Chapter 4 Under the Banana

Rachel

"It sounds insane," I said.

"I know."

"It sounds dangerous."

"I said that too." Fiona tucked a loose bit of hair behind her ear. "And she said it was the safest she's ever felt with a man. Because they knew what she wanted before they walked in. She'd already told them. All they had to do was follow it."

Neither of us said the obvious thing, which was that I'd said almost exactly that 10 minutes ago.

"How does she know they're not just some psychos?"

"Because it's run like an army op. She said it was more careful than her dentist. Health checks. Rules. A bond to cover their costs, and you get it back." Fiona shrugged. "And they didn't do one thing that wasn't on her list. There was something she hadn't ticked, and in the middle of it she wanted it, and they wouldn't. She was furious. She said it was the hottest thing that's ever happened to her."

I laughed, because I had to do something, and it came out shaky.

"How do you even book something like that?" I said. I meant it as a joke. It didn't sound like one.

"There's a form."

Like a medical form had a baby with a contract, she said, counting on her fingers. Health, meds, contraception, old injuries; it had asked about Kayla's friend's netball knees. Then limits: hard ones, soft ones. Then pages and pages of yes. Places they were allowed to find you, and how they got in. A page of words you wanted said in your ear, typed out in your own words, which had taken the woman 20 minutes with the cursor blinking. A stop-word. A slow-down word. And then you sent it.

"And then nothing," Fiona said. "That's the whole thing. You get a window. Kayla's friend got 4 days. 96 hours. They tell you the day it starts. Not the hour. Not where. Not how many times." She leaned in. "She said the waiting was the whole point. The masks, the rest of it, that's the payoff. What you're actually getting is knowing it's coming and not knowing when."

Something pulled low in my stomach, like a plane dropping in turbulence. Not fear. Something underneath fear that liked it.

"Why are you doing that with your hands?" Fiona said.

I looked down. I'd twisted the hem of my dress round 2 fingers so hard it had creased. I let go.

"First night," she said, quieter. "7 o'clock. She was in her kitchen in her work clothes, cutting a lime for a drink. She'd ticked the box for it herself, and she still didn't hear the door. A black glove came down flat on the bench next to her hand. She looked up and there was a man in the window over the sink. Mask on. Smooth, no face at all. And the one behind her leaned in and said her stop-word in her ear. So she'd know he knew it. So she'd know it still worked." Fiona looked at me. "Then he waited. Hand on the bench. Giving her every chance."

"And she didn't say it."

"She didn't say it."

The picture in my head wasn't a stranger's kitchen any more. It was a bench and a window and a glove flat on stone, and the bench looked a lot like mine.

I got up and took the empty bottles inside, because sitting with my knees under my chin had started to feel like a confession. Fiona followed and leaned on my bench.

"No," I said. It came out too loud. "Strangers, Fi. In masks. It could be some guy in his mum's garage collecting women's fantasies and their bank details. And they'd need to know my building. Cameras, the concierge, the car park."

"They walk it like a site survey," she said. "She'd lived in her place 2 years and they found a way in she didn't know existed."

I thought, without meaning to, about the fire stairs. A camera on every landing except one, between levels 2 and 3, broken since March. I'd reported it twice. Every time I went round that turn there was a second where nobody in the world could see me.

I didn't say that out loud.

Fiona was watching me. "You hear yourself? Every reason's a logistics problem. Not one of them's I don't want it."

"I don't know what I want. That's the problem."

"Bullshit." She said it softly. "You said it out there on the balcony. You just don't want to be the person who wants it." She pushed off the bench. "You decide 400 things a week for other people, Rach. Chairs. Menus. When the band starts. When did you last decide something for you?"

On the fridge, under a pineapple magnet, was next Thursday's run sheet. Every line in my handwriting. Every minute accounted for.

I didn't have an answer. She didn't make me find one. She hugged me from the side, chin on my shoulder, the way she had when she was 8 and wanted something, and she smelled like vinegar and the bar's lemon cleaner.

"Don't decide tonight," she said, and went looking for her shoes. "Sleep on it. Or forget I said anything."

"What's it called?" I said, when she was halfway out the door. "The site."

She tried not to smile and failed. "Nope. Not tonight."

When she'd gone, I did the things you do. Rinsed the glasses. Wiped the bench even though it was clean. At the end near the sink I stopped and looked at the window over it. At night it was a mirror. My own face, lipstick worn to a stain, and behind it the empty doorway to the hall.

Of course it was empty.

My phone buzzed on the sink.

Fi ☀️: home safe x

Fi ☀️: also check the fruit bowl

Under the banana was a coaster from her bar, torn in half. On the back, in her round biro capitals, was one word.

WINDOW

And underneath, smaller: it's a .com.au. you need a code to get past the first page. it's invite-only. kayla's friend gave me hers. she said if I ever knew someone who'd actually fill it in properly, pass it on.

6 numbers, underlined twice.

Fi ☀️: you said you'd think. so think x

I should have thrown it out. That was the sensible thing, the thing a woman with a run sheet on her fridge would do.

Instead I put it back exactly where she'd left it. Under the banana. Where I'd see it every time I walked past.

I told myself that was so I'd remember to throw it out tomorrow.

I didn't believe me either.