A tiny lizard darts out.
Abbey exhales hard, a hand pressed to her chest.I glance at her, and we both burst out laughing.
‘We couldn’t look more out of place if we tried,’ I say.
Abbey smooths down her black sleeveless jumpsuit and offers a smug smile.‘Please.A girl’s gotta stay sharp in this place.’She gestures at the bushes.‘Aren’t there crocodiles out here?’
She has every right to fear crocodiles – the creatures have dominated Australian horror stories since the dawn of time.But we’re far away from any river and I’m certain (I hope?) no crocodile travels so far for food.
‘It’s fine,’ I say, lying through my teeth.‘We’ll be fine.’
‘You don’t know that.What are the odds a croc jumps out and one of us has to be the distraction while the other runs for help?’
‘Crocodiles don’tjump out.’
We walk in silence for a beat.
‘Well?’she prompts playfully.
‘I’m not playing that game.Besides, we don’t even have drinks yet.’
It’s an old game – started the day Ella cracked open her mum’s liquor cabinet when we were sixteen.What are the odds?You propose a challenge, count down from three, then say a number out of five.If you match, the dare goes ahead.It was always a thinly veiled excuse to get drunk and make terrible choices.Like the time we were eighteen and I had to climb into my neighbour’s wheelie bin.Or last Christmas when Abbey had to steal the Christmas tree from the local pub.Abbey’s since adopted it as a full-blown lifestyle – some sort of chaotic optimism manifesto.
We round a bend, and the party comes into view – an open area under a fairy-light-strewn gumtree, full of people who look like they have just dismounted a horse or a ute or something equally rugged.The volume rises with every step we take, and it becomes immediately clear that we are very overdressed.
Abbey’s jumpsuit is at least backless and bold.I, on the other hand, am wearing a full-length black silk sheath that clings to every inch of me like a second skin.
A few heads turn.
Next to me, Abbey mutters, ‘Great.’
I scan the crowd.No familiar faces.
‘We look like the Men in Black,’ I whisper, tugging at the fabric around my waist.
Abbey scoffs.‘Please.We’re Romy and Michele.Only sadder.And without millionaire boyfriends or Post-it empires.’
My eyes catch on a cluster of guys by the makeshift bar.Beers in hand, sleeves rolled up, sun-kissed forearms on full display.They’re mid-conversation, all rugged charm and dusty good looks, an R.M.Williams ad come to life.
I nudge Abbey.‘What are the odds you walk over and say hi?’
Her eyes flash.‘Out of five.’
We count down in unison.‘Three, two, one—’
‘Four.’
‘Four.’My smile spreads.
‘Joke’s on you,’ she says, already eyeing the group.‘I was going to get us drinks anyway.’She winks.‘Consider it recon.’
I watch her stroll off, her hips swaying, and nearly snort when three heads pivot towards her like periscopes the moment she leans across the bar and accepts a glass of champagne from the bartender.It’s inspiring.
‘Jamie!’
I turn to see Ella sitting on a wooden bench and radiating goddess beauty in a linen wrap dress that hugs her body like a lover.Her hair is smooth and bouncy despite the humidity.For the love of God, someone put this woman in a shampoo commercial.
I settle into the space she offers beside her on the bench, my dress clinging to my thighs.
