A few months prior, Kristin had received a portable phone courtesy of Sterling Wines—just another instrument to keep her busy when she wasn’t in the office—but apparently PhD students at the University of Sydney did not receive the same benefits. This meant that Kristin couldn’t call Sheryl in the evening because the woman was always busy at some meeting.
Sheryl’s only free night that week had been Monday, and that was the night Kristin was hosting an event at a new wine bar in Pott’s Point. Sheryl wasn’t only writing her thesis on the evolution of the butch identity in modern queer culture. She was also an essential member of the Lesbian Association of the University of Sydney, of the Sydney Mardi Gras organizing committee, and it seemed to Kristin, a whole host of other lesbian-related organizations. Sheryl lived and breathed lesbianism and feminism, and it kept her very busy.
They managed a quick lunch together on Wednesday—oddly, Sheryl seemed to have a lot more free time during the day than in the evenings—which had been a giddy affair of staring into each other’s eyes, not consuming a lot of food, and Sheryl teasing Kristin about where she would take her on Saturday, and giving instructions on what to take. Staying overnight was a possibility, if Kristin was up to it.
By the time Friday evening came round, and Kristin met up with Cassie for a much-needed drinking-and-sharing session, Kristin felt that a month had passed instead of a week since she had kissed Sheryl good-bye at the front door of her apartment.
“I’ve met someone,” Kristin blurted out. They had barely sat down at their usual table at The Barrel for their weekly Friday-after-work piss-up. “Her name’s Sheryl. We had coffee and dinner on Sunday, and then lunch this week. And she’s taking me away somewhere tomorrow, although she hasn’t told me where.” The words exploded out of her, just like the emotions had been exploding within her all week. Was this love at first sight or something silly like that? Was it the fact that Kristin had not acted upon her desires as much as she would have liked in her twenties? Or maybe it was the relief that when she turned thirty next week, she would be able to look back on the past decade with more than just regrets for what she’d been too afraid to do. As if Sheryl showing up in extremis had made the past ten years worthwhile.
“You’re seeing someone,” Cassie shouted. “I can’t believe it.”
“Well, I wouldn’t exactly call it seeing,” Kristin backpedaled a bit. “We’ve only just met.”
“Good grief, Kris,” Cassie continued, ignoring Kristin altogether, “that is such a relief.”
“Why thank you.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but, at times, I thought you were headed for surefire spinsterhood.”
“How can I possibly not take that the wrong way?”
Cassie gently put her hand on Kristin’s shoulder. “Because I don’t mean it in a bad way. Just in a worried-about-you way. You’re a gorgeous person, Krissie, but sometimes it just seems as though you’re very reluctant to be happy.”
“That’s not—” Kristin started to object.
Cassie held up her hand. “I’m not finished and it’s very important I finish this thought, okay? I’m your best friend and you only came out to me, what? A year and a half? Two years ago? And you haven’t told anyone else since.”
“I haven’t had that much to tell.”
“But what I’m really trying to say is that it doesn’t matter how long it took. It’s Friday evening, I can tell you’re tired, but I can tell there’s something else going on as well. Hand on my heart, I can tell just by looking at you, and that makes me so very happy. That’s all.”
Kristin had no objections. If Cassie had made a similar comment about her future as a spinster just the week before, she would have debated, defended herself, because she was so much more than perpetually single. She had achieved a lot, not in the least professionally—if her boss Nigel was to be believed, a promotion wasn’t far off.
“It’s early days still,” was all Kristin said, after which she allowed herself a minute of the hormonal reverie she’d spent most of the week being lost in. When she was a teenager, and her friends went on and on about this boy or that, Kristin found it so hard to relate. To the point that she started to wonder what on earth was wrong with her. She got it now. She was twenty-nine and she got it.
Of all people’s, Sheryl had managed to snag Aimee’s car for the weekend.
“It’s all yours,” Aimee had said, dangling the keys in front of her. “Take your girlfriend into the woods with my old Porsche.”