. » Switching easily into accented English now for Vic’s benefit, he added, “I wore cream linen. It was soaked through by the first firework. I looked like a deflated éclair.”

Renée, sipping her wine, gave a sly nod. “You always look like a deflated éclair, darling. It’s your signature style.”

Claude waved her off with a ring-laden hand. “But it was beautiful, despite everything. Like all our best ideas, fragile et prétentieux.”

Camille raised an eyebrow. “Et inévitablement photographié.”

Vic, ever the outsider but comfortable in his lane, leaned toward Archer. “This is like watching the Eurovision final hosted by philosophers.”

Archer smirked. “It’ll get weirder. Just wait till someone brings up God or Gérard Depardieu.”

Renée turned once more toward Pia, her voice light but edged. “And you, my dear, if you were to host your own opening ceremony, what would it show? What would your anthem be?”

"Goddess, that's a question I think I should delegate. Vic, what's your idea about it? You've heard me playing piano, did you find an anthem there?" A clever way to give her boyfriend an active role in the persiflage while keeping herself in the frame.

Vic blinked, caught mid-sip, and slowly lowered his glass, a small smile spreading across his face. Pia had just tossed him the conversational conch, and everyone was looking now, a moment of gentle tension stretching as if to say: Your move, surfer boy.

“Well…” he began, pausing just long enough to give it the weight of thought, “I did hear her playing the other day. Something classical, moody, very noir, like a figure standing in the rain at the end of a pier. And next she sang a love song.” A ripple of interest moved through the group. Vic glanced at Pia deliberately, his voice gentle. “If I had to pick an anthem for her? I think it’d be… a piano solo that starts off elegantly, builds into a storm, and ends with a single clear note, like the beam of a lighthouse.”

Claude clutched his heart. “Mon dieu. He’s an artist.”

Camille’s eyes narrowed just slightly, recalculating.

Renée was still watching Vic, but now her gaze flicked back to Pia, amused behind her lashes. “Very poetic. And accurate, I suspect.” She raised her glass once more. “To anthems of our own making.”

Vic touched his glass to Pia’s. “To yours.”

Pia smiled, and drank the toast. "You make me wish I could write music, not just read it. At any rate, I can go on Monday to buy some more, and that will be something." She turned to Archer and touched his sleeve. "Another thing I don't understand about Australia is Australian Rules Football, Archer. It seems like a mash-up of rugby and basketball, played in very small, tight uniforms. How did it come to be invented?"

Archer barked out a laugh, the kind that came with a lifetime of sunny beer gardens and impassioned shouting at TVs. “Oh, love, that’s the eternal question. How did it come to be invented? Most blokes will tell you it was forged in the fires of some mythical outback brawl, but really, it was Melbourne. 1850s. Gold rush. Too much testosterone and not enough rules.” He leaned forward, swirling his wine with unnecessary flair. “A schoolmaster named Tom Wills wanted to keep cricketers fit in the off-season. So he borrowed from rugby, Irish football, and possibly some Indigenous games, chucked it all in a pot, stirred with a stick, and called it footy.”

Renée added dryly, “And the rest is an endless spiral of concussions and emotional investment.”

Claude leaned toward Pia conspiratorially. “It’s like watching men throw themselves into the air for a spinning hug, and somehow this is a national identity.”

Vic grinned. “It’s chaos ballet. There’s a beauty to it, if you squint.”

“Exactly,” Archer said, jabbing a finger approvingly. “Spoken like a man who’s never tried to umpire a local derby.” He turned back to Pia. “But you want to really understand it? Go to a game. Sit in the sun with a meat pie and someone who cares too much. The rest sorts itself out.”

Camille looked unimpressed. “It’s like theatre without a script.”

Renée gave her a sly glance. “And yet somehow, Camille, it draws bigger crowds.”

The mood had turned light again, sparkling like the bubbles in Renée’s wine, and Pia’s graceful shift between guests hadn’t gone unnoticed. She was conducting the conversation now, and doing it in heels.

"I am a rower, which is the most boring sport for spectators,” Pia declared, “Though camera drones have improved things. Now, gradually, I'm becoming a surfer. Camille, what is your sport, either to play, or to watch?”
Camille tilted her head, folding one leg neatly over the other, fingertips resting lightly on her glass as though she were deciding whether to sip or strike.

“I dance,” she said at last, in English, but with that languid French tempo. “Contemporary, mostly. Improvisation, floor work, experimental movement. But I don’t call it sport.” She let that hang a moment, the cool edge of artistic superiority glinting faintly. “To watch? I like fencing. There’s something satisfying about the rules. Precision. Elegance. It’s not about brute strength. It’s about knowing your opponent’s breath before they decide to inhale.”

Claude gave a delighted little gasp. “Enfin! Someone else who appreciates a proper duel!”

Archer muttered, “Bring back boxing, I say,” under his breath.

Vic, who’d remained relaxed but attentive through all this, leaned toward Pia and whispered, “Did Camille just declare psychological war?” Then, louder, “I tried fencing once. Got disarmed by a twelve-year-old in ten seconds. Pretty humbling.”

Renée looked amused. “Fencing and love have much in common, thrust, parry, sudden reversals.”

Camille turned back to Pia, more focused now. “Surfing is interesting. It’s less about winning. More about surrender. You don’t control the wave. You must wait.” She glanced toward Vic. “You know what I mean.”

The conversational knife was back in play.

"Fencing is another sport created from old military discipline, like javelin, or even rowing, perhaps,” Pia declared. “I would prefer to dance. Even if it isn't sport, it's exercise. May I come to see you dance sometime, Camille? Perhaps you would like to come surfing with me? At least to watch it. Because you'll see you're half-right. The sea decides its moods, but the wahine doesn't surrender. She must work hard to catch the perfect moment of a big wave. And then you soar. Or perhaps wipe out."

Camille studied Pia, the way one might consider a surprising line in a poem, unexpected, maybe even provocative, but undeniably elegant. “You may come,” she said simply, without overplaying it. “If I dance again while I’m here. It depends on the space, and the weather inside me.” Then, after the briefest pause, a small, curious smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “And I will come to watch you surf. But I do not promise to be impressed.”

Claude, who’d been watching the exchange like it was a play with excellent blocking, gave a golf clap. “This is better than Molière.”

Archer leaned toward Renée. “Are they duelling or flirting?”

Renée sipped slowly. “Both.”

Vic glanced at Pia and murmured, “Wahine, huh? You never said you had your own mythological title.”

Then, more deliberately: “If you’re surfing Monday, I’ll come. Could use a paddle. Or just carry your board like a knight’s banner.”

The air in the room had shifted. Something playfully competitive, quietly charged. Pia hadn’t just held her own in Renée’s salon. She’d become the main act. And Camille, for all her cool distance, looked intrigued now. As if this was a woman she should keep an eye on.

"Wahine is Hawaiian for a girl surfer. But I'm still a kook, which means a novice,” Pia explained, “So no, Camille, I will not impress you. But I hope you may enjoy some time at the beach. I will lend you my parasol. Let's make a date for soon." Pia smiled hopefully at Camille, but then she suddenly remembered Vic's crucial HR and IT meetings on Monday. Her face became stern. "Vic, you can't go out surfing on Monday. Don't forget your important meeting connected with the bad thing I did."

Vic’s mouth opened slightly, oh right, that bad thing, and he gave a soft exhale through his nose, half-laugh, half-prayer for divine IT mercy. “Ah, yes. The… Monday incident review,” he said, shifting slightly in his seat.

Archer raised an eyebrow. “What exactly happened, mate?”

Vic hesitated. He glanced at Pia, his expression flickering between should I? and might as well. “Okay…” he said at last, “you know how some people send one accidental group email and it’s mortifying? Multiply that by… a few hundred. And then imagine it’s your email account that did it, because someone else was using a cybercafé PC to generate messages they tunnelled in, and a dozen inboxes lit up like the New Year fireworks on the harbour bridge.”

Claude leaned in with fascinated glee. “She hacked your office network?”

Vic grinned crookedly. “She insists it was unintentional. Then, in a very romantic twist, she recruited a geek sidekick to help steal the hard drive involved, and wipe the CCTV footage.”

“Ah, l’amour moderne,” Renée said dryly.

Camille was staring at Pia with genuine curiosity. “Why would you do all that, Olympe?”

“I was trying to find out Vic’s phone number. In a rather complicated way.”

Victor lifted his glass to her again. “Never a dull moment with my favourite cybercriminal.”

Pia seemed embarrassed. "Now that I look back on it, it was a silly thing to do, but it was fun too. I hope everything goes well next week, otherwise I will have to buy Vic a motorbike."

Claude gasped in delight. “Un motard romantique? Mon dieu, Olympe, if you start buying men motorbikes just because you crashed a server, you’ll create a dangerous precedent.”

Archer chuckled. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Vic raised an eyebrow, half laughing, half intrigued. “Hang on… so if this goes badly, I get a motorbike? Do I want this meeting to go badly now?”

Renée swirled the wine in her glass with a look that suggested she’d already written the whole incident into a short story. “You are like a hurricane with expensive taste, ma belle. And Victor? He looks like a man who would ride pillion behind you, just to see where you might carry him.”

Camille added dryly, “I think I would like to see that. Olympe in tight leathers. Victor holding on for his life.”

Vic looked at Pia with exaggerated solemnity. “So just to clarify, motorbike only if I’m fired? Or can I trade it in for a mild disciplinary and a really nice helmet?”

The room burst into soft laughter again. Pia’s mischief had been woven into the legend of the evening, a charming petty scandal, the kind people retell at future parties with lowered voices and knowing smiles.

Renée raised her glass again, queen of her salon. “To lovers, hackers, and harmless criminals. May we always have something to talk about.”

As the evening wound down, laughter mellowed into the soft clink of coffee cups and the rustle of coats being gathered. Renée was handing out delicate slices of something almond and citrus when Pia and Camille found themselves momentarily alone by the bookcase, the candlelight throwing soft shadows against their faces.

Pia, poised but relaxed now, offered her phone.

“Shall we exchange numbers? For the beach visit?”

Camille hesitated, but just a breath. Then, with a small nod, she reached into her linen dress and drew out her phone, tapping deliberately, her thumb graceful like a dancer. The handsets touched, and beeped as they swapped numbers through Near Field Communication. She put hers back with a ghost of a smile.

“I’m curious,” Camille said, her voice low. “About the sea. About you.” Her eyes flicked, just for a second, toward Vic, who was across the room laughing with Claude and Archer. “Until then, wahine.”

The tone was polite. Almost warm. But underneath it, a ripple of challenge shimmered, like the first cold stir of a current before the break.

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 38: Sensible Precautions

Sunlight was just barely brushing the tops of the blinds when the smell of coffee lured Vic out of the fog.

Pia was already up, of course, bustling around the LDK in a tank top and boyshorts. She had breakfast nearly ready; the usual fruit and veg smoothie, toast, a cheese omelette and a green salad. A small bowl of yoghurt and berries. She wanted to send Vic off to work in the best possible spirits. It might be a fiery day at the office.

“If things get really bad,” she told him as they ate, “I have a lawyer on retainer. Let me give you their contact details.”

He blinked at her. “You really have a lawyer on retainer? I thought you were joking when you said that before.”

She gave a little shrug. “The thing about lawyers is you don’t know how much you need one until suddenly you need one. And I’ve needed some serious legal support over the years. So it’s always seemed like a sensible precaution.”

He might have laughed, or asked follow-up questions, but he didn’t. He just kissed her again at the door, longer this time, trying not to look like a man who was about to carry a stolen hard drive full of barely explored and only ‘mostly harmless’ code into his Monday morning IT review.

"Good luck, Vic." She tweaked his borrowed tie into perfection.

"Try not to commit any crimes while I’m gone," Vic said.

"I shall be the soul of discretion." She patted him lightly on the bum as he turned away.

Once Vic was safely on his way to possible job armageddon, Pia cleared away breakfast and sat down with her laptop and the SD card of CCTV recordings. She started by checking the amount of footage to review. The cafe was open 23/7, and the card had a week of recordings on it, from four different camera angles. It amounted to well over 600 hours of real-time footage to review. It was obvious that she couldn't possibly look at all of the material. Back at Interpol, she would have handed it off to a team of specialists.

I'll try and do it with AI, Pia decided. After some Googly research, she downloaded a tool called ScreenApp and bought enough credit to analyse all the video, generate transcripts of the audio, and create various summaries of the visual content, including facial recognition. Pia then had to work out how to cross-reference the different camera angles, and she had to decide how to set the tool up for what she wanted. It was hard work, needing many iterations.

"I should take a break,” she told herself. “I wonder how Vic is getting on?"

Not great, babe. Not great.

Vic was fifteen minutes into the Monday Morning Maelstrom, otherwise known as the Level 4 Systems Risk Review, when he realised just how deep he was in manure.

The managing director, Olivia Tran, sharp as a scalpel in a navy trouser suit, was clicking through slides on a shared screen with that calm, slow cadence that meant she was loading the cannon. Vic sat near the middle of the long boardroom table, his tie feeling slightly too tight, trying not to sweat through his shirt. The stolen hard drive, sorry, ‘mystery backup unit’, was zipped into an accessories pocket of his laptop bag under the table.

“So,” Olivia said, stopping on a slide titled ‘Irregular External Access Incident 20250531’, “Can someone walk me through this spike?”

Vic briefly considered raising his hand and simply walking out the window. Instead, he cleared his throat. “That, er, may have been an accidental test run of a new admin tool I was reviewing. I flagged it with Internal last week. There’s a write-up pending.”

This was true in a rather tenuous technical sense. Pia had written up her misguided email bombing adventure as a pretend first draft of a penetration-testing tool description, complete with a ludicrous acronym: SPOODER (System Probing Object Oriented Detection Evaluation Routine). She thought she was being helpful. Vic was pretty sure this was how industrial espionage charges got started.

Olivia stared at him. “Victor, was this tool authorised?”

“Uh, it was, in the exploratory phase.”

A pause, the kind that made his balls shrink.

“I’d like you to send me a full report by noon. Include access logs, data packets, and the reason this tool used three different VPN routes, including one from Estonia.”

Jesus.

“Of course,” he replied, smiling tightly.

Arun from Compliance gave Vic a sidelong look. He hoped it was sympathy. It might also have been a warning.

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 39: The Scandal Exchange

Pia made the ScreenApp do some test runs. What came out wasn't great, but after a lot of tweaks, eventually it was good enough to make her job of providing human insight a lot more manageable. When she thought the tool was running as well as possible, Pia pressed the button for a full analysis. She settled down to wait, and worry about Vic.

The stupid thermometer bar crawled so very, very, very slowly that it was actually static. She stared at it in frustration. After five minutes a pop-up stated, Time left: About a day.

*I need a better computer.*

Actually the processing was happening in the Cloud.

Pia went to make some tea. She was pouring the boiling water into the pot when her phone trilled for an incoming call. Camille's number.

“Bonjour, Olympe. I hope I’m not disturbing you. I had your number saved and I found myself thinking about the salon last night. I thought I should call before I lost my nerve.” Camille let go a breathy exhalation. “Your story about the cyber-incident, how did you put it? The bad thing. It stayed with me. You made mischief sound almost noble. So tell me. What are you up to this morning? Orchestrating your next little rebellion, perhaps?”

"Allo Camille, how nice to hear from you!" It was a welcome distraction from her worries. Olympe put warmth into her voice, but she forgot to speak French in her British accent, so that her voice accidentally came through with its natural Parisienne intonation. “I'm having a quiet morning ordering sheet music online. I am always in rebellion against the Patriarchy, though. Would you like to join me, perhaps?”

Camille chuckled, sharp-eared and not missing a beat.

“Ah, so that’s your real voice. I thought the accent was a costume, clever, but très étudié. This one suits you better.” She paused again. Her voice turned playful, and edged with intent. “Ordering sheet music, how charmingly wholesome. I was hoping you’d say you were hacking into a government archive or seducing a diplomat. I like being right about people.”

There was a creak of Camille shifting her body. Perhaps she was reclining on a chaise longue, or maybe just theatrically implying it.

“And as for rebellion,” she carried on, “I’ve been looking for a new cause. The Patriarchy has such excellent taste in wine and furnishings, it makes betrayal feel deliciously personal. What are you offering, chère Olympe?”

"To spit rather than swallow.” Olympe sniggered. “To be honest, Camille, all I do is I refuse to shave my legs or armpits. But it's something. Where are you at the moment? It sounds like it might be the place to be seen."

Camille laughed, low, intimate, delighted.

“Ah, enfin, a real confession. Très révolutionnaire. I shall burn my razors at dusk.” Olympe heard the clink of a glass being set down. “I’m at Paramount House. Rooftop café. Everyone here is pretending not to look at each other while judging their shoes. I’m having a grapefruit spritz and trying to look like I belong in a novel by Françoise Sagan. You should join me. Come as you are. Hairy and honest.”

"Wait a moment." Olympe quickly searched Paramount House on her phone. But she couldn't find out the details of the rooftop terrace. "How high up is it, Camille? Can you see the edge?"

“It’s only the fourth floor, darling. Not exactly the Eiffel Tower,” Camille told her, “But yes, you can see the edge, just a low brick wall and some potted herbs trying not to die.” She paused again, thinking. “Why? Are you afraid of heights… or falling?”

“I'm irrationally terrified of heights, Camille. When I go to the Westfield Mall I have to look at the ground because that horrid Sydney Tower is looming above. Please don't tease me about it! You can't know how awful it feels.”

“Je suis désolée. I wasn’t teasing, I promise. I didn’t know,” she said sympathetically. “Look, you don’t have to come up here. We could go somewhere else. Or I could come to you. Or we could just stay on the phone and talk about grapefruit and revolution until the clouds clear.” Another quiet moment. “You bear it well, Olympe. That fear. Most people hide cowardice. You… you hide courage.”

"Is it courage? That's a pretty compliment, Camille. I don't know what to say.” O;ympe's policy in such a situation was to say nothing. She changed the subject. "Let's meet at a café. On the ground floor. Perhaps they will have grapefruits."

Camille’s smile accented her reply. “Alors, très bien. A café on the ground. I’ll even let you choose it. As long as it’s not crawling with laptop men in Patagonia vests talking about cryptocurrency. Text me the name, and I’ll be there in twenty minutes. And Olympe? Thank you for telling me the truth. I think your revolutions may be best when they’re heartfelt.”

Olympe texted Camille the name 11 Miles and a locator pin. It was on Crown Street, a few minutes walk away from both of them. She decided she had no time to do full make-up and dress, so she did the bare minimum on her face, mascara and lipstick, compensated with jewellery, and an easy, casual but chic outfit, a fitted midnight blue minidress with long sleeves and a stars and moon motif. Her white gogo boots completed the look. 20 minutes later Olympe was rocking up to 11 Miles, on the lookout for Camille.

Victor had sent his report at 11:58 a.m., two minutes ahead of the deadline. Olivia hadn’t responded yet. No angry Slack message. No calendar invite for a formal disciplinary. Just silence.

He stared at his monitor, rereading the fake-but-technically-plausible justification for the tool Pia had, let’s call it field tested. The SPOODER acronym still made him want to die, but it passed the sniff test. Arun had pinged with a thumbs-up emoji and the note, “Ballsy. Might work.”

He was still trying to decide whether that counted as good news when his screen lit up with a new meeting invite:

Ad hoc follow-up – 1:00 p.m.
From: Olivia Tran
Location: Private Office

That was never a good sign. And not an invitation anyone could decline.

Vic leant back, flexed his hands, cracked his knuckles gently. The hard drive was still zipped into the laptop bag like a cursed relic. He’d checked superstitiously, twice, that it wasn’t broadcasting anything. Even though it had no power supply. No lights. No beeping. Just... dormant guilt.

He picked up his phone to text Pia, something light, Still alive. Might not be for long, but stopped halfway through typing. No. Better she didn’t worry. Let her have her quiet day. He slipped the phone back into his pocket and stood up.
It was showtime.

Camille appeared as if conjured, casually late by only five minutes, just enough to make it seem like she’d floated there on the breeze. Today she wore high-waisted navy trousers with crisp pleats and a sleeveless ivory blouse that made her look both sculpted and soft. Her sunglasses were too expensive for the postcode, and her perfume arrived three seconds before she did, fig and cedar and something faintly peppery. Paris in summer. A diplomatic weapon. She scanned the café, spotted Olympe through the window, and allowed herself a small, almost private smile. She pushed the door open with one hand, her phone in the other like a loosely held pack of Gitanes.

“There you are. Très jolie,” she said, eyes lighting on the boots with visible appreciation. “You look like you just stepped out of an illustrated poem.” She slipped into the seat across from Olympe, shrugging her bag down with a feline elegance. “So. You’re going to feed me something with grapefruit, and I’m going to tell you something scandalous. That’s how this works, non?”

Olympe took this easy familiarity as a signal to switch into the informal 'tu' mode of address. She tried it out quickly.

"Have you a scandal to reveal, Camille? I love to hear about scandals, but first let me order you something special of grapefruits." Scanning the menu, Olympe had found a tarte tatin style grapefruit and burnt caramel flan creation. Now she ordered two portions, and coffees to go with it. "Frankly I have my doubts about this but we will suffer together if it goes badly. Now, your scandal, Camille..." Olympe focussed her intense, almost flirty attention on the French woman.

Camille’s eyes flicked up, catching the tu, a silent little smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. She didn’t say anything, but her body language softened, just slightly. The shift accepted, she leaned her chin on her hand, fingers curled like a dancer’s.

“D’accord. I’ll give you one from the archives. University years in Lyon. I was dating an older man, of course, and he was terribly political. Big ideas, big speeches, tiny car. One night, after a fight about Rousseau, I broke into his flat and rearranged all his books by the author’s nationality.” She paused to let that sink in.

Olympe gasped in admiration, “Genius!”

“He never noticed. But he published an essay three weeks later about ‘borderless philosophy.’ Won a prize.” Camille shrugged, almost bashfully, if she was capable of bashful. “I let him have it. He was prettier when he felt clever.” Her smile widened as she tilted her head.
“Your turn, Olympe. A scandal for a scandal. And don’t tell me it’s all in your boyfriend’s IT dilemmas.”

Olympe chuckled at Camille's student prank. "You like older men? I have to admit, they often make up in experience what they may lack in energy compared to a boy. So, my wickedness; I once met a girl in a bookshop in Chicago. I was buying a new manga release. She was looking for something on self-fulfillment through mindfulness, after a bad break-up with her boyfriend. I took her for cocktails in the Waldorf-Astoria hotel and seduced her in the powder room."

The grapefruit tarts arrived, and flat white coffees.

Camille lifted one perfectly arched brow, her eyes alight with mischief and something warmer. “In the powder room? Très audacieuse. And chic. I can imagine you taking a girl apart like a Swiss watch, then reassembling her with love and attention.” She considered the tart in front of her like a poem with footnotes, then munched a slow, thoughtful bite. Her expression went from intrigued to faintly euphoric.

“Oh mon dieu. This is absurd! I love it.”

She dabbed the corner of her mouth with her napkin and leaned in slightly. “So, did you ever see her again, your bookstore conquest? Or was it a one act play?” She inclined her head just enough to let her sunglasses slip down the bridge of her nose.

"A two act play. We drifted apart. I had made the mistake of not dancing with her before I seduced her,” Olympe admitted. “She was a virgin, in lesbian terms I mean, and did not become a satisfactory lover. I don't do that with girls any more. These days I stick to men. Though to be honest, my choice in men has often been very poor.”

Olympe tried the tart. "Not bad. I love grapefruit, actually, and so does my father, but he can't eat it any more. He is on some medication it interacts badly with. So sad. Are we to trade more scandals?"

Camille nodded slowly, lips pursed around a tiny, admiring smile. “You’re very honest. I appreciate that. And yes, dancing first is always wiser. I’ve made similar mistakes. Enthusiasm can be cruel when it doesn’t pause to listen.”
She took another bite of the tart, pausing mid-chew at the mention of Olympe’s father, then swallowed delicately.

“Ah, yes. Grapefruit: the nemesis of statins and romance.” She tapped her fork lightly on the edge of her plate, eyes glinting. “One more, then I’ll be late for my appointment with a man who thinks Freud invented bisexuality.”

Camille leaned forward conspiratorially. “Okay, last year, in Marseille, I dated a jazz bassist who lived on a boat. It was perfect until I realised he hadn’t had a land address in six years. One night, he left for a gig and I found three identical toothbrushes under the sink. All the same brand. I left a fourth, just to see what would happen.” She sat back, looking very pleased with herself.

“And what happened?” Olympe leant forward, avid for the denouement.

“When I next visited, there were five.”

Olympe actually lolled at this revelation!

"Incredible! Perhaps the toothbrushes were having babies. A new industrial process. You could have patented it, Camille." She chuckled at the idea. "Everyone who lives on boats isn't bad, though. I have a lovely friend who lives on his motor-sailer yacht nearly all the time. Last I heard from him, he was in Paris trying to begin an affair with a young tennis star."

Camille’s laugh was quieter than Olympe’s but unmistakably delighted, low and lilting, with real mirth behind it.

“A tennis star in Paris? That is very promising. It has the bones of a film already. Does your friend wear linen and speak in riddles? I feel he must.”

“No, but he writes haiku, in Japanese.”

Camille rested her cheek briefly on her palm, watching Olympe like someone admiring the landscape through a train window. “You have the most fascinating friends, Olympe. You seem to collect characters the way other women collect shoes. And somehow, you keep them all in play.” She glanced down at her plate, then back up, a touch more serious. “You don’t strike me as someone who stays long in one place. Do you think you’ll stay in Sydney?”

"I'm on a three month tourist visa. I have to leave the country to reapply. I took a six month lease on my flat, which… May have been stupid.” She shrugged and twitched an eyebrow. “But it's tiring, you know, to keep moving, living half my life out of suitcases, never putting down roots. I could always go back to Europe. Familiar, safe, but now there is Vic to consider." Olympe suddenly remembered the predicament he was in at the office. Her face fell.

Camille noticed the shift immediately, how the light in Olympe’s eyes dimmed like a lamp turned down. Her expression softened; the amusement faded, replaced by something quietly attentive. “You care for him.” It wasn’t a question. It was a gentle statement of fact. “He looked at you last night like a man who’s just stepped out of a cave and realised it’s spring. Does he know what he’s holding?” She reached for her cup, not to drink, just to hold something. “Is that why you looked suddenly as though you remembered you've left the stove on?” A pause, then her voice dipped into something more private, more cautious. “Is he in trouble, Olympe?”

"Nothing actually criminal, but Vic could lose his job if things go badly. And it's my fault. And I do care for him. Maybe not as much as he likes me. Not yet. But it could happen. I want it to happen. I can't make it happen. All I can do is stick around and hope. If that makes any sense?"

Camille nodded, slowly, thoughtfully, her eyes locked with Olympe’s. “It makes perfect sense. You’re telling me you don’t love him yet, but you’re staying to see if the ground becomes steady under your feet.” She paused, drawing a lazy circle on the rim of her plate with a fingertip. “I think that’s the most honest way to love someone, when you’re not certain, but you still show up. Every day. Even when it’s complicated. Especially then.” She glanced away for the first time, watching a passing waiter as though collecting her thoughts. “And it’s rare. People either fall too fast or bolt too soon. You… you’re walking into the fire, eyes open.”

A small, admiring smile touched her lips. “If I were Victor, I’d be terrified. And entirely in love.”

"He should be frightened. I am. I've hurt men very badly before now, and they've hurt me. I don't want anything like that to happen again." Olympe ate the last bite of her grapefruit tart. "Thanks for listening to me, Camille. Are we friends now? Or at least, not enemies?"

Camille regarded Olympe with a level, almost amused gaze, an expression like someone recognising a fellow wolf in the forest and deciding not to bite. “I don’t think we were ever enemies. But friends…?” She considered it like a chess move, then gave a slow, genuine nod.

“Oui. Friends. The kind who don’t flinch from each other’s darkness. I mean, we are already using the ‘tu’ form, so let’s make it official.” She tilted her head, a faint smile returning. “I’ve always wanted a friend who could seduce a woman in a powder room and survive Australian immigration bureaucracy.”

Camille lifted her glass in a quiet toast. “To grapefruit. And fear. And choosing to stay.”

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 40: Defensive Hardware

Olivia Tran’s office was spotless, all cool neutrals, a few architectural prints, a Japanese bonsai on a slate pedestal. Nothing with eyes. Nothing to suggest emotion was permitted here.

She gestured for Vic to sit without looking up, scrolling on her tablet.

"Your report was… Creative," she said finally. "SPOODER?"

He cleared his throat. "It’s a backronym."

"So I gathered."

She set the tablet down. Folded her hands.

"You’ve worked here for four years, Vic. Never been late. Never raised a flag. And then, this. Unauthorised access spikes. VPN routes through the Baltics. A random log file called ishallfindvicishall.txt attached to nearly 200 separate emails."

Vic froze.

She arched an eyebrow. "Do you want to explain that?"

"That was a joke. From someone else. It won’t happen again."

Her silence was... Endless. Eventually:

"Victor, I want to believe you weren’t complicit. That you were the unfortunate victim of someone else’s digital mischief. Do you have anything else I should see before I finalise my report and make my recommendations?"

This was it.

Vic reached into his bag, slowly, carefully, and pulled out the hard drive Pia had given him. Set it on the desk like a peace offering. It clonked softly against the inlaid leather surface.

"This has the original test data. Full logs. Including what triggered the security alerts. I thought you should see it."

She eyed the hard drive. Studied Vic’s face.

"This had better be very, very boring."

Olivia rose from her seat, hard drive in hand, and crossed to the side desk where a grim-looking old Lenovo sat like a retired military officer, air-gapped, stickered with DO NOT CONNECT, and probably last used to review a disgraced partner's expense budgets. She plugged in the drive and typed with precise efficiency. No flourish. No wasted motion. Like an elite surgeon.

Vic sat perfectly still, resisting the urge to drum his fingers or breathe audibly. It was impossible to tell if the bonsai was judging him, or sympathising.

The folder tree popped up.

SPOODER_Tests → Logs → SPOODER_v0.3 → Notes + Packets + TrafficSummary.docx

Olivia opened the traffic summary first. Scanned. Scroll. Scroll. Pause.

"Well," she murmured. "This is extremely dull."

She looked at the hard drive sitting on the desk like a cryptic little time bomb, then searched through the root directory, looking for hidden system files.

Games. Lots of them. Random saves. Obscure titles. Galactic Ferret Panic 2. Bubblegum Crisis. Tokyo Love Story. Glass Heart Beatbox. Daughters of Tomorrow. And any number of advanced utilities, Visual Studio, Sysinternals Suite, BulletPassView. It was the sort of cluttered digital landscape that said teenage boy, sysadmin dropout, or brilliant chaos gremlin. Or all three.

“Either camouflage,” she muttered, “or someone with too much spare time and no self-respect.”

She clicked some more, confirmed that the firewall logs showed no suspicious traffic, no trojans, worms, or hidden daemons seeking revenge. Then she ejected the drive and made a mental note.

*Shred contents. Physically destroy. Gauss it to magnetic oblivion. Crush it. End of story. Security box ticked. No headline. No watchdogs sniffing. And no paperwork.*

Olivia smiled grimly.

“Take this gak down to IT and have them obliterate it. Enjoy your nervous breakdown, Victor,” she murmured, and moved on to her next email.

Vic lost no time in making himself scarce. Olivia would have canned him on the spot if she had decided she needed to. He was glad of the reprieve.

Pia's walk home from 11 Miles took a little longer than usual, partly on purpose. Surry Hills sprawled around her, all trendy boutiques, second-hand record shops, converted terraces, jacaranda trees, and the scent of slightly burnt sourdough. A man in a brown linen suit was having a deeply emotional conversation with a French bulldog. Two girls rode past on a tandem bike, singing in alarming harmony. She headed for the bottle shop like a girl on a quest.

Two bottles of Campari to beat the next inevitable supply chain balls-up. Simple syrup. Tanqueray Import Strength Gin. Maker’s Mark bourbon, super cheap since the US government had shat their economic bed. And a small bottle of blood orange bitters, because it looked dramatic. Her phone buzzed in her bag just as she stepped out into the street again. It was a message from Vic.

still employed <emoji: smiley with sweat drop>
you’re off the hook
drinks tonight? pick the poison

Pia read Vic's message with huge relief and delight. She practically ran home to drop off her alcoholic loot, reading the sacred words again and again.

"@Bae: Thank Goddess, Vic! I'm so happy!! I really didn't want to buy you a motorbike in case you drove off a cliff or something. Bar Copains, Albion Street, 19:00."

She changed into her running kit and did a punishing 10K around Moore Park, arriving home drenched in sweat. After her shower she faced the problem of choosing an outfit.

"What to wear, what to wear? New face, low key jewellery because it's only Monday. My French blue trouser suit. Scoop neck white tee-shirt, black lace corset -- does wonders for my bust! -- and the Louboutin sneakers. Creed Silver Mountain Water. Slay!"

Vic let out a breath he’d been holding all day when Pia’s message came through.

Thank Goddess, Vic! I'm so happy!! I really didn't want to buy you a motorbike in case you drove off a cliff or something. Bar Copains, Albion Street, 19:00.

He laughed right there in the elevator. An intern beside him flinched.

Bar Copains. Perfect.

Back at his desk, he shoved the crushed paper of his earlier “resignation note draft” deep into the recycling bin. The hard drive? Already handed off to IT with a smile and a shrug. By 6 p.m. he was home, showered, freshly shaven, and nervously contemplating his limited wardrobe.

Jeans and a tee? Too casual. Business suit? Too apology-tour.

In the end Vic went with dark denim, a charcoal linen button-up shirt, cuffs rolled, and the black boots Pia had once said made him look like he’d stolen a motorcycle. A spritz of Tom Ford Oud Wood. Phone. Wallet. Nerves.

On my way. Please don’t be more glamorous than the moon.

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 41: An Evening with the Boys

Bar Copains was a long thin building on the corner of Albion Street and Belmore, next to a quaintly shabby townhouse. The sign was discreet, just the word Copains in vintage neon, flickering pink against the dusk.

Inside, it was all mood lighting and mid-century angles. Polished brass. Deep green leather. A long bar like a runway, already lined with the kind of men who practised agile conversation and excellent skincare. Copains meant mates, but this was no sports bar. It was the kind of place where everyone’s shirt was perfectly pressed and no one was drinking beer.

Vic ordered a Negroni to match the mood and found a corner banquette beneath a print of two hunky sailor boys kissing in silhouette. Huh?

Five minutes passed. Ten. Then fifteen. He checked his phone. No messages. He sipped his drink. Tried not to be obvious about scanning the room.

A man in a teal linen shirt and sculpted beard caught Vic’s eye. Gave him a once-over. Smiled.

Another minute. Vic cleared his throat. Looked away. Looked back. The guy was still smiling.

Vic realised, 20 minutes too late, that his seat was directly under a discreet rainbow flag and a wall-mounted sign that read “THIRSTY THURSDAY: FLIRT RESPONSIBLY”.

*Right.*

Just as Mr Teal Shirt began to make his move, rising from his seat, confidence shining, drink in hand, the door burst open before a wave of breathless energy and short, honey-blonde hair.

The trouser suit hit first, tailored, French blue, giving absolute girl boss. But under it: black lace, cinched tight and unapologetic, like she'd fallen off the runway during Fashion Week and just happened to land in Surry Hills.

Pia looked like someone you’d either surrender to, or follow into battle. Or maybe both. She was flushed, glowing from the run and the rush, scanning the room with the narrow-eyed guilt of a woman who had just realised she was late and fabulous.

Mr Teal Shirt hesitated mid-step. Took one look at Pia, whistled silently to himself, and pivoted gracefully back toward the bar.

Smart man.

Vic stood, grinning in disbelief.

“You’re a miracle. Also twenty minutes late. What on earth were you doing, rehearsing your entrance?” He became slightly cross after the initial relief of her arrival.

Pia scanned the bar like a Terminator and instantly realised from her own history of LGBTQ+ adventures that it was the kind of place a lot of men gather not to watch the sports channel on a 4K wallscreen. She grabbed Vic by the collar and gave him a pretty hot kiss as a way of planting a hetero flag.

The kiss caught Vic off guard in the best way. Pia’s lips were cool from the night air, soft and firm, and her tongue was confident. He forgot his name for a second. So did a few people nearby, judging by the collective pause in ambient conversation. She pulled back, nonchalant as ever, like she hadn’t just re-established diplomatic control of a sovereign territory.

He blinked and sighed, “Well. Hello to you, too.”

"I like your outfit,” she smiled at him. “After I had got dressed I thought you might come in a tee-shirt and jeans. But actually that would have been okay. Because this is a celebration of your glorious success! Why are you wearing those boots? Are you planning to buy a motorbike for yourself? Let's order now. All I had for lunch was a slice of grapefruit tarte tatin.”

He took her in again, those Louboutin sneakers catching the bar’s accent lighting, her corset making it extremely difficult to maintain eye contact, the suit setting off the whole look with just enough restraint to be legally wearable.

“I wore the boots,” he said, leading her toward a newly vacated table, “because I knew you’d turn up looking like a Bond villain on her night off, and I didn’t want to be outclassed again.”

They slid into their seats. Vic waved at the waiter. “Two cocktails. Something sharp and citrusy, please. And, uh, some snacks? She’s hungry and I’m traumatised. Anything involving cheese.”

The waiter nodded and vanished. Vic turned back to Pia, leaning in, grinning.

“So. What were you really doing while I was busy saving my professional arse? Don’t tell me you were just doing your eyeliner. This amount of lateness feels like you discovered a murder plot.”

"I was looking at my CCTV footage. I got excited because I may have found something but I'm not sure what, yet. I have to do a lot more checking. That's why I was late. How did it go at the office today? Tell me whatever you can. But if you can't tell me anything, I'm still happy you're out of the woods. You are out of the woods, aren’t you, Vic? Really out?

He reached for her hand instinctively, brushing his thumb over her knuckles.

“I’m out of the woods,” Vic said, quiet but certain. “The wolves sniffed around, but they decided I wasn’t tasty enough.” He smiled, but it was a tired smile.

“Olivia grilled me,” he explained. “Real slow-burn style. But the hard drive worked, it was boring enough to be innocent. She even joked about shredding it. Handed it off for me to deal with and then sent me away like it was a dentist appointment. So I’m back in her good books.” Vic leaned back in the seat, finally letting the weight slide off his shoulders. “And I didn’t tell her anything she didn't need to know. The drive is trashed, The evidence is gone. I’m safe, you’re safe, we’re both safe. But Pia…”

Vic looked her in the eye. She looked him back

“If you think you’ve found something, really found something, you need to be careful.” He let that hang for a second before adding, “And you were worth the wait, by the way. Even if you did nearly stand me up in a gay bar.”

"There's nothing wrong with gay bars, Vic. You can pick up a lot of fashion tips,” she told him. “Anyway, we're here now, and we have a nice table, so why bother to move? The boys have probably clocked my masculine vibe and decided I'm something of a butch dyke." Pia's suit buttoned up left over right, like a man's. Her short hair made her look boyish. She had forgotten the very hot hetero kiss she had given Vic. She smiled, thinking about the mysterious Olivia, Vic's escape, and the erasure of the evidence against her.

"So they trashed my drive? Excellent! It’s always good to get someone else to incriminate themselves by destroying your guilty secrets. It wasn't really guilty, obviously. I mean more of a potential embarrassment. Anyway I'm not going to go anywhere near that kind of caper again. I'm a reformed character, now. More or less."

Vic laughed, soft and delighted, tracing the rim of his glass as it arrived, tall, green-tinged, fragrant with lime and danger.

“Well, butch dyke or not, you’re still the hottest person in this bar, and half of them know it. The other half are just mad you’ve stolen their look and improved on it.”

He raised his glass in a half-mock salute. “To gender confusion, tactical evidence destruction, and your budding reformation. May it last at least until the weekend.”

Vic took a sip. The cocktail was tart, punchy, and far too drinkable. “Yes,” he continued, “Olivia’s given that drive the full Cold War treatment. Gaussed, crushed, and incinerated for extra drama. Which is perfect, because now there’s no chain of custody and no way to prove who put it together. You? Me? Some Estonian script kiddy?”

He grinned at her across the table. “She doesn’t want answers. She wants peace. And I think she liked that I didn’t throw you under the bus.” He sipped again. “I wouldn’t, you know. Not for anything.”

"I would have taken that bullet for you to save your job, Vic. Illegal computer intrusion sounds bad but it was really just an accident. Then there was a little bit of minor larceny of the drive. $200 of damage? Hardly worth the effort to prosecute."

Pia took a swig of her cocktail and began to hoover up the tapas style bar snacks. "I had lunch with Camille. Well, it was pudding, basically. And I did a 10K, so I'm pretty hungry." Clearly she had decided that the ‘bad thing’ was now in the past.

Vic watched her demolish a bowl of marinated olives like they owed her money, and it made his heart hurt in the best way.

“Camille, huh?” He reached for a wedge of manchego. “Should I be worried? Was it strictly platonic pudding, or did it come with lingering looks and potential espionage?” He popped the cheese into his mouth, chewed thoughtfully. “She’s interesting, that one. Like a very elegant knife. Did you two trade blood oaths or just gossip?”

Pia paused to mentally review the conversation with Camille. The edgy French woman had warmed up and listened sympathetically to various love related confessions she was not about to admit to Vic.

"We traded scandals about our past. Boys we shagged at university. That kind of thing. Also we advanced our relationship to the 'tu' stage. That's a fairly significant thing in French culture."

He raised his eyebrows, impressed. “Tu, huh? That’s like second base in French terms, isn’t it? He leaned back, watching the light flicker across the rim of his glass as he took another sip. “She must like you. I mean, obviously. You don’t drop tu and tarte tatin with just anyone.”

Vic smirked. “Did you talk about me? Or was I conveniently filed under current entanglements, uncertain outcome?” He said it lightly, but he was listening hard.

Pia clammed up and concentrated on eating. But Vic's question couldn't be avoided.

"Vic, sometimes there are questions which shouldn't be asked in case you won't like the answer…” she chewed another bite to create a pause.

“Actually we did talk about you. Us. You and me, I mean,” she admitted. "Vic? You remember the worst thing I ever did? What happened with Hisashi in Tokyo? Whatever happens between you and me, I'm not going to let it end up like that. Not you dead, I mean. I mean you all heartbroken and lonely.”

She reached out and took Vic’s hand.

“The way I feel now is that we're building something special and we've got a big load of bricks and a... Twirly machine you make cement in. Combine harvester? No, that’s something else. Anyway, you know what I mean. We're stacking up our bricks and it's going really well." Pia slugged down the rest of her cocktail and waved at the bartender for another. "You ever watch Grand Designs?"

Her honesty hit Vic hard. He put his glass down slowly, letting the words settle. The name Hisashi sat in the middle of the table like a dropped coin, unspoken weight behind it. He reached across with his other hand and touched Pia’s wrist, not to interrupt, just to be there. Steady.

“Yeah,” he said, voice quiet. “I remember. And I know what you mean. Cement mixer. Steel joists and big piles of bricks. Lots of artistic camera shots. Weird lecturer bloke in a linen suit narrating everything. That’s exactly what we’re doing.” He smiled at her. “Yes, Pia, I watch Grand Designs. Religiously. My favourite part is when the people run out of money and Kevin looks at the camera like it’s a Greek tragedy.”

Vic grinned. “Let’s not run out of money. Or sanity.”

"We don't need to worry about money, Vic. I've got money. But I sense you're a guy who wouldn't be happy as a kept man. I can tell you have your pride, your self-respect. And respect for your girls. I mean not now, because you've got me. Emma. Things didn't work out with her but it wasn't because of cash flow issues. It was relationship stuff. The sanity bit. I know I'm mad but you keep me grounded."

That hit harder than she might have thought. Vic rubbed the back of his neck and laughed, low and sheepish.

“Yeah,” he said, “I’ve never been great at taking handouts. Not even birthday money from my mum.” He reached for her hand again, this time more firmly, his thumb resting in the little valley between her thumb and her forefinger.

“And you’re right about Emma and me. It wasn’t like we hit some disaster, just... in the end there was nothing to build on. As if we had made a plan that neither of us ended up liking.”

He gave her a look, honest and warm.

“But you’re not mad, Pia. Or if you are, it’s the kind of creative madness that makes things grow. You’re the thunderstorm that waters the garden. I don’t feel like I’m being dragged, I feel like I’m getting somewhere for the first time in years.”

He squeezed her hand, then leaned in with a smirk.

“Also, if grounding you means occasionally being taken to gay bars and threatened with a motorbike, then I’m in.”

"Is it kissing time?” Pia asked. “Otherwise I've got an amusing anecdote about motorbikes."

He grinned, tugging her gently closer across the table.

“Kissing and an amusing anecdote about motorbikes? Honestly, Pia, I feel spoiled.”

Vic leaned in, slow and deliberate, giving her a beat to pull away if she wanted, but of course she didn’t. Their lips met, soft and charged, tasting of citrus and promises and something deeper that neither of them had quite put a name to yet. He pulled back, just enough to breathe.

“Okay. Now tell me the motorbike story before I go and propose in a cocktail bar.”

Pia froze for a hot second at the casual mention of a marriage proposal. Fright and hope? Or nervous anticipation. Not knowing how she might respond if it actually happened. She covered her feelings with a rush into her motorbike story.

"So. This is a story passed down through my family for decades. My father's godfather used to have a motorbike. I should explain that he died before I was born, so I never met him, but apparently he was a real character. Lost his trigger finger in a cricketing accident at school, so he couldn’t fight in World War 2, and built a multi-million pound construction and property empire instead. He would go into the office on Saturday mornings to bank cheques, so they would clear a day earlier for the interest.”

She drained her glass and signalled for another.

“Anyway, during the 1930s, when Uncle Leslie was courting the girlfriend who later became his wife, he had a motorcycle. This was well before he got rich. Cars were very expensive. Yeah, I know, ancient history, right? But boys and girls met each other and courted, married, had sex, or we wouldn't be here now."

Pia's story tumbled out with loose organisation and the kind of weird tangents that made her so interesting to listen to.

"Where was I? Oh yes, they were on a motorbike tour. And they stopped while going up a hill, for some reason. Maybe to look at the view. Then Uncle Leslie got back on the bike, and Auntie Olive got on behind him. He opened the throttle and took off, and Olive fell off the back of the bike. And Leslie didn't notice! He just thought, it's running well today."

Vic burst out laughing, one of those deep, helpless laughs that rattles the ribs.

“Oh my God, Pia. He left her lying in the road on a hill?”

He leaned forward, eyes wide.

“That’s incredible. That’s not just vintage, it’s mythic. He was probably halfway to Dover before he noticed she wasn’t screaming in his ear.”

He took a sip of his drink, still grinning.

“And she married him?”

He shook his head in mock awe.

“That was true love.”

He looked at Pia again, really looked, her flushed cheeks, her spark, the lopsided grin she gave when she knew she was being ridiculous.

“Thanks for that. I needed a good story after today. You’re a better cure than tequila. And by the way, I was mostly joking about the marriage thing. You don’t have to look like I proposed during foreplay.”

Pia didn't know if she was relieved or disappointed. She had had three cocktails on top of a mostly empty stomach and a 10K run. She was blinking like an owl. "I think I need to go to bed," she muttered. There was a wobble in her voice like a warped record, and the blink-blink of someone trying and failing to keep the world in crisp focus. Her posture had loosened, corset or not, and her words had the velvety slur of a woman who might either order dessert or fall asleep in her chair.

Vic leaned in, rested a hand lightly on her arm.

“Alright, baby owl,” he said softly, “Bedtime it is.”

He dropped some notes on the table, too much probably, and stood, offering her his arm for support.

“You’re a charming drunk, by the way. Slightly chaotic. Surprisingly educational. But I think we’d better get you home before you start giving architectural lectures about family members.”

He wrapped an arm around her as they moved toward the door.

“Come on. You can tell me more about trigger fingers and motorbikes on the walk back. I’ll tuck you in safely. No funny business. Unless you initiate the funny.”

Pia wasn't as drunk as she seemed, though. She was pretty hard-headed. Kabukicho had taught her how to pace herself unobtrusively. After all the talk about potential proposals she wanted to test Vic, to find out if he was a guy she could rely on, or the kind of man she'd been with before who would take this opportunity to do her bareback, because they thought she was too far gone to object.

Her last boyfriend was an urn full of crematorium ash his mother still wept over daily, exactly because he had tried to take advantage of Pia like that, and ignored her refusals. Pia believed in Vic, and she was going to take a risk because everything Vic had done with her so far had been gentle and almost too respectful of her boundaries. And she loved it.

They reached her unit.

"I need shower, Vic. Then bed. Are you staring, Bae? Straying. Staying. Over. Whose gonna hang my suit?" She wobbled around between her bedroom, the LDK, and the bathroom, gradually dumping items of clothing. Her laptop was plugged in and bleeping away behind its lockscreen.

She was swaying like a wind chime in a soft breeze, but a glint in her eye told Vic: this girl’s still in the driver’s seat. Testing. Watching. Not drunk, not really. Just woozy enough to drop the needle anywhere and see what track played.

He followed her around, catching up her discarded clothes as she went to and fro like a beautiful tornado. The apartment felt alive with her scent still hanging in the air, the pieces of expensive jewellery she removed and dropped into a spare wine glass. The faint techno-bleep of the laptop, like a polite robot trying not to interrupt.

“Bae,” Vic echoed, dryly amused, “I am absolutely not straying. I am, however, staying. And I will be hanging your suit, because I enjoy being alive.”

“Vic’s Dry Cleaning & Emotional Stability Service,” he announced, carefully putting the jacket on a hanger and smoothing the trousers. “Open weekday nights and public holidays. No judgement, no unsolicited nudity.”

She flitted toward the bathroom, and he called after her, soft but clear:

“Take your time. I’ll be right here. Your sofa, your bed, the floor, wherever you want me. Nothing you don’t ask for.”

Vic went to sit on the couch, back straight, hands on his knees.

Let her see I’m not moving unless invited.

Pia realised that her subtle manipulation had not worked. This was good and bad. It was good because it proved he really got her, understood her moods and behaviours. It was bad because now she had to wait for Vic to be tested in a more real-world situation she might not be able to control. I'll be patient, she told herself. It will happen. And I'm confident Vic will rise to the challenge.

She didn’t close the bathroom door. She let him see her as she was, whole, unhidden. The bullet scar, the healed gashes along her arm, her muscles and her female curves, her hairy armpits and her curated pubic hair. The way her body told stories her mouth had only hinted at. Her contradictions. He didn’t stare, but he didn't look away either.

She trusts me with this.

Pia wandered back from the shower naked and damp, her various scars on casual display, put on a shortie pyjama set and got into bed. "Are you coming in, Vic?"

When she finally crawled into bed in that little pyjama set, all long legs and warm arms, and said, “Are you coming in, Vic?”, it wasn’t a tease. It was an invitation into her world, her vulnerability, her rules.

He stripped down to his boxers, folded his shirt over the back of a chair, and washed quickly. He crossed to the other side of the bed. Slid under the covers. Warmth. Soft sheets. The faint scent that was just her.

He didn’t reach for her. Just said quietly, “Thanks for trusting me.”

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 42: Suspicions

By the time Vic boarded the next uptown tram, Pia had unloaded the dishwasher, started a laundry cycle, and written a shopping list.

*I must make him do a fair share of the housework,* she thought, wiping down the kitchen counter with more force than necessary. *He does it at home. Doesn’t he?*

She had been to Vic’s flat only once. A short, urgent afternoon when everything smelled like salt and sunscreen. And mostly sex. Because that was all they had been doing. The unit seemed clean, but then, so had her ex’s apartment in Chicago, the first time she visited. That guy had stashed a month’s worth of mouldy Tupperware in the oven, and tried to serve her wine in a mug.

“Don’t go there,” she muttered to herself, catching her distorted reflection in the chrome shell of the toaster. “I like Vic. Vic is safe. Vic folds towels, and he puts the toilet seat down.”

Still, the thought twisted into a deeper one. *I shouldn’t get too used to him being here. We’re not engaged or anything. It could all go terribly wrong.*

She poured herself a third cup of coffee. Big mistake. Her brain began to buzz like an overactive crime board. She paced. Watered the houseplants. Leafed through sheet music. Played with her jewellery and thought about buying some opals. Australia's signature gemstone. She was about to search them up online, but instead she changed course, flopped on the sofa with her laptop, and pulled up the AI-assisted analysis of GeekStar’s CCTV footage. She’d already reviewed several clips, tagging the ones with obvious normality, people typing, ordering food, teens playing games while pretending to study.

But now on frame 10:13:41 from Wednesday, something seriously caught Pia's attention.

Mid morning. A figure at a corner table. Hoodie up, fingers flying across the keyboard in staccato motion like a jazz pianist.

Nothing really unusual. Other than most young people couldn’t type properly. And this dude had slotted a USB stick into the side of the terminal. Stayed just fifteen minutes. Then, on another camera angle, Pia squinted, was that the same guy leaving a few minutes later, with a completely different outfit on?

She leant forward. “That’s odd.”

Pia bookmarked the timestamp and exported a clip. Time to get Alex involved? Not yet. She scrubbed the video back and forward as she watched it again and again. Something about the person’s movements. The quick glance to the side. The way they rolled their sleeves down before leaving the shop.

“Definitely odd,” she murmured. “And possibly something worse.”

She picked up her phone.

“@Gamerboy: Hey. Remember the drive you helped me get? And the CCTV data card? I think I’ve found something interesting. When are you free to geek out with me?"

She set the phone down and leaned back, mind racing with theory and counter-theory. Then, with a sigh, she looked at her calendar. It was nearly Jimny Day.

Pia smiled.

Victor Davern sat in a glass walled conference room that was definitely too hot, listening to his manager Olivia Tran give a presentation on “network integrity protocols” like they weren’t all still quietly recovering from the incident.

He tried to focus. Honestly. But his brain kept slipping into useless loops.

*Why did she iron my shirt? Was that her way of saying she wants me around more? Or is she trying to soften me up for another bombshell?*

He blinked, realising Olivia had asked a question.

“Yes,” he said. “We’ll definitely want to sandbag those access rights until the logging system’s verified.”

Olivia nodded, not entirely convinced, but also not entirely engaged. The whole team was bruised and distracted. What Pia’s ‘bad thing’ had done was mostly invisible to them, but the ripple effects were still making the surface wobble like a loose jelly.

Vic’s hard drive ploy had succeeded. Technically. Olivia had closed the loop, wiped the fake logs, and sent out a polite but pointed all-staff reminder about unauthorised network access. He should’ve been relieved. Instead, he was restless.
l
He glanced down at the legal pad beside his laptop, where he’d doodled a miniature Jimny in battle against a dragon labelled Quarterly KPIs. He was twenty-nine. A mid-level quant with a decent prospect of promotion in a small but reputable firm. He had a hot girlfriend who surfed, made omelettes with fresh herbs, and kept a bottle of high-strength gin in the freezer.

So why did he feel like he was wearing someone else’s skin?

The truth settled in his stomach like a stone: This job doesn’t matter to me anymore.

He still liked analysis and code. Still liked problem-solving, building clean logic, tinkering with elegant solutions. But the corporate weight of it, the red tape, endless meetings, and sterile office politics, was grinding him down. And since Pia had come charging into his life with her scandals and fire and impossible laugh, he couldn’t unsee how beige it all was.

His phone beeped. A message from Dan.

“Surf’s gonna be Fire this weekend. Kiri’s keen. You in?”

“@Dan: Always. Let’s make it a crew thing. Pia wants to drag Camille out."

“Excellent. Who’s Camille, she hot?”

“Dangerous. And you’re married. And I’ve got a girlfriend.”

Dan replied with three flame emojis and a GIF of a man jumping into a volcano.

Vic smiled faintly. Then flicked back to his code window.

The work was the same. The lines of Python and SQL still made sense. But the rush was gone.

His phone buzzed. A text from Pia.

“How’s Olivia? Has she eaten you yet?

He snorted, then tapped out a reply.

“@Pia: Olivia’s given up cannibalism. I’m safe for now.”

Her reply was immediate: “Bring home Margaritas to celebrate.”

Vic looked at the screen and felt it again, that thing in his chest. Like he was right on the edge of something. He closed the laptop. Time for a smoko.

Pia put her phone down, trying hard to remember if she'd ever told Vic that she fuccing hated frozen Margaritas, but she fuccing loved the old-fashioned style with salt on the rim of the glass and everything.

"Maybe we should have Tequila Sunrises instead. I can buy some oranges."

Her phone beeped, a message from Alex, full of randomly enthusiastic CamelCase, bad spelling, and emojis. They agreed to meet at FBI Gaming City, another cybercafé nearby GeekStar where they had done the hard drive heist. Pia wanted to blend in with gamer... "You can't call it chic. What did I wear last time? Something Studio Ghibli." She assembled an outfit combining her Louboutin sneakers, a pair of boyfriend jeans, her Soot Sprite tee-shirt, and a faux biker jacket in dark brown leather. It was slightly too smart but it would have to do. At least it went with her taupe nails.

Pia slapped on her signature Marimekko bucket hat and pulled it down low. A mustard yellow nylon Uniqlo shoulder bag, half-moon shaped and roomy, did service for all her baggage. It was embroidered with emblems of Paris, New York, London, and Tokyo. A glass of red wine and the Eiffel Tower, I Heart NY and the Empire State building, a Mind The Gap roundel and a double-decker bus, the Hinomaru rising over Mount Fuji.

Stepping out of the front door, the first thing she saw was Renée. Pia rocked back on her heels. Metaphorically speaking, as she was in flats.

"Bonjour, Renée, ca va?"

Renée Moreau stood beneath the climbing jasmine on the communal front wall, pruning clippers in one gloved hand and a suspiciously healthy sprig of rosemary in the other. She looked like she'd stepped out of a vintage film set; wide-legged cream trousers, a red-striped Breton top, and a silk scarf holding back her silver-streaked dark curls. Her lipstick was perfectly matched to the cherry tomatoes in her hanging planters.

She turned at the sound of Pia’s voice, one brow arching theatrically.

“Ma petite tornade,” she said, smiling. “Do I smell Guerlain and fabric softener, or is that just your aura today?”

Pia adjusted the strap of her sacoche, unsure if she was about to be complimented or interrogated. Renée had a way of making compliments feel like gentle traps.

“Neither,” Pia said, “It’s my ‘I’m going to infiltrate a gamer café’ ensemble. What do we think? Undercover enough?”

Renée gave her an up-and-down appraisal with a wine critic’s seriousness.

“Très bien. You look like a pop star slumming it for research. The shoes are wasted on linoleum, but I respect the commitment.” She snipped the rosemary with a flourish and tucked it into Pia’s bag. “For good luck. Or perhaps for soup.”

Pia grinned, relaxing. “Thank you. Also, have I ever told you how much I hate frozen Margaritas?”

Renée tilted her head, amused. “No, but I agree completely. You must be sure to instruct Victor.”

There was a pause, just long enough for Pia to feel the weight of the unspoken things. Renée had seen Vic leave that morning. She had probably noted the laundry drying on the balcony, men's socks and boxer shorts flapping side by side with Pia’s bralettes and Brazilian knickers.

“You know,” Renée said more softly, “there are worse things than letting someone like that in.”

Pia blinked. “Are we still talking about tequila?”

Renée smirked. “Always. And love. But mostly tequila. Perhaps.”

A tram chimed from the high street like a doorbell from a parallel universe. Pia took it as her cue.

“I’ve got to go and meet a nerd. Is your invitation still open for tonight?”

“Of course. Six thirty sharp. French punctuality.”

Pia gave a casual salute and headed for the tram station, her heart giving a sideways beat like it always did after an unexpectedly tender exchange. Renée was a meddler, but an elegant one.

*Letting someone in,* she thought, as her trainers slapped the pavement. *That’s not the hard part. It’s convincing myself it’s safe to keep them around.*

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 43: Jump Cut to FBI Gaming City

FBI Gaming City was like GeekStar’s cooler cousin who went to an EDM club and never came home. LED panels blinked moodily above banks of high-end PCs. A lo-fi synth remix of the Neo Genesis Evangelion theme played softly as BGM. Someone was talking over a Discord speech channel in Tagalog. The air smelt of Mountain Dew and powdered cheese.

The café's name struck a chord. Pia had dealt with FBI guys professionally. Raised on the heady propaganda of American exceptionalism, they were often full of themselves. So-called 'Special Agents'. Though the FBI induction course at Quantico was no longer than a simple British Bobby got, and included a lot more weapon drills and less police technique.

*But the best of them actually are good,* she thought. *Whatever. This isn't an op. Unless it is.*

She ordered an iced latte and a croissant, and took a seat where she could pretend to use a computer but actually observe the flow of clientele. The footage from GeekStar had taught her how to zero in on the crucial scenes, the tell-tale behaviour.

Someone was dealing some kind of gamer gak. Pia didn’t know what, because she played enough Tetris with her jewellery box and her shoe cupboard not to need to wrangle pixels or cards as a distraction from real life. That's why she had tapped Alex’s shoulder.

Pia, camouflaged in her too-smart leather jacket, Soot Sprite tee and Louboutin sneakers, looked exactly like someone who had lost a bet on how to dress for a virtual LAN party on Twitch. She watched a girl with bubblegum-pink pigtails refill a gacha machine near the entrance. She sipped her disappointing iced latte and didn't even bother to pretend to enjoy the even more disappointing croissant. If she was still a detective, she would have arrested the pastry supplier.

Then the door opened, and in bounced Alex. He tried to saunter like a seasoned operative but it came off as puppy cute. He was trying very hard to look suave. Pia could see it in the way he adjusted his army surplus backpack like it was a gun holster, and how he kept one AirPod in, mimicking a low-level Bond villain on one of those set piece missions, a sniper at the opera. His hair was curled just so, but the effect was more golden retriever who discovered mousse than mysterious hacker prince. He spotted Pia, lit up like a Christmas tree, and half-sprinted over.

“Agent Viola,” he said, sliding into the seat beside her. “I’m reporting for caffeinated surveillance and digital archaeology.”

Pia raised an eyebrow. “You know you look twelve years old, right?”

Alex smirked, entirely undeterred. “Twelve and a half, thank you. Also, I wore black jeans for intimidation.”

She reached for her laptop. “Alright, gamer boy. Let’s see if you can tell me what my mystery hoodie guy was trading, because I’ve got a feeling it’s more than just duty free cigarettes.”

Alex leaned in. “You brought the clip?”

Pia nodded, cueing it up. “Here’s where he inserts the USB stick. His PC screen spikes up with stuff for about a minute. Can’t see that too well. Then later, watch this, he changes his hoodie in the loo and leaves in a button-down shirt and sunnies. Sleeves rolled down to hide any tattoos. Classic simple disguise. I’d do something like that myself. He’s fast, but he doesn’t alter the way he walks, so he’s not that good.”

Alex narrowed his eyes. “Okay… yeah. The first clip. He’s not playing a game. The screen was showing some kind of more like text based nonsense. Could be digital currency. Could be off-book game asset trading. Could be enhancement scripts. If he’s selling cheat mods, that’d explain the short timeframe.”

Pia looked at him blankly.

Alex translated. “He’s probably a dealer. Not for drugs. For cheat codes.”

“Ça me fait chier! Selling cheat codes in a game café? That's childish. But smart. The right marketplace. Customers on tap.”

“More than that,” Alex said. “If he’s uploading or downloading scripts from a remote server, he’s probably got an encrypted bridge to some kind of darknet marketplace. Or a relay server to make him hard to trace.”

“Like a VPN routed through Estonia, perhaps? Could you trace him?”

Alex gave a gleeful smile, full of purpose. “With this footage and some good guesswork? Hell yeah. Give me an hour. And a chocolate milkshake.”

Pia dashed to the snack counter.

“One chocolate milkshake, please. And make it dangerous.”

The afternoon sun hit the office windows at just the wrong angle, lighting up Vic's face so he could see it in his monitor. He stared at himself for a hot minute, wondering if maybe the light was lying, or if he really did have that many lines around his eyes. Probably from squinting at terminal logs and pretending to care about containerisation metrics.

He clicked half-heartedly through a Jira board. Tickets were ranked up like bored sentries. Backend sync delay. Automated test failure. Refactor authentication module. He flagged three, reassigned one, and then just… Stopped.

A tab to the side still held Pia’s last message.

“Bring home Margaritas to celebrate!”

She looked electric when she said stuff like that, alive with enthusiasm, totally present with her joy and empathy. Vic tried to imagine a world where he felt that way about any of this. He didn't hate his job. He’d just outgrown it. Like a favourite outfit that had gone irretrievably out of style. It used to feel like something special; flexibility, remote working, a team that let him surf sometimes on weekdays as well as at weekends. And there was a lot of good stuff there. But now it felt more like a safety net he’d wrapped around himself out of fear. Maybe he’d been coasting. Okay, not maybe. Definitely. Surfing and running stats and writing tidy code and making peace with the fact that his longest relationship had ended with a low-key dumping instead of a radioactive eruption.

Then Pia had happened.

The thing was, she saw him. Even when she was off chasing CCTV shadows or turning bar stools into confessionals, she made him feel like he mattered. Not for his job title. Not for his calm or his abs or his ability to parallel park. Just for being Victor.

His Slack pinged again. Message from Arun.

“you good man? you kinda checked out since lunch. not judging, just vibing.”

Vic considered typing back “Existential crisis, nothing urgent.” Instead, he wrote:

“@Arun: all good. brain on low power mode. maybe time for a proper holiday. or a career rethink.”

Arun’s typing bubble appeared instantly.

“goggle eyes goggle eyes goggle eyes lol you going full Olympe on us? gonna run off and become a cyber monk?”

Vic stared at that. Not because he was offended. But because, yeah, Pia probably would run off and become a cyber monk if the mood struck her.

And maybe that’s what he loved about her.

*Is it too early to call it love?* he wondered, then immediately told himself to calm down. *It’s only Wednesday.*

A knock on his cubicle wall pulled him out of the spiral. Olivia, arms crossed, one eyebrow arched.

“Victor. Got a minute?”

He nodded, heart rate spiking instinctively.

She sat on the edge of his desk like a school principal about to have a serious talk with a student. “No drama. Just… be honest. Are you still happy here?”

That caught him off guard. “I, uh. Yeah. Mostly.”

She studied him. “You’ve been a good egg all through the SPOODER mess. But something tells me your head’s in a different space now. If you’re looking around, I’d rather you said it and don't blindside me.”

He hesitated. “I’m not looking. Yet.”

“But maybe thinking,” she said, standing again. “Fair enough. Sometimes people outgrow a role and need a new challenge. You’re one of the few people around here who can think out how to tackle an issue without needing a PowerPoint deck for a walkthrough. I’d like to keep you if I can. Let’s talk about some enhancements to your role. New responsibilities. I’ll put something in Calendar.”

Vic watched her walk off, then turned back to his screen, his brain suddenly humming again.

*Woah!*

Chapter 44: They Could be Deckbuilding

Alex was getting all hopped up about the USB stick when Pia clocked the real exchange.

"Alex, it's not the digital stuff. Look!" She froze the frame, tapped the screen with a nail that shone like taupe justice. "This dude is passing cards for cash. I mean like playing cards, wrapped up in plastic sleeves as if they were mint grade gold coins. The business with the USB is a double-blind. You do a deal in a game café, and people are going to think it’s digital, so they'll try to do a network trace, follow up on the cyber side, but in fact it's actually physical items. What kinds of cards are valuable?"

Alex paused mid-sip of his milkshake, which he had just proudly declared to be ‘double malted, triple threat, full throttle’. His upper lip was moustached with cocoa froth. Now his eyes laser-locked on the paused video where Pia’s polished finger tapped the frozen moment of truth.

“You’re kidding,” he said, leaning forward so quickly that his AirPod fell out. “That’s a physical hand-off. The USB was just misdirection. Holy hell, you’re good.”

Pia didn’t blink. “I’m right.”

On screen, hoodie-guy palmed a fan of small clear card sleeves under the table to a lanky teen in a Monash hoodie, who slid him a folded wad of notes with the speed of a mongoose. The interaction lasted all of five seconds. No handshake. No nod. Pure transactional ballet.

Alex rewound it, then wound it forward again, frame by frame. “Okay, yeah. Those are definitely trading game cards. You can tell by the protective sleeves. And the way the buyer checks the corners before he pockets them? That’s pure collector twitch. That’s value.”

Pia leant back, eyes narrowing. “So, not game mods. Not cheat codes. Physical inventory. What kind of cards are worth folding money like that? Pokémon?”

Alex snorted. “Pokémon, definitely. Some of the first editions are worth more than a car. But there’s more.” He began listing on his fingers like an excitable professor.

“Magic: The Gathering. Still massive. Some Black Lotuses are worth tens of thousands, especially if they’re Alpha prints. Yu-Gi-Oh, especially rare Japanese prints or misprints. Like super rare postage stamps. Digimon’s back. Weirdly. Also… MetaZoo. Flesh and Blood. One Piece. Even Disney Lorcana, which only just dropped a couple of years ago and has crazy resale prices.”

Pia blinked. “There’s a card game called Flesh and Blood?”

Alex grinned. “It’s not as creepy as it sounds. Actually, it’s relatively wholesome.”

She nodded her head, mulling it over. “Okay, so this guy’s not hacking. He’s selling collectible trading cards. A strictly cash business. The café is a perfect rendezvous. Lots of gamers come here. It makes things look digital so no one thinks to trace the physical flow.”

“Misdirection,” Alex nodded. “Like a stage magician using a pigeon to hide a rabbit.” He frowned, suddenly serious. “But what does it mean?”

Pia exhaled slowly, her eyes closed as she thought. “I don’t know yet. But it’s interesting.” She flipped open her notebook and scribbled timestamps, noting the buyer’s description, even their preferred brand of trainer. “We need to trace the buyer,” she said. “Forget Mr Hoodie for now. He’s clever. Slippery. But buyers? They’re careless. They always come back. They make patterns which are easy to follow.”

Alex stared at her with open admiration. “You’re not just good,” he whispered. “You’re, like, Interpol-good.”

Pia did a double take. "How did you know I worked for Interpol, Alex?" She shook her head. "I didn't say that. Now, about these cards. Do people really pay that much money for a game card? I find it hard to believe, even though I've just seen it. But what if they were counterfeit? There's a lot of physical security built into official coins and banknotes, and they get copied. How about a rare Pokémon card?"

Alex froze, mid-scroll on a local Discord server, and looked up at her, eyes suddenly wide. “Wait, you actually worked for Interpol?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You just asked how I knew you worked for… ” He stopped himself. “Okay. Yeah. Cool. Definitely not worth dying for. Please don’t make me disappear.”

Pia smiled thinly and tapped the screen, refocusing the conversation. “Look, Alex. The cards. You’re my expert consultant on them.”

Alex exhaled in relief, then shifted back into geek-mode. “Right. Yes. People absolutely pay real money for these things. We’re talking life savings, insurance claims, startup capital. That kind of money.”

He swivelled his laptop toward her and pulled up a recently sold listing.

“Here, Pokémon Illustrator Pikachu, 1998 promo. Mint grade. Sold for $5.2 million last year.”

Pia blinked. “That card must have been designed before my father smiled a special let’s have another baby smile at my mother. I’ve never felt so old.”

“Same,” Alex agreed. “Some Magic: The Gathering cards have legit been used as down payments on houses. And the market’s got weirder since COVID, more scarcity, more obsession, and a lot more fraud.”

She leaned into the hypothesis. “That’s what I’m thinking. Counterfeits. If someone’s printing solid fakes, they need a place to fence them, somewhere loud and anonymous, like a gamer café.”

Alex nodded, eyes gleaming. “Exactly. The visual fidelity on a high-end printer can get crazy good. And for ultra-rare cards, just the sleeve is enough to make people hesitate to examine them too closely. If the seller’s charming enough, they could pass through a dozen hands before someone even suspects.”

“But they’d need good quality fake provenance too, wouldn't they?” Pia asked. “Something to make it look legit.”

“Oh yeah,” he said. “You can forge PSA grades, those are the numeric condition ratings, or create fake grading labels. Some people even steal serial numbers off legit listings to mask the fakes. There’s a whole subculture around spotting them. It’s wild.”

She fingertip massaged her temples, then looked back at the buyer on the footage. “If we can identify this kid, and he tries to resell that card, or gets caught with a fake, he could lead us back to hoodie-boy and from him we might work our way to the up-stream supplier.”

Alex leaned back. “Viola, if you were still not working for Interpol, I’d totally want to join your team.”

Pia pulled her white bucket hat right down over her eyes. "I'm too old for this. And I'm only 27. The prime of my life." She rallied with a deep draw of her now rather de-iced and therefore watery coffee. "Okay, Alex. I accept your valuations even if I think the whole thing is flying rodent gak crazy. Which, given that people trade high value wine, you're supposed to drink it, and it goes off eventually if you don't…” She paused, remembering another weird crime. “You know, I read about a whisky counterfeiting scandal last year. Actually I'm sure you're right." She gathered her stuff. "I need to regroup and think about what to do. Don't tell anyone about this, Alex. And thank you. Let me know what game you want next. Or another doll. Just message me."

The odd pair slipped out of the gamer café and went their separate ways. Outside, the light had shifted into that honey colour afternoon glow that made even dodgy streets look cinematic.

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 45: Bottle Shop Dilemma

Pia emerged from the pixellated haze of FBI Gaming City feeling like she'd been swimming in teenage hormones and overpriced plastic. Her bucket hat shaded her eyes, but it couldn’t shield her from an odd feeling creeping over her.

*This used to be easier,* she thought. *Or maybe I used to care less. Or maybe… I’m supposed to have put all this behind me. Given up detecting. And just be me, a girl in the world. Like I told Vic.*

Alex offered a hopeful wave, still bouncing with endorphins and caffeinated chocolate, before he peeled off toward the tram stop, phone already out, probably opening a dozen subreddits to chase their Monash hoodie ghost.

Pia stood there a moment longer, laptop bag slung under one arm, the ghosts of counterfeit Pikachus flickering behind her eyes.

*I need to regroup,* she thought again. *I need gin.*

She glanced at her watch. Vic would bring limes and, Goddess help her, probably foil bags of frozen margarita mix because he’d never been properly trained. Still, he’d show up. That was the thing about Vic. He wasn’t perfect, but he was reliable. And no-one actually was perfect. She start to walk, each step bringing her closer to the Jacaranda breeze of home, and hopefully an evening with people who didn’t need to understand counterfeit markets or legacy crime rings.

*I’m in the prime of my life, and I need a proper cocktail.*

Pia flagged down a cab, her transit energy temporarily drained by the weirded out afternoon with Alex and his game card revelations. "I wonder how Vic's day has been?"

Vic had left the office earlier than usual, head full of Olivia’s half-warning/half-plea, Arun’s emoji-riddled messages, and one particularly aggressive fantasy where he quit his job mid-sprint and dived into a surfboard repair apprenticeship. Instead, he’d compromised with a stop at the bottle shop. He stared at the shelf of margarita mixers like it had personally insulted him.

*Frozen or classic? She didn’t specify. Do people still drink them frozen? She said, "Bring margaritas". Was that a command or a dare?*

Eventually he picked up a bottle of proper triple sec, a bag of limes, and a decent blanco tequila. *Classic it is,* he decided, hoping he wasn’t wrong.

Now he was cruising through the side streets of Bondi Junction, windows open, his hair fluttering in the wind. The old Audi’s transmission groaned slightly every time it shifted, and the cabin smelt faintly of hot engine and spilled chips, but Pia had ridden in it without complaint about the fragrance. Though the mechanical noise ticked her off quite badly. And she refused to put anything on the floor except her feet.

His phone was tucked in the cupholder. He glanced down at the screen -- no messages -- and felt a little flicker of pre-evening nerves. Pia usually sent him selfies quite often. Her running in silent mode wasn’t necessarily a good sign. It might indicate she had found another dubious quest to pursue.

The cab dropped Pia outside her condo as the sun leant toward the horizon, painting everything in dusty orange. She stepped out in her too-cool-for-school outfit, bucket hat and all, and stood for a moment in the street, taking in the ambiance.

She trotted up to her unit, dropped her bags, and unlaced her Louboutin trainers with a sigh. The flat felt almost too still. Her energy from earlier, generated by her successful video trawl, and the formation of the card theory, had fizzled into a strange kind of tiredness. She stripped off her geek disguise and put on a simple swing minidress, sleeveless, with a boat neck, in red linen. It left her scars in view, but Pia no longer cared what people might think. They were part of her for good or ill. She thought about Vic as she redid her makeup.

The doorbell rang.

"Hello, Bae! How was your day? That's actual poetry because it rhymed," Pia grinned, as she clocked Vic's bag of bottles and ushered him into the flat. It was nearly 18:30. "You're right on time because I accepted an invitation from Renée for 18:00. Don't unpack, just bring the whole bag. I'll grab my melons. Lemons. Oranges. Where are the limes? Did you get the limes?” Pia hustled Vic because actually even French punctuality had a limit.

Vic blinked at Pia’s flurry of words and movement, bag still in his arms, unsure if she’d just called him a fruit, or professed deep longing.

“Wait, we’re, okay. Yes. Melons. Lemons. Limes. I got them.”

He followed her around the flat as she darted between kitchen and hallway like a cartoon whirlwind with a swirling skirt. It smelled like clean laundry and citrus and her, and even in the rush, Vic felt a tingle of domestic warmth.

He held up the bag. “I got the good stuff. No slush, promise. Triple sec, tequila, limes.”

“Perfect. You passed the first test,” she said, snatching up her keys and checking her eyeliner in the mirror with a squint. “Renée expects glamour. Or chaos. Ideally both.”

Vic ran a hand through his hair and looked down at his outfit. “I’m glam-adjacent. Chaos-ready.”

The buzzer echoed once and the door flew open with suspicious immediacy, as if Renée had been poised in wait like a hostess panther. “Bonsoir, mes amours,” she purred. She was dressed in a flowing navy silk maxi dress and a pair of absurdly high clogs that somehow made her seem taller than Vic. Her earrings looked like small chandeliers.

Renée checked Pia first, approved her dress with a nod, then landed on Vic with a sly up-and-down sweep. She clocked the bottle bag. “Ah, Victor,” she said, purring his name. “Bearing offerings. You are well-trained.”

“I live in fear,” he said politely.

Renée stepped back, letting them in with the grace of a high priestess. The scent of saffron and garlic wafted down the hallway. Edith Piaf floated from the stereo.

The front room glowed with candlelight and quiet mischief. Two guests were perched on low stools with tall glasses, Camille, draped in vintage denim and velvet, and a man Pia didn’t recognise, young and nervous-looking, with excellent cheekbones and a sage green blazer. His looks screamed intern at a film studio.

"Camille!" Pia smiled with genuine pleasure, stepped forward, and gave the French woman 'la bise'. "Quelle tenue tu portes ! Jalouse, moi." Turning to the young possible auteur. "Bonsoir, monsieur. Olympe.” She touched her heart. “Ceci c'est mon copain, Victor." It was obvious who she meant.

Camille rose with a liquid ease, her velvet flaring slightly as she returned Pia’s double kiss with perfect accuracy, just the barest brush of cheek and a whisper of perfume.

“Ma chère,” she said, stepping back with a warm little smirk, “Tu dis que tu es jalouse, mais je t'ai vue en petite robe noire, et maintenant, voila ton tonnerre rouge.” She winked at Vic. “I see you survived another day in tech hell. Pia didn’t burn your building down?”

“Not today,” Vic replied, setting the bottle bag gently on the sideboard and catching Pia’s eye.

The young man with the film-student cheekbones had scrambled to his feet as Pia turned her attention toward him. He was holding a wine glass by the stem like it was his first time doing so.

“Bonsoir,” he said, immediately losing the plot. “I mean, bonsoir, mademoiselle. Enchanté… de vous… I’m, uh, Timothy.” His accent was perfect Sydney: bright, nervy, eager.

Camille suppressed a laugh behind her glass. “He’s one of my students,” she explained. “From my screenwriting workshop. He wrote a noir about pigeons and grief. It nearly broke my brain.”

Timothy ran a hooked finger round his collar, visibly mortified. “It’s a short film,” he said quickly, “and the pigeons aren’t literal.”

“Too late,” Camille said. “Olympe will now imagine nothing but literal pigeons.”

Pia, delighted, gave Timothy a warm smile as Vic stepped forward to shake the poor boy’s hand with friendly ease.

“Olympe’s not as scary as she looks, mate,” Vic said. “She’s worse.”

Renée, from the kitchen pass-through, called out, “Victor, darling, there is tequila and triple sec. Make us something absolutely sinful to drink.”

Vic gave Pia a look of mock accusation. “This was a trap.”

“I told you Renée expects glam and chaos,” she smiled back.

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 46: Crimes against Gastronomy

"Timothy? I bet everyone calls you Timmo." Pia looked the boy up and down. "If you're a native son. I'm from the UK. And France. Where do you come from?"

Timothy flushed a bit deeper under Pia’s gaze, shifting from foot to foot like a man standing in a moving tram.

“Uh, yeah,” he said with a nervous chuckle, “people do call me Timmo. My uncle still calls me ‘Tiny Tim’ though, which is traumatising, so Timmo’s not bad in comparison.”

“Timmo’s nice,” Pia said, in her ringing Pom accent. “I like it.”

Camille rolled her eyes fondly and refilled her glass with the poise of a woman used to watching boys flail.

“Yeah so I grew up in Ryde,” Timmo went on, “but I’m living in Marrickville now. Share house. Weird housemates. One of them runs a kombucha side hustle and keeps fermenting things in the laundry.”

“That’s Sydney,” Vic said, slicing a lime with surgical focus. “You’re not a real local until someone’s pickling something next to your underpants.”

Timmo nodded, grateful for the lifeline.

"Kombucha is bs," Pia seethed, her face suddenly a demon mask. "The real thing from Japan is absolutely nothing to do with that fizzy stuff in supermarkets. Which frankly is just a low key version of alcopops. Which themselves are basically flavoured cider. I mean the hard stuff. British. Or Swedish. Kopparberg. Maybe with cheap vodka added."

It was completely unclear where this outburst had come from. Probably the mental strain of the last few weeks, involving Vic's corporate peril, which Pia had precipitated, and now her secret discovery of a counterfeit Pokemon card smuggling ring.

"And don't get me started on Katsu Curry!" she went on.

The room froze for a millisecond, the time required for every person present to silently question whether Pia had just declared war on kombucha and the global curry industry.

Camille raised her eyebrows slowly, as if watching a small, controlled detonation go off in an art gallery.

Renée didn’t miss a beat. She plucked a fig from the tray and dropped it into her mouth, chewing with the aplomb of a woman who’d survived a dinner party where three people confessed to the same affair at the same time.

Timmo looked at Pia like she’d kicked over a sacred bonsai.

“Kombucha is a kind of tea made with seaweed,” Pia explained. “Kombu is the name of the seaweed and cha means tea. I don’t know how the name got stolen and attached to that fizzy drink. Which I have never tasted! I strongly suspect it has something to do with the Russians.”

She was pacing up and down.

“The same with katsu curry. Katsu means cut or cutlet. Ton means pig. Tonkatsu means a pork cutlet. Usually coated in breadcrumbs and served deep fried, often with a curry sauce, hence katsu curry. But nowadays literally everything vaguely Japanese and curry adjacent gets badged up as katsu. I’ve got pictures. Proper clues! I’ll show you.”

Pia began to swipe through photos on her phone, evidence she had obsessively gathered of this crime against gastronomy; Chicken katsu curry, katsu curry flavour crisps, tinned katsu sauce, and katsu curry instant noodles, zipped under her accusing thumb, either packages on supermarket shelves, or menu items in restaurants.

“Just look at this! A Detroit deep pan pinsa pizza with katsu curry chicken topping!!! Ma déese! Quel espèce de merde. Donc, un bordel!”

Every image had been carefully composed, focussed, filtered for exposure and white balance, and cropped to a standard square format, as if ready for a fashion spread.

Timmo’s mouth sagged open.

Camille turned to him, utterly composed. “She’s French and British. This is normal.”

Timmo, his face a study in confused reverence, whispered, “Do you, er, do you have a food podcast?”

Vic appeared, brandishing a cocktail shaker and wearing a look of amused caution. “Emergency margarita deployment incoming. Someone hold Pia’s hat.”

Renée lifted a delicate coupe glass as if summoning a butler. “Merci, Victor. I hope you made it heavy on the tequila. I feel a salon topic rising like an approaching thunderstorm.”

Camille leant forward, eyes glinting. “Alright then. Let’s do it. What’s a truly unforgivable culinary crime?”

Pia replied without missing a beat, “Scrambled eggs. They’re nothing but a badly screwed up omelette. Prove me wrong.”

Vic handed her a drink and saluted. “There’s no answer to that. Long live the queen.”

Pia sat down, sipping her drink in silence, her sharp eyes softening.

Renée, who never let a perfect beat go to waste, turned with feline grace to Camille. “Chérie, I believe the floor is yours.”

Camille looked over the rim of her wine glass and smiled like a woman about to toss a lit match into a pool of inflammable liquid.

“That’s food dismissed,” she said, stretching out her legs, “Let me tell you something about parfum. It is the time my brother almost married a woman because he mistook a bottle of Chanel No. 5 for emotional compatibility.”

Timmo blinked. “Wait… what?”

“It was the scent,” Camille said, as if this were self-explanatory. “She wore it constantly. You could smell her before you saw her. He met her at a gallery. She was explaining postmodernism badly to a man who looked like an extra from Wall Street. My brother thought she was luminous. Mysterious. A little tragic.”

Vic had stopped moving behind the bar, fully drawn in. Pia didn’t move, just watched Camille with a faint smile, like a one cat watching another take over the garden wall.

“She had a voice like cigarette smoke,” Camille continued. “They dated for six weeks. He said he felt like he was in a perfume ad. Rain-slick streets. Champagne. Meaningful eye contact in shop windows. But she never really said anything. She didn’t have to. She had the scent.”

Renée chuckled. “What happened?”

Camille shrugged. “The perfume ran out. It turns out she’d borrowed it from a flatmate for a first date and kept secretly using it. When she finally bought her own bottle, she chose something else. He kissed her goodnight and said, ‘You feel different.’ They broke up two days later.”

A hush fell over the room. Even Timmo didn’t breathe.

“She’s a model now,” Camille added, sipping again. “My brother lives with a maths teacher and drives a Subaru. He says it was the best breakup of his life.”

Renée leant back, thoroughly delighted. “So many men confuse scent with longing.”

“Or branding,” Camille murmured. “He loved the idea of her. He just didn’t check for substance.”

Pia gulped her Margarita. The candles flickered. Vic caught her eye across the room.

Pia began to cry. "That's so sad. Camille, you are a poetess but please don't tell us more unhappy verses. Perfume is important. The secret of Chanel no.5 is the formaldehyde process. Or something.” She drained her glass and handed it back to Vic.

“Perfume is sacred!” she went on. “I once found a boy in my room late at night. I pointed my pistol at him, but I didn't shoot him, because he was standing in front of the dressing table. If the bullet had gone through his chest, it might have hit my bottle of Creed Erolfa."

They wondered if Olympe really had a pistol, or if this was just some story she had made up for the sake of drama. But ‘in vino, veritas’. What happened to that boy?

"Anyway, I threw him out of the window into the snow, and the next time I visited Paris I bought a half litre bottle."

The room held its breath, caught somewhere between stunned amusement and something deeper.

Camille set down her glass with a slow, deliberate clink, eyes scanning Pia’s tear-damp lashes with a curious tenderness. “Mon dieu,” she said softly. “You really are a novel in heels.”

Renée, standing near the stereo, gave a little sigh that was half affection, half quiet alarm. “Darling, you can’t just throw someone out of a window and then pivot to perfume shopping. Even in Paris.”

“It was only the first floor,” Pia replied, brushing her cheek with the back of her hand like it was an afterthought. “And I didn’t actually shoot him.”

Vic had already moved. Not dramatically, he just left the cocktail shaker on the sideboard and crossed to her in a few quiet steps, placing a gentle hand on her back, warm and steady through her dress. He didn’t say anything.

She didn’t look up at him. But she didn’t pull away.

Timmo glanced between Camille and Renée like someone desperately scanning for subtitles. “Wait, was this a dream? Is this one of those symbolic stories or…?”

“She’s telling the truth,” Camille said quietly, not looking away from Pia. “The scene was real.”

There was a hush.

Renée laughed gently, moving to pour Pia another drink. “Eh bon. Then we toast. To Creed Erolfa. To sacred perfume. And to the women who make it home with their bottles intact.”

Everyone raised their glasses, even Timmo, who still looked faintly traumatised.

Vic bent his head slightly, close enough that Pia could feel his breath at her temple.

“You okay?” he murmured.

Pia gave the tiniest nod.

“Balcony,” she said softly.

Pia leant out carefully. It was only the first floor, so she felt safe enough to enjoy the crisp mid-winter night air. The traffic on the M1 was a distant hum, partially masked by Blue Note jazz from Renée's sound system. She took another mouthful of her fresh drink.

"I'm sorry, Vic. I'm in a mood. It was a first floor window. He fell into a hedge and no harm was done. We even became friends later, believe it or not. You know how much I like Erolfa. I wear it nearly every day."

She drank again.

"The gun had a laser sight. You know, the kind of green beam. It's very effective for intimidating people."

The sky was glowing with reflected city light.

"Will you hold me?"

Vic didn’t answer straight away. Instead, he stepped in behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist with the kind of calm that said I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. His cheek came to rest just below her ear, and for a moment they stood like that, her braced against the balustrade, him folded on to her back like a windbreaker against the cold.

She felt the sigh rise through him before she heard it.

“I’m not worried about the gun,” he murmured. “Or the hedge. Or the Erolfa. Well, maybe a little about the Erolfa. That stuff’s expensive.”

Pia gave a soft huff of laughter, warm and close.

“I’m just worried about you,” he added. “Because you’re brilliant and sharp and full of stories like sci-fi fairy tales scratched out on a stucco wall with a piece of broken glass. Only they're true.”

He pressed a kiss, his lips soft against her cheek.

“And you pretend they don’t hurt anymore.” He hugged her. “You don’t have to hold it all on your own.”

The western sky had gone the indigo it always did in winter, slashed across with coral-pink clouds like someone had tried to paint dusk and left the job half-done. There came a jet airliner just out of the airport, its navigation lights a red/green blink in the heavens. Another kind of laser.

Vic held her a little tighter.

“I’ve got you.”

For a long moment, they stayed just like that. No talking. Pia leant back into Vic's embrace, her body relaxing in the compass of his strong arms. She held his hands against her belly, her female core which held the power of new life.

"Another of my faults is that sometimes I drink more than I ought to. I'll switch to fruit juice now, Vic. Let's go back to the party. I have to make things up to poor Timmo. I may flirt with him a little. Don't get jealous, it means nothing. Actually, you can get jealous if you want, then you can reclaim me for yours later."

She drew his hand up over her breast and gave it a little squeeze. She turned around and kissed Vic, then took his hand to lead him back inside.

Vic met her kiss without hesitation, his lips warm, steady, tasting faintly of lime and sea salt. When she pulled back, her eyes had a golden glint that gave him a quiet ache. He squeezed her hand.

“You can flirt with Timmo,” he said, his voice low and amused. “But only if I get to scare him slightly when I top up his drink.”

Pia smiled and stepped through the doorway, pulling Vic back into the glow and murmur of the salon.

The mood had softened to a warm buzz. Camille was telling a story that involved stray goats, an expired visa, and a Norwegian man named Lars, while Renée refilled glasses with practised elegance. The jazz had shifted to something smoky and slow with a crooning baritone sax in it.

Timmo looked up when Pia re-entered, his posture perking just enough to betray that he was still, against all sense, a little in awe of her.

Pia moved with renewed grace now, softer, looser, buoyed by Vic’s presence behind her. Vic smiled as he followed her, knowing she was a storm sometimes, but he was the one she would circle back to. The one she trusted to stand in the wind with her, and anchor her.

Whatever tonight became, stories, jokes, flirtations, he knew what came next. He’d be the one to hold her coat when she got too warm. He’d be the one to walk her home. He’d be the one she curled up against, beneath the scent of salt and Erolfa.

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 47: The Gernsback Continuum

Pia left the warmth of Vic's arms and stepped back inside. Everyone pretended not to notice. She smiled and headed to the bathroom to check her make-up. She looked at herself in the mirror, thinking about her intention to flirt with Timmo.

*It’s a stupid idea. That's how I’ve got myself into trouble more than once. It worked when I was a hostess in Tokyo because the Japanese know the rules of the game. It doesn't always work with western guys. Unless they're gay.*

So Pia shelved the plan, grabbed a glass of iced orange juice, and approached her target casually.

"Tell me more about your film noir, Timmo. I like film noir. Don't leave out the pigeons. I'm fully prepared to believe in imaginary pigeons. After all, imaginary things are real, they simply lack the property of existence."

Timmo played with his half-empty wine glass, blinking like he wasn’t sure he’d heard Pia correctly, but he rallied with the eager spark of a student whose eccentric professor had asked a question way outside the textbook.

“Oh, um, yeah. Okay. So it’s called Bird in the Frame. That’s the working title. It’s set in an unnamed city, kind of art deco and crumbling, and the main character is a private detective who’s just been released from a psychiatric hospital. He’s trying to solve a case that he doesn’t remember taking.”

He gestured vaguely, like the idea was hovering above the tray of canapés on the kitchen peninsula. “The pigeons started as a visual motif. He sees them everywhere. Rooftops, power lines, his fire escape. But then they became, like… A stand-in for guilt. Or buried memory. Or surveillance, depending on how you want to read it. My professor said they were a bit too symbolic, but Camille said I should double down.”

From the sofa, Camille called out dryly, “You’re welcome.”

Timmo glanced back at Pia, sheepish and sincere. “The thing is, I never actually say if the pigeons are real. Or if he ever left the hospital. It’s all kind of ambiguous. Dreamlike. Which is probably me covering for plot holes, but, you know, intentional ambiguity.”

He paused, and looked directly into Pia’s eyes for the first time since the pigeon confession.

“I think I like stories where people believe in things that no one else can see.”

"No-one can see the wind, but we all believe in it. Or love. Or Goddess,” Pia pointed out. “Though of course that's not the same category of being. I’m being stupidly glib. You mean like the story with the invisible giant white rabbit. Harvey. I'm genuinely interested in your film, Timmo. You should shoot in South Beach, Miami. The art deco district. It's part of the Gernsback Continuum."

Timmo brightened like a dimmer lamp turned up to full, grateful, surprised, and maybe just a bit flustered by being taken seriously.

“Yes! Harvey, exactly. That’s the vibe. That kind of off-centre viewpoint where you’re not sure if the protagonist is delusional or actually seeing a greater reality than the rest of us. Donnie Darko is kind of a dark version.”

He took a gulp of wine, too fast, and coughed slightly before recovering with a sheepish grin.

“South Beach would be perfect. That pastel rot, you know? Where everything looks beautiful until you realise it’s kind of decaying underneath. I actually wrote a scene where the detective dreams about the city melting into the ocean, and the pigeons float instead of fly.” He paused, suddenly aware he was rambling. But Pia’s eyes held him, steady and unmocking.

“Miami is sinking,” she said, “Or rather the seas are rising. It comes to the same thing, if you live on the tide-line. Those Art Deco streets will be under water soon, and then no more Gernsback city. No Streamline Moderne.”

“I didn’t know anyone still talked about the Gernsback Continuum,” Timmo added, a little softer. “That’s wild. My best friend at film school said it was too niche, like trying to sell an album on cassette. But I think there’s something beautiful in seeing the future through the ruins of a future someone else already imagined.”

He looked at Pia again, more fully now.

“Thank you. For, for not laughing.”

Pia smiled sweetly. Timmo was too cute, so young.

*He hasn't seen the fuccing gak I have.* she thought. *It's soothing, actually. A lot of what I did was to help defend that kind of innocence, in a general way. It’s nice to think I made a bit of a difference.*

"People do still sell albums on cassette, Timmo,” Pia told him. “It’s got trendy again, like vinyl records and rollfilm cameras. Do you know there are pigeons all over London? That’s where I’m from, originally. We call them flying rats because they’re dirty grey and crap on your car and it damages the paint. But if you go to Faringdon, that's a small town near Oxford,” she blithely assumed he would know the geography of the UK, “The pigeons there are different colours, like pink or powder blue."

Timmo blinked, the image slotting into his head like a postcard with a soundtrack. “Pink and powder blue? That’s unreal. Like, almost magical realism but... feathery.”

He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees now, totally drawn in.

“Do you think they’re dyed? Or just weirdly evolved? I mean, if I saw that in a film I’d think it was a metaphor. Like, something about the ordinary becoming uncanny once you leave the city. London pigeons are grime and noise, but Faringdon pigeons, those are memory pigeons. Dream pigeons.”

He grinned suddenly, looking a little self-conscious. “Sorry. I do that. Get carried away. But I love that you just dropped a setting into my head. I can see it.” There was a quiet moment then, not awkward, but soft. Grateful.

“I don’t know what you do, Olympe,” he said carefully, “but you’ve got the soul of a story-teller. Or a spy. Possibly both.”

Pia could have explained that the local lord had the idea of dyeing the pigeons, basically because he was, let's say rather eccentric. It was more fun to let Timmo speculate, though. She pulled her smartphone out and thumbed up a photo. It showed three Bunny Girls, one in electric blue, one in pale pink, and the tallest in an almost black, navy blue costume. The full works. Bunny ears and high heel shoes in matching colours. The tall one had stuck her tongue out and was winking through a sideways V for Victory sign.

"Tell us a story about this."

Timmo took her phone like someone being handed a clue in a murder mystery. He blinked at the photo, three women in vibrant Bunny Girl costumes, posed mid-laugh, breasts popping, legs like sculpture, energy dialled to eleven. One pale pink, one navy, one electric blue.

His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

“I, okay. Wow! This is, this is pure aesthetic chaos.”

He angled the phone to look at the screen from different directions as if it might reveal more secrets.

“Okay. Here’s what I see,” he began, slipping into storyteller rhythm with theatrical gusto. “These three aren’t just nightclub hostesses. They’re undercover agents from rival intelligence agencies, Russian, British, and North Korean, but none of them know who the others really are.”

He pointed to the pink one. “She’s the British one. Codename: Velvet Mirage. Expert in seduction, disguise, and trivia about regional cheeses. She joined MI6 by accident after breaking into their London headquarters looking for a chocolate vending machine.”

Then the one in navy. “She’s the Russian. Codename: Obsidian Echo. Former ballerina turned codebreaker. She once seduced an arms dealer using only eyebrow gestures and a broken wristwatch.”

Finally, the blue. “North Korean. Codename: Azure Lament. Defected while wearing heels in a snowstorm. Specialises in psychological warfare and mixology. Never speaks, but always knows the truth.”

He handed the phone back with a flourish.

“They’re all at the same club tonight because their respective agencies sent them to retrieve a vital flash drive that’s hidden in a glitter bomb cake.”

Timmo leaned back, completely serious now.

“And none of them are ready for the fourth Bunny Girl. The one who’s already stolen it.”

He gave Pia a sly grin. “She wears red.”

"That's brilliant!” Pia exclaimed enthusiastically. “How do you think so fast, Timmo? If you can get that down to an elevator pitch you could get a fat deal with Netflix."

She put the phone away before anyone might notice that the midnight blue Bunny was actually her. She wore long auburn hair in the picture -- it was a wig to conceal a digital wire unit -- and bigger looking breasts than Pia had tonight. The right bra could do amazing things for a girl.

"Camille, will you be sad if your favourite student dumps post-structuralism in favour of a dash for cash?"

Camille, who had been sipping her wine with the air of a satisfied mother cat watching her kittens pounce on metaphorical mice, raised one elegant brow.

“Mon trésor,” she said, swirling her glass lazily, “if he sells out to Netflix and keeps the pigeons, I’ll be proud forever.”

She turned to Timmo and fixed him with a theatrical look of betrayal. “But if you cut the pigeons, especially the powder blue ones, I will haunt your rewrites.”

Timmo, still buoyed by the rush of Pia’s praise and the sparkle of his own absurd pitch, gave a solemn little bow. “No pigeons, no peace. I swear.”

Camille nodded, satisfied. “Good. Now all you need is a working title, a treatment, and enough hubris to survive a development meeting.”

From the corner, Renée called over dryly, “Don’t forget the emotional breakdown over notes from a producer who thinks character arcs are ‘a bit depressing.’”

“Or the feedback form that says ‘Can the pigeons be owls? Owls test better in Denmark,’” Camille added with a grimace of experience.

Everyone laughed, and even Timmo chuckled, with real delight.

Pia watched it all with a little private smile, her secret safe; the glittering memory of mikes in her pearl earrings, and a wire unit taped to the back of her head.

"Character arcs are depressing, though,” she said. “So earnest, that die-cut way the Americans stamp the same plot out of so many different stories. The hero’s journey. The road through danger to redemption. Everything done by the numbers. Real life is messier. I should know. I suppose fiction has to make sense."

Camille turned toward her slowly, smiling like a woman who had turned over a playing card and found it was exactly the one she wanted.

“Et voilà,” she said, raising her glass again. “Now there’s your salon theme. Real life versus the neat little fictions we spoon-feed the masses.”

Timmo looked like he wanted to take notes but was scared it would break the spell.

“Character arcs are comforting,” Renée murmured, crossing her legs with languid elegance. “They’re scaffolding for chaos. You survive heartbreak better when you believe it has structure. A beginning, a middle, and catharsis.”

“But real people don’t always get catharsis,” Camille countered, gesturing lightly toward Pia. “They get PTSD, second marriages, or overpriced therapy.”

Pia shrugged and sipped her juice. “I didn’t say I don’t like stories. I do like stories. I just don’t trust them.”

That silenced the table for a beat. Not heavy, just thoughtful. Camille tilted her head, eyes soft.

“You sound like someone who used to believe in a perfect ending,” she said. “And maybe still wants to.”

Pia glanced toward Vic without even meaning to, and his eyes met hers from where he’d been quietly polishing a coupe glass. He was smiling. Not the big goofy one. The small, real one.

"These days I read a lot of Japanese manga,” Pia announced. “High school and college romcoms. Like ‘Rent-a-Girlfriend’ and ‘Komi Can’t Communicate.’ Not in the original Japanese, I can't read it well enough. English or French editions. I want them to have a happy ending. There's enough real tragedy in the world. Look at True Crime stories. Which personally I can't stand, but they’re very popular. Maybe people are consoled for their life's problems by seeing that other people have suffered much worse.” She sighed. “Actually, that’s why I used to read history. I’m sorry. I seem to be on a depressive streak tonight."

There was some understanding in the room, soft, unspoken. Recognition rather than pity. Camille leant back and gave Pia a look that was surprisingly gentle, her usual edge wrapped in something warm. “We all get those streaks, ma belle. Winston Churchill had his black dog, I believe. The trick is not to let them dye everything else grey.”

Timmo looked moved. “I read manga too,” he said, a bit shyly. “Kimi ni Todoke, Horimiya, that kind of thing. It’s not just the endings, it’s… how kind people can be to each other. Even when they’re awkward, or broken. It’s like, it makes hope feel ordinary. Like something you could actually reach.”

Pia nodded slowly, more touched than she meant to be. "That's exactly it."

Renée stood and began collecting empty glasses with the subtlety of a seasoned hostess guiding the arc of an evening to its close.

“You’re not on a depressive streak,” she said with her usual velvet briskness. “You’re simply too intelligent to lie to yourself about the state of the world. But darling, le monde est pourri, and still we drink margaritas. This is what separates us from the nihilists.”

Camille laughed softly and raised her glass one last time. “To awkward kindness. To pigeons and perfume and manga and memory.”

Timmo clinked. “And the Bunny Girl in red.”

That made Pia smile, even though her throat tightened a little.

Vic’s hand brushed lightly against her back. “Come on,” he murmured just for her ears. “Let’s get out of here before you start quoting Oyasumi Punpun and break the furniture.”

*This has been quite the evening,* Pia thought. *Some of Timmo's shots landed very close to my position. He didn't even think he was firing live ammo.*

"Thank you, Renée, for such a lovely gathering. I'm very sorry for any offence I've caused. I'm going home happy, though, which is all due to your brilliant guests. Vic included."

Renée accepted Pia’s farewell with a gracious tilt of the head and a kiss to both cheeks, her bracelets chiming softly like wind chimes in a warm breeze.

“Ma chérie, you caused just the right amount of offence. Any less and I’d worry you were unwell.” She gave Vic a slow, fond once-over. “And you, tiens-toi bien. She’s gelignite wrapped in gold foil.”

Vic smiled, his hand warm and steady at the small of Pia’s back. “I’m starting to get that.”

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 48: Plumbing Innuendo

The air was cold now, crisp in that wintery Sydney way that still held the ghost of a warm autumn in its bones. Pia’s heels clicked with quiet purpose. Vic didn’t speak as they walked the few metres home. He just stayed close, his presence quiet and anchoring.

When they reached Pia’s door, she paused with her keys in hand, feeling the buzz of the evening still settling somewhere between her guts and her throat.

“You okay?” Vic asked finally, his voice low.

She turned toward him, seeing the hallway light catch in his eyes. Some of Timmo’s shots had landed close. Really close. Not because he meant to, but because innocence can sometimes be more piercing than intent.

“I’m better,” Pia said softly. “I’m just surprised, sometimes, at how much I hope for things to end well.”

Vic reached for her hand, cradling it rather than holding it. “I want that too,” he said. “For you. For us. Even if it’s messy along the way. Also,” he added, “I will never look at pigeons the same way again.”

That made her give a sharp quick laugh, just once. It felt like a pressure valve releasing. She opened the door.

“If you'd like to come in, there's something I have to show you." She smiled at him with just the corners of her mouth.

Vic didn’t say anything at first. He just looked at her, scrying her mood in the way her smile widened and reached her eyes, which glinted as she ducked her head momentarily, just a centimetre, as if to give him a little nod of encouragement.

“I’d like that,” he said, and stepped inside.

Pia closed the door behind him. The latch clicked with the soft finality of a long day reaching midnight. The flat was dark but familiar, perfumed faintly with lemons and the ghost of Pia’s Creed Erolfa. She didn’t turn on the main lights, just flicked on a couple of standard lamps near the bookcase, casting everything in golden amber and shadows.

Vic stood just inside, his jacket still on, watching her. “You don’t have to show me anything unless you really want to,” he said gently. But he was already listening with his whole body. The way someone does when they know something matters. Whatever this was, she had him. He was there.

Pia activated the sound system and mixed Vic a small Old-fashioned without asking if he wanted it. She drank nothing herself. The music crackled softly to life, a jazz playlist deliberately remastered to sound like old vinyl. Like a record you've played a thousand times because you love it so much. Something moody and mid-paced with a bluesy undercurrent, like heartbreak after dark. Charles Mingus: The Black Saint and the Sinner Lady.

Vic laid his jacket neatly over the back of the sofa and stood by the bookshelf, the Old-fashioned in his hand untouched. Pia went into the spare bedroom to change.

A few minutes later she re-emerged wearing the navy blue Bunny Girl outfit from the photo she had shown Timmo. It still fitted pretty well. She had been a bit plumper in the old days. Not podgy by any means, but Pia had lost some fat and put on muscle in the past four years. It was bad news for her bust, but great for her butt and legs. She struck a pose.

Vic turned and froze. Not in shock. Just that sudden, soul-deep stillness that hits when someone sees something completely unexpected and completely insanely right.

The dark satin gleamed like opals under starlight. The lamplight glowed off the curves of Pia’s hips, the long, confident lines of her legs. The ears stood proud, casting a shadow on the wall behind her. The cuffs, collar and bow tie, the puffball tail, every detail was precise and absurd. And her presence was sculpted now, with more fire. Her sexual charisma boosted by the costume.

She posed. Not for a laugh. Not as a gag. She owned it.

Vic’s mouth parted, but no words came out. He blinked once. Twice. Then let out a long breath.

“Okay,” he said finally, his voice a low rasp. “Wow.”

He stepped forward slowly, setting the glass down without looking, as if afraid that a sudden movement might break the spell.

“That photo,” he murmured, stopping just in front of her, “You were the one in midnight blue.”

Pia did the sideways V sign, winked, and stuck out her tongue at him.

“Of course you were.”

He reached up and gently, reverently, touched the bowtie at her neck. Somehow his fingers were steady.

“Is this what you wanted to show me?”

* Men can be so dense! * Pia thought. Her left eyebrow twitched once, irritably. "I’ve got a dripping tap. I thought you could fix it and save me the cost of a plumber. Because you’re a man."

Vic stared at her for a full second. Then he laughed. A startled, delighted laugh that bubbled up from his chest like Campari and soda over ice.

“You absolute menace,” he said, shaking his head. “You show up looking like Jessica Rabbit’s lethal cousin and expect me to pick up a spanner?”

He didn’t step back. He didn’t look away. He just leaned in slightly, his voice lower.

“Just so I’m clear, am I meant to fix the tap first, or is this one of those metaphors where the ‘drip’ is emotional vulnerability and the wrench is sex?” He smiled then, slow, crooked, completely smitten.

“I’ll fix your damn tap, Pia. But you better be careful. Keep on pulling moves like this, and you’re going to end up with a man who wants to marry you.” He went past her, with a light touch on her hip, and headed for the bathroom.

“Show me where it leaks, Bunny Girl.”

"The damp patch is not in the bathroom, Vic. Actually I think there may be a blockage that will need rooting. I believe that's the correct technical term."

Vic paused mid-step, one hand on the doorframe, his shoulders tensing ever so slightly, then he turned back, very slowly, eyes narrowed in mock suspicion.

“I see,” he said, his voice deepening just a shade. “We’re doing plumbing innuendo now.”

He stepped toward Pia again, hands casually in his trouser pockets, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was trying not to grin.

“A blockage, you say. Might need… rooting. That’s the technical term, is it?”

He looked her up and down, resplendent in satin and audacity, then tilted his head, eyes shining.

“I’m just a humble automatic car driver with limited wrench experience, Pia. If this is your way of asking for help unclogging a drain, I might need some very… specific instructions.”

He stopped in front of her, close enough to feel the warmth of her skin. Close enough that if Pia breathed a little deeper, the tension might snap like a garter.

“I’m all yours,” he said softly. “Plumbing metaphors and all.”

"Dammit. You had better unzip me, Vic, because I can't reach." Though obviously she could or how would she have zipped herself up? "Be careful because this outfit is tailored specifically for me. When you get to the source of the problem, take special care with protective equipment."

Vic gave a soft, breathless laugh, equal parts aroused and completely overmatched. “You are,” he murmured, “The most dangerous woman I have ever met.”

His hand moved to her back with trembling precision, fingers slipping beneath the line of her collar, down the nape of her neck, to find the zip. It descended slowly, the sound deliciously loud in his focussed sensorium. His other hand rested lightly on her hip, steadying her as the satin loosened.

“Tailored,” he repeated, almost to himself, like it was both a warning and a prayer. “Of course it is. Custom made chaos. Just like you.”

The zip stopped. His fingertips paused there, just brushing the bare skin of the small of her back.

The air shimmered. Their every nerve was alive.

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 49: Unconscious Confessions

Victor stirred only faintly when the mattress shifted. He didn’t open his eyes, didn’t want to, but registered the soft swish of the duvet being drawn aside, then the faint rhythm of bare feet on floorboards. Pia. That warm morning scent of her still lingered on the pilow.

He smiled.

The previous night flickered in his memory like a reflection off a lake: her sudden transformation into navy blue silk and fishnet stockings, her dare-me pose, the laughter that had spiralled into breathless gasps and whispered confessions. ‘Take special care,’ she’d said. He had.

Now there was birdsong. A kettle clicking off as it reached the boil. Faint music from the radio. And Pia talking to herself in that breezy Franglais she sometimes spoke out loud when she forgot someone could hear her.

Vic stretched, his body tired in a good way. He could still feel her hands on his hips, her lips at his neck. He lay back, arm draped behind his head, staring at the ceiling.

*She’s incredible. I’m in deep.*

But something in her mood last night, even in the fun and heat of it, haunted him. That perfume story, her gun, her eyes gone distant, until she cracked a joke to break the tension. He’d promised her that he was in it with her, mess and all. Still true. Still solid. But he knew she hadn’t told him everything. And if she needed time, fine. He wasn’t going anywhere. He just hoped whatever shadow was lurking wouldn’t make her run again.

Pia had a habit of talking to herself in a mixture of English, French, and bits of Japanese when she was alone. Sometimes even if someone was around, if she was concentrating on something else, such as writing a message. Currently she was pottering around the kitchen naked except for white, Brazilian style panties, getting things ready for breakfast.

"Boiled eggs. The sex was great, again. All the good positions. Plenty of kissing... All over. Nearly out of bread. He's so good with his hands. Very valuable skill in a man, oh yes!"

Humming...

"I'll go shopping later. I'll get pregnant so easily, I'm sure, when it's the right time. Toast, butter, Marmite, marmalade. My body wants it. Middle of my cycle. Hormones…”

The fridge huffed opened, then sighed shut again.

“No, sorry, my little ovum. No sperm for you today. One day I'll be ready."

From the bedroom, Vic blinked at the ceiling, nearly slipping back to sleep, until her words drifted in from the kitchen. At first, he thought she was on the phone, then realised the rhythm was too random, the pauses out of sync. Pia was just talking to herself. He smiled.

Then her words filtered in properly.

“Plenty of kissing... He’s so good with his hands… very valuable skill…” He grinned, running a hand down his chest like he might give himself a high five. Then… “I’ll get pregnant so easily… hormones… no sperm for you today…”

He sat bolt upright.

Oh. Okay. That hit different. Not bad. Not scary. But real.

There was something about hearing her voice, casual, unfiltered, lilting through the unit that made the idea feel suddenly… close. Like, not just sex and sleepovers and philosophical chats on balconies, but legacy, new life, a tiny version of her stomping around with a remix of her chaos and beauty.

One day I’ll be ready, she’d said.

He let the words settle in his chest a moment longer, then swung his legs off the bed, rising to his feet. A part of him wanted to joke, make a quip about sperm on strike or joining a union, but something told him not to. This moment had weight. Not heavy, not solemn. But meaningful.

Still, he couldn't resist a little something.

He leaned in the kitchen doorway, eyes drinking in the sight of her in nothing but those teasing little panties and her own sunshine.

"Should I be offended because my best tadpoles got benched without even trying out?" He raised an eyebrow, half-grin tugging at his mouth.

“Eek!” Pia jumped. "Oh! Vic, I didn't hear you come in. Was I talking out loud?" She looked flustered. "What did I say?"

Vic strolled in barefoot, lifting his hands like he’d just walked into a negotiation heavily armed with croissants.

"Hey, hey, I come in peace. Just me and my allegedly benched swimmers." He crossed to her slowly, the grin softening into something fond as he took in her flushed cheeks, messy pixie cut, and the near total lack of clothes.

"You were talking like no one was listening," he said gently, slipping one hand to her waist, his thumb grazing her skin. “Which, to be fair, is my favourite genre of Pia.” He kissed her forehead.

"What did I hear? Mmm…" He pretended to think. “Something about how amazing I am in bed, again, you were really emphatic about that part. That my hands are a national treasure. Also, toast, Marmite, and hormones. And a rather touching farewell to an egg.” He ducked to peer into her eyes, playful but attentive.

“Hey. If that was private, I can pretend I didn’t hear it. But if you want to talk, I mean really talk, I’m here. Even for the bits you think might scare me.” He added, deadpan: “I’ve faced drop bears, remember.”

"Oh no! I was thinking out loud again. Oh no. Go and wash. Breakfast in five minutes." Pia pushed Vic towards the bathroom, half giggling, half embarrassed, her face ablush. "Even I know there aren't any drop bears except in Queensland."

Vic let her steer him with a grin, hands up in mock surrender as he backed toward the bathroom.

“Wow. Kicked out of the kitchen and publicly debunked. You’re ruthless before Marmite.” He paused in the doorway and cocked his head.

“But you’re right. Drop bears are Queensland’s problem. We’ve got Sydney property developers. Much scarier.” He winked. “Five minutes. Don’t burn the toast. Or my reputation.”

He disappeared into the bathroom, humming a Beach Boys riff badly. As he washed, he let the image of her linger; bare skin, naked thoughts, the way she laughed with that little note of please don’t look too hard just underneath.

*She's thinking about kids. Maybe marriage.*

And for the first time in his life, the idea didn’t make his stomach twist, it made his chest feel calm. Like the ocean on a windless morning.

"Do I get coffee too?” he called, “Or do I need to fill in an application form for that?"

A muffled reply, "I always do fresh coffee for breakfast." Pia finished cooking and put the warm plates on the table. "

"Time's up, Vic."

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 50: Marmite Diplomacy

Vic emerged from the shower, damp hair pushed back, wearing only yesterday’s jeans slung low on his hips. He smelled faintly of her expensive shampoo.

He paused at the sight of Pia in nothing but panties, her small breasts and long legs golden in the morning light, her shoulders bare except for the glint of a necklace he hadn’t noticed last night. The breakfast plates were steaming hot.

“Whoa,” he said softly, crossing to the table. “You weren’t kidding. Gourmet-detective eggs and fresh coffee. I’m dating a domestic goddess with a dark past.”

He sat, eyes still on her as he reached for a mug.

“I mean it, though. This? All of this? Feels like something I could get used to.” He sipped, then raised a brow across the table.

“So. Any more internal monologues I should be aware of before we talk about… you know… marmalade versus jam diplomacy?”

Pia evaded the real topic.

"I prefer marmalade for breakfast. People say it's old-fashioned but I like the bitter-sweetness. Like a Negroni. Jam is for teatime. Or honey. We've almost run out of Marmite, Vic. You can have it anytime. I mean you can't because I want it for myself. What I mean is you can have it for breakfast or tea. Only you can't. As I said. I'll order some more from the specialist import shop and then you can have some."

Vic was buttering his toast when she hit him with the Marmite monologue. He froze mid-spread, watching her with growing delight as she danced between generosity and fierce territoriality like a jazz singer defending her solo and offering the mic all at once. He leaned on one elbow, cutlery forgotten.

“Okay, so I’m allowed to want the Marmite. I’m just not allowed to have the Marmite. Unless you order more of the Marmite. Which you will. But maybe I still can’t have it. Because you’re a benevolent tyrant.”

He nodded solemnly, getting ready to butter his toast. “Got it. Marmite rules. Understood. Honestly, it’s sexy how much you care about yeast extract.”

Pia had rattled along in a happy stream of consciousness, pouring coffee, handing Vic the butter and so on, with smiles and shy glances. She shut up for a minute to drink her smoothie, then said quietly, "I'm still not used to having you here for breakfast, actually."

His expression softened. “I’m not used to it either,” he said quietly, eyes on her, warm. “But I really, really like it. Even if I don’t get to taste the Marmite.”

"I tried to make a Marmite Martini once, but it was not a success. I should try it again. I probably just need to experiment more. You can be my guinea pig, Vic."

“Marmite Martini!?” Vic’s eyes widened. “I read somewhere that a Martini can be a weapon. Do I need to get tooled up?”

"I'll buy you a jar for your birthday.” She sipped her coffee. “What's on the work agenda this week, Vic? Now you're out of the woods for the bad thing that happened." Pia spoke as though it wasn’t her who had precipitated the crisis.

Vic groaned dramatically, tipping his head back.

“Ughhh. Don’t jinx it. I’ve only just stopped dreaming about sudden audits and everyone pointing at me like in that scene from Invasion of the Body Snatchers.” But her phrasing, the bad thing, landed with the usual mix of dark humour and underlying weight. He glanced at her, thoughtful, then shrugged lightly.

“I’ve got two catch-up meetings today with department heads I low-key ghosted while trying not to get fired. Then a call with a distributor who may or may not be smuggling NFTs inside novelty fridge magnets, jury’s still out. Also,” he muttered, Sotto Voce, “Olivia hinted that I may be in line for a promotion.” He took another bite of his omelette, chewed, then pointed his fork at her. “You still planning to go through that SD card today? Want help?”

Pia gave Vic a bit of a look. She was wondering about the significance of the potential promotion. But Vic was apparently reticent about it. He had immediately switched to a new subject, so she decided to wait for him to tell her more in his own good time. Instead, she tackled the issue of the CCTV footage head on.

“I think it's best that you keep well clear of the SD card, Vic. I caused you enough trouble with the SPOODER stuff. You’re in the clear for that, fortunately. In fact you might have got out in front, if Olivia’s serious about…” She drank again. “Well. I won’t jinx it by saying it. But if there's anything dodgy in the footage, I'm taking it to the police like a good citizen."

Vic met the stare with a small, sheepish nod.

“Fair. I’ll stay in my lane. Or in my department. Or just… way over here with my Marmite ban and zero criminal charges.”

She relaxed and smiled. "On a more cheerful note, my Jimny is getting delivered this week. For real, this time. Would you like to go for a drive when I get it?"

He smiled back, grateful for the way she pivoted the conversation, like she always knew exactly how much seriousness to let in before the windows needed opening again. Then, Jimny. His eyes lit up.

“Wait, your Jimny? You’re finally getting it?” He looked like a kid who’d just found out the family got a dog. “Absolutely I want to go for a drive. That little beast is going to change your whole vibe. Tiny urban tank with big chaos energy. You’ll be unstoppable.” Then, grinning: “Where are we going? Rooftop noodle bar? The beach? A highway to nowhere with questionable playlists?”

"No rooftop bars, Vic. Unless they are very wide, with high walls so you can’t see the edge. Let's do a seaside drive. By the way, I invited Camille to the beach. No firm plan, but I thought we could get Dan and Kiri along, and their little boy Leo. I lowkey want to scare Camille into the water by threatening her with sharing childcare duties.” She crunched some toast.

Pia finished her breakfast and poured more coffee.

"The thing is, the days are so short, and I'm scared to go out in the early morning or the evening. Surfing in the dark, I mean, Vic. The ocean is so huge and so deep. I think of that abyss below me. I don’t want to get lost out there. So we should make the most of the daylight at the weekend."

Vic gave a mock salute at the rooftop veto. “Copy that. No buildings with gravity risks.” Then her plan for the weekend hit him and his grin grew.

“Camille at the beach? With Dan and Kiri? That’s a sitcom episode waiting to happen. And you threatening her with toddler duty? Ruthless. I love it.” He leaned back in his chair, stretching, still half in disbelief that this was his morning now, fresh coffee, a stunning wahine talking beach days and sunrise fears like it was all normal.

“That’s actually kind of sexist. Assuming the women will look after Leo because we’re women. Perhaps I’ll make you and Dan do it."

"Woah! I can pick up the toddler slack, just try me,” he said, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “But yeah. Let’s chase the light we’ve got. The waves feel different when it starts turning cold. Better, in a way. Wilder. Quieter. I mean less crowded. You want to drive, or shall I? I can be a very respectful passenger. Or, at worst, a great DJ.”

"It's a manual gearbox, Vic, with 4-wheel drive differentials for off-road. I've seen the way you grind your fuccing Audi even though it’s an automatic. Which is supposed to be impossible. You can stick to DJing in my Jimny. I've got to choose a name for her."

Vic pressed a hand to his heart like she’d wounded him.

“Oof. The way I grind my Audi? Babe, that’s slander. He’s a precision instrument, and I drive him like I’m in a heist film, on purpose.” He leaned in, elbows on the table, a smirk on his face. “But fair enough. You’re the pilot. I’ll cue the soundtrack. Start with some retro road trip bangers, end with existential surf jazz. Or just two solid hours of Bowie.”

He sipped his coffee, then added casually, “So… what kind of name are we talking? Cute? Cool? Ironic? Polynesian warrior queen?” Then, with a raised eyebrow. “Or is she like you, seems tiny and adorable until you realise she could absolutely win a car chase and leave emotional damage?”

"You call me tiny?” Pia snorted in derision. “I'm 5 feet 9. I know you're like six feet plus, but if I put on my highest heels, I would be eye to eye with you. Just about. I'll take the adorable bit, though." She smiled. "Anyway, it’s time you were off, because being late is a bad look for you at the moment. I've got lots of things to do today. Drop me a line later."

Vic stood, laughing as he backed toward the door again, grabbing his shirt off a nearby chair.

“Fair correction. Statuesque wahine of chaos, noted. And yes, adorable remains uncontested.” He tugged the shirt on, then came back for a quick kiss, his hand brushing the curve of her jaw because he couldn’t help it. “I’ll message you later. Focus on being brilliant, mysterious, possibly illegal. I’ll focus on not getting fired.”

He paused in the doorway, keys jingling in one hand.

“Tonight. Seaside drive. You, me, and one very lucky Jimny.”

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 51: Beach and Other Plans

Pia sat down to make a To Do list

1. Make a To Do List
2. Invite Camille to beach, find out where she lives
3. Invite Dan and Kiri to beach with Leo
4. Order Marmite
5. Hang up laundry
6. Look at the footage
7. Collect new car!!

She smiled, crossed off the first item, switched on the HiFi system, and searched up a playlist of love songs at low volume, so as not to spoil the call to Camille.

"Allo Camille!” Pia said in French. “Comment ca va?"

Camille’s voice came through crisp and clear, her tone warm, a little amused, and unmistakably Lyonnaise before the words even landed.

«Olympe, ma chérie!» she sang back. «Tu m’appelles avant midi, tu dois vraiment m’aimer. My morning is good. I’m still in bed. The cat is on my shoulder. I’m pretending to be too elegant to move.» There was the soft rustle of sheets and the distant purr of a cat mic-ambushing the call. «And you? Did you sleep well? You sound happy. Tired but relaxed? I imagine that handsome man is involved.» She didn’t wait for an answer. «Tell me everything, but first, why do I feel like you are calling with an agenda? Something mischievous, non?»

"The handsome man has left for the office. I called you because there is a To Do list and you are the second item on it. I would like to fulfil my threat to invite you to the beach. I thought also to ask Vic and a couple of friends, Dan and Kiri. I'll call them next. What do you say? I won't tell you any gossip unless you accept," Pia trilled cheerfully, her happy mood elevating her whole tone of voice.

Camille paused at Pia’s mention of ‘Dan and Kiri,’ her voice sliding into curiosity.

«Hmm? You’re assembling quite the cast. I don’t think I’ve met them yet. Are they as pretty as you? As interesting? And there’re no hidden children in this plan, right? You wouldn’t spring a toddler on me without warning? That feels very… Anglo-Saxon.»

A hot moment passed.

«Quand même, ouais. I’ll come. I’ll bring a hat and a book I shan't read, and my opinions about sunscreen. Just tell me when and where. And now, spill. I want all the tea. Start with the end and work backward.»

"Well, you remember the photo I showed young Timmo and he made up a story about the Bunny Girl spies? The fact is, I was in the photo. I once had a job at a casino in London. And I kept the Bunny costume, which isn’t allowed, but I have a habit of acquiring pieces of portable property lacking proper provenance. So when I got home I gave Vic a drink and quickly changed into the outfit. He was rather surprised. He asked, what did I want with him? I told him I had a leaky tap, and please to fix it for me."

Camille let out a sharp, delighted ha! that made her cat mew in protest.

«Oh mon dieu, Pia! You absolute criminal. You baited him with plumbing metaphors? In a Bunny Girl costume? This is better than fiction. This is Parisian theatre with more legs.» She sighed happily. «And he stayed the night, clearly. So, was it, how does one say, plus que satisfaisant? Or are you only calling me because you broke the tap for real and now you need a new excuse to seduce him?» A pause, then in a more thoughtful, affectionate tone: «You sound radiant. You do. And that makes me glad. He must be good for you.»

"Much better than my Hitachi Magic Wand. It's the rechargeable version. That’s not a slam, they’re actually very good. No power cord to get tangled up in. What did you do with young Timmo after the party, Camille?"

Camille snorted so hard she actually coughed. «Pardon! You can’t just drop your vibrator into conversation like a spoon in a soufflé!» She recovered quickly, though, and her voice purred with approval. «Rechargeable. Modern. Efficient. Like a Swiss army knife for the lonely heart.» She switched gears without missing a beat. «As for young Timmo, don’t worry. I was perfectly well-behaved. I put him in an Uber, gave him career advice, and resisted the urge to corrupt him entirely. Though he did ask if he could send me a script.»

Camille paused, a little wickedly. Pia waited for the denouement.

«Which I assume is code for ‘can we flirt via subtext for the next three months?’ Of course I said yes. So tell me… Do you think he’s in love with you?”

"Who, Timmo?” Pia asked. “I do sometimes have a powerful and immediate effect on men. But I hardly flirted with him at all. I was going to, only I changed my mind because he seemed a sweet boy and I shouldn't be such a tease."

Camille made a soft, theatrical tsk like she was swatting away invisible scandal.

«How noble of you. Sparing the delicate heart of a budding auteur. You should get a medal. Or a limited edition perfume.» But there was warmth in her voice beneath the mischief. «He is sweet, that’s true. And a little bit in awe of you, I think. Though really, who isn’t?» She stretched with a soft rustle of covers. «So. Beach, then? You’ll send the details? And I’ll bring wine, because I suspect the real reason you invited me is that you want me to day-drink with you while pretending we’re supervising a child we didn’t know existed. Thank you for calling, Pia. It’s lovely hearing you sound so… Alive.»

"I'm so glad I've persuaded you, Camille. I mustn't drink wine, though, as I'll be driving. I'll give you a lift. I don't know your address...?"

Camille chuckled.

«Oh là là, you ask so sweetly. Like a spy casually requesting important secrets.»

She rattled off her address, an art deco apartment block in Double Bay, elegant but slightly faded, “With a view of yachts I do not own and neighbours I do not trust. You’ll love it. Very cinematic. A film noir heroine might live here. Though my bathtub has cracked enamel, and my landlady wears mink slippers in July.» She added: «Text me when you’re close, and I’ll come down like a debutante. Don’t be late, I’d hate to keep your man waiting at the beach while you ferry French women across Sydney. And Pia? Bring the Bunny ears. You never know when inspiration might strike.»

"I’ll text you full details later, Camille dear. Au revoir."

«À très bientôt, ma belle.» Camille’s voice was warm, amused, and full of promise. «Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, which leaves you plenty of scope. Ha ha!»

The call ended with a digital click. Pia jotted down Camille’s address before she could forget it, and put a line through item 2. The playlist hummed gently in the background, low brass, lush strings, and a male voice crooning something heartbreakingly sincere. She was alone again, her coffee warm, her list partially crossed off.

Pia ripped through the other items on her list. She fixed up the beach plan for the weekend, texted details to everyone, and ordered two jars of Marmite from the Irish and British Convenience Store. Finally she switched off the music and looked at her computer. It looked right back at her. Pia wasn't intimidated. She tapped it into life, and refreshed her memory of the key points she had got so far.

"The footage is a good clue that something is going on. Alex confirmed it's probably high value game card smuggling, counterfeiting, or money laundering. Maybe all three combined. However, this isn't solid evidence. It wouldn't cut the mustard in court. Hmmm…"

Pia viewed the crucial footage again, thinking how she might use her undercover skills to investigate further, and get real proof. She began to type out the headers of an operation.

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 52: Accessories and Other Weapons

Vic barely survived the morning meetings. Not because he was in any danger. Olivia had vindicated him, and also seemed to value him enough to hint seriously at promotion. He just felt he might die of sheer tedium.

The first session involved three middle-aged account managers arguing about international shipping codes while Vic secretly edited a spreadsheet to look more finished than it was. The second included an iced coffee spill (not his) and a twenty-minute sidebar about ‘physical logistical capability planning’ that made him briefly nostalgic for the manual labour of his student vacations, because it was merely a rambling discussion of different types of packaging materials. Now, back at his desk, Vic was elbow-deep in email triage when his phone buzzed with a text from Pia.

“@Bae: Beach plan locked in for the weekend. You, me, Camille, Dan, Kiri. Bonus: secret child. No rooftop bars. Bring sunscreen.”

He smiled. Another ping.

“Also, two jars of Marmite secured. The good stuff. You’re welcome.”

He grinned wider, thumbed back a reply.

“@Pia: You are a domestic goddess and a soft tyrant. Can’t wait for seaside chaos. I’ll bring virtue and towels.”

After a pause, he added one more message:

“Hope you’re not falling too deep into detective mode today. You said ‘no more jobs.’ Remember? Just a girl in the world, with Marmite and vibes.”

But as he sent it, a flicker of unease passed through him. He remembered that look in her eyes at Renée’s salon. She was thinking again. Beautiful, dangerous thoughts.

Pia typed up the headers of the case: her and Alex's suspicions, the important clues, equipment needs and support personnel she might use for an undercover operation.

*Should I tap Henderson or Jason for help?* she pondered. Jason was her American ex-partner, an outwardly macho but secretly sentimental detective sergeant from Chicago. They had done three big cases together, the last one in Western Australia under Henderson's guidance as Interpol liaison and local controller. Pia's undercover role had been a French backpacker working as a Skimpy Barmaid, listening for the loose lips of tech geeks from a Five Eyes station in the coastal outback, where they monitored Chinese naval movements in the eastern Indian ocean.

Things had gone badly wrong in an unexpected way. Pia was abducted by one of those Mad Max style psychos who roamed the fringes of the Outback, preying on foreign tourists. It was nothing to do with the actual case, just a random chaos element that dropped into life. Jason rescued Pia before she came to serious physical harm but she suffered enough mental trauma to get six months medical leave. After which she resigned from Interpol and went to New York and got herself into different kinds of trouble.

*Probably a bad idea, but I'll make a note anyway. You never know how things will develop.*

She messaged Vic again. "@Bae: Don't forget, mini road trip tonight in my new car! You're going to be shotgun rider and DJ."

Vic’s phone lit up again. He read the message, then tapped out a reply while a grin tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“@Pia: Wouldn’t miss it for anything. Already choosing the playlist. Spoiler alert: there will be Fleetwood Mac. Possibly Dua Lipa. Definitely one song that makes you threaten to throw me out of the Jimny.”

He stared at the screen for a moment longer, then locked it and leaned back in his chair. *She’s making plans,* he thought. *Not just weekend plans. Something else.* Whatever it was, it had an aura of jack moves wrapped in silk and cunning. *I need to be ready,* he told himself. *Just in case.*

When Vic got back to Pia's home, he found her ready to rock. Her core look was a black, sleeveless unitard layered under a black skater skirt, sleek, agile, and low-key flirtatious. Black leather Armelle zip-up ankle boots from La Botte Gardiane, strong, minimalist, slightly intimidating. She pulled on an oversize blue-and-white varsity jacket. A piece borrowed from a past life. The lettering on it was Klingon, part nerd joke, part warning.

For accessories Pia had pale amber night driving glasses, which gave hacker-on-a-stakeout energy, and her black diamond stud earrings. The large, crossbody bag from Launer of London, in camel brown semi-gloss leather, classic silhouette, was understated glam. The make that Queen Elizabeth always carried. The front side had a cleverly repaired stab hole, and the back was lined with hidden Kevlar and mesh armour. Cut-proof strap, naturally.

Her pixie cut was textured to look wind-kissed. She wore minimal makeup, clean skin, matte balm, defined brows and mascara, and nude lipstick. Her signature scent, Creed Erolfa, crisp marine and citrus, hints of Mediterranean coasts and sun-warmed yacht decks, wrapped around Vic as Pia let him in and offered him the use of the bathroom.

Vic stopped cold. “Whoa.”

She looked like she’d walked out of a graphic novel where the femme fatale was the protagonist and everyone else was just playing catch-up. Sleek. Equipped with accessories that probably had backstories. And that jacket, was it Star Wars script? He didn’t even want to know. He did, but he also feared the answer.

“Pia,” he said slowly, setting down his keys, “You look like you’re about to hack the Pentagon and win a drag race on the way there.”

He stepped in closer, hands sliding lightly down her arms, lips brushing her cheek with a smile.

“You smell good enough to get pulled over. You sure I’m allowed in the passenger seat looking like this? Bathroom offer accepted. But I want to know the story behind that jacket. Unless it’s classified.”

He headed toward the bathroom, tossing over his shoulder, “Is that a Kevlar-lined handbag? You do know how to make a man feel safe.”

"I got the jacket off an old friend. You look fine, Vic, just a bit 'tired office worker with an air of finance bro'. In the right type of bar you'd be swarmed by pick-me chicks. You'd regret picking them. They'd always let you drive, so you couldn't drink. But if you want to go drag racing, I can check my wardrobe for some oversize stuff. Or maybe spandex.” She smiled a lop-sided smile. “I don't think it's going to be a good look for you but 'chacun son gout'. I don't judge or kink shame."

Pia stepped towards the spare bedroom, which was somewhat stuffed with her fashionista hoard. Vic poked his head out of the bathroom, laughing the low, wrecked-by-her, chuckle she so often provoked him into.

“‘Tired office worker with an air of finance bro’? Harsh but fair. You forgot mildly over-caffeinated and barely hanging on.” He disappeared again, his voice echoing faintly as he freshened up.

“Also, for the record, I regret almost all my past pick-me decisions. But mostly the ones who would monologue about their skincare routine while stealing fries they said they didn’t want.”

“That’s just girlfriend culture, Vic.” Pia reminded him. “I mean the fries. I never talk to you about my skincare. Which obviously is awesome.” She clammed up and checked her Launer bag as if she was thinking whether she ought to carry her passports and a roll of gold sovereigns for a quick getaway.

By the time Vic emerged, face rinsed and hair smoothed back, he caught sight of her delving into the spare bedroom, the vault, as he privately called it. A tightly curated collection of clothes, jewellery, and expensive shoes, with apparently as much storage space as the Tardis. Somehow Pia was always able to pull out a new look even though she changed clothes as much as three times a day. He leaned in the doorway, arms folded.

“You realise no jury would convict me if I got distracted and we never made it to the car, right? You’re already dressed to the nines, so what exactly are you checking in there?

Pia smirked.

"I made a clever joke where I pretended to confuse your mention of drag racing with RuPaul's Drag Race, and thought you wanted to try out for the show. I'll file it for possible future use. It might work at one of Renée's salons. I haven't really got any spare women’s clothes for you, though, because you’re too large. Well, maybe a loose skirt, or… Accessories? Women's watches are trending with cool young men on the red carpets at major awards ceremonies. Perhaps one of mine would fit on your wrist."

Vic gave her a slow, approving nod, like she’d served a gourmet pun on a silver tray.

“Oh, I got the joke. I was just too stunned by the delivery to respond appropriately. Honestly, if you did have spare clothes in my size, I’d start checking the ceiling for hidden cameras.”

He stepped in a little closer, eyeing an open wardrobe like it was a shimmering portal to Narnia via Vogue.

“But I’d wear the watch. Especially if it gives me points with the cool red carpet guys. I could use the fashion cred.”

He picked up a narrow, gold-toned piece from a tray, mock-studied it “Will this make my jawline look more defined?”

Then he glanced back at her, playful but warm beneath it. “Or should we skip accessories and just go drive with the windows down and let people wonder what our deal is?”

"I don’t know why, but playing with gender identity is definitely hot. How about earrings?” Pia offered. “You’re not pierced but I have some clip-ons. Maybe these?" She handed Vic a pair of large pearl clusters. He didn’t know there were binaural microphones and Bluetooth transmitters in the jewellery. They were part of a set that included a recorder to go under a Bunny Girl’s wig.

Vic took the clip-ons gently, examining them like they were rare artefacts handed over by an eccentric heiress. Which they were, in some sense.

“A central large pearl surrounded by smaller ones,” he mused. “Elegant. Bold. Slightly threatening.” He looked at her, one brow raised. “You do realise if I put these on, I’m going to be even more irresistible to weird women staffing the console in a 24 hour servo, right?”

Then he clipped one on, winced, adjusted. “Ow. Beauty really is pain.”

“Now you know why I have pierced ears,” Pia commented. “It’s one brief stab of a needle you hardly notice. Actually, you might not believe me but I got a bit wet when I had mine done. I felt I was gaining agency of my body. Or maybe I’ve just got a bit of sado-masochism. The nuisance is you have to always keep a basic retainer in, or the holes heal up again in a few days. That’s what sleeper earrings are for.”

Vic turned slightly, giving her a smouldering profile with mock seriousness. “Be honest. Do I look like I run an avant-garde kombucha label and ghostwrite for tech billionaires? Or do I just look like your driver-slash-bodyguard who’s a little too into The Row?”

Pia began to giggle, and hugged Vic joyfully, kissing and talking close into his ear.

"You're just great! Put the earrings away and come as you are. The night is not so young as it was 20 minutes ago. I want to get something to eat. Haute cuisine. A meat pie from a servo."

Vic wrapped his arms around her, holding her close with a soft mmm as her words warmed the side of his neck.

“Damn right,” he murmured into her hair. “Nothing says romantic evening like sweaty pastry with dubious fillings. I’m yours.”

He leaned back just enough to brush his nose against hers.

“No pearls, no spandex. Just vibes and vibing.”

He stepped back, tossed the pearl earrings onto the bed with theatrical flair, and extended his hand like the male lead in a black and white movie.

“Lead the way, Miss Reese. Let’s baptise that Jimny in pie grease and starlight.”

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 53: Road Trip

The brand new Jimny XL was lemon yellow with contrasting black trim that included blobby plastic wheel arch guards. As if a mad scientist had spliced the DNA from a bumble-bee with a baby jeep and a high-end designer sneaker that failed miserably in the market, but mint in box copies now go for $1,000s on special collector websites. Pia looked incredibly proud. She patted the A frame lovingly.

"This is Rosalie. She’s proper off-road. I got the optional sump guard and shields for the differentials. She's going to take me all over New South Wales. And look on top.” She pointed. “Roof rack for surfboards."

Vic stood still for a moment, just taking it in.

Lemon yellow. Black trim. Wheel arches that looked like they might sprout eyes and roll away if you stared too long. The whole thing could probably survive both a sandstorm and a pop-up fashion show in Newtown. He gave a long, low whistle.

“Rosalie,” he said, reverently. “You glorious little troll of a car.”

He stepped closer, ran his hand along the glossy plane of the bonnet like he was greeting a sacred beast.

“She’s got main character energy. Like she’d run over your ex, then back up and offer you a lift.”

He looked at the roof rack. “And she surfs. Of course she does. It’s you, in car form. Loud, strange, invincible.” He grinned sideways at Pia, “Shotgun, right? I’m not allowed to drive this masterpiece. I accept my fate.” He opened the passenger door with a little bow. “Let’s feed her. And us.”

Pia beamed at Vic's praise of Rosalie. She hopped into the driver seat, started the motor and powered up the map system.

"Where do you want to go, Vic? This map will take us anywhere in Australia. Obviously not tonight. I thought we could do a scenic drive around and stop for some food. I hardly know anything about the geography of the outer suburbs, though. And don't forget the tunes. There's a radio, or you can sync your phone by Bluetooth and play music off it."

Vic settled into the passenger seat like he was stepping into a theme park ride he hadn’t read the safety disclaimer for. He clipped his seatbelt shut with a satisfying click and ran an appreciative hand over the dashboard.

“She smells brand new. Like hope and vinyl.”

“She is brand new. Look at the mileage.” It read 23 -- kilometres, of course -- but Pia had spent enough of her life in the UK and America to habitually think of distances in miles.

“Yeah, stupid me. Anyway…” Vic reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, swiping through playlists. “I’ve got a driving mix. Bit of surf rock, bit of synth, one inexplicably moving Japanese pop track I can’t explain. No skips, I swear.” As he paired the phone to the system, he glanced at Pia, grinning. “Let’s go north. Hug the coast, get lost a little. Maybe wind up somewhere with neon signage and food that’s been under a heat lamp just a bit too long, but enough to be perfect.”

The music kicked in, The Growlers, 'California', low-key acoustic guitars and vocals, lazy and warm.

“Take us out, captain. Rosalie’s maiden voyage begins.”

Pia dicked around with the map until she had locked in the Hornby Lighthouse, right at the tip of the headland to the north-east, as her destination. Easing out into the late rush hour traffic, she moved confidently through the gears. The navi system’s posh girl voice sounded surprisingly like Pia, as if she was directing herself.

"Any advice on road etiquette, Vic? I've driven in the UK, France, the US and Japan, so I’ve got all kinds of bad habits. Also I’ve done tactical pursuit and evasion courses."

Vic leaned back as Rosalie purred through the gears, one arm resting on the door, the other tapping along to the beat.

“Driving etiquette? In Sydney? Pfft. Easy. Step one: prepare to be tailgated by utes no matter your speed. Step two: indicate like your life depends on it, because no one else will. And step three: if someone waves you in, you must do the little thank-you hand raise. It’s legally binding Aussie karma.”

He glanced over as they merged onto a wider road, the skyline to their left starting to glow peach and lilac with the dying sun.

“And don’t stress. You’re already ahead of the game. You actually use your mirrors and don’t treat the horn like a musical instrument.” He added with a cheeky smile, “Although if you start shouting ‘spanker!’ out the window, you’ll fit in immediately. It's cultural.”

"I saw an episode of Superbro on Netflix where the wave-in happens and there’s a fight because of no hand raise. We do the same in Britain. Or blink our hazard lights. Usually there's no fighting." Pia drove quietly for a while, listening to the sound track of her new life. Giving Vic silence to say whatever he liked.

Vic let the music fill the space between them, the last low sunlight flaring off the corners of Rosalie’s bonnet as they passed out of the city’s dense thrum and into an open stretch of coastbound road. He watched Pia’s profile, the way she leaned into the wheel just slightly, all focus and subtle power, like someone born to handle the controls of something unconventional.

*This is what contentment looks like,* he thought. *A clear windscreen ahead, playlist on, Pia in charge of the ride.* He let the silence linger a while, then spoke softly, not looking at her directly.

“You ever think about how fast things are moving?” He paused. “I mean… not us. Not just us. Life. The weird left turns. Two months ago I was negotiating a fairly polite breakup with Emma and wondering if I’d ever have a reason to get out of bed again.” He laughed a small, self-deprecating laugh. “And now I’m sitting next to you in a neon bumblebee of a car, heading toward a lighthouse like we’re starring in a deleted scene from To Catch a Thief: The Streaming Series.” He glanced at her, one brow raised, sincere now. “I’m not complaining. Just saying… I’m glad it’s you.”

“You do mean us, Vic.” Pia told him. She changed lanes to avoid a double-parked delivery van. "I'd probably like Emma if I met her. Two reasons. First because she liked you enough to start with, and that shows some kind of good taste. Second because she left you so I could get you on the rebound. Okay, that’s selfish of me. But, most of my exes were… Well. Less than ideal."

Pia shivered. Two of them had been truly toxic.

"And maybe things are moving fast, but life's short. Why hang around dithering about stuff when you can get on with it? Though to be fair, like I said, I've often picked bad men. Or women." She let that casual aside about her previously unmentioned bisexuality hang in the air.

Vic absorbed it all quietly, Emma, rebounds, that shiver that said don’t ask, and he didn’t. The air changed just a touch with that last casual line, her voice as cool and breezy as ever, but with some undercurrent just beneath. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pivot. Instead, he nodded once, slow.

“Well, that explains the confidence. You’ve got the full-spectrum flirting unlocked. And honestly? Yeah. Life’s short. Messy. Full of surprises, and a few proper bastards. But I think you’ve got a good radar now. Or at least… Better armour.” He reached over, laying his hand palm up between them on the centre console. “No dithering here. Not with you. Also, if you ever do meet Emma, don’t tell her I’m happier. She’d hate that.”

Pia quietly approved of Vic's gentle acceptance of one of her secrets. A bit of tension went out of her shoulders and she smiled briefly at him.

"I want to hold hands but it's a stick shift so we can’t. Have you got any Pizzicato Five on your phone? Or maybe you could stream them."

Vic saw that flicker of a smile, the kind that meant more than a full grin, and tucked it away like a postcard from a happy time.

“Yeah,” he said softly, eyes still on her. “I’ve got Pizzicato Five. Of course I do. I’m not completely uncultured.”

He tapped at his phone, syncing quickly, and the unmistakable bouncy Shibuya-kei pop of 'Tokyo Wa Yoru No Shichiji' came through the speakers, happy, cool, a little weird, because he couldn’t understand the lyrics apart from, “A New Stereophonic Sound Spectacular…”

Pia joined in, sang along in Japanese. She knew it was a love song, a yearning song, unserious and serious at the same time. A song with an ambiguous meaning. A song about a dream lover, or an unmet lover, or perhaps a lover who had ghosted the singer. She knew Vic didn’t understand Japanese. She smiled brightly at him, bobbing her head in time. He smiled back, wondering what she was thinking. He looked out the window for a while. He was used to driving himself. It felt different to be driven, and have the freedom to ignore the road and look at the scenery. The sea was starting to show itself between slats of scrub and rose-gilded dunes.

“You ever been to Hornby before?" he asked her. "I used to go up there sometimes when I needed to think. Something about the edge of the world feeling. Like you could start over again if you just dove in.”

"Nope, first visit. But I like lighthouses. Something like you said. A beacon at the edge of the world. You can look out and wonder about…” She paused, lost for words. “Stuff. What’s out there. Jump in. Reach the other side. Make a big change in your life.” Then she grinned. “I wouldn't climb up one, though."

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 54: Hornby Lights

It only took another 20 minutes to reach the end of the road. Pia parked in a lay-by from where the lighthouse was visible to the north-east, its beam sweeping the sky overhead. She switched off the engine and the headlights, but kept the sidelights on for safety. Turned to Vic, her eyes glowing hot in the near darkness, and her voice was low and sultry.

"Hey. D'you wanna make out a bit?"

Vic blinked once, then turned slowly toward her, a grin blooming across his face, half-amazement, half boyish horniness.

“You’re so cinematic it’s actually unfair.”

The sidelights cast a soft amber glow across her profile, painting her skin like old film stock, her hair catching threads of gold from the dash. The lighthouse blinked its slow, ancient rhythm, steady as a heartbeat. He undid his seatbelt and leant across the centre console, his voice hot and low.

“Yeah, Pia. I really, really do.”

Then he kissed her, not rushed, not urgently. Just real, tender, warm. The kind of kiss that said I see you, even the secret bits. Even the parts you think you have to hide. His hand found hers at the gear stick, his thumb brushing over her knuckles.

Outside, the distant waves crashed softly. Inside, time slowed down.

Pia responded with slow heat to the kiss, her breath getting quicker as her hands entwined Vic's, drawing one up to her breast.

"I kind of want to find out what we can do in the front seat without taking our clothes off."

Vic gave a low, husky laugh against her mouth, his pulse already thudding as she guided his hand with that soft insistence that always undid him.

“Oh yeah?” he murmured, lips brushing hers, the rhythm of the lighthouse blinking slow through the gathering dark. “Challenge accepted.”

His fingers curved gently, relearning her shape through sheer fabric, worshipping and playing at once. His other hand laced tighter with hers, anchoring them both in the moment. He kissed her again, deeper this time, slow and exploratory, not rushing anywhere they didn’t want to go. The car, the night, the city behind them, all fell away.

“Let’s see just how far this front seat sex can go,” he whispered, voice warm with mischief, “before Rosalie issues a formal complaint.”

Pia kissed and fumbled like a teenager on their first really hot date. It was difficult to get anything going, because the Jimny was a small car and the centre console got in the way. Somehow that added to the fun. She did her best. Used her hands. Whispered in Vic's ear something pretty randy about the way she could give him a good time if he was willing to take the risk.

Vic groaned softly as she murmured to him, his head dropping briefly to her shoulder as if her words alone had short-circuited half his motor skills. The gearstick jabbed his ribs. His knee hit the glove box. It was absurd. It was hilarious. It was hot as hell.

“Pia,” he gasped between kisses, “This is objectively the least ergonomic vehicle for what you’re proposing.”

Still, he didn’t stop. His hand slid down, tracing the edge of her skater skirt like he was reading braille. His fingers drifted across her thigh, and slid upwards. The sidelight glow caught the amber of her glasses, the sharp curve of her grin as she opened her legs. He kissed her again, then pulled back just enough to catch her eyes.

“I’ll take the risk,” he whispered. “But if we get arrested by park rangers, I’m going to make you do the explaining. In Klingon.”

15 urgent fumbling minutes later, Pia and Vic were both satisfied in a third base context, and broke apart from each other. She swallowed and licked her lips.

"Goddess that was hot!" Pia panted. "I'm soaked. Achievement unlocked!” She sat back and smiled at the lighthouse tower, a visual metaphor for her lover. Gradually her breathing calmed. “Well. Have you got the energy to go for a romantic walk? The moon is coming up. I don't think I want to drive right now. I need to clean up a bit. I packed wet wipes. Here." She opened the packet and put it on the console for them both to use.

Vic was slumped back in his seat with a dazed, blissed-out grin, hair wild, shirt untucked, buttons popped, and his trousers pulled half down. He turned towards Pia, eyes heavy and voice rough with post-makeout satisfaction.

“I might never recover. My pride is intact. And yes, that was incredible. Rosalie’s upholstery will never be the same.” He reached out, gently brushing a hand down her arm, lips still shaped in a smirk. “But a moonlit walk with you? Yeah. That sounds perfect. If my legs will work.”

He popped his door open and winced as the cold night air hit him. “Okay, okay. I'm vertical. Barely.” He rearranged his clothing. “Let's go and see that lighthouse before one of us spontaneously combusts.”

The gravel crunched softly beneath their feet as they made their way toward the edge of the world.

Pia’s hand brushed against Vic’s, then slid into it, her fingers still warm from everything they’d just shared. He gave her a gentle squeeze, no words needed.

The Hornby Lighthouse glowed ahead, its broad red-and-white vertical stripes ghostly in the moonlight. The beam swept rhythmically out to sea and back round to the land, pulling long, turning shadows from the rocks and low scrub. The city’s noise was low here, muffled by distance, salt air and waves. Vic glanced over at Pia, whose face was turned upward, moonlight catching the amber tint of her glasses. A light breeze ruffled her short hair.

“You look like someone who’s trying to memorise the whole sky,” he said quietly. “What are you thinking about?”

"I'm thinking that I don't know any of the constellations down under, but anyway I only knew three in the northern sky, The Plough, Cassiopea, and Thingy. How many do you know, Vic? Can you point them out?

Vic tilted his head back, scanning the stars like he was lining up an old, half-forgotten map in his mind.

“I know a few,” he said, quietly proud. “Mostly because my dad was really into sailing and tried to make me learn how to navigate by the stars. In theory. I was twelve and mostly interested in Pokemon and football.” He pointed up with their joined hands. “That there’s the Southern Cross See the bright diamond shape? Like on the flag. It’s the only one I can find after four beers or during a camping trip toilet emergency.” He squinted.

“Over there’s Scorpio, I think, curved like a hook. Looks like a question mark if you squint sideways. And that smudge across the sky is part of the Milky Way.” He glanced at her and grinned. “Cassiopeia and Thingy are very respectable, by the way. I believe ancient astronomers also struggled with Thingy.”

He tugged her hand a little closer to his chest. “I could make one up and tell you it’s real. You’d never know. That one there? That’s the Constellation of the Wahine. The brightest star in the southern sky. Dangerous. Irresistible. Known for stealing hearts and Marmite.”

Pia grinned quietly in the near-dark, her face fleetingly illuminated when the beam of the searchlight swept overhead. She hugged tight to Vic, sharing body warmth in the cold evening air.

"You flatterer. Let's go back and find something to eat. We've done a lot of exercise."

Vic wrapped both arms around her in a firm, contented hug, resting his chin lightly against her temple.

“Flattery only works when it’s not true,” he murmured. “You, on the other hand, are scientifically dazzling.” He held her a moment longer, feeling the sea breeze tug at the hem of her skirt, and the soft weight of her leaning against him. Then he exhaled, smiling.

“Food. Yes. We’ve earned at least one deeply inappropriate meat pie and possibly a doughnut the size of my face.” He stepped back, still holding her hand. “Let’s get Rosalie rolling. I bet she performs best when rewarded with crumbs on the upholstery and the smell of curry sauce.”

Pia shook her phone into light to not accidentally step on dangerous ground. In 10 minutes Rosalie was moving slowly through the nearby town, where there was a not particularly good chip shop on the sea front facing the eastern channel into Sydney harbour. But Pia didn't care. Every meal needn't be gourmet. Hot chips and a long fat sausage reminded her of childhood days at the seaside. She looked at the glistening sausage and giggled.

"First time I've done that in a car, Vic. I once got a guy into a rowing boat and took him up the river for a picnic on an island. I tried to get him to skinny dip but he was a bit shy."

Vic chuckled as he blew on a too-hot chip, still cradling the greasy paper parcel between them like it was precious cargo.

“Wait, wait, you took him up the river?” he said, raising a brow with theatrical suggestiveness. “Is that another innuendo, or Pia creating folklore?” He tore off a piece of the sausage and offered it to her with mock solemnity.

“You’re like some urban legend. Beware the stunning woman with a micro jeep and strong opinions. She will feed you fried food and seduce you near major bodies of water.” He leaned back in the passenger seat, sighing in satisfaction as the steam from their unwrapped hot chips fogged the windscreen. “Honestly? This is great. Greasy chips, bad lighting, company so good I’d follow you up any river.” He looked over at her sideways, smiling. “Even if I had to skinny dip.”

Pia grinned back. “Remember when we first met, Vic, and you said you’d take me for a hot chips date? This is it. It’s perfect.”

They finished sharing the chips, and it was time to head home.

"You're welcome to stay over if you like Vic, but no more sex tonight. I can launder your shirt and undies by tomorrow morning, though."

Vic brushed the salt from his fingertips and smiled at her with a warm, sleepy sort of affection. “No sex, a ride home in Rosalie, and laundry included? That’s basically a deluxe package.” He reached over, gently running fingers through her hair.

“I’d like to stay. Just sleeping next to you is, really nice. I mean, not as nice as other things, but definitely top five.” He stretched a little, stifling a yawn. “I’ll even make coffee in the morning. You can supervise. Or lie in bed like a demanding goddess while I scavenge for clean mugs.” He buckled his seatbelt again, looking out at the quiet road ahead.

“Let’s take it slow on the way back. I want to make this night last.”

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 55: Improv Night

Friday night. Somewhere in Newtown.

The venue was a dimly lit, sticky floored comedy bar tucked between a vape shop and a vegan hamburger joint which looked ready to close down from lack of customers. Strings of LED lights were hung loosely across the low ceiling, catching in a mirror behind the bar so fogged with age that it turned everyone’s reflection into a sketchy Pepper’s Ghost. A sign out front read:

IMPROV MAYHEM: 5 MINUTES UNTIL LIVE!
No jokes about the bartender, please. She’s armed.

A less than full audience huddled at mismatched tables, sipping beer or house red wine, murmuring with that pre-show electricity, half anticipation, half dread. The stage was a battered platform with two stools and a slightly warped mic stand. A cheerful host in high-waist jeans and a vintage Hypersonic festival tee-shirt stepped up and tapped the mic.

“Alright, weirdos and theatre kids, next up we’ve got… Tobin and Jade? Hoo boy. Give it up for our brave lovers on a first blind date! Go get ’em!”

Vic, in his favourite soft flannel shirt and an alcohol boosted burst of courage, squeezed Pia’s hand one last time before leading the way up with mock reverence, mouthing, Trust me, I’ll be worse than you. He let her sit. Turned to face the crowd. Breathed in like he was preparing for athletic performance art.

“You know, Jade, when the app said your aura was ‘bloodstained lilac’, I thought it was just a glitch. But… Wow. You really do look like you’ve killed a man.”

The crowd tittered. Someone coughed. Someone else dropped a glass.

“What’s your sun sign? Wait, don’t tell me. Let me feel it.”

“Haven't you heard the song ‘Only Women Bleed’, Toby? It's Shark Week. I'm in a bad mood. I don’t want a sun sign. I need some proper nurturing.”

There was a tight pause in the room. Someone snorted beer out of their nose. In the second row, a woman with a close shaved head mouthed Shark Week to her friend and started giggling uncontrollably.

Vic, no, Tobin, nodded like he’d just been handed sacred scrolls.

“Wow. You’re so in touch with the female divine. It’s… powerful. The sacred blood rage. The lunar tide flowing through you like ancestral grief.” He reached for an imaginary bag in his pocket, then fumbled it open with theatrical care. “I brought you something. It’s, uh, raspberry leaf tea. And also a poem I wrote about uterine resilience. Would you like me to read it to you? Or would that violate your boundaries?”

A ripple of laughter moved through the crowd.

“First the Sun signs, now the Moon signs. Make your mind up, Tony. I guess I'll have your tea and sympathy, though.” She shuffled her bum on her stool and sat up straight to listen to the poem properly.

His stool creaked as Tobin shifted toward her, clutching his imaginary teabag like it was a holy relic. The crowd was dead silent now, half afraid of the train crash, half craving it.

“It’s Tobin with an I N, actually. Like… like irony. Or intuition.”

He cleared his throat, took a beat, then delivered the poem in total seriousness.

Crimson bloom, your power flows,
A river ancient, fierce, God knows,
You bleed and still you do not break,
You bake. You ache. You hydrate.

Jade slowly arched her left eyebrow, then her right, so her eyes were wide open, then relaxed her brows until she was looking at Tobin through narrow slits.

He blinked twice, tilting his head, and nodded to Pia with complete sincerity.

“I wrote that in a tent in Mullumbimby during a cacao fast. I was vomiting a lot, but spiritually? I was very present.”

Someone in the crowd actually clapped. A voice called out, “HE’S TRYING HIS BEST!”

“So… what do you do, Jade? For work, I mean. Or your soul’s work. Or shadow work. Or murder work. Whatever.” He looked like he genuinely wanted to know.

“I'm a poet too,” Jade claimed. “I’ll prove it.”

You want a haiku?
Here's one I wrote for you.
I hope you like it.

The room shifted. A few audience members leant in. One guy in a beanie straightened up like he was about to witness the slam poetry finale at Burning Man.

Vic, Tobin, clutched the invisible tea to his chest like a newborn possum.

“You wrote me a haiku? That’s… wow. No one’s ever bled in syllables for me before.” He waited, breath held. Mouth slightly open.

A girl near the back muttered, “If she kills him in a poem, I’m gonna lose it.”

Pia, Jade, amped up her plummy British accent. "Mullimbimby isn't real, Tori. I went there and shot a drop bear. And what the fucc's a kakao fast?"

The room erupted. A wave of chaotic laughter crashed across the bar with high-pitched giggling, unhinged cackles, and the distinctive bark of a man who didn’t know how much he needed this set tonight.

Vic, Tobin, crushed and delighted, placed his hand over his heart like she’d just drop-kicked it.

“First of all… cacao fasts are real. It’s like... chocolate but without joy. It opens the heart chakra. And second,” He pointed vaguely, somewhere northeast, which was more or less the right direction. “Mullumbimby is real. I met a reiki healer named Maple. She made me cry with a tuning fork.”

There was scattered applause. A voice near the bar shouted, “FREE MAPLE.” Someone heckled, “Oi, mate, I’m from Mullumbimby.”

“But if you did shoot a drop bear… was it… coming right at you? Or was it a… metaphor?” He looked genuinely concerned now. Daring to reach out, hovering his hand above Pia’s like a wounded golden retriever begging forgiveness. “...Do you feel safe around me, Jade?”

Pia (as Jade) hissed, “You'd soon realise if I didn't, Tombi. I know Krav Maga. My last boyfriend found that out the hard way. You wouldn't like me when I'm angry.” She grimaced a kind of smile, and put on a softer voice to ask, “May I have some gin to put in my raspberry tea?"

Gasps echoed. Half the room was now fully onboard with the idea that Jade might be out on parole. Someone muttered “Krav Maga?” like they thought it was a real place. At least three people Googled it on their phones and began to murmur that it was a martial art.

Vic, Tobin, drew his hand back slowly, his eyes wide and reverent. “…You’re like… an endangered animal. But one that bites.” He fumbled in his imaginary tote bag again, then triumphantly held out an invisible miniature bottle. “I brought gin. It’s artisanal. Infused with ethically foraged seaweed and shame.”

He tipped it toward her imaginary cup with both hands, like it was the Holy Eucharist. Then sat up straighter, visibly trying to reassert his role as tender alpha softboi by wriggling and relaxing his shoulders. “So… Jade, um… would you like to… see my vision board?”

“Is that some kind of an innuendo, Timbo?”

The crowd lost it again. One woman at the front clapped so hard she knocked over her wine.

“Er… No. It’s mostly spirals and mushrooms. But there’s also a picture of you. Or someone who looks like you. Holding a crossbow.” He smiled. Earnest. Stupid. Adoring. Waiting to be mauled.

Pia as Jade: “Aha? Thank you for my gin, it's an ancient medicine.” She pretended to drink. “I'm sensing that a vision board is basically a mood board on drugs, Tony. I approve of the crossbow. It has a low rate of fire but it’s almost completely silent. And you can recover the bolts with a good knife, and use them again.”

The crowd was hanging on every word now, collectively vibrating at the edge of losing it.

“Ancient medicine… wow. You really get things. Most people think gin is just for divorcees and botanists.” He watched her pretend to drink, nodding slowly, then placed his hands palms-down on the stool seat like he was grounding his chaotic energy through the Earth Goddess.

“And yeah, the vision board is kind of a vibe-laced cry for help. But that crossbow thing? Total synchronicity. I think… I think the universe is telling us something.” He leant forward enough to make the front row lean back, and stage whispered to her, “Would you… maybe… want to start a commune? Nothing intense. Just vibes. Chickens. Non-lethal perimeter security.”

The crowd screamed. Someone actually stamped their foot.

“We could call it ‘Bleeding Edge.’ Get it? Because… the cycles… and the weapons?” He had his stupid hopeful grin on again. The audience's energy was pure uncut chaos. They were begging for Jade to end him. Or kiss him. Or both.

Jade said, “A commune full of hot chicks? I get you now, Kody. You have hidden depths. I hope you like bi girls. I need to do a deep dive to cover my traces. Count me in!”

The bar exploded. A glass actually broke in the back, whether from applause or sheer spiritual release, it was unclear. The compere clutched their chest like someone just got engaged.

Vic, Tobin, was blinking rapidly, looking like he’d just been proposed to and stabbed, in the best way.

“You’d… join me? On the run? In our chicken-and-crystal utopia?” He sniffled. “I do like bi girls. I mean, respectfully. In a feminist, co-housing kind of way.” He reached out both hands to her now, trembling with fake emotion. “Jade. Darling. Can I call you darling? Would you… co-sign a compost bin with me?”

The audience went feral. A group near the bar started chanting, “CO-SIGN! CO-SIGN!” Even the bartender was smirking, arms crossed. Someone flicked on a phone flashlight like they were at a rock concert. The host, off-stage, laughing, came on to announce, “Give it up for Tobin and Jade, everybody! If they don’t get married or die trying, I don’t want it!”

Vic stood, offered a theatrical bow toward Pia, then mouthed, I blacked out, what just happened? before grinning like a man electrocuted by love. Pia danced off stage hand in hand with Vic. Something of the performance recalled her undercover life, when she inhabited various roles, including bar hostess, which required quick wits and snappy repartee.

"Goddess, that was so much fun, Vic! You were brilliant! Now let's have a real drink. We deserve it."

Vic couldn’t stop grinning as they leapt down from the stage like a pair of rogue thespians breaking out of gaol. He was still half in character, dazed and buzzing, but the sight of Pia, laughing, lit up, snapped him straight into reality.

“You killed it, Pia. Literally. I’m scared of you in new ways. It’s amazing.” He twirled her once, ridiculously, then wrapped an arm around her waist as they headed for the bar. The audience was still clapping. Someone tried to high-five him, but missed and hit his shoulder. Vic didn’t even flinch.

“I’ve never felt so sexually threatened and validated in my life.”

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 56: Karaoke Breakdown

A familiar voice piped up as they reached the bar. It was Camille, sipping from a martini glass, pretending to look shocked.

“Oh my God, Pia. I leave you alone for five minutes and suddenly you’re starting a cult?”

She was perched on a stool with her long legs crossed, her hair up, looking ten kinds of effortlessly French chic. There was lipstick on her glass and a glint in her eye. Camille’s student Timmo was propping up the bar beside her, with a schooner of beer in his hand.

“Mate, that was actually unironically inspiring. I think I wanna be a softboi now. Like, full compost-core. You feel me?” The barmaid shook her head, and plonked a promo glass of Collective Arts Fest Pineapple Vanilla IPA at his elbow

Vic stared at Timmo, then mock-gestured for his drink to be confiscated. Timmo held the middy out for Vic to take.

“Thanks for the beer. I feel like if you tried to get into Jade's commune, you’d get punched before the second haiku.”

“But seriously, chérie…” Camille told Pia, “You two had chemistry up there. Is this a thing now? Do I need to make an application?” She arched a finely lined brow.

The music picked up in pace. Someone started dragging a karaoke setup toward the stage.

"Camille!" Pia gave the French girl la bise. Timmo looked hopeful and nervous but Pia just smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. "How are you doing, Timmo?" Turning back to Camille. "J'aime beaucoup que tu ne portes pas de rouge à lèvres anti-baisers. Il a tellement d'utilité. Quoi de plus élégant que de laisser une marque sur le col de la chemise de son amant pour lancer un défi à sa femme ?"

Camille glowed under Pia’s greeting, meeting her with swift, practiced kisses to both cheeks, mwah, mwah, before drawing back to admire the spectacle of her.

"Enfin, someone else who understands the theatre of lipstick. If I can't ruin a marriage or stain a goblet, what's the point?"

She lifted her glass in salute and winked. Timmo had given a valiant little puff of his chest when Pia clapped him on the shoulder, now he was nodding too fast.

“Yeah, nah, good, all good, honestly wasn’t sure if that whole thing up there was, like, improv or foreplay or just your origin story, but I respected it.”

Vic nearly choked on his free IPA. “She did threaten to shoot me. But that was just in character. I think.”

Camille spoke on in French. "Vic est complètement sous le charme, tu sais. Ça émane de lui comme la chaleur d'une baguette fraîche." Then she casually switched back to English, her eyes glinting. “I hope you’re both signing up for karaoke, by the way. Timmo’s already decided he’s doing ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’. Again.”

“There’s drama in it!” Timmo said defensively.

The tipsy emcee climbed up on stage and called out, “Sign-ups open for karaoke! This is a no shame zone!”

The crowd started rustling again. Camille leant toward Pia.

“So. Solo or duet? Or shall we try a ménage à trois vocal?” She raised a perfectly shaped brow and offered her lipstick for touch-ups, in case Pia wanted to leave more marks before the night was through.

"I'd love to do a duet with you, Camille. Perhaps it can be a love song and make all the boys jealous and randy. And the girls."

“Ooh, ma tigresse, you really do know how to make a girl swoon. I accept, in hope we make at least one man in the audience drop his drink in longing.”

She looped her arm through Pia’s and pulled her toward the control console like they were planning a heist, tossing a smirk over her shoulder at Vic and Timmo. “You two hold down the bar. We’re about to make history.”

Vic watched them go, his hands in his pockets, and his eyebrows raised.

“I don’t know if I’m aroused or about to get kicked in the heart,” Timmo said.

“Respect it, mate. That’s the Pia Experience. Embrace the chaos.”

Camille was flipping through the Karaoke machine menus with purpose.

"We need something smouldering, but ironic. Sexy, but tragic. Like love during a plague year." She pointed. “This one, Pia. This shall be our anthem.”

The song was ‘Criminal,’ by Fiona Apple. It started with a slow, taunting bassline. The bartender turned the lights a shade more crimson. Someone wolf-whistled. Camille handed Pia a mic like it was a loaded pistol. Stage smoke wafted up. She murmured in Pia’s ear as the music started, “Let’s give them something to crave, chérie. Then go home with the ones who can handle it.” She raised her mic. The opening riff pulsed.

Pia didn't know the song, but she had a decent voice, and plenty of experience with karaoke in the hostess bars of Kabukicho, where they take it seriously. So she held her mic with confidence, and began to sway to the rhythm.

The lyrics started to roll across the screen. Pia tackled the ‘bad, bad girl’ line with flair, but as the song progressed through the singer's apology for breaking a boy's heart, and her wish for a defence, perhaps a redemption, Pia's face crumpled into a memory of horror and tears. The lyrics brought back her long held guilt about Hisashi, the boy she still could not accept she didn't wrong so badly in Tokyo, years before.

Pia burst into a flood of tears, dropped the mic and slouched off the stage blindly, wiping and smearing her eyes.

The room, noisy, flushed with drink and laughter just moments ago, went quiet like a switch had flipped.

Camille, mid-verse, cut off instinctively the moment Pia's voice wavered. She turned toward her, eyes widening as she saw the grief bloom across her friend’s face like a storm front approaching in fast-forward.

“Pia, oh no.” Pia's mic made a crackle and whine of feedback. People in the front row stiffened; others murmured, uncomfortable and unsure as she disappeared off stage in a blur of tears, her elegant posture broken, hands swiping across her face like she was trying to erase herself. Camille followed immediately, ditching her own mic without a word.

Vic was already in motion.

He pushed through the cluster of startled karaoke hopefuls, brushing past the bar and following the path Pia took through the heavy side curtain to the green room hallway out back. He didn’t yell after her. Didn’t grab. He just moved, zeroed in, scanning every dark corner.

Vic found Pia outside, near the smoking area where there was just one flickering light above a graffiti-tagged skip bin. The night was starting to get cold. The air smelt faintly of stale piss and beer and cigarette butts and bin juice.

“Hey. Hey, Pia…”

He didn’t reach for her yet. Just stood a few steps away, letting her feel the space.

“You were incredible. Until it hurt. Then you were human. Still incredible.”

He waited. Giving her space but ready to come closer. His heart felt like it was in his throat.

Inside, the karaoke picked up again, someone trying to salvage the vibe with “Livin’ on a Prayer”, a valiant effort.

Out back it was just the two of them.

He watched her silhouette against the night, breathing a little hard, and asked, “Do you want me to leave you alone… or come closer?”

"Hold me, Vic. You told me not to blame myself for what happened. If I still do, maybe you can be my redemption."

She hung on Vic's neck, blubbering snot into his flannel shirt. Camille and Timmo came out of the bar. They had the sense not to interrupt the scene between Vic and Pia. He gentled the sobbing girl until she began to calm down.

"I'm sorry, Camille,” she choked out. “That song, I didn't know it. It brought back a memory of something I did. A bad thing. A very bad thing I did to a boy. Vic knows the story." Tacitly granting permission for Vic to explain if he thought it was a good idea.

Vic held her like she might slip through the cracks in the pavement if he didn’t. Arms locked around her, hand cradling the back of her head.

“You didn’t do a bad thing. You survived a bad story.”

He let her cry it out, stroking her back in slow, even circles. Her wet cheek pressed against his neck. His shirt was a wreck but he couldn’t care less. He’d never wanted to protect someone so fiercely in his life.

Behind them, Camille and Timmo lingered at the edge of the pool of light. Camille’s arms were crossed, but her face was full of concern, not judgement or pity, just quiet solidarity. Timmo, for once, said nothing.

When Pia began to quiet, tired, damp, but no longer trembling, Vic turned slightly so she could rest against his chest. He kept one arm firm around her waist, his other hand brushing damp hair from her temple.

“She was undercover in Tokyo.” he explained quietly. “There was a guy, a sweet one. Not part of the target. Not part of anything. But he got pulled into it.” He hesitated, glancing at Pia. Her nod was small but present.

“He loved her. She loved him, but she couldn’t tell him what she was doing. And when the job ended… it ended hard. He got hurt. Emotionally. Worse. And Pia blames herself for what happened. Even though she didn’t have a choice. Even though she was just doing her job. She carries the memory like an invisible scar.”

Camille slowly walked forward, her heels clicking softly on the pavement, then crouched in front of Pia with the ease of a woman who’s helped drunk friends throw up in gutters and still made them feel chic.

“Ma belle. No lipstick in the world can make you forget who you were. But it doesn’t mean you can’t be someone else now. Someone who is loved. Someone who is forgiven. Even by yourself.” She offered a fresh handkerchief.

Timmo said. “I, uh. I don’t know what to say, except… You’re still the coolest person I’ve ever seen cry.”

Vic smiled gently. His thumb traced a line along Pia’s collar bone. The back alley was cold, and though the smell hadn’t improved, her friends around her felt almost like a sanctuary.

“You’re not a bad girl,” he told Pia. “You’ve just got a heart with some bruises. And anyone who’s met you, really met you, knows the difference.”

The karaoke belted on inside, oblivious.

Pia nodded. Her tears had eased because any storm must pass.

"I look a right mess." She mopped her face with Camille's handkerchief. "Let's go home. Camille, Timmo, will you come with us? I want to tell you what happened."

Camille rose gracefully and helped Pia to repair the worst damage to her make-up. “Tu es magnifique même en larmes, darling. But yes. Let’s get you somewhere with cushions and gin.”

She gave Pia’s hand a warm squeeze before looping her arm through Timmo’s, steering him along like a sleepy labrador. He told Pia, “I’m cool with whatever you want to say. Just, maybe not in an alley next to a guy vomiting on a Subaru.”

Vic let out a low breath, something close to a short, nervous laugh, and guided Pia gently by the small of her back toward his Audi.

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 57: Old-Fashioneds and Other Truths

The lights were low. Shoes off, coats and jackets hung up. The comforting clink of glass on glass as Vic opened a bottle and began to pour a round. Camille paced barefoot through the space like she owned it already, though it was her first visit. Timmo hovered, unsure where to sit, and ended up cross-legged on the rug with a gin and tonic that Vic handed him.

Pia had washed her face, but her eyes still held that puffy, red-rimmed softness that only follows real weeping. Vic didn’t crowd her. He sat beside her on the sofa, near enough to touch, far enough not to encroach.

Camille curled up in an armchair, her legs folded like a cat. She raised her glass.

“To theatre. To truth. To women who scare the hell out of men.” She sipped and waited.

Vic looked to Pia. It was her moment.

"Give me a real drink. An Old-Fashioned." Vic smashed it together and Pia took a deep pull.

"First, I'm sorry to have bust up what was a great night for everyone. I never knew that Fiona Apple track before, Camille. Neither of us could have realised what it was going to do. But anyway, I owe you an explanation." She drank again, composed herself, getting the narrative into a clear order in her head.

“Vic's let slip that I used to be a detective. I specialised in undercover roles. Typically things like being a ditzy secretary to gather evidence on financial crimes. That Bunny Girl pic, Timmo, the one I showed you at Renée’s party. That was taken during a case when I was working as a waitress in a cocktail bar, recording snippets of indiscreet conversation on a digital wire unit hidden in my wig. My earrings were the microphones." She paused to see if everyone was keeping up with the story.

Timmo, who’d been swirling his gin like it might reveal a prophecy, looked up fast. His face shifted, from the usual Timmo banter setting to something more grounded. He was following closely.

“Wait, you actually were a Bunny Girl? Not just for a fancy dress party or somethin’? That was, like… mission gear?” His voice wasn’t mocking. He was genuinely impressed. Pia nodded silently.

Camille, by contrast, didn’t interrupt. She leant in slightly, eyes narrowed with curiosity, not scepticism. One leg bounced faintly. She was intrigued but measured. “Go on. I’m with you.”

Vic didn’t move. He watched Pia as if she was something rare and wild. He knew where the story was headed, but not how she would tell it. And that mattered.

There was a shared hush between them now. A gin-glass pause. The smoke from toxic memories curled up between every line. The room held its breath.

"I made some good money off that case,” Pia went on. “Not just the reward. I gambled and made a big score.” She smiled sardonically. “I have a tendency to engage in high risk behaviour. Not proud of it." This wasn't the whole truth, but it was a plausible explanation for Pia's obvious lack of worry about her financial position. "So I took a year off and went to Tokyo to stay with my brother and his wife and learn Japanese. I got a job in a hostess club, for language practice and pin money. I was popular because a lot of Japanese men have a thing for leggy blondes."

Timmo gave a low, almost involuntary “Whoa,” then looked like he immediately regretted saying it. He leant forward slightly, elbows on knees, eyes earnest.

“Sorry, that sounded dodgy. Just, I’m picturing you in Tokyo doing all that and it’s like… a movie. But a real one, not the dumb kind. A moody one. With rain and neon.”

“There’s a lot of neon in Kabukicho, Timmo. That’s where Ridley Scott got some of the ideas for Bladerunner. Those long canyons of glowing light. But there are dark alleys too.”

Camille didn’t smile. She set her glass aside, not because she was uncomfortable, but because she was tuned in completely now, no more performative poses, just a friend quietly bracing herself for whatever Pia might say next. “You don’t have to dress this up for us, Pia. If it hurts, just say it. I won’t flinch.”

Vic finally spoke in a low, steady voice. “You don’t have to make yourself sound cool to justify the pain.” He looked down at Pia’s hands for a moment, then back to her face. “But if it helps to explain it all in your way… I’ll follow you wherever it goes.” He was close enough to touch her knee if she needed grounding. But he wouldn’t move until she led him.

"I want to make it clear that hostessing isn't prostitution,” Pia told them, “It's just paid flirting. You pour drinks and chat, listen to the guys complaining or joking, maybe play cards for sticks of chewing gum, or sing karaoke with them. However in Japan it's covered under these adult entertainment business laws, which also cover actual prostitution. So the police would come around to check that everything was legit. That's how I met Komai. He was a detective sergeant in the Tokyo Met." She sipped her Old-fashioned. "Komai recruited me as an informant for a sex trafficking case he was working on. I did it for free, because it's one of the worst crimes and I had heard some things, from clients and the other girls, which made me uneasy." Pia finished her cocktail and waved the glass to ask for another.

Vic quietly took her glass, brushing his fingers against hers just long enough to let her feel he was still right there, fully present. He got up to mix her another Old-Fashioned, larger this time, and perfectly balanced. He didn't say a word as he stirred the drink.

Timmo was unusually still. His brow was creased, expression unreadable. “You did that just to help? No pay? No backup?” There was no mockery in it. Just his dawning awareness of what kind of metal Pia was made of.

Camille shifted in her seat again, tucking her legs beneath her like she needed grounding. “Mon Dieu. Of course you did. That kind of danger… that kind of filth… and you still chose to help.”

Vic returned, kneeling briefly to hand Pia the second cocktail with both hands, like a peace offering or a ritual, before he sat beside her again. “You don’t have to keep talking. But if you want to… we’ll all keep listening.” He sat with one elbow on the back of the couch, his body turned toward her like a shield made from snot-damp flannel and patience. The room was still. No one reached for their phones. The night had turned sacred.

Pia accepted the glass from Vic with a grateful smile.

"Now I've begun, I want to finish. So there I was, playing at being a hostess and secret spy. Outside work I had a boyfriend, a Japanese guy called Hisashi. My sister-in-law Hikaru had introduced us because Hisashi was studying French and I speak like a native. She said at the beginning, 'Pia, be careful with him. Don't break a boy's heart for a bit of holiday fun.' She swirled the ice in her glass.

"Pia is my special nickname, Timmo. I only let close friends and family use it. You can call me Pia from now on."

Timmo looked like he’d been knighted. His face flickered from surprised to sheepish to deeply touched in the space of a heartbeat.

“Thanks, Pia. I won’t screw that up.” He raised his glass, not to toast, just to acknowledge the gift.

Camille watched the moment with a small smile, her head tilted slightly, as though seeing Pia through a new lens. “So you did love him. This Hisashi.” She asked gently, offering a prompt to the next part of the story.

Vic didn’t speak. But his gaze was steady, protective without being possessive. One leg crossed casually over the other, one hand resting near Pia’s on the couch, close, not quite touching. He listened. Not like a man hearing about a rival. Someone honouring a story that had shaped the woman he was beginning to love.

"Yes, Camille, we fell in love. We were both 24. Young enough and old enough. In the end Hisashi proposed to me. I didn’t expect it. I might have accepted, but Komai had warned me that I was in danger because the clues I had given him were so useful against the sex trafficking gang. When Hisashi proposed, I thought I had to protect him, get him away from me, so I created a quarrel and refused him. We stormed off in opposite directions. Later that night he went under a train. Everyone thought it was suicide. I blamed myself. Hikaru blamed me. Yancy stood with Hikaru, as she's his wife. Komai got me out of Tokyo and flew me to Paris via Seoul. I missed the funeral. But they probably would have thrown things at me.”

Camille’s breath caught subtly. Her hand curled at her chest like she was trying to hold the story physically. “Mon cœur…” Her voice broke at the end. No judgment. No questions. Just the shared ache of a wound that’s years deep after only minutes of telling.

Timmo didn’t speak at all. His drink was forgotten in his hand. His mouth opened slightly, then closed again. He looked pale and fiercely respectful.

Vic exhaled, slow and heavy. He nodded once, not like he’d just learned something new, but like he’d finally seen the shape of what he’s carried with her. “Thank you for trusting them with that. With him.” He reached across the space between them and placed his hand over hers, warm and steady.

“You were trying to save him, Pia. And even if it went wrong, that doesn’t mean you were wrong. You weren’t cruel. You weren’t careless. You were scared, and brave, and trying to protect the man you loved. That matters.” He didn’t try to fix it. Didn’t offer closure. He knew there wasn't a proper closure to this trauma. But he let his presence be something more than words.

Camille rose slowly, crossed to the sofa and knelt beside Pia, wrapping her arms around her in a hug that was neither too soft nor too restrained. A precise, Camille-style embrace.

“You have people to stand with you.” The room held still. Even the city seemed quieter for a moment, like the world was giving Pia a second heartbeat.

"It wasn't suicide,” Pia said. “Komai found out later what really happened. A gangster pushed Hisashi off the platform. But anyway,” she sighed, “I still blame myself because I sent Hisashi off to die unhappy, angry and feeling unloved, and I still think that was the worst thing I ever did." She broke down in tears again.

Vic pulled her in without hesitation, no dramatics, just his arms, solid and certain, like a harbour welcoming in a storm-tossed ship. He wrapped her in, let her bury her face in his chest, and held her like he meant it.

“You didn’t kill him, Pia. You loved him. You tried to save him.” His voice was low and firm, not for arguing but anchoring. A hand stroked gently through her hair as she sobbed.

Camille moved back just enough to give them space, blinking fast. She stayed kneeling, her hand still lightly on Pia’s arm, like a steady pulse of shared grief. No one moved to tidy the scene. They let it be raw.

Timmo stayed rooted, eyes dark with something unspoken. Then said quietly, “If someone did that to a mate of mine, to someone I loved, I’d want to burn the whole city down. But I wouldn’t blame the person who tried to keep them safe.” He paused. “You’re allowed to mourn him, Pia. Just don’t disappear with him. People need you here.”

Vic tightened his hold slightly, breathing against her temple. The tears came in waves, smaller now, maybe an ebb tide. Outside, the city hummed on, unaware. But in the room, a tiny circle of people who now knew everything and still loved her, the night began to change shape. Vic didn’t say it yet. But he thought it: *You’re still here. And I’m not letting you go.*

Pia cried herself out again, and began to pull herself together. She blotted her tears with the arm of her dress, blinked, and drained her drink.

"I'm sorry for everything. Thank you for being with me. For listening to my confession. I'd better go to sleep now." She started to move around, preparing for her bed, trusting Vic and the others to organise themselves.

Camille rose, brushing her knees with a sigh that was half fondness, half heartbreak. “Go rest, ma belle. You’ve given more than enough for one night.” She smoothed Pia’s hair briefly with sisterly affection before retrieving her heels and slipping them on with practiced grace.

“Keep her safe, Vic. She’ll wake raw. Timmo, You and I are going to leave like proper thieves, silent and a little dramatic.”

“I’ll just wash up the glasses,” Timmo said.

Vic saw them to the door with a quiet nod of thanks.

When Pia emerged from the bathroom, face clean, eyes puffy but calm, wearing a simple short sleeve, round neck nightdress and shorts in black silk, she found the flat quiet, the lights low, the air scented with briney tears and gin.

Vic was sitting on the edge of the bed, his hair messy. He had stripped down to a soft tee and boxers, making no assumptions, just waiting. Ready if needed. Absent if preferred. “Do you want me with you tonight? Or just nearby?”

"This wasn't a huge quarrel to follow with fabulous make-up sex, Vic. I'll love you best if you just hold me.” Pia sighed deeply as she sat down next to him. “What an evening! The improv was actually great, but the scene afterwards... But I feel like I've got a bit of redemption. Thanks to you and the others. Especially you."

She slipped under the duvet and listened to the sounds of the night. The muted hum of traffic on the M1. The wind stirring the trees in the communal garden. The gas boiler igniting with a woof to refill the hot water tank.

"You're more than a friend to me, Vic," she murmured.

Vic slid in beside her like the night was made to hold her gently. He wrapped one arm around her shoulders and tucked her in close, her head resting just under his chin. There was no sexual heat in it, just a comforting presence.

“You’re more than a friend to me too, Pia.”

He didn’t press with his words. Just traced lazy, soothing circles over her scarred shoulder with his thumb, grounding her in the here and now.

Outside, the city breathed. A night bus sighed its doors open, and closed. Laughter drifted from a pub down the block. And inside, between the safe warmth of the duvet and Vic’s calm breath, Pia’s world narrowed to something bearable.

“You didn’t get redemption from me or the others. You got it from yourself. We just reminded you what you’re worth.” A moment. “Also, I’m never playing anyone named Tobin again. He was exhausting.”

He kissed the back of Pia’s head. Felt her cheek crease in a tiny grin. Let the silence fall softly around them. Sleep found them slowly.

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 58: The First Day of the Rest of our Lives

The bedroom was dim and hushed. There was a faint hum of traffic in the streets of Surry Hills. Morning light filtered in around the edges of the blinds, casting pale gold on the tangled duvet. The air still carried the scent of Creed Erolfa, and a faint trace of last night’s tears.

Vic stirred when he heard the alarm, but he didn't open his eyes. He reached across the bed instinctively, hand landing in the warm hollow where Pia had been. Her absence made his chest ache with a bittersweet kind of tenderness.

*She’s up. Of course she is.*

He sat up slowly, rubbing sleep from his face. His hair was a disaster and he still smelt like stale beer and lemon-scented laundry detergent. Last night replayed in fragments, laughter at the bar, Pia-as-Jade slinging deadpan lines, the way she’d faltered mid-karaoke song, like a record catching on a bad scratch. Her sobs in his arms, hot and sudden and shattering.

And the quiet miracle of her trust.

*God, she told us everything. She told me everything.*

The inviting smell of fresh coffee drifted into the room. He was tempted into the kitchen, blinking against the gentle light.

“Morning,” he called, voice still scratchy. He leant against the counter, watching Pia in her silk dressing gown as she moved about with unhurried grace, so normal, and yet so different. Like someone who had unburdened herself of a heavy load and was still adjusting to the absence of its weight.

“You okay, sunshine? Last night was. A thing.” His eyes were soft and serious. There was a kind of wonder in his face. Like she had come through a major storm and he was still trying to believe she didn’t get wrecked by it.

Pia paused, thinking.

"Yes. It was a lot of fun at first, the improv, and then there was a lot of pain, and yet I feel much better because of it. I've had plenty of therapy for other things that happened to me, but I never got any for losing Hisashi. Which was probably a mistake. Goddess know, I could have afforded it. Probably a deliberate unconscious choice to…” She sighed deeply, “To carry the burden of guilt, and expiate my sin through suffering. Have you ever done therapy, Vic?”

Vic shook his head. Pia continued.

“The thing about therapy is, you sit there, and you talk, and they talk, and everyone is kind and understanding, and they give you helpful guidance, but it's a different thing when you tell your friends. Because if your friends accept you with your faults and wounds, then life is real. Not just a medical consultation going according to plan. Real life going just okayish is better. If that makes any sense."

Vic took the words in slowly, giving them the careful attention they deserved. He watched her eyes, hazel, glinting gold in the morning light, steady and unflinching.

“Yeah,” he murmured, his voice soft. “That does make sense. It makes perfect sense, actually.”

He didn’t press her for the deeper things still unspoken. He was no stranger to locked doors in people’s hearts, but the fact that she had given him this much, that she let him hold her through the darkest part of the night, meant everything. It had shifted something inside him, like the spillway on a dam opened to allow the water to flow.

“Thank you for being with me, Vic.” Pia held out her arms wide for a hug, her robe slipped open by accident, and she invited Vic into her half-naked self, unembarrassed.

When she opened her arms, he moved instinctively, closing the space between them. Her gown opened as she folded him in, but Pia didn’t flinch, and he didn't make a joke or leer. He just held her, warm and grounding, pressing his cheek against her damp hair. His hands rubbed slow circles over her back, all tenderness and quiet strength.

“I’m always gonna be with you, Pia. Even when it’s painful. Especially then.” His mouth made a felt though not seen little smile against her temple. “And real life going okayish with you sounds like the best damn thing I’ve ever heard.”

He tilted back enough to meet her eyes again. “We should definitely go show off Rosalie to the crew. Let them bask in your glory a little. I’ll bring the snacks, like a good, emotionally available himbo.”

"You're not a himbo to me, Vic. You've got a lot of common sense and... Grounding. Like you can be my calm centre. Or maybe a lightning rod. I don't know. My rock."

She smiled, and it looked genuine this time. The prospect of action, the need for an organised plan, added structure to Pia's day, and worked as emotional scaffolding.

Vic raised an eyebrow at ‘you’re not a himbo,’ a lopsided grin forming despite himself. “Oh no,” he deadpanned. “You take that back. I’ve worked very hard to earn my himbo certification. There were a lot of forms I had to fill up. And a biceps measurement. I had to fail a pop quiz about the Cold War.” But there was no mistaking the warmth in his eyes when she called him her calm centre, her lightning rod.

*That’s... Something. That’s real.*

Pia hustled around the kitchen, slapping together a simple breakfast of tuna melt sandwiches and a salad she had made in bulk on Thursday and kept in Tupperware the fridge. She talked fast at the same time.

"Anyway Vic, you need to zoom over to your place and collect your beach stuff. Go and wash and get dressed while I make breakfast. You can help me put my board on Rosalie and then you can go over to your flat. Which, by the way, you've never invited me properly to stay, only for that one afternoon, and we were kind of busy. I've got some suspicions about why not. But we'll deal with it later. I'll finish packing my beach stuff and go and pick up Camille and come down to yours afterwards. Dan and Kiri are in their own car."

He watched her with a kind of awe as she switched into action mode. There was a military efficiency to her when she was structuring the day, flitting between tasks, directing traffic, making tuna melts like a general marshaling troops. It was like she was rebuilding herself in real time. He followed her instructions with a mock salute.

“Aye aye, Commander Reese. I’ll grab my gear and rendezvous at 1100 hours.” He moved toward the bathroom door, paused, and gave her a longer look.

“And for the record,” he said more softly, “I haven’t invited you to stay overnight at mine because… Yeah. That’s a whole thing. Not because I don’t want you there. Just… Not yet. Okay?” He let that hang for a second, vulnerable and honest, before flashing her a smile. “Now make that melt amazing or I’ll cry in my car.” He disappeared into the bathroom.

It was tinned tuna in brine, the best variety for a melt. Pia added a flourish, mixing chopped capers into the mayonnaise, and slapping some rather fruity rind-washed cheese on top before she slid the slices under the grill. The bread was a good wholewheat sourdough. Her British half firmly believed in the importance of a hearty breakfast. Her French half insisted on high quality ingredients. As Pia prepared the rations, she pondered Vic's cryptic remarks.

*Has he got his place into that much of a mess? Because he hasn't got a girlfriend to keep it clean for? But I'm his girlfriend now. He should let me in. Maybe he’s let it all go completely to hell. Maybe it's worse than I can possibly imagine? Maybe he just thinks that.* She could not puzzle it out.

*I shouldn't force the issue now.*

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 59: Push The Button

Vic showed Pia how to stow her surfboard safely on top of Rosalie, then he set off for his flat to prepare all his things. Pia cleaned her kitchen and prepped for the beach. Her Moon cup. Spare period panties and pads. Waterproof makeup with a high SPF factor, and so on. Her Mondrian skinsuit and a floaty yellow sundress on top. She put two eskies of drinks and snacks in the back of the car, and rang Camille.

"Coucou, Camille..."

“Coucou, ma chérie!” Camille’s voice was bright and syrupy, laced with the rustle of bed linen and the clink of a teaspoon. “You’re up early. You’re all better from last night? I was just making lemon tea and wondering if it’s too soon to start pretending I don’t have a uterus. So what’s the plan?”

Pia could hear soft jazz playing faintly in the background, and the way Camille said ‘uterus’ sounded like she was announcing a couture designer. It must have been that time of the month for Camille too.

“I assume we’re beachward?” Camille continued. “Please tell me you’ve got Vic under control and this isn’t a trap to make me carry your umbrella while you seduce someone’s emotionally distant cousin.” She yawned, unbothered. “I’m nearly in a swimsuit. Just say when and I’ll hop into something and meet you downstairs.”

Meanwhile, Vic pulled up in the narrow car space at his building in Bronte, still slightly damp-haired and glowing from Pia’s morning whirlwind. A pang of self-consciousness hit him in the gut as he unlocked the front door to his unit.

*This place is fine,* he told himself. *It’s fine. Just a bit messy. A bit... Surfy. Needs some sweeping and dusting, and probably check the fridge and clean the kitchen. And the bathroom. And change the sheets. And do some laundry. And the windows.*

He stepped inside. It smelt like eucalyptus and coconut sunscreen and maybe something musky from a pile of discarded clothes by the bathroom door. It was a warm, open-plan unit, a bit shabby, with big French windows opening onto a balcony with a sea view if you craned your neck a bit. Plants that needed watering. An abandoned, half-finished model car on the coffee table. He stared at that for a second.

*Pia’ll be here eventually. Just not yet.*

He moved quickly to pick fresh clothes, gather towels, sunscreen, a speaker, and the good parasol, and grabbed an extra jumper for her, just in case.

In Surry Hills, Rosalie was loaded and ready.

Camille’s voice was back in Pia’s ear. “Do I need to bring anything? Should I pick up that fancy hibiscus iced tea from the French delicatessen? Am I riding with you, or do I drive my own car? Because you have to fight for a decent parking space at the beach.”

"There's a British saying my father taught me: 'Proper Planning and Preparation Prevents Piss Poor Performance’. So I reserved a parking spot online. I'll pick you up in 15 minutes, with your most glamorous swimming costume. Put something more dressy on top, in case we all go for a meal later."

“Oh là là, your papa sounds like a terrifying logistics officer,” Camille laughed, clearly impressed. “You reserved parking in advance? What are you, a wizard? That’s better planning than my last three relationships combined.”

There was a brief pause as she rustled around, clearly rummaging through a drawer.

“All right then. I’ll wear the emerald green one-piece with the plunging back, it’s elegant, it says I am not trying but I will ruin lives. And I’ll throw a maxi dress over it. You’ll like it. A bit of cleavage, a bit of mystery. Not a lot of mystery. Just enough mystery. Très beach-to-bar.”

She lowered her voice mischievously. “And don’t worry, I’ll behave. I won’t interrogate Vic in front of everyone. Just behind a large pair of sunglasses with a mimosa in hand. See you in fifteen, darling.”

Camille hung up with a dramatic little mwah.

Back in Bronte, Vic had changed into simple board shorts and a soft white tee, sunnies perched on his head, hair damp from a quick rinse. He surveyed his bag: towels, drinks, jumper for Pia, Bluetooth speaker, and, at the last moment, a battered paperback copy of The Old Man and the Sea. He wasn’t sure why, but it felt like the right kind of day for Hemingway.

*Maybe I’ll actually read on the beach instead of just pretending.*

He began a whirlwind tidy up campaign, distracted by the thought of what Pia would look like in her sundress.

Pia collected Camille, gave her 'la bise', and installed her in the front passenger seat.

"You look stunning as always, Camille. I wish I had thought of a maxi dress, or perhaps a skirt and top combo.”

“Darling, you could wear a bin liner and still look like a Vogue editorial spread. But yes, the maxi dress was an inspired choice. I plan to waft dramatically at all times today.”

Pia smiled, and they set off for Bronte where Vic had his little flat. Camille adjusted the seat and flipped the visor down to check her lipstick in the mirror. She tucked her sunglasses into her auburn curls and glanced sideways at Pia with sharp curiosity as they cruised out of Surry Hills.

“We have to zoom over to Vic's place next,” Pia told her. “I know the address, but I've only been inside once, for a short afternoon. I have begun to wonder why he hasn't invited me again. Maybe he’s turned it into… I don’t know. A complete mess. Knee deep in delivery burger wrappers. Or a weird shrine to past girlfriends. What do you think?"

“So, Vic’s never invited you back properly, hmm? That is interesting.”

She drew the word out like it was a piece of chewing gum she was turning over on her tongue.

“Let’s consider the possibilities,” she mused, eyes sparkling. “One: he’s secretly married with two toddlers and a shiba dog. Two: the place is a bachelor hovel full of mismatched mugs, chipped surfboards, and a suspicious smell. Three: it’s full of memories he hasn’t sorted through. Exes. Family stuff. Boy-thoughts.”

Camille gave Pia a meaningful look. “Or four: he’s scared. Scared because he likes you too much, and letting you into his space means letting you into the rest of his life. And maybe he doesn’t know how to do that without crumbling a little. Last night was a big thing for you. Maybe this is his version of that. Some people don’t say things. They just flinch when you get close to the wound. Especially men.”

She stretched one leg out, admiring her pedicure. “Anyway. If he doesn’t let us in today, I’ll ‘accidentally’ drop a bottle of sticky sunscreen on myself and insist on using his bathroom. You’re welcome.”

"It could be a bit of everything, maybe. Well, not the spare wives and girlfriends. I try not to leave him the energy. Ha ha!" Pia gave a dirty chortle.

Camille cackled, delighted. “Ha! You absolute animal. No wonder the poor man hasn’t found the strength to open the door to you. He’s probably crawling across his floor like a Victorian ghost.” She fanned herself dramatically with one hand. “Honestly, Pia, between your breakfasts, tailored sundresses, and the emotional whiplash of last night, it’s a miracle he’s still upright. I wouldn’t be shocked if he opens the door today and just bursts into tears and marriage proposals.”

Bronte began to shimmer into view, the distant sea glittering between buildings, surfboards stacked on balconies, and cafés blooming with sunhatted locals.

As Rosalie purred into the quieter, leafier streets of the suburb, the mood shifted slightly, lighter, still cheeky, but threaded with something tender.

“You really like him, don’t you?” Camille asked, not teasing now. Just wondering aloud, watching Pia’s face in profile. “Like, for real. Do you think you’ll tell him everything? Even the things you haven’t said yet?”

Pia looked serious, pretended to need to navigate a difficult stretch of narrow road. There was a massive ute glued to her rear bumper. The driver honked. Pia stuck her right arm out of the window and gave him the British hand sign for feth Off, which works just as well in Australia too.

"I will tell everyone everything when I feel ready. I told you and Timmo last night, about my worst bad thing. I've done other bad things. People I want around me, have the right to know the things I've done. If they despise or fear me after they hear it, I can't blame them. But I'm afraid to tell Vic, because you're right, Camille, we're falling in love. What if he falls back out?"

Camille watched the ute disappear in the rear mirror with a satisfied smirk. “God, I love you. That’s the spirit.” Then she reached over, placed her perfectly manicured hand on Pia’s thigh with a gentle squeeze. “Okay. Listen.”

The ocean came into full view now, sudden and brilliant, sky meeting sea at a horizon so blue it hurt.

“You don’t owe anyone a timeline, ma sœur. Not even him. But also, don’t confuse survival for sin. You’ve done things to get through hell. You’ve done things to protect people. That’s not shameful. That’s powerful. And messy. And so deeply human.”

She turned to face Pia as the car slowed into Vic’s street. “If he falls out of love because you told him the truth, then it wasn’t love. It was a fantasy. And you don’t need a fantasy. You need someone who’s brave enough to see the wreckage and still say, ‘That’s my girl. That’s the woman I choose.’”

Then, because she knew Pia’s heart was clenched tight already, she grinned again and added, “Besides, if he does break your heart, I will key his Audi to scrap. That’s not a threat. It’s a promise. I'm great at spelling curses with scratches.”

Vic’s unit was just around the corner, the little not quite coastal building with sunburnt paint and a row of mismatched succulents on the balcony. The rattly old Audi was parked neatly out front, two surfboards lashed to the roof rack.

Camille straightened up and flicked her sunglasses into place.

“Ready to enter the man cave?”

Pia smiled at Camille, and nodded wordless thanks for all her encouragement and advice. She parked on the wrong side of the road, which was a bad thing in Australia -- in fact it was illegal, $160 fine -- but in her distracted state of mind, she was obeying the rule of the UK, where it was perfectly acceptable.

The two girls walked over to Vic's door. Camille looked impossibly elegant in her maxi dress. Pia looked a studied multi-colour pixel blizzard in her lemon-yellow sundress, with square neck and wide shoulder straps over her multi-panel Mondrian skinsuit, which hid the scars on her arms. Neon pink plastic ballerina flats, and her trademark pop-art bucket hat, completed the zany picture.

She took off her two-tone Marita sunnies to case the joint with a professional eye, noting the absence of security cameras and alarms. She put her finger to the doorbell, sang in English:

World, the time has come to (push the button)
World, my finger is on the button
My finger is on the button
My finger is on the button (push the button)

She pushed the button.

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 60: Body Counts

"There's something I want to tell you. Both of you." Pia took off her sunglasses so they could see her eyes, but she looked out to sea so they couldn't. She leant on the railing in between Camille and Vic.

"Um, er," she began eloquently. "You know the phrase 'body count'?"

Vic glanced sideways, his expression flickering alertly, but not alarmed. He didn’t move, didn't crowd her. Just shifted his weight so his shoulder was near hers without touching.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “It can mean different things, though. Depends who's saying it. And why.”

Camille, on Pia’s other side, didn’t speak right away. She just slipped her sunglasses off too, folding them with quiet precision and hanging one arm into the neckline of her dress. Her gaze stayed on Pia, not the sea. She nodded once, gently. “We’re listening, ma belle. Take your time.”

Now she had begun her story, Pia wanted to finish it quickly, before she could lose her nerve.

"There’s the modern sense of how many people you’ve slept with, as if it’s a bad thing. Some American boys use that as a way to slut-shame girls. The pathetic little misogynist shitbags!” She said suddenly and viciously. She took a deep breath to calm herself. “Sorry. Originally body count came from the Vietnam War. It meant how many people your platoon had killed. In that sense…" She hesitated...

"My body count is three… Men I've shot, during... Well, two of them were during a case in Beirut, drug smugglers. Rooftop chase. They were shooting at me and my partner. He was hit in the leg and I never got the stains out of my white jeans.”

She blew out a deep breath.

“The last one was my surf instructor in Hawaii.”

Pia was watching the Coogee surf, remembering those warm spring days at Waikiki, when the challenge of a new sport, and a different lifestyle, relaxed her and made her feel her life was finally changing for the better.

“I was lonely. He was attractive. Bronzed, buff, a smooth talker. That was part of what made him a good instructor, actually. We began a relationship. Things were okay at first. I thought I might have found a new life. But one night, after a date, he sexually assaulted me. He wanted to do it without protection. He wouldn’t take no for an answer. I fought him off with Krav Maga. He hit me with a lamp. Broke my arm. Adrenaline kept the pain away at first."

She stripped her left sleeve up to the elbow, displaying the scars.

"I grabbed my pistol. He jumped at me again, got his hands on my throat. I shot him three times. Then he died."

She turned around and leant back against the rail, daring gravity to take her. Her face was expressionless.

“I'm glad I killed him because he deserved it. It turned out during the investigation that I wasn't the first girl he'd done things to. But I was the last,” she said calmly. “I still think about his mother, though. She lost her son. I don't know how I feel about her.”

The breeze off the ocean kept blowing, gentle and salty, but the balcony felt utterly still.

Vic didn’t speak. Didn’t flinch. He looked at the scars with quiet gravity, then back at Pia’s face. Not in horror, not in judgement, just a slow, heavy understanding settling across his features like dusk.

Camille’s breath caught softly, but when she exhaled it was quiet and steady. She reached over and laid two fingers lightly on Pia’s exposed forearm, just to give her human touch.

Vic finally moved. Only a little. His hand found the railing beside hers, his palm brushing the back of hers as if to say 'I'm right here, and I'm not going anywhere unless you ask me to.'

His voice was low when he eventually spoke.

“You protected yourself. You survived. You did what you had to do. Pia... I’m so sorry that happened to you.” He shifted to face her more fully, his brows pulled together, not in pity, but in fierce empathy.

“Thank you for telling me. For trusting me.”

Camille’s voice was soft but certain, like velvet wrapped around steel. “Tu es incroyablement forte. I wish you hadn’t needed to be, but you are.”

A gust of breeze rolled over them, pulling the women’s dresses lightly around their legs. Vic studied Pia, her scars, her courage, her bare honesty in the morning sun.

“I want you in my life,” he said simply. “Even more now. I’m not scared of your truth. Just… I don’t take that lightly.” His eyes didn’t waver. “I won’t ever hurt you. I know you’re not ready to believe that yet. But one day, maybe you will.”

Pia looked calm but her voice was a bit wobbly. She reached out to take one of each of their hands, and looked them in the eyes.

"Now you both know the very worst things I've done. What I did to Hisashi, which was a stupid accident. And the fact that I'm a killer, even if it was self-defence. Thank you for listening, and for comforting me. And for believing in me."

Vic let her take his hand without hesitation, his fingers curling around hers gently, solid, warm, with a steady grip. Camille mirrored him on the other side, her hand cool and elegant but firm in Pia’s grasp, thumb brushing lightly over her knuckles like a grounding charm. They held her like an anchor line strung between them, with no judgement, no flinching, just human connection.

Vic met her eyes, steady and open. “There’s nothing about you that makes me want to walk away. Only things that make me want to stand closer.”

Camille nodded, her dark eyes gleaming. “You’re not just brave, Pia. You’re... whole. Even the broken bits, even the things you’re scared to say out loud, they’re part of a beautiful, complete woman. Not perfect, but powerful. Honest.” She squeezed Pia’s hand once. “And we’re lucky, that you let us in.”

Vic looked between them both, his eyes shining a little wetly in the salt-bright light.

“Okay,” he said, voice clearing slightly, like he was steadying himself too. “Now we go to the beach. Swim. Surf. Eat too much ice cream. Act normal. Because you’ve earned that. Not a moment of this day should be about anything except you being adored.”

He nodded toward the door with a small grin. “I’ve got snacks. Camille’s got glamour. You’ve got Rosalie. And I think the tide’s just turned.”

He lifted Pia’s hand to his lips, soft, brief, respectful, and added, quieter, just for her: “You are not just your past. You’re the one still standing. You’re the future.”

Pia smiled, though her eyes were wobbly. "There's a Japanese art called 'kintsugi'. It's a way of repairing a broken dish using veins of gold alloy as glue. When it's done well, the broken thing becomes more beautiful because of its golden scars. Maybe I can become like kintsugi.”

She heaved a deep breath and slapped her thighs. “Enough philosophy. Let's hit the beach! I reserved a parking space."

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 61: Krakens and TV Lego

But when they reached the beachside carpark, someone in a ute was backing into Pia’s reserved space. She leapt out in a sudden rage, brandishing her phone with the ticket on it like a weapon.

Vic had barely got his seatbelt off before Pia was already out of Rosalie, fury igniting her like a struck match. Her yellow sundress flared as she charged across the bitumen, phone held aloft like a flaming sword of justice. Her bucket hat bobbed wildly with every stride.

“Oi! Mate! That’s my space!”

The driver, mid-forties, sun-wrinkled, tattooed arm slung out the window, blinked at her like he’d just been assaulted by a talking ray of sunshine through a stained glass window. He paused mid-reverse.

Camille rolled down the passenger window, peering out with the cool detachment of royalty inconvenienced at customs. “We are clearly in the presence of a woman with receipts,” she called.

The man squinted at Pia’s phone. “Didn’t see no sign.”

“It’s online you drongo,” Pia snapped. “I paid in advance. Look, Booking reference 984721, time-stamped at 10:14 on Thursday morning. Do you want me to get the warden, or will you move? Or I’ll let you park and deflate all your tyres when you go away. Including the spare.”

There was a long silence.

Then the man let out a sigh, shifted the ute into drive, and grumbled, “Yeah, all right, keep your hat on.”

“Too late,” Pia muttered, victorious, flicking her hat back into place with extra drama as the ute pulled away.

Vic stepped out of the car slowly, trying not to laugh but failing. “Christ! You really don’t mess around with parking,” he murmured. Then, with a proud smile. “You are kintsugi, Pia. Gold veins and all. Also possibly terrifying in municipal matters.”

Camille popped her door open, swinging one leg out elegantly. “I love us. Now shall we go to ruin some lives with our swimwear?”

"But I wanted a proper fight," Pia muttered, apparently disappointed. She quickly cheered up, though, and helped unload all the beach stuff.

Vic searched the sun-drenched sand, shielding his eyes with one hand. Then he spotted them, Dan waving lazily with one arm like he was hailing a passing helicopter, Kiri half-hidden under a broad straw hat and a seafoam green sarong, perched cross-legged on a towel. And behind her, peering out with shy, blinking curiosity, was a little boy.

"Vic, introduce everyone," Pia whispered.

Vic smiled wide. “All right. Come on, I’ll do the honours.”

He led the girls down across the warm, packed sand, coolers swinging and umbrella bag tucked under his arm. As they reached the others, Dan rose to his full, formidable height, taller than Vic, shoulders like a rugby forward, and grinned.

“Oi, took you long enough! Sun’s nearly gone.” He squinted theatrically at the blazing sky.

Vic gave him a lazy salute. “Blame Pia. She had to argue with someone over a parking space. It was glorious.”

Dan chuckled. “Sounds about right.”

Kiri stood too, graceful and precise despite the soft sand. She had a quiet, luminous beauty, dark bob, oversized sunglasses, and the aura of someone who could de-escalate a border war using her mum voice.

Vic gestured broadly. “Everyone, this is Camille, our floating social compass and patron saint of style. This is Dan, my oldest mate, we’ve been embarrassing each other since high school. And that’s Kiri, who married him anyway. And that…” He crouched, smiling at the boy. “Is Leo. He’s got a wicked arm for a tennis ball and extremely serious opinions about ice cream. And this multi-colour clothing accident is Pia.”

Leo blinked up at Pia with wide, curious brown eyes and clutched the side of Kiri’s leg.

Kiri crouched beside him and whispered, “It’s okay, darling. Say hello?”

Leo half-hid, then mumbled, “Hullo,” into Kiri’s sarong.

Vic winked at Pia. “You have officially been greeted.”

Pia knelt in the sand to get to Leo's eye level. "Hello, Leo, I'm Pia. What do you like to do at the beach?"

Leo peeked out from behind Kiri’s leg again, still holding a handful of crushed biscuit crumbs in one small fist. His eyes, big and solemn under a mop of dark curls, studied Pia carefully, like she might be either a threat or a superhero. He considered her question very seriously. Then, in a tiny but firm voice, he said, “I like diggin’. An’ buryin’. An’ catchin’ water with my bucket but it always go away.”

Kiri hid a smile behind her hand.

Pia’s bucket hat seemed to intrigue him. He inched forward, pointing. “You got… a funny hat.”

Vic, standing behind her, grinned. “She does. It’s part of her superhero uniform.”

Leo lit up, just a little. “Are you a hero?”

Camille snorted from where she was lowering herself onto a towel. “Oh, you have no idea, mon petit.”

Leo, suddenly braver, looked up and announced, “I got shark shorts!” He turned and yanked at the side of his swim trunks with toddler pride. Indeed, tiny cartoon sharks grinned around his chubby legs.

Vic stage-whispered to Pia, “You’re in, now. Once he shows you the sharks, you’re family.”

"Wow! Those are cool shorts, Leo. I haven't got anything like that, just this skin suit." Pia took off her sundress and folded it neatly into her beach bag. Her skin suit was one body-hugging piece from neck to wrists and ankles, blocked out in red, white, blue, black and yellow rectangles of different sizes, all bordered by thin black lines.

Leo stared at Pia’s Mondrian skin suit with awed eyes like he was seeing a Transformer reveal its final form. “Whoa,” he breathed. “You look like… like TV Lego.”

Kiri gasped in horror. “Leo!”

But Pia hooted with laughter, and Camille nearly snorted hibiscus tea through her nose. Vic dropped onto his towel with a groan of delight.

“TV Lego. That’s it. We’ve found your true aesthetic.”

Dan leant back on his elbows, nodding sagely. “He’s not wrong, mate. You look like someone who’s about to deliver a TED Talk on subverting modern architecture and go on to win a beach sprint.”

Camille, reclining like a 1960s Bond girl, raised a brow approvingly. “Honestly, you pull it off. Very Piet Mondrian meets tactical spy chic. I’m shocked no one’s stolen your look yet.”

Leo tugged at Pia’s hand gently. “Can you come and dig with me?”

Kiri smiled apologetically. “He doesn’t usually take to people this quickly.”

Vic glanced sideways at Pia, eyes soft. “Yeah, well. Neither do I.”

"I'd love to, Leo!" Pia mouthed to Kiri, "Is it okay?"

Kiri nodded, touched by the gesture. She leant in slightly and mouthed back, “Yes. Thank you.” Then, with a quiet smile: “He’s usually so shy.”

The emboldened Leo toddled over to a patch of sand short of the tide line, plopping down with his little blue bucket and a bright yellow shovel that was missing a bite of the blade. Pia joined him, folding her long legs neatly beneath her, somehow managing to look composed even in the chaos of toddler beach play. Leo immediately began to demonstrate his expert technique of digging “a really big hole for the sea to fall in.” Vic watched the scene from a short distance, chin resting on his arms as he lay face down. His expression was somewhere between awe and quiet affection, a little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Look at her,” he said to Dan, low and amused. “Ten minutes ago, she was threatening a ute driver with total tyre deflation. Now she’s building a sand castle with a toddler. She’s...” He didn’t finish the sentence.

Camille, sipping from a hip flask she had sneakily tucked into a cooler, finished it for him: “She’s wonderful. Don’t mess it up.”

Pia helped Leo with her hands. "When I was little I played on the beach with my brother. We made sand castles and dams. And we caught crabs in rock pools, and ate sandwiches with sand in them. And it often rained."

Leo squinted up at her, eyes wide. “You got a brother? Where is he?”

He was patting down the sides of their enormous, uneven moat with comically delicate little splats, his tongue sticking out in concentration. The sea was creeping in, waves edging closer, threatening their masterpiece. Pia’s hands worked fast and sure beside his, smoothing, reinforcing, teaching by doing.

“He’s a long way away, Leo. I hope he’ll visit me soon."

Kiri watched from the towels, her face soft. Camille offered her a handful of olives with a murmured, "She's very good with children, non?”

Vic couldn’t stop watching Pia, not in a possessive way, just… transfixed. The way she had folded herself into this boy’s little world without changing it. Without making it about her. Just being there.

Leo, pausing mid-shovel, handed her a bucketful of sea water. “Do you like rain?”

Vic cupped his hands and called, “Oi! Make sure there’s enough room in that castle for a decent-sized kraken!”

Dan groaned. “Please don’t teach my son any more about krakens, Vic. I just got him sleeping through the night.”

Leo gasped. “Where’s the kraken?”

Vic stage-whispered, “Ask Pia. She’s probably fought one.”

The boy’s eyes went huge. He turned back to Pia, agog. “Did you?”

"I'm a lover, not a fighter, Leo. And the rain was okay. English people, that's like me, with my funny voice, we just pretend it isn't raining.” She put a scallop shell on the highest turret like a flag. “The castle’s finished. Do you want to have something to drink and watch the tide come in, Leo?"

Leo nodded solemnly, as if rain denial was a profound cultural rite he had just been initiated into.

“You do talk funny,” he agreed matter-of-factly, then added generously, “but it’s nice.” He looked down at their squiggly moats, walls and turrets, now fortified with shells and a surprisingly sophisticated drainage system that Pia had engineered with a segment of coconut husk. He gave a satisfied grunt. “We done. Kraken gonna love it.” Then he stood with a wobble and wiped his sandy hands on his shark shorts.

“I want juice.”

<<To be continued...>>