“You’re a doer,” I say quietly. I envy it.
“One life to live.” She says it like it’s the simplest fact in the world, but it turns something over in my head. “Sure, I’ve had my fair share of fuck-ups. Fell on my ass plenty. But I wouldn’t trade any of it. It’s a crime to waste a day on ‘I shouldn’t’ or ‘but what if’. I’d rather live in randomised chaos than stay safe and miss out.” She shrugs. “That’s my take, anyway.”
“It’s the smartest take I’ve ever heard,” I say, and mean it. I’mpainfully aware that it’s not her job to swoop in and fix my life like some cinematic trope. She’s not a manic pixie dream girl fantasy; she’s a person with her own independent agenda, and owes me nothing just because she’s charismatic. But the way she talks about choice and regret makes some long ignored part of my chest ache. So I take the data her perspective provides and promise myself, quietly, that I’ll try to do the fun thing more often. Whatever that looks like for me.
She smiles at me in the way that makes my pulse trip. “Do the fun thing more often,” she repeats. “You’ll like it, I promise.”
There’s a tiny smear of sauce at the corner of her mouth. Before I’ve thought it through, I reach across, wipe it with my thumb, and - Christ - lick it off.
Barbecue, I think dimly. Maybe ketchup.
My brain catches up a second later. That was intimate. Too intimate?Christ.From the serenely knowing look in her eyes,definitely.
“S-sorry,” I stammer, heat flooding my face.
She just laughs softly and threads her arm through mine, resting her head briefly on my shoulder as the announcer’s voice crackles to life and the first bikes line up.
“How many times were you caught making out under the bleachers in school?” she asks, looking up at me with mischief in her eyes.
I follow her gaze to the stands and the space beneath them. We didn’t have bleachers at Foxton High, but even if we had… “Not once,” I admit.
“Too stealthy, huh?” She doesn’t wait for my answer. “I lost countof my detentions. And honestly, it wasn’t always just making out. I was a sexual tearaway from day one.”
My body responds to that phrase with embarrassing speed.Pavlov’s pelvis.It’s still startling that it happens so easily for her.
To ground myself, I focus on the announcer droning through sponsor adverts. Banners ring the track, logos shouting into the dusk. The riders come out for a slow lap, engines snarling, dirt kicking up behind them. ThePulp Fictiontheme blares from the speakers. Tippi whoops and claps, louder than anyone else around us. People look; I can’t blame them. She’s not only enthusiastic but stunning, all animated features and golden eyes and unashamed enjoyment.
The first heat lines up. My nerves settle as the William Tell Overture kicks in: pattern, structure, something for my brain to hold onto. The bikes surge forward at the flag, engines a swarm of angry hornets. Tippi leans forward, shouting encouragement to the home team, totally absorbed.
Stop staring. Talk to her.
I think of the one topic guaranteed to bring her attention back to me. “So… how did you manage to monetise your blog?” I ask during the lull before the next race. “It’s a significant achievement.”
“I did warn you it’s a long story,” she says, eyes flicking to me.
“I like long stories,” I say, and only barely manage not to tackabout youon the end.
Something in her softens. Every time she gives me full eye contact, my brain does a small reboot. I wonder if that would ever lessen, or if I’d always feel slightly short circuited under that gaze.
Pity that I’m unlikely to find out.
“OK,” she says. “I started it because I wanted a record of my travels, but I didn’t want a regular travel blog. So I combined my two passions: seeing the world, and sex.” My hands tighten on the chip tray. “I wrote about social attitudes to sexuality where I went, the sex lives of people I met, with their enthusiastic permission and participation, and how they celebrated that part of themselves. Or didn’t, as the case may be.”
Dust rises on a breeze, catching the floodlights. Her voice threads through the noise.
“Europe’s a haven for sex museums,” she continues. “I got talking to one curator in France, Jerome, who has shares in a club. I went as his guest, wrote about it, and he paid me. I wasn’t expecting that, but he did, for promoting the place. Then he introduced me to other people who sold sex toys, lingerie, all sorts. And they wanted in, too.” She shrugs. “Add advertisements and clever social media, and boom. Decent living. Plus,” she smirks, “I had to use my first name somehow.”
She says it all so casually, like it isn’t an astonishing accomplishment. Then she whoops as another set of riders get into position, seamlessly switching focus.
“Are you named after Tippi Hedren,” I ask when there’s another suitable gap, “or is that coincidence?”
“I am indeed.” She lets out a low whistle. “I’m impressed. Not everyone knows her, thanks to Hitchcock’s creepy and bitter little vengeance fest.” The look she sends the air at his name could curdle milk. “So calling my blogJust the Tippiwas a no-brainer.”
“Right. Well. That all sounds…fun,” I say weakly, as the full implications slide into place. Sex toys. Underwear. Clubs. Reviews. Which means she tests things. Experiments with them.On herself. For work.
There is no amount of cold water in the world that will erase those mental images.
“Sure is,” she says. “Few people get to make money from the things they love most. I know I’m lucky.”
