Chapter Text
"Hot car," Franky Doyle said as she slid down into the leather seat. She looked across at Bridget. Her expression knowing and her green eyes alight with amusement. "Yours?" She added after a moment.
Bridget laughed and she looked away briefly before her eyes were drawn inevitably back to her dark haired companion. Franky looked so different in civvies without her tattoos and underwear brazenly on display. "Yes, it's mine," she admitted, still smiling.
Franky's eyebrows went up and she nodded. "I'm impressed, Gidget," she admitted slowly, her eyes taking in the luxury interior. After a moment her eyes returned to Bridget, who was watching her reaction. "Let's get out of here." She said suddenly.
Bridget nodded and switched on the engine. "Where to?"
"As far the fuck away from here as possible," Franky responded half flippant, half serious.
"Okay then," Bridget swung the convertible into a tight u-turn.
Franky didn't look back. Her eyes were fixed firmly forward. She felt herself relax into the leather upholstery. Today life was good. She was alive. She was free. Bridget had surprised her by showing up. She hadn't expected it even if she had thought about it, wanted it, hoped for it. Franky wouldn’t forget the sight of her as she stepped out of the car in her leather jacket and those skin tight jeans with that smile. She wasn't sure she had ever seen Bridget smile quite like that. It was unrestrained, it was generous, and it held a world of promise.
Franky looked across at Bridget whose eyes were on the road but a smile lingered on her lips. She was attractive in profile with a clear complexion, her blonde hair, thick and messy, casually controlled by a hair band, the fringe falling long to the side and curling, softening her face. She had an aura of confidence and maturity that was understated and yet undoubtedly there. It was sexy, Franky acknowledged. There was nothing desperate about Bridget Westfall and yet Franky sensed there was much more to the polished professional psychologist than she had glimpsed so far.
"How'd you know I'd be released today?" She asked suddenly.
"I asked Vera," Bridget said without taking her eyes off the road.
"Miss Bennett?" Franky sounded surprised. "I thought she was the one who got you sacked."
"She was," Bridget agreed. "But she worked out Ferguson's role in Jodie Spiteri's injuries and now we're-"
"Friends?" Franky asked sceptically.
"Allies," Bridget finished with. "She's the reason I was at your parole hearing. Ferguson moved it forward and had no intention of telling me. It was Vera who warned me."
Franky laughed a little cynically. "Never thought I'd have reason to be grateful to Vinegar Tits," she said eventually.
“She dropped the charge against you,” Bridget reminded her.
“We both know that was down to you, Gidget,” Franky was dismissive. “In fact, she was riding my arse pretty fucking hard there for a while."
"She was a victim of Ferguson's manipulative machinations. I warned her she would get caught in the backwash when Ferguson went down. In the end Vera was pivotal in bringing her down."
"Gidge," Franky said with a sigh. "I don't give a fuck about Ferguson, or that place. I've only got one thing on my mind."
"And what's that, Franky?" Bridget asked with a smile in her voice.
"Coffee," Franky grinned at her. "I haven't had a fucking decent coffee in five years." Her mind suddenly flashed back to a morning in the governor's office two years ago. Erica Davidson's sexy looks and attractive resistance came to mind unexpectedly. Franky remembered her cocky demand for real coffee and Erica obliging her. She hadn't had more than a mouthful in the end, the unsavoury discussion about her father had killed her enthusiasm for it. She remembered it as though it was yesterday.
"Okay," Bridget was laughing. "Not what I was expecting," she acknowledged.
"What were you expecting then?" Franky returned to the present with a teasing smile in her voice.
“Well, it’s the first day of your parole, Franky, you are pretty much free to do whatever you want so,” Bridget glanced across at her passenger.
“Five minutes ago I was walking down this road to a halfway house with twenty bucks in my pocket and not a lot of options.” She pointed out bluntly. “So my mind’s taking a second to catch up to reality.”
Bridget heard the slightly defensive tone. “It’s a good reality, I hope,” she said, giving an encouraging smile, defusing the tension.
Franky relaxed. “Yeah, it is,” she acknowledged with a smile.
“How are you?” Bridget asked. “Vera said you’d put yourself in danger to save Doreen’s baby during the fire. I saw the news reports but they didn’t say much about who’d been injured. I was worried.” The words were inadequate to describe her feelings when she switched on the news to see Wentworth lit up by flames against the night’s sky. She had watched with growing concern as the story unfolded. The idea that Franky, so close to freedom, could be caught up in a random incident which could steal that from her was heart-breaking. She had sat with her eyes glued to the coverage, her mobile phone in her lap waiting for someone from Wentworth to return her calls.
Franky shrugged. “It was Dor’s baby,” she offered in explanation. She hadn’t thought much about the danger at the time. She had acted out of necessity and because she and Bea had been best placed to succeed. When it looked like she would pay the consequences for that choice, she had laughed at the irony of it.
“You’re a leader, Franky,” Bridget told her. “You stepped up in a moment of crisis and kept a cool head,” she smiled. “But I hope you’re not intending to make a habit of it, I don’t think my nerves could handle it.” She couldn’t help adding.
Franky heard something in Bridget's last remark which gave her hope. "You planning on sticking around then?" She couldn't help asking, daring Bridget to put in words what her actions had already implied.
"I have no intention of going anywhere," Bridget said without hesitation.
Franky looked thoughtful. "Good," she said at last. "Where are we going?" She asked curiously.
“I know a place that does great coffee.” Bridget informed her as she turned left at a set of traffic lights.
“Your place?” Franky suggested hopefully.
The café was in Hawthorn. It was small with red walls covered in small framed photographs. They were a random collection of faces, old, young, from seemingly every different culture and background.
“I’ll order, what’ll you have?” Bridget asked as Franky studied the decor curiously.
“Double expresso, milk on the side,” Franky instructed absently.
Bridget went to the counter to order. Franky found a table that sat two, away from the other customers. After five years of being cooped up with hundreds of women, she appreciated the luxury of having some space.
It seemed surreal to be sitting in a café. The other customers ignored her, absorbed in their own conversations, as Franky watched them. The habit of hooded observation occurred automatically. In prison she would study the other women in an attempt to glean insights into the alliances forming and trouble that might be brewing.
“Are you all right?” Bridget asked as she sat down across from her.
“Sure,” Franky said immediately, sliding forward in her chair and resting her forearms on the table. Her green eyes focussed on her companion.
“Not feeling strange?” Bridget asked with insight. “It is an adjustment.”
Franky shrugged. “So Gidge,” she began with a grin, “are you wagging or something? Shouldn’t you be at work?”
Bridget laughed. “Something like that,” she agreed. “I took the day off.”
“Did you?” Franky’s smile broadened. The tone was full of innuendo. “Better make the most of it then,” she suggested.
“How do you propose I do that, Franky?” Bridget asked, a smile hovering.
“I can think of a few things,” the smile and the tone were flirty.
“Why don’t you tell me?” Bridget’s blue eyes didn’t waver.
Their coffees arrived and both women sat back as the waitress slid the cups in front of them. Franky breathed in, enjoying the aroma, savouring the anticipation of that first taste. She added milk to the dark liquid but barely enough to change its hue.
“Freedom in a cup,” Franky declared as she put down her coffee after her first sip.
Bridget was smiling. It was an unexpected treat to be able to witness firsthand the delights of being free. It wasn’t something she ever imagined experiencing herself. The idea that she might somehow end up on the wrong side of prison bars was incomprehensible. “Well, I hope we can do better than just that,” she offered.
Franky liked the sound of that. “I’m sure we can,” she agreed. Her eyes lingered on Bridget’s lips and she caught her own bottom lip between her teeth as her mind wandered deliciously back to their kiss. She remembered Bridget's hand on the back of her neck and her upper arm and her lips soft and certain. Her caress, like her words just now, had surprised Franky.
Bridget was reliable, she realised with cautious hope. She had ended their sessions but had come to the kitchen to explain her reasons. She had left Wentworth but had returned for Franky’s parole hearing. She had turned up again at the gates today. Franky was beginning to see a pattern.
“So, you come here a lot huh?” Franky asked, breaking the silence that had become filled with expectation.
“Sometimes, yes,” Bridget confirmed as she sat back and picked up her coffee again. She was drinking a flat white without sugar, Franky noted.
Franky slouched back into her chair and crossed her arms. “So I’m thinking your place is nearby,” she surmised with a grin.
Bridget laughed softly, acknowledging Franky’s obvious attempt to lead the conversation in the direction of her choosing. “That’s right,” she admitted. She watched Franky over the rim of her cup. "What are your plans?" she asked in part out of curiosity and in part to change the subject.
Franky smiled. "Get my diploma; become a shit hot lawyer, what do you reckon?"
Bridget pursed her lips and glanced away. "Transition can be difficult," she said after a bit. "Even with support structures, which you don't have," she pointed out.
Franky shrugged. "I've got you, Gidget," she responded with immediately, testing Bridget again.
"Yes, of course," Bridget acknowledged. "And I'll help you anyway I can."
"I got my parole because of you," Franky knew if it had been only Ferguson in that room it would have been a different story.
"No," Bridget was quick to set her straight. "You got parole because you showed the parole board how far you'd come and how committed you are to continuing the journey. If you hadn't been able to do that then nothing I could have said would have swayed them."
"I have worked in corrections for nearly twenty years but I have never treated a client with such potential as Franky Doyle," she quoted, raising her eyebrows sceptically. "I wasn't so out of it that I didn't know what was happening, Gidget."
Bridget smiled at her. “Apparently not,” she agreed.
“I know what you’ve done for me,” Franky leant forward, her eyes serious, “and I know why.”
Bridget couldn’t help smiling. Her eyes held warmth. “Do you?”
“Yeah,” Franky looked knowing and cocky. She just smiled. The smile that could win a thousand hearts if hearts were so easily won.
“Are you going to tell me?” Bridget asked at last.
“Are you going to show me your place?” Franky countered with.
Bridget shook her head with amusement. Franky was an artist in the quick witty retort.
In the silence which followed though the smile faded. "You never reported what I told you," Franky said in a low voice. "You were putting your job on the line. No one's ever done that for me. All my life people I care about have let me down, I've let down myself," she acknowledged, "until now, until you." Her eyes were so sincere, and her words so heartfelt that Bridget couldn’t help but respond to them. "I want to live up to that trust."
"Franky," Bridget put her hand on Franky's smooth one. "I meant every word I said at that parole hearing. You have such potential, and hope within you, which has survived despite everything. You draw people to you, with your charm and your intelligence and your bravado. I protected you because I care about what happens to you. I want you to know that."
Franky was smiling. She took Bridget's other hand in hers and held it. Her cautious optimism was threatening to overflow into reckless joy. Everything she had read albeit hopefully into the psychologist’s actions was now confirmed. Bridget had taken risks and fought for her, not because of her job description or she had anything to gain by it, but because she, Franky Doyle, angry young woman, mattered to her.
“I never expected to meet someone like you behind bars,” Bridget confessed, looking at their hands. “You don’t belong in Wentworth.”
“I’m never going back there,” Franky said with determination. Bridget believed her.
Bridget’s townhouse was three bedrooms on a single level. It had large windows in the living areas with a northerly aspect. The sun streamed in casting long inviting bands of sunshine across the wooden floorboards. The design was open with the kitchen separated from the living area by an island bench. It was tidy without being sterile. Franky could see Bridget’s laptop on the coffee table where she must have been working on the sofa. There was a mug in the sink along with a plate, the remnants of her breakfast. The fruit bowl contained apples and bananas and a tired looking lemon.
Bridget dumped her keys into an empty bowl on the bench. “Want a beer?”
Franky’s eyebrows went up. “Trying to get me drunk, are you?”
“I want you to relax, Franky,” Bridget surprised her by saying. “You are full of nervous energy.”
It was true, Franky admitted, but she hadn’t realised it was so obvious. She watched Bridget pull two beers from the fridge and remove the bottle tops. They were a brand she didn’t recognise. She took the one Bridget offered and clinked her bottle against Bridget’s. “Cheers,” she said before taking a healthy swig. The ice cold liquid tasted slightly bitter. She couldn’t remember the last time she had had beer. She looked around curiously.
“Nice place,” she said as she moved around the room. She followed Bridget’s lead and took off her jacket and draped it over the back of an armchair. “You live here alone?”
“I do,” Bridget replied as she tossed the beer lids into the rubbish bin.
“No cats?” Franky asked with a grin.
Bridget looked confused. “Should there be?”
Franky watched Bridget lean against the island bench. Her white fitted t-shirt had some design Franky couldn’t make out. It hugged the curve of her chest. “Do you want something to eat?” she heard Bridget ask.
“I want a lot of things,” she said with a grin. She moved in front of Bridget and put her hands on the either side of her, leaning against the bench, sliding her beer across the polished surface. Her eyes were drawn to Bridget’s mouth, which was parted slightly. She leant in. “What do you want?” She asked.
“I want to give us a chance,” Bridget put her hands on Franky’s hips. “but – “ she hesitated.
“What?” Franky asked.
Bridget was frowning. “I need to know you’re sure about this.”
The younger woman smiled. “I’m sure,” she answered immediately.
“Because we can just be friends,” Bridget continued, “if you want.”
Franky’s expression showed her confusion and disappointment. “You want to be just friends?”
“No,” Bridget replied hastily. “But, there are rules, about relationships with clients,” she explained.
Franky just looked confused. “I’m not your client anymore,” she pointed out.
“It doesn’t matter,” Bridget said with a sigh.
“Why?”
“You are considered potentially vulnerable and therefore a relationship between us could be viewed as inappropriate.” Bridget looked apologetic. Franky wasn’t sure if she was apologising for the dumb-arse rule or that she was bringing it up.
“Who’s gonna know?” she asked after a bit. “I won’t tell anyone.”
“These rules are in place to protect the patient, to protect you,” Bridget wanted to be sure Franky understood.
“Well, I waive my right to be protected, okay?” Franky protested. “I waive it. So let’s Marvin Gay and get it on,” she said with a grin.
“Franky,” Bridget said with a sigh. “This is serious.”
“I’m being serious, Gidget, I don’t care about the stupid rule.” Franky frowned. “I’ve spent five years following stupid rules. I want to give us a chance too. There is nothing wrong with that.”
Bridget smiled at her eloquence. “I agree,” she said, “but I needed to be sure you wanted this,” and Franky relaxed.
Bridget’s mouth was warm and soft and responsive. Franky held herself back, fighting the urgency she felt because she wanted to savour this. Bridget wasn’t a quick fuck. Franky had let Bridget dictate the boundaries of their relationship and she had respected those boundaries. In the end it had been worth it. Bridget had known what Franky hadn’t realised. That Franky needed someone she could rely on and trust, more than she needed another relationship based solely on her ability to control it. It wasn’t that she hadn’t cared about those other women but ultimately it had been about her, not them. With Bridget it was different. She knew it although she couldn’t explain it.
She felt herself relaxing into the kiss, enjoying it, letting her mind still as sensations overwhelmed her. Their tongues had an entire conversation as they got to know each other.
Just then the doorbell rang. Franky looked a little dazed and Bridget had to laugh. “You might have mentioned you were expecting company,” she muttered as the blonde straightened her clothing.
“I’m not,” Bridget said and she put a hand on Franky’s shoulder as she went to answer the door. Franky found herself admiring the curve of the psychologist’s arse in those tight jeans. She grabbed her beer and had a mouthful. She needed to pee, she decided. She had forgotten how coffee did that to a person.
The bathroom was up the hallway. Like the rest of the house, it appeared to be recently renovated. Franky noted the bath with delight. One thing she had missed during her confinement was the luxury of a bath. As she returned to the kitchen she glanced through the open door into one of the other rooms off the hallway. Bridget’s taste was understated. She preferred classic off white walls and prints of abstract colour. As she looked more closely at the painting she realised they were small, distinct dots of colour applied in patterns to form the image. It made her think of tattoos.
Franky sat on the sofa drinking her beer. She could hear voices and laughter at the front door. A black Labrador bounded around the sofa and bailed her up. His tail wagged ferociously and Franky rescued her beer just in time. His nose sniffed her legs with interest. Franky put her hand down for him to sniff, which he promptly licked. He continued to lick her hand with enthusiasm.
Franky laughed. “Okay buddy,” she extracted her hand from his attention and patted his rump.
“Franky, meet Jasper,” Bridget said with a smile. “He likes you.” She called him to her and he came obediently. “He’s my friend’s dog,” she explained. “He just slipped in while we were talking.”
“Everything okay?” Franky asked.
“Richard is an artist, he saw my car in the driveway and thought it would be a good time to deliver some artwork I commissioned,” she looked apologetic. “You couldn’t give me a hand with it, could you?”
“Sure,” Franky agreed easily. Bridget led the way with Jasper following happily behind her. “Jasper seems pretty comfortable with you.” Franky observed.
“I’ve known him since he was a pup,” Bridget told her. She handed over the dog to a tall tanned man with a mane of thick brown hair. “Franky, this is Richard, he lives a few streets away.” Franky nodded and gave a quick smile. She was looking curiously at the canvas propped against the wall. It was in the same style as the one she had seen earlier.
As she studied it a shadowy image emerged from the unstructured explosion of colour. “Is that a cunt?” she asked with surprise.
Bridget followed her gaze and smiled. “It is a naked woman with her legs spread, Franky,” she explained.
Franky could see it now Bridget had pointed it out. The shadowy figure was a naked woman on her back, propped on her elbows, looking out over her rounded belly to the world. Her legs were apart and her vagina in all its intricate detail was front and centre. How the artist had captured it just by putting dots of paint on a canvas, Franky couldn’t fathom. “It’s awesome,” she said in admiration. “What do you call it?” She asked suddenly. “The style I mean.”
“It’s Pointillism,” the artist told her, watching her with interest, “if you like it then get Bridget to bring you over to my studio sometime. I have many more paintings there.”
“Richard’s entire backyard is his studio,” Bridget said with a laugh, “you have to see it.”
They moved the print up to Bridget’s bedroom and left it propped against the back wall. Franky looked around curiously. She took in the comfortable looking queen sized bed with its soft doona and pillows. The contrast to her hard prison mattress, thin blanket and wooden pillow was stark. She thought about what could happen next in that bed. She felt Bridget slip her arms around her waist. She turned in her arms, sliding her own hands around Bridget. “Hey,” she said.
“Hey,” Bridget replied with a smile. “You okay?” she asked.
“Sure,” Franky grinned. She felt nervous suddenly.
“Really?” Bridget looked sceptical. She could feel Franky’s energy was tightly contained. It was that raw energy that she had first noticed at Wentworth. When Franky had burst into the group therapy session to summon Boomer unceremoniously and later in the corridor when Bridget had had to speed up to keep pace with Franky’s long purposeful strides.
“I don’t want to fuck this up,” Franky blurted out suddenly.
Bridget brushed her hair back and smiled. “Why do you think you’ll fuck anything up?” Franky was quiet. “Look, we don’t have to do anything, if you’re not ready.” Bridget offered. “We can just talk.”
Franky smiled, remembering their discussion in the library. She felt like an idiot. It was just sex, she told herself, which she had plenty of experience in. Except it wouldn’t be just sex with Bridget. She wanted to share something with this woman that was more than sex.
Bridget took Franky’s hand and led her to the bed. She pulled off her boots and sat down on the soft, inviting doona, she patted the bed next to her and Franky, after a moment’s hesitation, joined her. “So, what did you want to talk about?” Franky asked with a sheepish grin, seeking safety in the familiar words.
“Tell me what’s important to you,” Bridget said and she lay back on the bed, getting comfortable, keeping her eyes on Franky.
“Not fucking up again,” Franky said immediately then she looked at Bridget and lay down next to her, kicking her boots off in the process. “You’re important, this is important, us,” she said quietly.
Bridget smiled at her and shifted so she could put her arms around Franky. All those times at Wentworth when she had held back because of her position, because their relationship had to remain professional, because getting Franky out of there was more important than anything else, were worth it now. Her brief had been to provide support to those women in a period of chaos and disharmony. She had never expected to find someone like Franky lurking behind those prison gates. It had made her even more determined to use the skills and intelligence at her disposal to help Franky.
“I’ve never met anyone like you,” Bridget told her. “You asked me once if I would have kept quiet for any of the women, remember?” Franky nodded. “I did it for you, Franky, because I wanted to help you.”
“You did help,” Franky told her. “I’ve grown up since meeting you. I’ve taken responsibility for the things I’ve done, I know who I want to be and it’s not that girl.” She caressed Bridget’s cheek. “That’s down to you.”
“No Franky, it’s down to you.” Bridget said with a smile. She held Franky’s hand to her cheek, watching those green eyes as Franky absorbed her words. “I’m glad I could help you with it.”
Franky kissed her softly, tentatively, seeking a response from Bridget that matched her own cautious emotions. She wanted to take things slowly, to build something which would be beautiful and honest. She wanted to tell Bridget how she felt, not through words but through the pleasure she could bring her. She felt so close to her in that moment it felt natural to fuse their connection through touch.
She marvelled at Bridget’s trim, compact figure. She was smaller than Franky in both height and build. Her muscles were subtle but the tone was undoubtedly there, revealing to Franky that Bridget also worked out. She explored it leisurely, seeking her pleasure points, and finding the small tattoo on her right hip and the faint scar on her abdomen. Her earlier hesitation left her as she felt Bridget respond to her attentions. She used her fingers and her mouth, listening for and feeling Bridget’s response, experimenting as she built her to a crescendo and let her crash in never ending waves around her. She felt something she had never experienced before in any of her previous sexual encounters, she felt joy.
Afterwards her eyes rested on Bridget’s naked torso. She ran her fingers across the faint scar. “You’ve had a baby,” she said quietly.
Bridget’s blue eyes darkened. “Yes, a boy, called Riley.”
Franky’s brow furrowed. “Where is he?”
“He died,” the words came out dragging their feet, refusing to comply with the truth of it.
“I’m sorry,” Franky held her. She wondered about the circumstances. “How?”
“At birth, there were complications, they did an emergency caesarean but he didn’t survive,” Bridget spoke the words without emotion, as though she had practiced them in her head until she knew them by rote.
“Shit,” Franky had heard worse stories in prison. Women, like Doreen, who had killed their own babies through negligence. Those women were like Franky, products of their circumstances and their own neglect, fashioning their behaviour on what they had experienced themselves. To hear that Bridget, who was educated and in control of her life, could suffer the same tragedy was disheartening.
“I came to terms with it a long time ago,” Bridget tried to reassure her. “We’ve all got baggage Franky. The best we can hope for is we don’t strangle ourselves with it.”
“Yeah,” Franky agreed absently.
The scar told Franky something important. A secure loving family was something that had eluded Franky all her life. The idea of it had always tantalised her, always out of reach, no matter how badly she had wanted it. The women in H Block, Liz, Doreen, Kya, and Boomer, they were the closest to a family she had known.
Now she realised that, at some point at least, Bridget had also wanted a family.