‘Oh,’ Bette said. 

She raised her eyes to meet Tina’s. Without a word, Tina uncrossed her legs. Bette swallowed, her lips parting as her breath began to deepen. Tina reached up and smoothed her wife’s hair, careful not to dislodge the zapper in her left ear. They all had them. Little Bluetooth dictators connected to software called Zenzap that ran on the estate’s own smartphones, their zzz-bkkk like a chorus of digital crickets all the day long. 

‘Wanna fool around?’ Tina asked.

‘Here?’

‘Yeah.’

Bette sighed. ‘Adunno, Tee. Bella’s gonna be coming round that corner any minute, and I’m . . . Karolina’s got this panisse thing she wants to try, I said I’d make the dough for it before we leave, and—’

‘Okay. It’s fine.’

‘I’m sorry, honey.’

‘I said it’s fine.’

Tina’s tone had been mild, but now it hardened. Nothing cools a girl’s ardour faster than pity. Bette looked sheepish and took her hand. Hers was dry and warm, the skin rough from nearly a month of running what was basically a field kitchen. 

‘Ready for today?’ she asked.

‘Mhmm.’ A beat. ‘I just wish we had more time to prepare.’ 

‘Well, at least it’ll be out of the way.’ That earned Bette a look. ‘Oh, c’mon. You know I like Wendy, it’s just the timing. And we don’t need to prepare.’

Bette rubbed her eye again. Tina looked questioningly at her.

‘Got some dust in it,’ Bette said.

Zzz-bkkk.

Bette took out her phone. Tina jumped off the fence and headed back indoors. She tipped the coffee out into the sink and snatched her discarded nightwear off the end of the couch.

Zzz-bkkk.

Her zapper and estate phone were on the counter by the side door. The phone’s screen was pulsing red, which meant requests waiting. She took a deep breath and went over and looked at it. Karolina, Kurt, Bette, Karolina again.

She marked them all Accepted without looking at them, then stood for a moment gathering herself. On the wall above the counter was a year planner. Bette wanted it because she worked there sometimes rather than in the estate office, but Tina hated it. To her, it symbolised all the times she’d come into their home to find Bette, in her off-day uniform of long black cargo shorts, black Viberg dealer boots, black linen shirt and black, thick-rimmed glasses, standing with her arms folded, frowning at it. She’d adopted that pose so many times someone could’ve painted her in oils. Call it Fixation. Or just The Planner.