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The Detective has the look of one of Dulcie's projects, and Cath doesn't think she's to blame for the logical conclusion.
That's the thing about her Sexy, she's the type to need a project. That was where most of their friends came from, really. The waifs and strays that Sexy had decided needed rescuing. It was why Cath had picked them up a greyhound for Christ's sake. A needy little wretch that quivered. Not that all Sexy's projects were vulnerable little creatures. It wasn't unheard of them to be tough little walnut wood puzzles, like Skye, determined not to be understood.
Like That Woman.
So when Cath saw her Sexy and the Detective approaching one of the Feastivals many food trucks, she didn't think she was entirely to blame for just hesitating, a moment. For not calling out. For watching.
The difference between law and order was more than most people thought. Order was strict, detailed, intent on protection even when it really should know better. The law was more flexible than people realised. Law bobbed and weaved to find the argument that worked, even if it wasn't entirely substantiated. Evidence was nowhere near as important to law as order liked to believe.
Sexy could swear up and down she didn't really care for people. Cath still saw it.
It had been a little joke between them once. Born in a comedy festival, a gig they had both arrived at slightly late. Both coming from work. For Sexy, arriving late was striding through the packed tables of the dark, sticky little comedy club, head high and confident as only a cop could be. Assured in power. Black trousers, dark button down rolled up at the sleeve, heavy soled boots firmly planted with each step. And then Cath had trotted along behind, apologising left and right, ducking her head to show her consideration of the others as Sexy led them to a spare table down the front. She had just come from a clinic, was wearing joggers and thongs and the only t-shirt in her locker that wasn't a scrub top. The comedian, taking the interruption in stride, had paused her set for a moment and looked at Cath, "God, I hope this isn't a first date," she said, leaning on her mic stand. "Bit awkward when one of you's come from work and the other from a bargain bin, eh?"
Cath had tried to laugh it off, but Sexy had tilted her head to the side, looked quizzical in that awful bastard way that a natural cop has, encouraging a poor victim to hang themselves on the rope they were rolling out.
The comedian laughed, "Talk about an odd couple, eh? Or wait, are we doing My Fair Lady? Is she a project?"
Sexy, taking her seat, glanced around at Cath. "She was probably saving the life of some old lady's beloved dog," she had said, and everyone smiled, and the comedian continued her set, and Cath eased into her chair behind Sexy and whispered, "I didn't think I looked that bad."
"Not at all, love," and 'project lesbian' became a joke between them.
"Are you my project lesbian, love?"
Cath felt a tightness settle in her chest again. Sexy was ordering a coffee from the van, while the Detective was bouncing on the toes of her boots, pointing at the ice cream menu. She watched as they bickered, snatches of conversation reaching her on the wind - "it's ice cream!"
"I said I'd get you a coffee."
"Well I want an ice cream."
"Oh for Pete's . . . Fine! A Mr Whippy for the detective, please, Sandra?"
Because it was true. Sexy liked a project. She liked something to puzzle over, to deconstruct. That was why Cath signed them up to every choir, cooking class, film festival and pottery exhibition that Aleyna even breathed a mention of in the council meetings - which incidentally, they also always attended. Sexy needed something to care about. She just cared about people. Deeply. Needed to care about them. Perhaps they should get another dog.
Cath watched the pair as they crossed the street.
"Why couldn't you have coffee and ice cream then?"
"Because it's not - because that would be - look a Mr Whippy isn’t - it’s not exactly an affogato!”
“What’d your cat do?”
The flustered grumbles of Sexy were being snatched away by the wind as the pair walked down the street, both gesticulating and waving. The Detective was pointing at the cone in her hand, seemingly oblivious to the white cream dripping down her knuckles, while Sexy was trying to collect herself, responding to the points in turn in a way that Cath just knew was going to have her Sexy all flushed and stuttering.
It lodged itself in Cath’s heart. Sexy cared about the Detective. The Detective was already a project, already something that Dulcie Collins was going to fight for. Cath could no more stop that than she could the tide. Or Kevin coming in on said tide.
The Detective was getting more and more animated, pointing at Sexy’s coffee, while Sexy was jutting her jaw out, towering over the smaller woman. In a pop of barely suppressed feminine rage - the Detective really would benefit from visiting Gez’s retreats - the Detective upended her Mr Whippy into Sexy’s open coffee cup and shouted something that sounded like “How’s that for your cat-oh then?”
Sexy stared at the cone bobbing about in her reusable mug, and then at the Detective. Cath watched her. Don’t. She thought. Don’t let her matter so much. Don’t . . . just don’t.
Dulcie looked the Detective straight in the eye, set her jaw, and lifted her cup to her mouth to take a drink of her new concoction.
“Howzzat?” the Detective asked, with little satisfaction.
“Culinary masterpiece,” Dulcie said, swallowing down past a lump in her throat. “Shall we?”
The pair continued down the street, neither with their hoped for refreshment, and Cath watched them go.
She could fight it any way she wanted to, but she knew a losing case when she saw one. The proof was in the affogato.