Trading Places

Bridget woke Franky up with her coffee. She sat on the edge of the bed and smoothed Franky’s hair back from her forehead while she surfaced from sleep. Franky stared at her, and her memory flooded back, disastrous and overpowering. Her lips felt sore and puffy; her body ached. Surely Bridget could tell, just by looking at her. Franky pulled the duvet up to her chin and smiled at her girlfriend.

“You look gorgeous this morning,” Bridget said. “Have you any idea what time it is?”

Franky shook her head. Bridget looked theatrically at her phone. “Nearly eleven thirty. Lucky it’s the weekend. What time did you get in last night?”

“Midnight. Maybe a bit later.”

“You’re incorrigible,” Bridget said. “Drink up. Lunch at my parents’, remember?”

Franky hadn’t remembered. Only her body seemed to have a memory now. Her hands on Erica’s breasts, her lips at Erica’s throat, Erica’s eyes staring into hers. Bridget smiled at her and rubbed her neck, while she lay, sick with desire for another woman. She picked up Bridget’s hand and kissed it. Bridget leaned down and kissed her on the lips, and Franky felt as if she was betraying someone. Bridget? Erica?

“I’ll run you a bath,” Bridget said.

“Sweet, thanks.”

Franky poured a stream of lemon bath oil into the water, and washed herself all over again, as if she could wash away what had happened. She had barely eaten anything the day before, but the thought of food was horrible. She closed her eyes and lay in the hot, deep, fragrant water and let herself think of Erica. She must never, ever be alone with her again, that was clear. She loved Bridget. She liked her life. She had behaved appallingly and she would lose everything. She must see Erica again, at once. Nothing else mattered except the way she felt under her hands, the ache of her flesh, the way she said Franky’s name. She would see her once, just once, to tell her it was over. She owed her that at least. What bullshit. She was lying to herself as well as to Bridget. If she saw Erica again, looked again into her beautiful face, she would fuck her. No, the only thing to do was just turn away from everything that had happened yesterday. Concentrate on Bridget and work. But just one more time, a last time.

“Ten minutes, Franky. All right?”

The sound of Bridget’s voice brought Franky to her senses. Of course she was going to stay with Bridget. They’d get married, maybe, and have children and one day this would be a memory, one of those ridiculous things she had done once before she grew up. She sluiced herself down into the bath one last time, watching the bubbles stream off a body that suddenly seemed strange to her. Then she climbed out of the bath. Bridget held out a towel. Franky was aware of Bridget’s eyes on her as she dried.

“Perhaps we can be a bit late after all,” Bridget said. “Come here.”

So Franky let Bridget make love to her, and tell her that she loved her, and she lay under her damp and acquiescent. And Bridget didn’t know, she couldn’t tell. It would be Franky’s secret.

*****

They had spinach frittata for lunch, with garlic bread and green salad. Bridget’s mother, Sue, was a good cook. She and Bridget’s father, Greg, had always made Franky feel welcome in their home. Bridget was already in her mid-forties when she and Franky first got together so her parents were well and truly past the point of questioning the choices their daughter made for herself. They trusted her judgement, and any friend or girlfriend of her’s would be welcome in their house with open arms. Franky had been relieved and grateful to be accepted so easily by them.

Franky lifted a piece of curly lettuce on her fork and put it in her mouth, chewed slowly. It was difficult to swallow. She took a gulp of water and tried again. She’d never be able to eat all of this.

“Are you all right, Franky?” Bridget’s mother was looking fretfully at her. She hated it when Franky didn’t finish meals that she’d cooked. Knowing Franky’s background as a chef she took it as a sign that the meal was subpar. Franky knew this, so she would usually try to have a second helping of whatever was served.

She speared a chunk of frittata, pushed it into her mouth and chewed determinedly. “Fine,” she said, when she had swallowed it. “Just a bit hungover,” she added with a grin.

Bridget’s mother laughed. “Warming up for next weekend are you?”

Next weekend was Bridget’s birthday, a milestone birthday at that. Her 50th. Franky had organised a dinner party with friends at an Indian restaurant, then they would kick on at their favourite haunt, EDV, which was a trendy little speakeasy in the city. Just from having heard the basic details - and from knowing what Bridget and Franky were like - Bridget’s mother knew it would be a celebration where plenty of drinks would be consumed.

“You bet, Sue. I’ve gotta get the liver prepared for the party of the year!” Franky did her best to be jovial, leaning across and patting Bridget on the back playfully.

“Oh God, don’t remind me.” Bridget said.

“Bridget! It’s not like you to not look forward to a night out. Ever since you were a little girl you’ve always liked any excuse for a party.” Sue said.

“Yeah well, not when the excuse is me turning 50. Call me crazy but i don’t like the sound of being 50 years old.”

Sue leaned over and took her daughter’s hand. “Well no matter how it sounds to you, I think you will be the most beautiful and youthful 50 year old in Melbourne. You should celebrate that. Don’t you agree, Franky?”

“Bloody oath I do,” Franky responded as earnestly as possible. Bridget smiled at her lovingly, causing a wave of guilt to pass through her body. She nibbled on some garlic bread. Sue watched her.

After lunch, they all went for a slow walk in a nearby park among a spattering of joggers and dog walkers. When it was beginning to get dark, Bridget and Franky drove home. Bridget went to the shops to pick up some milk and bread. Franky took out her phone and looked up Erica’s number. She thought about texting her. Asking if she could come over. She could tell Bridget she was going for a run. Nerves overwhelmed her. She put the phone down on a table and stood over it, breathing heavily. In a rush she picked it up again and deleted Erica’s number. It didn’t matter anyway, because she could remember it, and Erica could contact her herself if she wished. Bridget came back then, walking through the door with her shopping. It will never get worse than this, Franky told herself. Every day it will get a little better. It’s just a question of waiting.

On Sunday, Franky and Bridget painted a room that they planned to be a study. Franky tied her hair back in a scarf and wore some old jeans and still managed to drop pea-green paint on her hands and face. They had a late lunch and in the afternoon they binged watched Downton Abbey arm in arm on the sofa. Franky went to bed early, after an hour-long bath, saying she still felt a bit off-colour from Friday night. When Bridget climbed in beside her later, she pretended to be asleep, but she lay awake for hours in the dark. As quietly as possible she took her phone from the charger beside the bed. Just as she suspected, she remembered Erica’s number by heart. She sent her a short text message. “Call in sick tomorrow”, is all she wrote before reconnecting the phone to the charger and drifting off to sleep.

The next morning was a rare occasion where Franky was first out of bed. She had a shower and told Bridget she would be working quite late, that Louise had a number of important cases on and she had her doing a lot of research. At the train station she waited until Bridget had boarded her train before she called Flintoff & Jones saying she was ill and would be unable to make it in. It was the first time she had ever called in sick so no one would suspect she was faking it.

Franky flagged down a taxi - it didn’t occur to her to take a train - and gave Erica’s address. She tried not to think about what she was doing. She tried not to think about Bridget, her honest face, her trust. She looked out of the window as the cab crawled slowly through the rush-hour traffic. She checked her eye makeup and fiddled with the buttons on her coat. If anyone looked inside the taxi, they would just see a woman in a black coat on her way to work. She could still change her mind.

Franky knocked on the door. There was a short wait before Erica answered it. Franky leered at the blonde, looking her up and down. Erica gave a tight-lipped smile, feeling slightly self-conscious. She was barefoot and wearing tight blue jeans and a close-fitting red woollen sweater. Her blonde curls were tied up in a loose ponytail. It was the first time Franky had seen Erica dressed in something other than her work attire. It may just have been the best she had ever seen Erica look.

As she stepped into the apartment Franky hooked her fingers into the waistband of Erica’s jeans with one hand and slammed the door behind her with the other. She pulled Erica toward her firmly so their faces were only a few inches apart. Erica gasped at Franky’s rough handling and tentatively placed her hands on the younger woman’s hips.

“Why didn’t you text me this weekend, huh?” Franky asked with a cocky grin on her face. She began walking Erica backwards toward the kitchen area.

Erica blushed and looked down briefly as she stumbled backwards. Then she brought her eyes back up to meet Franky’s. “I wasn’t sure if you’d want me to.”

Franky laughed. “Yeah right,” she said mockingly.

Erica’s backside hit the island bench of the kitchen, stopping her in her tracks. She placed her hands on the bench to steady herself. Franky pressed herself up against the blonde. She tilted her head and leant forward, laving a tongue across Erica’s earlobe.

“I think you were playing hard to get, Miss Davidson,” Franky whispered into Erica’s ear. She planted a string of kisses down her neck then whispered to her again. “You didn’t want me to know how badly you want me.” Franky nuzzled her nose into Erica’s throat, kissing and nibbling. Erica’s head leant back, her mouth opened, and she let out a soft little moan. Franky’s hands went to the button of Erica’s jeans and swiftly undid it.

She brought her head back up and she grabbed Erica’s chin with her thumb and forefinger, forcing the blonde to look her in the eye once more. Erica’s face was flushed with arousal and she was already breathless. Franky grinned. “But the truth is you want me just as bad as you always have,” she said assertively.

Done with the foreplay, Franky picked Erica up and sat her on the island bench. She removed her own coat before she hurriedly shed Erica of her jeans and underwear. The blonde lifted herself up on her hands at the right moments to assist. She undid as many of Franky’s shirt buttons as she could manage before the younger woman pressed up against her once more and Erica instinctively wrapped her naked legs around the Franky's hips.

Franky’s fingers slid easily over the warm, silky flesh around Erica’s opening, and Erica responded to her touch with a gasp.

“Fuck you're sexy,” Franky said forcefully, her eyes boring into Erica’s, challenging her to maintain eye contact.

Erica’s hips bucked, grinding against Franky’s open hand. Franky slipped two fingers inside, and Erica couldn’t hold back a squeal of pleasure. Franky loved how easily Erica got wet for her. Knowing how hot Erica was for her was a huge turn on. She moved her fingers in and out, enveloped in the warm softness of Erica’s sex, and then, right there, she found it. Erica’s back arched, and her moans became louder. Franky rubbed her fingers against that particular spot inside Erica that drove her wild.

Franky slid her other hand along Erica’s thigh and eased into the gap between her lips. When the tip of her fingers slid over Erica’s clit she squealed again, she was totally losing control. Franky pushed Erica to the very limit of what she could endure, and then pulled back just enough to keep her from coming.

She held Erica right on the edge for a while, and then leaned over and took began kissing the sensitive spots on her neck, sucking, sucking, teasing with her tongue, nibbling lightly. Erica was almost thrashing, wordlessly begging for release, but Franky denied her, pulling her back from the bring once, then twice, and finally letting her go.

Erica came in a great shudder, Franky focused on prolonging the orgasm as long as possible as wave after wave crashed over the blonde. Franky’s fingers were still inside Erica, though now only stroking gently, and Erica clenched around them and relaxed again as the tremors came and went. Franky fixed her eyes to Erica’s face as it melted from raw desire into serene bliss. She had never seen anything so beautiful.

Erica placed her head on Franky’s shoulder and sat there for awhile panting, eyes closed, and Franky held her. After a few minutes, Franky wrapped Erica’s legs around her again, lifted her from the island bench and carried her down to the bedroom. She removed what remained of Erica’s clothes, then stripped naked herself. She lay Erica down on the bed then climbed on top of her. She was ready for another round.