really cook in this kitchen.
“Cooler’s here,” Flora said. “I’ll make tea.”
When they returned to the lounge, Rye slipped her boots off. To her horror, both
her socks had holes. She tried to keep her feet tucked out of sight when she sat
on one of the sofas. Flora sat on the other end of the same sofa. Close but not
dangerously so. She looked very good in a tight top and little skirt. Rye sipped
her tea and imagined immigration officials beating down her door to come and
arrest Holly and herself. No sex.
“How is Holly?” Flora asked. “Shopping this morning?”
“On a school trip. And hating every moment. Not that I can blame her this time.
It sounds very boring. History. It’s not Holls’ favourite subject.”
“What does she like?”
“To hear her, nothing,” Rye said. “She’s bursting for the day she can leave
school. I had hoped she’d go to university, but she doesn’t seem at all keen.
Maybe she’ll change her mind. She does that as often as she changes her
clothes.”
“You’d like her to take a degree?”
“No one can take your education away from you, no matter what else they do.”
Flora frowned and cocked her head.
“I want Holls to get a good job,” Rye said. “A degree is her ticket to that. But
I’m not sure she hears me over the noise of her crash music.”
Flora smiled. “I’m surprised that she doesn’t like art. She has natural talent.”
“She gets average grades in most subjects, but I know she could do better if she
tried. She used to when she was younger. She was more interested in school then.
If they had classes on giggling about boys, gossiping with her friends on the
phone for hours and hours, and playing loud music, she’d be a straight-A
student.”
“We all go through that, don’t we? It’s that dreaded adolescence. There isn’t a
creature of any species which doesn’t suffer it, is there?”
Rye turned away and drank to hide her frown. Her own adolescence had been very
different from Holly’s. But then, that was what Rye worked hard for.
Rye’s gaze snagged on a pair of wall hangings with patterns that almost matched,
but didn’t quite. They made her feel that they should and that it was her eyes
that were wrong, not the symmetry.
“Did you make those?” Rye asked.
Flora turned to look. “Magnificent, aren’t they? A friend wove them. They’re the
best things she has ever done by a wide margin in my opinion, though I don’t
tell her so in quite that way. But it’s nice of you to think they might have
been mine.”
Rye took another look around the room. She hadn’t noticed the paintings and pots
before.
“Would you like to see what I do?” Flora asked.
“Yeah, I would.”
Flora smiled warmly. Rye’s heart gave an odd flutter.
Rye slipped her hand into Flora’s and let her lead her through the apartment.
They entered a room alive with light and colour. The windows started partway up
the walls and curved around to cover half the ceiling. Rye could see green
leaves, blue sky, and white clouds. Balls, skeins, and hanks of threads of every
material and hue spilled out of baskets on the floor and formed rainbows on the
shelves.
“Sad to say,” Flora said, “but this is my closest companion.”
Rye stared at the loom which dominated the room. It looked large enough to make
a good-sized rug on, though it was only partly threaded now.
“If I worked out how many hours I’ve spent with this,” Flora said, “compared to
the time I communicate with people, the answer would be thoroughly depressing to
any normal being.”
Rye looked around at the colourful bits of cloth and rough watercolour sketches
tacked to the walls. She stepped across to peer at a circular piece of cloth.
Flora moved closer. She glanced between the cloth and Rye. “Well? Or would I be
better not asking?”
“Art and stuff usually makes me feel very stupid,” Rye said. “As though my brain
is missing the bit that other people have which lets
“Cooler’s here,” Flora said. “I’ll make tea.”
When they returned to the lounge, Rye slipped her boots off. To her horror, both
her socks had holes. She tried to keep her feet tucked out of sight when she sat
on one of the sofas. Flora sat on the other end of the same sofa. Close but not
dangerously so. She looked very good in a tight top and little skirt. Rye sipped
her tea and imagined immigration officials beating down her door to come and
arrest Holly and herself. No sex.
“How is Holly?” Flora asked. “Shopping this morning?”
“On a school trip. And hating every moment. Not that I can blame her this time.
It sounds very boring. History. It’s not Holls’ favourite subject.”
“What does she like?”
“To hear her, nothing,” Rye said. “She’s bursting for the day she can leave
school. I had hoped she’d go to university, but she doesn’t seem at all keen.
Maybe she’ll change her mind. She does that as often as she changes her
clothes.”
“You’d like her to take a degree?”
“No one can take your education away from you, no matter what else they do.”
Flora frowned and cocked her head.
“I want Holls to get a good job,” Rye said. “A degree is her ticket to that. But
I’m not sure she hears me over the noise of her crash music.”
Flora smiled. “I’m surprised that she doesn’t like art. She has natural talent.”
“She gets average grades in most subjects, but I know she could do better if she
tried. She used to when she was younger. She was more interested in school then.
If they had classes on giggling about boys, gossiping with her friends on the
phone for hours and hours, and playing loud music, she’d be a straight-A
student.”
“We all go through that, don’t we? It’s that dreaded adolescence. There isn’t a
creature of any species which doesn’t suffer it, is there?”
Rye turned away and drank to hide her frown. Her own adolescence had been very
different from Holly’s. But then, that was what Rye worked hard for.
Rye’s gaze snagged on a pair of wall hangings with patterns that almost matched,
but didn’t quite. They made her feel that they should and that it was her eyes
that were wrong, not the symmetry.
“Did you make those?” Rye asked.
Flora turned to look. “Magnificent, aren’t they? A friend wove them. They’re the
best things she has ever done by a wide margin in my opinion, though I don’t
tell her so in quite that way. But it’s nice of you to think they might have
been mine.”
Rye took another look around the room. She hadn’t noticed the paintings and pots
before.
“Would you like to see what I do?” Flora asked.
“Yeah, I would.”
Flora smiled warmly. Rye’s heart gave an odd flutter.
Rye slipped her hand into Flora’s and let her lead her through the apartment.
They entered a room alive with light and colour. The windows started partway up
the walls and curved around to cover half the ceiling. Rye could see green
leaves, blue sky, and white clouds. Balls, skeins, and hanks of threads of every
material and hue spilled out of baskets on the floor and formed rainbows on the
shelves.
“Sad to say,” Flora said, “but this is my closest companion.”
Rye stared at the loom which dominated the room. It looked large enough to make
a good-sized rug on, though it was only partly threaded now.
“If I worked out how many hours I’ve spent with this,” Flora said, “compared to
the time I communicate with people, the answer would be thoroughly depressing to
any normal being.”
Rye looked around at the colourful bits of cloth and rough watercolour sketches
tacked to the walls. She stepped across to peer at a circular piece of cloth.
Flora moved closer. She glanced between the cloth and Rye. “Well? Or would I be
better not asking?”
“Art and stuff usually makes me feel very stupid,” Rye said. “As though my brain
is missing the bit that other people have which lets
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