The neckline of the dress plunged square and low, a silver chain hung around her neck, she could feel the metal cold against her skin. Gold jewelry might have been better, she thought idly. Silver made her look pale. Her lips were slashes of bright red. Heavy eyeliner and mascara brought out her eyes; an unexpected, steely blue. Wisps of blonde, shoulder-length hair framed her face, styled and tweaked and tousled into submission.

It was an elegant look, the exact look she wanted to project. It was a look meant more for admiring than for living in.

The Brasserie was full of those damned mirrors. She tried not to let them distract her as she walked. As they moved through the crowded restaurant the maitre'd parted the crowd effortlessly. Glittering people wearing clashing couture and expensive perfumes smiled at her. Some stopped her to half-hug and to kiss the air on either side of her cheeks.

She fancied that she could no longer feel her feet. She might have been tiptoeing her way along, or crashing through the tightly spaced tables like a panicked elephant. Her nerves rubbed raw. Here, look at me! I'm a nervous freak! It was always like this in crowds. She couldn't go out without this feeling, like the entire world was watching and unanimously disapproved. What were they saying as she passed? What were they thinking? She's alone. I heard she's a lesbian. As if those two facts were synonymous.

Just entering the restaurant was an exercise in social gymnastics. At any moment in a conversation anyone might see someone more important or more beautiful than the current companion. Then they would perform an absurd two-step, an about face so sudden and dexterous a champion ballroom dancer might envy them, as they honed in on their new target. The trick was not to stay too long. Always leave, never give yourself a chance to be left.

Becca focused all her attention forward. Her table was in an excellent spot for watching and being watched. She was sure her agent had picked it for exactly that reason.

"Jake." Becca held out both hands and forced a smile. He was wearing a gorgeous, micro-fiber suit. The weave of the blue fabric was suddenly absurdly interesting to her. A suit that looked immaculate no matter how long you'd been sitting. What a frickin' marvel. She resisted the urge to reach out and touch it, admire its good looks and modern practicality. The suit seemed to have more personality than half the people in the restaurant combined.

He gave her a real kiss on each cheek, making contact, smiling warmly. "Rebecca. Glad you could make it." Rebecca. She hardly recognized that more formal of her names.

Of course, as a writer her name meant far more than her face, which was probably why her agent insisted on these monthly dinners; firstly to drag her from her self-imposed solitude, and secondly to try and put a public face to her name. Any publicity was good publicity apparently.

She returned his kiss. "Nice suit."

"Thanks. It's new."

"Why, are we celebrating?"

"You left the house, that's pretty special," he chided, but it was a gentle hit.

"Did you give me a choice?"

He grinned, unrepentant. "No, but I'm afraid one day you'll call my bluff."

It was their ritual. She would chew him out for his constant harassment. He would exasperate over her seclusion. She would capitulate gracefully. "No, you're right, it's good for me to get out from time to time. I'm so wrapped up in the book, I barely know what day it is."

"Well, the businessman in me likes the sound of that. But as your friend . . . ?"

She reached over and touched his hand, lightly. "I'm here. Let's just enjoy our dinner?"

A photographer from the restaurant milled around. Jake gestured him forward at the same moment as Becca waved him away. The photographer stepped forward, caught her look, stepped back.

Jake sighed, his plans thwarted. "What are you, some kind of vampire? Can't have your picture taken?" She shrugged and studied the menu. "Okay, that's it. When was the last time you got out, did something fun, spontaneous, even if just by yourself?" he asked.

Becca frowned. "I'm working, Jake. It's a full-time job."

"I have a full-time job, out in the world where I need to talk to people. I also have a girlfriend, a gym membership I never use, a symphony subscription . . ." he said. "It is possible to work and have a life." He picked up his whiskey and soda, twirled the crystal tumbler in his fingers, took a sip. She sat in silence. "So . . . Do you like the way the book is going?"

"Of course." Becca decided she would need something stronger than the ice water on the table to cope if Jake was determined to give her the third degree. She waylaid a harassed-looking waiter. "Amaretto Sour please. Ice and lemon."

Jake wasn't about to let up. "Any women in your life?"

"Not for a while now."

"That's not healthy. It's been what, two years?"

"Almost three," she corrected him.

"Anyone since Jodi?"

"No."

"What happened to that fox I met at the book launch? The PR woman? She seemed okay."

She pulled a face. "Briana? Uggh. Too clingy."

"Clingy?"

"As a nineteenth-century corset. After five minutes, I couldn't breathe."

She studied her menu. It was so many levels of pretentious, from the feel of the card to the names of the overpriced dishes. Lots of exotic monikers for dishes that were essentially just pasta with cheese, pasta with fish, pasta with tomato sauce.

"I'm sorry," Jake said.

Becca looked up, amused. "I said she was clingy. I didn't say she was dead."

He let that pass with a look. "I'm sorry I keep dragging you out in the world against your will."

The waiter arrived with her drink. She took a long, first swallow and felt the sour bite of the liquor as it entered her body. She stopped the waiter with a wave and pointed to the glass. "Keep them coming." Very soon the alcohol would start working its way into her bloodstream, thawing her out from the inside. "No, I'm the one who should be sorry. You're just trying to help."

"Okay, then, let me help. Tell me why you're so miserable?"

"I'm not miserable. That's a bit extreme."

He took her hand across the table. "Right, well I'm willing to bargain down to unhappy, but that's as low as I go."

"How about mildly disaffected? Disillusioned? Distempered?"

"I hear they have shots for that," he quipped.

"I'll call my vet."

He refused to shift topic and stared at her, not unkindly, until she was forced to look away. "What is it?"

"Give me a sec and I'll try to explain." She paused, thoughtful. "Remember when I was in Germany a couple of years ago? That book tour?"

Jake nodded. "You were great. You even talked to people."

"Not the point, Jake. Anyway, me and the PR guy, we're driving one-seventy-five down the AutoBahn"--she ignored Jake's look of horror--"when all of a sudden I saw something, in the corner of my eye. I jammed on the brakes so hard the car starts spinning out of control on the ice and almost swings into the other lane. We're both screaming, our lives flashing before our eyes . . ."

Jake took a huge swallow of his whiskey. "I don't know if I want to hear this."

"Our lives are flashing before our eyes," Becca continued, "and finally I get control and manage to stop the car from spinning. I stopped the car and he's staring at me going, what the hell did you do that for?"

"And why did you?"

She hesitated. "There was a butterfly."

"A what?" Jake asked.

"I'm serious. It was a goddamned butterfly. It flew onto the windscreen and I didn't want to hurt it. I nearly killed us both. It was this totally subconscious thing."

"A butterfly," Jake repeated, incredulous. He looked at Becca's face and laughed. "Oh no, it's not true. Tell me it isn't." Becca looked down in embarrassment. "Okay, you're never going near my car. Ever."

"Did you know, I've never driven since then?" Becca said. "Here I am cruising full speed down the highway and the smallest little thing makes me lose control. I careen off into chaos." She sighed. "All this, me, the way I am . . . I'm just being cautious."

"Cautious? There's caution and then there's . . . stopping. You can't stop driving because of one stupid thing," Jake reasoned, serious again. "Becca, you can't stop trying because you've screwed up a few times."

"Yes, I can," she said.

"You have to move on."

Becca tried to smile, to joke his concerns away, but she just didn't have the energy. "You know, let's eat."

When dinner was over they paid the bill and Jake took Becca's arm to escort her from the restaurant. To her surprise she actually found she was having a good time, good enough to be sorry the night was ending.

A limo pulled up and met them by the curb. Becca stared. "What's this?"

"What does it look like?" Jake laughed.

"It looks like a limo."

"Good guess. A driver too. He'll take you anywhere you want to go."

"Where would I want to go?" she asked, perplexed.

"Well, home if you like, but I was hoping you'd keep enjoying yourself and drive around for a while. The bar is fully stocked. Consider it a gift."

"You're not coming?"

"Wouldn't you rather be alone?" he asked.

She smiled fully this time, a genuine affection for him welling up inside her. "You know me way too well."

He leaned in to help her into the back seat just as the driver wound down the glass partition. "So, where are we going tonight, ma'am?"

Becca thought for a moment. "This is going to sound a bit weird, but can you just drive? Anywhere? Just around the city for a bit?"

He nodded. "Actually it's a pretty common request. How about over the bridge and up north a little bit? The lights are really pretty this time of night."

"That sounds perfect. Thank you." She hesitated a moment before adding, "I'm Becca."

He nodded. "I know who you are, Miss Harmer."

"No, really, Becca is fine."

"All right, Becca. I'm Robert." He nodded briefly. "Now, how about that drive?"

"Anywhere but home, James," she said.

He gave her a mock salute. "You got it."

She leaned back. The richly upholstered, leather seats sighed and welcomed her in. A mini-bar sat to the side and she explored it. To her delight she found piccolos of Bollinger, delicate champagne flutes stacked neatly and a punnet of fresh strawberries. Feeling utterly self-indulgent, she popped the cork on a bottle and poured.

"Jake, you are a man of exquisite taste," she muttered as she swallowed first a mouthful of champagne and then sank her teeth into a ripe strawberry. "So, Robert, how long do I have you for?"

"My shift ends at eight a.m."

She raised an eyebrow. "All night?"

"If you want."

She shook her head. "Don't worry, I'll have you home early. My batteries die long before then."

Lights flashed past. Becca wrapped herself in her thoughts and sipped quietly on her champagne. As they drove she wasn't really sure how much time had passed, or even in which direction they were headed. She thought about everything, about the evening just gone, about the things Jake had said. For a few moments she even allowed herself to think about other things.

Jodi had lived with her for two years. Every afternoon when she came home from work she would ask Becca about her day. Becca would stare at her computer and know Jodi was there, but not really know. Back then her first novel had been so near completion that she could barely stand to leave it. Like a colicky child she gave it constant attention; she massaged it gently, soothed its ills, plied the difficult text into submission. Her thoughts were rarely far from it.

Becca had quit her job. She worked day and night, pouring everything she had into the pages until there wasn't much of herself to give outside of the work. Jodi had lasted a long time before she finally moved on. She needed someone who cared more about her than fictional characters and words on a page. Becca understood, but that understanding didn't mean that she could change anything.

Jodi had a daughter now. A partner. A three-bedroom house in the suburbs. A King Charles Spaniel named Davey who had licked at Becca's ankles the only time she had gone to visit. That had been a mistake. For so long Becca had barely noticed Jodi was there and then when it was convenient for her she had finally mourned that she was gone. It sounded so unforgiveably selfish, even to her, even now.

"Becca?" Robert's voice broke into her thoughts.

"Yeah?"

"Do you mind if I grab a cup of coffee?" He indicated a small diner that glowed a little way up ahead.

"There's something open now?" She glanced at her watch, surprised. It was half past eleven.

"Seems to be," he answered, slowing down as they neared the roadhouse.

Becca looked through the open window into the denseness of trees that surrounded them on both sides of the road. She sniffed at the rich air and was rewarded with the smooth scent of eucalyptus. "I don't think I've ever been up here. It's beautiful."

"You should see it in the daylight," he said, pulling into the empty car park. The engine of the limo shuddered off. "Would you like anything?"

"Actually, why don't you stay here and I'll go?" she said. "I wouldn't mind stretching my legs."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, just give me a couple of minutes."

"No problem." He settled back into his seat, pulled his cap down over his face, and closed his eyes. She couldn't help smiling. He'd probably power-nap the whole time she was gone. Some people lived strange lives.

She pulled on her shoes and opened the car door. The woodland air filled her lungs as she stepped out. Even just this little bit out of the city the air was so deliciously different.

The sign on the roadhouse door read that it was open for another half hour. As she pushed her way inside a little bell attached to the door rang, the shrill tone alerting a dozing waitress who started upwards from her stool in the corner, rubbing her tired eyes. "Oh hey there. Come on in."

"Thanks." Becca sat down on one of the bar stools at the counter. She looked around at the scuffed linoleum floors, the vinyl-covered booths, the Formica countertops. She was suddenly keenly aware of how formally she was dressed.

The waitress noticed too, looking her up and down with a lazy grin. Becca returned the favor and stared back. The girl had long brown hair pulled loosely back into a ponytail. Thick strands not quite long enough to be tied back fell along her cheekbones and down to her jawline. She wore old jeans and a faded red polo shirt that advertised the roadhouse.

The writer in Becca enjoyed taking in the scene. A late-night waitress. An old coffee-stained counter. A battered, old jukebox in the corner. It probably had lots of Neil Sedaka and Patsy Cline.

The girl struck a polite pose, one hand on her hip, waiting to hear whatever Becca might want to order. Behind sky-blue eyes was an exhaustion that was difficult to hide, try as she might. On the floor near the chair she'd been sitting on was a textbook left open, too far away for Becca to figure out the subject.

"Studying?" Becca asked.

The girl nodded. "In between trying to keep my eyes open, yeah." The girl's smile struggled through her fatigue. She cocked her head and said in a faux-perky voice, "I'm Natalie, your waitress."

Becca giggled. "I'm Becca."

Natalie cast a glance through the window and spotted the limo parked outside. She let out a low whistle. "Is that yours?"

"What, the driver or the car?"

"Both."

Becca smiled. "No, I'm just borrowing them, for the night."

"Nice night for it," Natalie quipped. "You need coffee, right?"

Becca gestured outside. "He does. Black, I guess."

"And you?"

"Coke?"

Natalie nodded and got to work on the coffee, rattling the machine. "Mind if join you? It's been a long night."

"Please."

Becca watched Natalie as she worked. Her right eyebrow seemed to raise itself up and down uncontrollably at odd intervals while she was concentrating. She wore sliver studded earrings, one in each ear. She had no other obvious piercings. Her fingernails looked short and clipped (not chewed, Becca noted), but unpolished. The clomping on the floor as she moved suggested Natalie was wearing heavy boots.

She accepted the drinks as Natalie came back over. "I'll be back in a second," she said, lifting Robert's takeaway cup off the counter.

"Here. Take these." Natalie handed over a small milk and sugars with stirring rod. "Just in case you guessed wrong."

Becca's sandals crunched through the gravel and dirt of the car park as she made her way back over to the limo. She knocked on the driver's side window. Robert woke quickly and wound it down.

"Your coffee, sir."

He accepted the cup gratefully, then noticed she made no move to get back in. "You hanging out here a while?"

"I thought I might, just for a few minutes. Is that okay?"

He nodded. "You're the boss."

"Thanks."

She made her way back across the car park and into the roadhouse again. The welcome bell clanged in protest.

"I hate that thing," Natalie said, pulling her chair up to where Becca sat down. They sat quietly, sipping their drinks for a few moments.

"So, where do you go to school?" Becca asked.

Natalie sipped more coffee, mindful of the heat. "Sydney Uni. I'm doing my Masters in English."

"Research?"

"Uh huh."

"You got a topic?"

Natalie got up from the stool and went to fetch the book that was lying on the floor. She bookmarked her place carefully before handing it over.

"Nonsense Verse in History and Literature," Becca read aloud. She grinned. "Nonsense verse?"

"It's fun, all about the humour of the day, how it related to their politics, their way of life, the drugs they were taking at the time . . ." She grinned.

Becca handed back the book. "It's certainly original."

"Everyone else is doing Plath or Virgina Woolf." Natalie yawned. "There's only so many earnest critiques you can read about women throwing themselves into rivers or gassing themselves in ovens."

"I was one of those," Becca mused.

"What? A suicidal, tortured poet?"

Becca laughed. "No, hardly." She twirled the half-full coke bottle lightly in her hands. "I meant, I was one of those melancholy young girls with a mangled copy of The Bell Jar on my bedside table."

"And now?" Natalie asked.

"Now, I'm a writer. And I'm pretty sure The Bell Jar is still in my room somewhere."

"Writer, huh. Published?"

"Twice."

"That's amazing," Natalie said.

"I've been lucky."

"It takes more than luck. You must be talented, too." Natalie looked at her, her gaze unflinching. "No point being modest, you don't even know me."

Becca hesitated. "I hope I have talent. I have a great agent."

"What name do you publish under? Just so I can run to the library tomorrow and brag that I met you and borrow your books."

"Borrow?" Becca raised an eyebrow.

"Well, one day when I'm not working at a late-night roadhouse in the middle of nowhere for twelve bucks an hour and struggling to finish a Uni degree, I promise I'll buy them," Natalie said. "So . . . ?"

"Rebecca Harmer."

"See, that wasn't so hard, was it? I was going to freak you out by pretending I already owned a copy and it was sitting right here under the counter . . ." Natalie winked.

Becca snorted. "It happens more often than you might think. Then people ask me to sign them."

"Maybe I should get you to sign a napkin or something, then it can go up on the wall?" Natalie pointed to a noticeboard on the far side of the room.

Becca got up to examine "the wall." It was covered with an array of signatures on various scraps of paper and napkins, from TV stars to pop singers to football players. "Excellent. Can mine be stuck up underneath this rugby guy? The lesbian, feminist author meets macho, misogynist footballer dichotomy appeals to me."

"I met him. You're much better looking, I have to say. Not to mention chattier." Becca kept her eyes and face firmly toward the wall so Natalie couldn't see the faint blush her compliment had aroused. "Talking to people I don't know doesn't usually come this naturally to me."

"I wouldn't have noticed if you hadn't told me." Natalie looked up at the clock. "Ahh, quittin' time. Or near enough. Could you flip that closed sign for me?"

"Sure." Becca moved toward the door. She looked outside. Robert was asleep in the car again.

"I already cleaned up, I just have the coffee machine to do." Natalie looked up, suddenly unsure. "Are you in a rush to get anywhere?"

Becca shook her head. "No hurry."

"Mind keeping me company while I close up? It's nice to have someone to talk to for a change."

"My pleasure," Becca replied. "Let me see that book?"

Natalie handed over the textbook and wandered down to the other end of the counter. Becca opened the book where it was bookmarked and started to read aloud:

One fine day in the middle of the night,
Two dead men got up to fight.
Back-to-back they faced each other,
Drew their swords and shot each other.

A paralyzed donkey walking by,
kicked a blind man in the eye,
Sent him through a rubber wall,
into a dry ditch and drowned them all.

"Ahh," Natalie mused when Becca was done. "A classic."

"By whom?" Becca wondered. She flipped through a couple of pages.

"That one's signed Anonymous. It's like an old folk song or a sea shanty. It's so old and weathered nobody knows who wrote it anymore. And it changes so much over time that whoever wrote it might barely recognise it anyway. As time goes by, things go, thing stick."

"And what does it mean?"

Natalie shrugged. "You marinate long enough over something and you can make it mean anything you want."

"Okay, good point." Becca closed the book again. "What does it mean to you?"

Natalie talked as she cleaned. "That reality is filled with paradoxes. Kick someone into a wall and the wall might metaphorically be made of rubber and they'll bounce right back at you. No truth is infallible. That's the significance of the reference to the blind man. Everything is just someone's version of the truth." She placed the clean cups up on the shelf and looked over, one hand resting on her hip. Becca realised that it was a natural pose for her. "And on top of everything else, we need to remember that was just lampooning the truth the way the writer saw it, in his time."

"That's fascinating." Becca grinned. "Actually, you're pretty fascinating yourself."

"You sound surprised."

"I am," Becca replied. "No offense intended, but believe me, I wasn't expecting to find anything or anyone fascinating tonight." Becca searched around and snagged two napkins from the tabletop. She fished a pen from her purse, thought for a moment, then started writing.

"What are you doing?" Natalie asked from over the top of a broom as she swept out from between the cubicles.

Becca kept writing. Finally, she nodded in satisfaction and snapped her pen closed. She took one of the napkins she'd been writing on, walked toward the noticeboard, found a spare pin and stuck it up.

Curious, Natalie walked up behind her and read what Becca had written over her shoulder.

There once was a girl named Bec
Who was a miserable wreck
She walked into the place
And took up some space
Then left without paying the check
Cheers, Rebecca Harmer

Natalie laughed. "Awww. So touching."

"And this is for you." Becca handed over the other napkin.

"Call me? Becca," Natalie read. Underneath was a phone number. "And if I don't?" she teased.

"I'm going to be here again this exact same time next week to find out why." Becca lingered, annoyed now that the time seemed to have come for her to go. "But why should the night end here? Did you want to come for a ride? I've got this guy all night."

Natalie looked at the time. "It's late. I have classes tomorrow."

Becca sighed, disappointed. "Okay."

"Besides . . ." Natalie said quickly, "I don't make a habit of getting into limosines with strange women."

"But I'm not strange. And I have champagne . . ." Becca dangled the bait, hoping for a bite. "Are you sure?"

"You know, the alcohol doesn't make it better." Natalie laughed. "Isn't that just the adult equivalent of taking candy from strangers?"

"Probably," Becca said. "I'm just finding it oddly difficult to say goodnight." "Let me make it easier for you," Natalie said. She reached around Becca to open the lock and swung the door open. They stood together in the open doorway. Impulsively Natalie leaned in and captured Becca's lips gently with her own.

Becca returned the tentative kiss. They broke apart and Becca was shaking. "What was that supposed to make easier, exactly?"

"I don't know. I tried to resist. It just seemed like the right thing to do," Natalie said. "So what happens now?"

"I'm not sure." Becca reached up and touched the side of Natalie's face, so lightly she barely felt the skin. She wondered why, at that particular moment with this particular woman, she felt so free. "But I think I'm ready to believe that's a good thing."

Natalie blinked. "Huh?"

Becca grinned, shaking her head. "Nothing. Goodnight, stranger." With a last, gentle kiss on Natalie's cheek, Becca turned and walked away.

I won't look back.

She rapped on the front window of the limo and Robert was instantly awake, turning over the engine to warm it up as she clambered into the expanse of the back seat.

"Where to?" he asked, then let out an enormous yawn. "Excuse me."

"Home." Becca sighed. "Take your time."

I won't look back.

"Done," he said and put the car into gear, pulling out from the dirt driveway and onto the main road.

She looked back, and kept looking until Natalie had faded into the distance.