Chapter Text
April, 1997
Three years after her parents died, Ava Silva was adopted by Jillian Salvius. Jillian, a respected academic touring Europe with her most recent book of essays in 1989, had found a fourteen year old Ava raising hell among a pack of nuns in a crummy orphanage in Portugal, and was endeared to her immediately.
Ava remembers that day, how with bedraggled, unwashed hair she'd looked up at this tall, icy blonde and completely incongruous woman, and fallen silent for the first time in her very short life. With no more than a few stern words to the negligent nuns Jillian signed every form presented to her and whisked Ava away in what felt like a few minutes.
They had briefly roamed around Europe, Ava striding through exciting new cities with bright, inquisitive eyes, until Jillian took them back to her home in a small rural village in the nowhere British countryside. Jillian was feared by some, liked by most, and spent her days writing for scientific journals and textbooks holed up in her office at the end of the garden. The house was large, a lot of it tinkered with by Jillian herself who was always working on some new DIY project, like floating shelves painted hot red. That was an eyesore, and Jillian scrapped it immediately. It kept her busy, though, and keeping herself busy was Jillian’s main pastime. She held frequent dinner parties, inviting people in the village from all walks of life, from Mother Superion and Father Vincent who ran the church, to the extremely, disgustingly wealthy Villaumbrosia family who lived in a mansion on top of a hill, overlooking the village, frequently renovated and always classy.
When they first arrived, Ava was greeted by a new sibling, Jililian’s son Michael, freshly eighteen, who had occupied the house alone while she was away. He took to Ava immediately, which was a pleasant surprise for someone treated as such a burden throughout her youth. He had left school by the time she started, but he often took her out for drives around the village, introducing her to the mountains of music she was deprived of in the orphanage, fun, interesting pop songs that were a far cry from the hymns she’d been subjected to for those three years. They’d drive in his clunky, beat-up Renault Clio his mother had palmed him off with when she plumped for a new model, and Ava slowly learned to love the tiny, boring village.
It was the sort of place you see in Agatha Christie stories, though with fewer thatched roofs and perfectly trimmed hedges, but certainly less murder, with one pub, one coffee shop, one restaurant, one breakfast cafe, one grocery store, one video store which doubled as a book shop, one corner shop and a grand total of six charity shops. Most noticeably though, was the town’s church, the pride and joy of each inhabitant. The church held a multitude of events: raffles, village fêtes, jumble sales, bake sales, and sometimes actual services.
So, naturally, in a town with so little to offer and so much potential for mind-numbing boredom, Ava kept herself busy. Four days a week, in the daytime, Ava worked in the video store/book shop, recommending The Wicker Man to punters who just wanted to rent The First Wives Club. Equally, Ava worked four evenings a week at the town’s only pub, The Eagle, with her friend Mary and the manager Hans. Finally, if that wasn't enough, she volunteered at the church on Tuesdays and Thursdays where they hold a youth group for young kids, most of them from lower income households or troubled backgrounds. She mainly helped out because her favourite child in the world, Diego, was there every week, and followed her around like a giddy, excitable puppy.
Obviously, everyone knew everyone, and everyone definitely knew Ava. But it wasn't as simple as that. It was more like everyone I've known since I was 16 is in this pub right now and Old Creepy John is looking down my shir t. Or, my old chemistry teacher is renting Basic Instinct for the fifth time, and I bet this lady is hiding an icepick underneath her business casual pinstripe skirt.
She started school late at fourteen, joining at the tail end of Year 10 when everyone else had already found friend groups and cliques. There was potential for bullying – mainly because Ava was an uncompromising, stubborn loudmouth with a penchant for rebelling against authority and skiving off lessons, but she managed to avoid most of it by making people laugh, or laughing in other girl’s faces if they mocked her complete openness, something they perceived as a weakness but actually strengthened her considerably. She dealt with the death of her parents, with the awful nuns, Jillian always told her. What were a few teenage girls going to do to her? The advice worked, and Ava managed to coast by without too many issues, and even with some friends.
Her best friends were Camila, Mary and Shannon, whom she all met at school. Camila was in the same year as her, which helped, she had taken one look at Camila’s wild curls and her mischievous pixie smile and decided the pair of them needed to be friends immediately, and they were. It was Ava who got Camila a job at the video store, and they worked together most days, Camila balancing her university schedule with her job — she studied a joint degree of History and Theology in a neighbouring, much larger town. Mary was two years above Ava when she joined school, and Mary’s girlfriend Shannon was in her final year of sixth form. They would never have met, usually, but they ended up coming together for one, ridiculous, incongruous purpose – they all shared cigarettes behind the sheds containing sports equipment, dodging teachers left right and centre, ducking behind bags of footballs and hockey sticks. They would spend their brief fifteen minute breaks talking about girls, movies, music and alcohol: the prospective parties they would throw if they weren’t the four relatively unpopular gay teenagers they actually were. The main topic of conversation, though, was Lilith Villaumbrosia, the only daughter of the rich family on top of the hill, icy cold and angular, who avoided the four of them at all costs. Camila coveted her, though, much to the chagrin of the rest of them, talking about her constantly around a half-smoked Woodbine.
You will never get into that girl’s pants, Ava would say while sparking up another cig, she’s the scariest person I’ve ever seen and you’re about as threatening as Fozzie Bear.
Today is like most days in the village. On a warm Monday morning, Ava Silva wakes up when her cherry red alarm clock shrieks to life, then promptly proceeds to hurl it across the room and catch another fifteen minutes of sleep. She wakes again, turns to consult the clock and check how much longer she can sleep in without being too late, doesn’t see the clock, realises it narrowly avoided hurtling through the window, gets up to check it, then makes a noise similar to the alarm, then scrambles to get ready when she realises how late she actually is.
She throws clothes on almost at random, ignoring the voice of Mary in her head which always asks: Jesus, did you get dressed in the dark?
She brushes her teeth while spraying her hair with dry shampoo, and observes the outfit she chose out of what was the least dirty on her teetering pile of worn clothes. Low rise-jeans, a black halter top and a pair of socks with apples printed on them. The sun streams through the window and she decides at the last minute to grab the pair of sunglasses which rest on her dresser: small red ovals with silver rims. She pretends she bought them because they were stylish, but really it was because she saw k.d lang wear them in a magazine. Not that she’d ever repeat such a treasured secret.
“Michael, I’m going to need a lift, I’m running late,” Ava shouts as she pads quickly down the stairs.
Michael is pulling on his windbreaker and tossing his keys in the air and catching them, his expression neutral – completely used to this routine.
“Already ahead of you,” he calls after her as she fumbles to put on her Doc Martens, tripping over as she balances on one foot to yank the infernal boot on.
“You have got to get your license,” scolds Michael, without heart, an age-old complaint which Ava has long learned to tune out. Jillian and Michael have tried, time and time again, to get her to take driving lessons, but every time she goes to make a phone call to the company Michael used, she falters, putting the phone back in its holster. She pictures her mother behind the wheel, the last time she ever saw her, and an icy cold hand wraps its fingers around her throat. It’s irrational, Ava’s mother drove her around countless times, more times than she'd ever remember, but Ava doesn't claim to be logical about it. She just can't.
“Yeah, yeah,” she mutters, slipping her arms into her denim jacket and wincing when one of her many pin badges stabs her pinky finger, “You’ve got to get a new job.”
Michael scoffs, “My job is fine.”
Ava grabs her bag, checking she has everything she needs: purse, keys, lip gloss, scrunchie, copy of something by Jeanette Winterson (this time it’s Written on the Body).
She laughs, “You work at the British Heart Foundation selling bits of old tat to elderly ladies. It’s hardly a career.”
He folds his arms, “Are you finished?”
Ava shrugs, “Yes, I’m ready. Hurry up, let’s go.”
He rolls his eyes and follows her out the door, as if he hadn’t been waiting for her all morning.
The roads are blissfully empty — as they always are, the village is not exactly a bustling metropolis, and Michael breaks to a halt right in front of Ava’s work. She gives him a hasty wave then stumbles out of the car and into the store like a cartoon character, her legs practically spinning in a circle beneath her.
She skids into the store, her Docs slipping on the white linoleum floor, looking up at the clock. It ticks, unhurried, and displays the time: 8:59. Thank god.
“Hi Ava!” chirps Camila, “You just made it!”
Her manager, J.C, stands behind Camila at the counter, shaking his head disbelievingly.
He comes out from behind Camila, picking up a teetering pile of books. J.C had completely redecorated the store when he took over: it used to be run by two elderly ladies and a greasy teenage boy likely dragged in off the street purely for the purpose of having someone working there with the ability to reach things from high shelves. Now, the store is decorated with rows of posters: The Thing, Amadeus, The Silence of the Lambs and whatever else J.C could scrounge from magazines and charity shops, and the walls were painted a comforting shade of baby blue, as opposed to the garish yellow wallpaper it bared before.
“Nice of us to grace us with your presence, Ava,” he hands her the stack of books, “Get shelving, please, we open in…”
He casts his eyes upwards to the clock, “Twenty seconds.”
Ava smiles awkwardly, “Sorry. Though, honestly, you must be used to this by now.”
He shoves her shoulder gently, “You should still understand the concept of punctuality.”
It was J.C who got Ava the job in the first place, back when they were briefly dating for a period of Ava’s adolescence that she and her friends referred to as The Lost Year. They spent the entirety of the year in the Eagle, before Ava started working there, served cheap drinks by Mary, playing darts and pool every night, spending all of their change on the jukebox only to play Here’s Where the Story Ends again and again. They came out of their fog eventually when three things happened at once: Ava got a job at the Eagle, so could no longer get smashed there constantly, J.C took over the video store and encouraged Ava to take on a job there, then the pair of them split up. The reason for the split was as inconsequential and unremarkable as every other 18 year old couple’s cause for breaking up: growing older, growing apart, casting their eyes towards others and wanting more than simple monogamy.
Ava found herself quite unaffected by the breakup and quite interested in women instead, a desire always lying in wait at the back of her mind which she'd tried her hardest to tamp down. She met Chanel, who was on a road trip with one of her innumerable and unmemorable partners, stopping in the village in need of a bed. Chanel took to her quickly, and soon returned to whisk her away on a trip to London. They went with the very clear intention to pull (Chanel’s partner already out of the picture, only a fortnight later) and they made good on their promise. Chanel lost Ava somewhere in the third or fourth nightclub, and found her again in a back alley with her hand roaming around a girl’s cargo trousers.
Her relationship with J.C remained amicable, as friendly as a manager and employee can be. They rarely referenced their brief courtship, it being too mediocre to really discuss. Anyway, it was impossible to live in a village so small and not date half the inhabitants, which Ava had. Every girl with any kind of curiosity towards their own sex had been either chatted up, kissed or fucked by Ava Silva. Camila pretends to resent her for this, but Ava likes to think she's jealous.
However, Ava had really burned through everyone around. She got a lot of awkward smiles at work from past dates or girls she’d slept with, but she hadn't actually had a relationship since J.C. The only lasting couple she knew was Shannon and Mary, it seemed that there was absolutely no chance of getting a girlfriend in the village anymore.
She promises herself not to think of her doomed love life and instead to focus on work, but it seems that luck is not on her side. When the opening sign gets flipped around and no customers show up for about ten minutes (who’s buying books or renting videos at ten past nine in the morning?) Camila slinks over to Ava, who is busy stacking three more copies of Bridget Jones’ Diary and cursing the damn thing for being so popular.
“Did you hear?” asks Camila, her bright eyes brimming with mischief.
“Did I hear what?”
“There's a new girl in town.”
“A new girl?” Ava asks too loudly with excessive excitement, “Is she cute?”
“I haven't seen her yet,” Camila shrugs, “But according to Mary, she's cute.”
Barely containing a squeal, Ava drums her hands on the nearest shelf.
“What's her name?”
“I don't know. She's a sister.”
“Sister? Whose sister?”
“No, she's a sister,”
“Oh…” Ava breathes, picturing the kind of sister Mary’s referenced before, “So she's black? Or is she a lesbian?”
Camila laughs, “No, you moron. She's a nun.”
Ava’s cheeks flame at this glaring faux pas, it seems that every interaction she has with someone, even a friend, ends in her embarrassing herself with obviously wrong assumptions or missteps.
“Why the fuck would you tell me there's a cute nun in town? We can't exactly do anything about it, can we?”
“Who says?” Camila smirks, something evil flickering in her eyes.
“Uh, I’m pretty sure God says.” Ava may be a godless atheist who spent the better part of her adolescence rebelling against nuns, but their words still linger in a shadowy corner of her mind.
“She's not actually a nun yet. She's a novitiate. Father Michael and Mother Superion are training her. She’s going to take over Mother Superion, apparently.”
“Oh. So, she wears the costume and says the prayers but still gets to do the fun stuff?”
Camila clicks her fingers and stretches out her index finger to point at Ava, “Exactly.”
Ava smiles, shaking her head, then puts away the final book.
“Still, I know I’m desperate for a date at the moment, but do I really have to resign myself to trying it on with a nun?”
With an overdramatic, long suffering sigh, Camilla replies, “It certainly seems that way. You're all out of options.”
“Hey, Chanel is stopping by next week and she promised to take me into London, I could meet someone there. Anyway, it's not like you can talk, Cam, you're still mooning over Lilith. And we don't even know if she's gay!”
“Of course she's gay,” Camila mutters under her breath, just as the bell above the door dings. She plasters on a false, too-wide smile, and strides over to see if she can help with anything.
Ava points at Camila, narrowing her eyes, “To be continued,” she states, and walks away to pretend to look busy.
The shift passes by at an excruciatingly slow pace, the three of them averaging about two customers each for all of the four hours spent working, so J.C calls them both to the storeroom with a weary look in his face. This happens most weekdays.
“Just leave, you two. I know you’re not meant to finish for another hour but there’s really no point.”
Ava’s hands clench behind her back in a tragic, lonesome yes!!! gesture, like she's a kid allowed to leave class before everyone else.
The pair of them nod with casual, straight faces, casting each other a hasty sidelong glance when J.C heads out of the storeroom, leaving them to collect their bags and go.
They file out of the entrance too quickly, like J.C may change his mind at any second.
They grin at each other as they walk side by side on the pavement.
“Want to get a coffee?” asks Ava.
Camila nods, “Mary called me before my shift and said she'd be in the cafe for a while. I wonder if Samantha is working,” she punctuates her sentence with a suggestive raise of her eyebrows.
Ava sighs, “You mean, the completely heterosexual Samantha who Michael dated last year?”
“Hey, just because she dated your brother doesn’t mean she’s straight. Actually, if she dated Michael then I’m sure she must at least now be gay.”
“You’re delusional, I swear. You’re only attracted to straight girls, but you insist they’re dykes.”
“Lilith is not straight. You saw the way she looked at Emily Fairbanks all throughout Year Eleven, right?”
“Yeah, every girl looked at Emily Fairbanks, it doesn’t mean they were lesbians. She looked like Shalom Harlow. Actually, she was hotter than Shalom Harlow.”
Camila ignores this. “I’m not going to give up on her, Ava.”
Ava rolls her eyes and mutters under her breath, “I’m very fucking aware of that,” just as an elderly man walking his dog walks by and smiles warmly, hopefully not hearing her profanity.
They soon approach the cafe, it being only a stone’s throw from the video store. Upon entry, Ava is confronted with more people than she's seen all day — that is, ten or so people scattered across tables, all she recognises from either her job at the pub or her job at the video store — as well as Mary and Shannon sitting together slap bang in the middle of the cafe. Mary is pouring milk into her Americano, Shannon is nursing a frothy cappuccino. The tables are small, cramped, with menus poking from cutlery holders and sachets of salt and sugar scattered across the surfaces.
“Shannon, hi!” grins Ava, bounding over to squeeze her shoulder. Shannon smiles up at her, and Mary scoffs.
“Excuse me? I’m right here, you know,” she glares at Ava, but it’s obvious there’s no real malice in her eyes.
Ava waves her hand dismissively, “I knew you’d be here. Shannon was a surprise.”
Shannon grins smugly at Mary, who displays her middle finger.
Camila sits down opposite the pair of them, leaving Ava standing.
“I’m gonna get a coffee, Cam, do you want anything?”
“I’ll get a cappuccino too, please,” she smiles. Just as Ava is about to turn away, the door to the cafe opens. At once, Mary, Shannon and Camila’s expressions all drop, their eyes widening with intrigue. Mary tugs on Ava’s jeans frantically.
She hisses, “That’s her. That’s the new girl.”
Ava turns around, and Mary is right, just a few feet away from her stands a woman, with perfect poise, wearing a novitiate’s habit: a long black dress over a white shirt, with a matching wimple. She stands out as completely conspicuous, the striking black and white of her severe habit entirely separating her from the cafe’s patrons. A delicate, gold necklace bearing a small crucifix sits on her chest, glimmering against the white of her shirt. Ava gulps.
Ava never understood how to behave around nuns – as a very young girl she was taught to be respectful, that was until she got to the orphanage, when she found nuns to be cruel and undeserving of the polite nods her mother had taught her to offer them. This one doesn’t look cruel, however, quite the opposite, with her soft features, the gentle slope of her nose and the freckles which fan across her cheeks, her gently curved lips and chocolate brown eyes. She’s completely beautiful and she’s a fucking nun.
With a brief false start – putting one foot in front of the other, then hesitating, then heading forward – Ava approaches her, both of them standing in front of the counter. The worker — not Samantha, unfortunately – is busy making another drink.
“Hey,” Ava says tentatively, catching the girl’s attention, “I’m Ava. I heard you were new here, at the church. Well, obviously. Not like you work at the post office or something.”
She gestures to the girl’s habit, then rubs her face awkwardly, wishing for a fifty foot gaping maw in the floor eagerly waiting to swallow her whole.
The girl smiles politely, “Yes, I’m new here. My name is Beatrice. It’s very nice to meet you.”
Ava nods, flexing her fingers, flicking through a list of small talk questions to ask but all of them seem unnecessary: what do you do for a living, where do you live, are you single, so, do you like Alison Bechdel? They’re all self explanatory. She’s a novitiate. She lives in the small flat next to the church, specially reserved for novitiates. She’s in a relationship with God. She has no idea who Alison Bechdel is, nuns don’t read the hit lesbian comic strip Dykes to Watch Out For, unless they’re doing research on exactly what not to do.
She reaches into the dark and pulls out something of worth, at last, “Oh, I volunteer at the church. Twice a week. You know, for the youth groups. I help out. That is to say, I annoy Yasmine, but the children love me.”
This actually makes Beatrice crack a proper smile, and she looks down at the floor. Ava wants to hook a finger under her chin, tilting her head upwards so she can closely examine every inch of that smile.
“Yes, I can believe that. I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow, then?” Beatrice asks.
“Yeah! Yeah, I’ll see you tomorrow. It was really nice to meet you, um, we don't get a lot of new people here. I hope you like it here, even if there's fuck all to do. Sorry—” she covers her mouth, about to profusely repent for swearing in front of an actual nun, when someone talks for her.
“Can I take your order?” the woman behind the counter interrupts, finally having accomplished making the last drink.
Ava looks to Beatrice, then to the woman, “She was here first,” Ava says, despite the pair of them arriving at the same time, and smiles graciously, allowing Beatrice to step in front of her and order a pot of tea.
After Ava has ordered and returned with two steaming coffees, carrying them shakily to the table, she finds her eyes follow Beatrice as she sits down at a nearby table, watching the meticulous way she pours her tea, painfully slowly, then stirs in an almost nonexistent drip of milk, before blowing on it and sipping.
She’s snapped immediately out of her daze when Shannon slams her hand on the table with finality, “Right,” she says, “I’m going for a cigarette. Anyone want to come?”
Ava springs from her seat, “God, yes, please.”
Outside, Shannon lights a Sterling Silver cigarette in her mouth, squinting in the sun and watching the end ignite. It sparks to life, and she inhales, handing the lighter and another cigarette to Ava so she can do the same.
They smoke slowly in silence for a while, watching people drive by in their beat up, out of date cars, dogs poking their head out of passenger seat windows and bumper stickers which read Baby on Board.
“She’s pretty, huh?” Shannon asks, a leading, teasing tone at the edge of her voice.
Ava slumps her shoulders, flicking ash from her cigarette absent-mindedly, “I don’t want to think about it, Shan. I can’t get into that. It’s dangerous.”
Shannon smirks sharply with narrowed eyes, “So? When has danger ever stopped you? You’ve converted straight girls before, what’s the difference between those and a novitiate?”
Through a mouthful of smoke, Ava replies, “Straight girls have sex.”
“You don’t know that she doesn’t. She’s not a nun yet.”
“You’re starting to sound exactly like Camila, Shan. I thought you would be the voice of reason here.”
She shrugs, raising the cigarette to her lips, and breathing in.
“I just think it would be good to get you with someone sensible for a change.”
“Sensible? I think a novitiate is a little too sensible.”
Shannon tilts her head, her lips twitching, “I see your point. Still, I don't see why you can't be friends with her.”
“Now that sounds dangerous.”
“Why?”
“I'm about as far from a Catholic as is humanly possible. And also, how am I supposed to be friends with someone that pretty without thinking some distinctly un-Christian, ultra-sinful thoughts?”
“She's a novitiate, not a mind reader,” smirks Shannon, dropping her cigarette to the floor and stubbing it out with one black combat boot, “You can think whatever you like.”
Ava laughs, a harsh exhale through her nose, “I think I’m better off trying my luck in London.”
Shannon watches as Ava stubs out her own cigarette and fishes out a pouch of gum from her pocket, and says, clearly defeated, “You’re probably right.”
“I’m always right,” says Ava, opening the cafe door.
“No, you’re not.”
__________________
Mary drops Ava off home that evening, and she bounds in as usual, shucking off her coat and throwing it over the banister, hearing Jillian shout hello from the kitchen.
She enters, dropping her keys in the ceramic dish shaped like a strawberry resting atop the kitchen island (found long ago and far away in a curio souvenir shop in Italy) and leans against the counter.
Michael is sitting on a stool next to the kitchen island, leafing through a magazine.
“Hi Ava,” smiles Jillian warmly, looking up from the pot on the stove she’s stirring and tucking a flyaway strand of pearly blonde hair behind her ear, “How was your day?”
Ava shrugs, “You know, same old. Completely dead at work. Went for coffee with Cam and Mary and Shannon. Oh, and I met a nun.”
“Nun? What do you mean, a nun? A new one?” Jillian’s ears practically visibly perk up at the prospect of a new person to latch onto.
“Yeah. Well, not a nun. She's a novitiate. Mother Superion is training her, I think.”
Jillian actually claps her hands together, dropping the wooden spoon she was using to stir the bolognese sauce, “ Oh, you must invite her over for dinner! We rarely get new arrivals around here, I’m dying for a change of company.”
Michael and Ava exchange a scandalised look, their jaws dropping simultaneously.
“Hey!” Michael pipes up.
“Yeah,” Ava adds, “Are we too boring for you, or something?”
Jillian glares at the pair of them as if they were ten, not over twenty.
Michael folds his arms, frowning, “Not sure a nun will be too exciting. Compared to us, at least.”
“Don’t generalise, Michael, I’m sure she’s a very diverting person.”
Michael rolls his eyes, giving Ava a look which screams, I’ll believe that when I see it.
“Ignore Michael,” Jillian asserts, folding her arms. She gets the look in her eyes Ava found terrifying when Jillian first took her in, the cold intensity which made Ava always scramble to do whatever it was she was being asked, “Invite her over. Mother Superion too, if she’d be amenable.”
Ava huffs, not elated by the prospect of having not one, but two nuns in the house. Still, Ava thinks idly, at least Beatrice is awfully nice to look at.
—————————
After dinner, Ava changes into her pyjamas (matching t-shirt and shorts with sushi printed on them) and sticks Tracy Chapman’s self-titled album into her bright pink CD player with its ridiculous, corny Scooby Doo sticker on it. It's long faded, the heart lollipops he holds practically all flaked off. Just as she's about to get into bed, she jumps with a start.
Suddenly, on the bedside table, a shrill shriek erupts from her phone like a terrible opera singer taking a stab at Queen of the Night. Ava gasps abruptly, still unused to the cacophony of noise it makes, then reaches over to pick up her burger phone and opens it, pressing the cold plastic of the cheese and the bun against her ear.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Ava. You’ll never guess what just happened,” It's Camila’s voice, emerging in a tinny and hushed whisper. She speaks with such urgency that Ava has to hold the phone away from her ear to prevent the harsh crackling.
“Jesus, chill out. What happened?”
She can hear Camila huff frustratedly, then she whispers, “I was just walking home, because it was still light outside and really warm, you know, and I thought it would be nice to walk through the field to my house –”
Ava cuts her off, “Whatever, Camila, get to the point.”
“Sorry, sorry. Well, I was just walking along, and all of a sudden, Lilith fucking Villaumbrosia has turned a corner leading into the field and is walking right towards me.”
Now, Ava groans, any semblance of excited anticipation melting away, “Oh, God. What did you say to her?”
“No! No!” replies Camila frantically, and Ava can practically see her running a hand through her wild curls, “It wasn't embarrassing! I held a conversation with her! We spoke, we actually spoke, and nothing bad or life-ruining happened!”
Ava sits forward, crossing her legs, looking across the room at the huge k.d lang poster on the opposite wall, black and white, of her head turned to the side, baring her neck, and her hands tight around her pinstripe waistcoat.
She wonders if k.d ever has the problems with women she and Camila experience on a daily basis. One finds a nun attractive, the other has been chasing the same girl who shows no interest in her since secondary school. Ava grimaces, her eyes following the curve of k.d’s neck, the way her short hair swoops across her head, strands loose and falling into her eyes. She doubts it.
“That's good, Cam…” Ava smiles weakly into the burger bun-shaped receiver, leaning over to her bedside table to fetch a half-empty packet of cigarettes from the drawer and a box of matches. She feels something clench tight around her heart, holding it firm, then releasing as she hears Camila talk. Each time they have conversations like this, Ava feels for her more, longing to reach through the plastic receiver and shake Camila by the shoulders, to beg her to leave Lilith be. Camila doesn’t deserve to be so hung up on someone who hardly gives her the time of day at the best of times, and flat out ignores her at the worst.
“Well, anyway,” Camila sighs, continuing, “Apparently her parents are away, so she invited us to a huge party at her house on Friday.”
“What?!” Ava coughs around the cigarette she was lighting, quickly waving to extinguish the match, “You, or us?”
There’s a hint of smug, reserved glee to Camila’s tone, like she’s trying to play down just how excited the prospect of a party at the Villaumbrosia mansion really makes her, “Us. She said
bring your friends,”
for the last three words, Camila’s voice slips into Lilith’s ice-cold posh accent, “So. You, Mary, Shannon. Hey, what if we invited Yasmine?”
Ava wrinkles her nose, blowing smoke out of the open window next to her bed, “God, no. Could you imagine? Yasmine?”
“Yeah. Why not? She could use a drink.”
“She’d only tell Mother Superion every little detail of what I got up to, and she’d never let me help Yasmine run the youth group ever again. She’s an uptight sneak, Cam. Hell, why not invite the nun, too!”
Camila giggles, then falls silent, “She is cute. I wonder what she’d look like without that costume on.”
“It’s not a costume, okay, it’s a habit. She isn’t Whoopi Goldberg hiding from the mafia in a nunnery, she’s a real life living breathing nun. Novitiate. Whatever. You get my point, don’t you? No church folk. We’ll go there to get absolutely leathered, and to try and get you laid. We cannot fuck up and embarrass ourselves there. We’re already a band of weird dykes to most people in this town, we may as well try to look cool.”
Ava chooses to ignore Camila’s snickers and inhales deeply around her cigarette.
“Okay, okay. No church folk, I get it. Still, though, isn’t that exciting!”
The most exciting thing to happen in the village for about two weeks has been the arrival of a trainee nun, so a huge party at a gigantic house sans Lilith’s scary rich parents is practically electrifying.
“Yeah, I guess. Anyway, I should probably get to bed. Youth group and everything, tomorrow.”
Camila hums, and Ava can hear her shuffling around her room, before she eventually begins brushing her teeth. Ava cringes at the rough, wet noise of the toothbrush scraping against her gums.
“Okay, Cam, gross. I'm hanging up. See you tomorrow.”
Camila muffles a practically inaudible, “Bye,” and Ava hangs up.
She stubs out the cigarette in the Dinky toy lorry she uses as an astray, and slumps back against the pillows.
The idea of the party, of an unknown but likely large number of people all haunting every nook and cranny of that mansion: alien to Ava, but full of candelabras and Hammer Horror style decor in her mind, like a gothic castle, it’s fascinating.
She wonders what Sister Beatrice would think of Lilith’s party. If she'd politely mingle, bowing her head graciously every time somebody introduced themselves, if she'd nod and smile and firmly abstain from anything other than pleasantries. If she'd come to show her face, then melt away after an hour, unnoticed, with full understanding that the party would continue without her. If she'd wear her habit, or plump for her own clothes, likely equally as conservative. Ava wonders what her hair looks like, what her shoulders look like.
Her hands absentmindedly caress her own thighs as her mind wanders, and she feels an unexpected yet not unwelcome stirring between her legs, an ache. Christ, she thinks, she really needs to get laid.