Audrey bent her considerable journalistic instincts to assessing this from multiple angles. “Okay, I don’t crank, and I’m not convinced that’s a thing anybody does. But I’m glad you didn’t want me to be upset.”
By way of answer, Jennifer gave a low growl.
And, for a moment, they sat in marbled silence: Audrey still circling the whirlpool that was Emily Branningham and Jennifer presumably working out how to walk back the fact she’d done something a little bit lovely. Even if it had been obscured by a veil of cranking.
“I think,” said Audrey finally, “what bothers me the most about all of this is that she clearly cares about Doris.”
That earned a dark Jennifer Hallet laugh. “No, Lane. She’s in love with her. And that’s not the same thing.”
“Isn’t it?”
“Please, not even you are this naïve. Caring about someone means wanting what’s best for them. Being in love just means wanting them.”
“I want the best for people I’m in love with.”
“I’m sure you do. But the fucking miserable thing about you, Audrey Lane, is that you’re a good person. Most of us aren’t.”
“I think most of us are, actually?”
“Okay. But people like me and Emily Branningham aren’t. Love to you is nice quilts, holding hands, and trying to make people happy. To us, it’s just power you don’t want to give away.”
A couple of weeks ago, Audrey would have believed this little speech. “That might be what you tell yourself, Jennifer, and it might even be true of Emily. But you’ve still got that shitty quilt I made. And you’ve held my hand a bunch of times—”
“During sex doesn’t count.”
“Yes it does.And,” Audrey went on triumphantly, “you came here because you didn’t want me to be sad and alone.”
“Oh fuck off.”
“No, I will not fuck off.” Audrey extended an accusatory finger. “This meaner-than-thou talk doesn’t fool me anymore. You like me. You care about me. And…and I think we’re both cool with that.”
“I’m not fucking cool with it,” retorted Jennifer Hallet at a hotel-lobby-inappropriate volume. “You snuck up on me like tertiary syphilis.”
“And to think you keep telling me you’re not romantic.”
* * *
“Yes,” said Audrey, as they wandered hand in hand across Larvotto Beach. “Not at all romantic.”
Jennifer didn’t even dignify this with afuck off. “Well, it was this or go shag in a casino toilet, and I thought the beach would be more your speed.”
“You realise there are more options than shag in a casino toilet or go take a walk by the sea.”
“Not in Monte Carlo there aren’t.”
“Well, maybe we can fuck in a casino toilet later.”
“I’m game if you are.”
“Honestly,” Audrey admitted, “I’m not particularly. I’ve never really got the whole…lavatorial-taboo-fetish thing.”
“I don’t think it’s about being taboo. It’s about having a door that locks.”
“I’m so glad,” said Audrey, “that we’re on this golden beach beside the turquoise waters of the Mediterranean talking about toilets.”
“You were talking about toilets. I was talking about sex.”
“Sometimes I have no idea why I like you.”
