"Easy. Multiply by two point five four." The wine meant Dillian had to close her eyes briefly, concentrating. "Twenty-eight — seven — carry three. Seventeen point seven eight."
When Dillian opened her eyes, Cele was staring. "How do you remember that stuff? It's so archaic. I have to look it up every time I'm reading old designs."
"Easy. Easier than a photographic memory for body parts. You know, I don't believe you can really remember," Dillian added, only half teasing.
"I could draw you every cock I've ever touched. And I had a damn close look at that one. Several times, over a very satisfactory evening." She smiled, catlike. "It was ten years ago, and we were both several sheets to the wind, but I distinctly remember that he was a great lay."
Despite herself, Dillian laughed. Then the memory of the conversation in Keir's room at New Year surfaced. She stared into the depths of her wine, hearing their voices.
'Then why are you still with him?'
'He's an incredibly good fuck?'
He'd been trying to shut her up when he said it, but he'd meant it, too. Sex. Obviously one of the great joys of Keir's life right now, as Cele had said.
Was
that all it was? God, she hoped so. Just an infatuation — although thirty-four-year-old men weren't supposed to have infatuations — which would pass. Soon. The sooner the better. Perhaps his recent reticence was a good sign after all.
When she looked up, Cele was watching her. "That's a very serious face," she said.
"I was just wondering when Keir's going to come to his senses. That man — " Cele rolled her eyes, but Dillian decided she'd be damned if she'd give him the dignity of a name. "That man doesn't care about him, not at all. Keir's going to get hurt, a lot more than bruises."
"I really don't think you're being . . . okay." Cele sat up straighter. "You think Toreth doesn't care. Forget fair — think evidence. You could tell that the poor bastard was floundering way out of his depth with the whole family thing at New Year, right? Right?"
Reluctantly, she nodded. She couldn't deny it, since she'd said exactly the same thing.
"In fact, half the time I was there he looked like someone had his nuts in a vise. But he turned up anyway. Why? He did it for Keir. Putting yourself through something like that, just because your squeeze invites you — doesn't that count for anything?"
"He made a pass at me." She hadn't meant to say that, but annoyance goaded the words out.
Cele's eyebrows rose, then she laughed. "Really? What did you do?"
Dillian felt her cheeks heat. "I slapped him."
"Good Lord. Must've been some pass. I guess I've been lucky." For a moment her gaze was openly appraising. "I've done the same and I didn't get slapped."
"That's because you're you." Why was Cele always so damn fair? "How come I'm the only one who can see that the man is a menace? What about what's best for Keir?"
Cele let out a short breath, sounding almost annoyed. "Any minute now you're going to say, why can't he find a nice girl and settle down?"
"I am not." Dillian frowned. "Although I'd prefer it if he did. I'd prefer it if he found a nice man and settled down. I don't know why he doesn't."
"Well, why don't you?"
The question stumped her. "We're not talking about me," she said finally.
"Actually, we are." Cele topped up both their glasses. "Or had you forgotten why this started?"
"Um." Damn. Dillian sipped her wine, thinking it over. "I suppose, when it comes down to it, right now I'm too busy doing other things. Things I'd rather do, and which make it hard to start a relationship, never mind keep one going. I don't want a man, nice or otherwise."
"How about a woman?"
Dillian smiled; she couldn't help it. "They're no easier to find."
Cele shook her head, returning the smile. "For you, there's always at least one available."
No reply, serious or joking, seemed right; after a few seconds' silence Cele added, "Which reminds me, I've got something to show you. Wait here."
Apparently unparalysed, Cele handed over her glass and rose. She disappeared behind a tall cabinet, and drawers opened and closed out of sight. "I found something while I was making room for the unwanted guests. I shut the ugliest ones in the closet — I hope they're not breeding in there — and while I was tidying, I came across . . . this."
She came back to the living area with a large, flat folder. Before she said anything, Dillian knew what it must hold.
"Studies for the great masterpiece I never painted," Cele said. Settling down on a giant purple cushion on the floor at Dillian's feet, she opened the portfolio. Dillian found herself looking into a pencil mirror reflection of herself, a dozen years younger and . . .
"I look so happy," Dillian said. Like a dog with two tails.
"You were, sweetheart. Or I thought you were, so that's what I saw."
"I was. Why didn't you paint it? I wouldn't have minded."
Cele turned over another drawing, and shook her head. "I started, but I couldn't see it any more. I needed to paint a lover, and after we were back to being friends, I couldn't do that. It wouldn't have been healthy, sitting in the studio thinking about you like that when . . . " She waved the drawing vaguely.
That was something Dillian had never known before. Of course, she'd never asked before. "I'm sorry."
"Hey, no need. I wasn't complaining." Cele glanced at her sideways. "Much. Seriously, though, those are six months I don't regret at all."
"Nor do I." Thinking back, looking down at the sketch of her glowing smile, nostalgia twinged for something she'd thought of for years as an aberration, although she didn't like that word. A brief phase, rather, long over.
"And the reason I don't regret it," Cele said, "is that we stayed friends. Mind-meltingly great as you were, it wouldn't have been worth losing you over it."
"Never." Dillian set down one glass and took Cele's hand — strong fingers, square nails darkened round the edges with charcoal — wanting to touch her, to add the reassurance of contact. "We're first bestest friends, remember?"
"Forever." Cele smiled at the reminder of the promise, first given so long ago at school. She ran her thumb over Dillian's palm, then said, "Model for me?"
"What? Now?"
"Yes, now." She withdrew her hand and wagged her forefinger. "I should warn you up front that it's mostly a feeble excuse to get you naked, but I do actually have something I want to try. And it does even have to be tonight."
Dillian counted down the diminishing protests. You don't want to do this. You shouldn't want to do this. This isn't a good idea. This isn't fair to Cele when you don't have any intention of —
Placing her wine on the floor beside Cele's, she stood up. "All right. Here?"
When Cele nodded, she stripped, trying to make it as casual as she could. She was folding her clothes when Cele raised the blinds. Dillian snatched up her shirt again.
"Cele! People can see in!"
"Not for long." Cele switched out the lights and came back along the length of the window. "There."
Dillian stood still, letting her eyes become accustomed to the darkness, finding that it wasn't so dark after all. With the lights on, the moon had seemed like a white disk in the sky. Now it shone brilliantly enough to cast shadows from the thin uprights between the huge floor-to-ceiling panes. Beyond the window, it overlaid the nighttime glow of the city with a net of sharply delimited silver and black.
She turned to find Cele a little way away. She wasn't looking at the moon. After a moment, Cele sighed and shook her head slowly.
"God in heaven, woman. You are beautiful."
Dillian laughed, abruptly self-conscious. "I'm afraid I can't match up to those old pictures."
"You're aging like good wine. More body, and all the better for it. Didn't I say back then that you were too skinny? If you can count a woman's ribs at a glance, there's something wrong with her."
An old argument, and Dillian shied away from the memory of what Cele had been doing when she'd first made that observation. "Where do you want me?"
"Oh, Lord, don't tempt me." She began piling cushions close to the window. "Let's make these monstrous things work for their keep. Right, sit there. Look out of the window. No . . . a little more towards me. Knees up and together. Now, straighten your left arm. Lean back and — no, too far. Just — " Cele sighed. "Can I touch?"
It's not fair to do this when you don't — "Go ahead."
"Maybe I should sculpt you," Cele said as she posed her, fingers carefully neutral. "Abstract bronze. Something designed to be handled. I could call it 'Irresistibly Tactile'. There."
She stood up and disappeared into the deeper shadows at the back of the room. "It's too dark to sketch. I'll take some pictures and work out how to recreate the light in the morning. Where the heck did I put . . . ah! Got you, you little bastard."
Dillian heard the first quiet click as Cele moved back into the main area, but didn't look round. She held still, enjoying the well-remembered novelty of posing, as Cele circled. From time to time Cele suggested a change in position, or simply rearranged her model. If some of the touches lingered longer as time passed, neither of them commented.
"The moon's lovely," Dillian said eventually.
There was a silence, then Cele lowered the camera and said, "Oops! Missed my cue, didn't I?"
"Sorry?"
"I should have said, 'But it's shining on something lovelier still'. And then, oh, done something like kiss you."
It's not fair —
"You aren't too late," Dillian said.
A heartbeat of silence, then Cele said, "Don't tease, sweetheart."
"I'm not. Not at all."
By the time she'd finished speaking, the camera had landed on a cushion with a soft thump, and Cele was kneeling before her in the moonlight, her hands extended, palms up. Supplication, and uncharacteristic uncertainly. A shadow hid her face, but Dillian didn't need to see it.
"Someone should take our picture," Dillian said softly, then moved from her pose, opening her arms, but Cele still hesitated.
"No expectations, I promise," Cele said. "No strings attached. Just like before."
"I remember." Then, trying to lighten the tension, she asked, "What were you saying about one of the great joys of life?"
"I don't want it to fuck things up, that's all."
"It won't. It can't." Dillian took her hands, drawing her gently forwards.
The moon lit Cele's face now, allowing Dillian to see her smile. "First bestest friends?" Cele asked.
"Forever."
The great thing about sex with another woman, Dillian mused — the best thing, in fact, the thing she'd forgotten — was that there was no natural endpoint. Sex, conversation, more sex, a pause for wine and ice cream cake, back to bed for more lazy, giggly, fun sex . . .
And there was no need to feel selfish for deciding that three orgasms weren't enough after all, and that four made a much better number. Keeping the score even was unnecessary, but fun.
They'd reached another pause, this one feeling as if it might be the final one for the night. The one that would slide gently into sleep. Leading, if one looked far enough ahead, to the morning after. Not something she was worried about, not really, because it was Cele, not an awkward first morning after with a stranger. A bit of a hangover, that would undoubtedly be the worst part, and there wouldn't even be much of that because most of the second bottle still sat by the sofa downstairs where it had all —
"I love you," Cele whispered against her neck.
It didn't sound at all strange. Nor at all worrying, or uncomfortable, that Cele should say this while they were lying together, with Cele's hand cupping her breast, sensual and comforting at the same time.
Dillian felt Cele tense up; clearly, she'd misinterpreted the silence.
"Sorry, sweetheart. I meant —"
"No." Dillian squirmed round, and silenced her with a kiss. "I love you, too. I always will."
Cele nodded. "I know. But I also know we're not going to be shopping for a rose-covered cottage and a pair of hers-and-hers Labradors tomorrow, so chill out."
She couldn't help laughing. "I am chilled. Never chillier. Absolutely Arctic. I was just thinking how nice it felt, lying here."
"Oh." Cele, rendered speechless. Dillian knew it couldn't last long, and it didn't. "Well, there you go. All
my
insecurities laid out in the open. Enjoy 'em while they're hot."
"I'd rather enjoy you." Dillian stroked her hand along Cele's thigh and up over her hip, pressing her hip bone with her thumb, then touching her stomach lightly enough that Cele drew in a breath and squirmed. The muscles tightened under Dillian's fingers, and she laughed. "What was it you said about the significance of spending too much time at the gym?"
"What can I say? It keeps me out of bars, and away from the fabric fetishists and the guys who just want to tell me about their mothers. Or their fish. God, did I ever tell you about the guy with the koi carp?"
"Yes, you did. I thought we didn't talk about him?"
Cele's stomach rippled as she laughed. "Did I say that? Well, it's probably for the best. Mmm." She squirmed, trying to persuade Dillian's hand lower. "Especially when we could be doing something much more fun. And much less traumatic."
"We should go to sleep. I have work in the morning."
"Call in sick?" Cele suggested, then sighed. "You and your damn work ethic. If I look sufficiently pitiful and exploited, is there any chance you'll feel so guilty you'll — "
"Shut up," Dillian said, and kissed her.
So maybe it wasn't the last pause after all.
When Dillian came back upstairs from the bathroom, Cele was sitting on the rumpled bed in a dressing gown that shimmered with every colour Dillian could imagine, and some she rather wished she couldn't. Thank goodness her hangover was hardly noticeable, even with the bright morning sunshine pouring into the flat through the huge windows.