​Holy gecko-filled grundies.
Bad hair, rumpled clothes, haunted expressions, thousand-yard stare. The couple reeked of airplane restroom. Clearly, it’d been a rough flight.
Bill the beagle stared at Kat in astonishment. They might be tired because they travelled with terrapins down their pants, rare birds tucked into their socks, bee semen in their buckles. They could be parrot, pangolin or python smugglers. How do you know they haven’t sewn drugs into the bellies of puppies? Quarantine is war and you’re a foot soldier, show no mercy.
Right you are, Bill. She squared her shoulders. "Handbag and luggage on the floor, please."
The middle-aged couple stared at Kat blankly.
The woman looked down, spotted Bill and smiled.
If only Kat were a beagle too, then everything she did would cause people to melt into a puddle of cuteness-induced goo.
But the couple would find Bill a hundred percent less cute if he sat by their bags to indicate he scented something of quarantine interest. And they'd consider Kat the very opposite of cute (more like the airport anti-Christ) if she asked them to open their bags and found plant or food matter warranting either a warning or a fine. Bill always assumed a super adorable expression during that process, which made her appear even more of a humourless heifer in contrast.
Perhaps she was humourless. Finding dozens of smuggled chameleons stuffed in empty water bottles could do that to a girl.
Bill sniffed each bag thoroughly as the travelling couple watched, serenaded by airport security messages and departures and arrivals calls.
Kat categorised the wife as the type to forget to declare almonds in her bag. She had a certain low-carb trimness about her. The shoes on her feet—closed-toe, non-slip orthopaedic shoes—met Kat's full approval.
Her colleagues could deride Kat’s leather Kumfs as ‘lesbian shoes’ all they liked, there was nothing wrong with a pair of shoes that allowed the insertion of orthotic inner soles to support the arches and prevent injury.
To hell with sexy, there was no reward for sexy in the trenches of life.
Kat eyed the husband. He carried more paunch, and she pegged him as the type more likely to forget to declare foreign cheese.
But Bill found nothing, ambling past their bags more stiffly than he would have a year ago. They went on to search the rest of the luggage scattered around the carousel and he didn’t sit once. Kat sincerely hoped it was because the luggage was free of food and plant material rather than because Bill was old, tired, days away from retiring, and couldn't be arsed.
A dog could get jaded, but she liked to think Bill still felt the same thrill she did when presented with unopened luggage.
Her watch chimed. End of their shift. Bill sat, waiting for her to remove the stencilled quarantine coat he wore, his equivalent of a work harness.
She unfastened it, her mind skipping ahead to her plans to pop the big question to Peter.
I hope he says yes.
Butterflies—and a few fruit bats—jiggled in her stomach as she settled Bill in his kennel before heading to the staff break room. For herself she prepared a mineral water (she was wired enough without caffeine) and a coffee for Peter, who would arrive sometime in the next two minutes.
She found his mug, the one she'd bought him for Christmas. Added a slurp of milk. Added one and a half sugars.
Rested an Arnott's Scotch Finger on the saucer.
Everything just so. I plan like a third world dictator; mother would be so proud.
Marina Ivanovna Markovic might be gone, but her love of detailed planning lived on through Kat.
As did her wisdom on the subject of relationships. For example, that marriage was like trench warfare—often messy, miserable and depressing, with the long periods of boredom broken by moments of sheer terror.
But Kat's marriage, when it happened, would be nothing like that, because Kat was taking precautions.
She sipped her water, glanced at her watch. Peter was one minute and thirty seconds late. He'd probably got caught up with work because he didn't pay the same level of attention to time necessary to ensure he was never late like she did.
But when another five minutes passed without sign of him, air leaked from her lungs and an ominous pressure built in her ears.
His car could be wrapped around a telephone pole, sparkling windshield glass strewn like fairy dust around his shattered body.
There’d been four hundred and nine road traffic crashes involving fatalities in New South Wales the past year so there was no reason to believe he couldn’t be number four hundred and ten.
What would she do then?
What?
And with who?
No, there he was.
Air returned to the room, muting the screaming tinnitus in her ears.
She sat straighter at her table in the kitchen break room—which was cleaned daily and had no record of food poisoning (she'd checked) despite the shared milk kept in the fridge and the communal cutlery, crockery and biscuits.
Dear Peter, not too tall (because that could be intimidating), so handsome in a sexy Rupert Friend way, and as even-tempered, gentle and amiable as Bill the beagle.
Plus, unequivocally gay.
Peter, not Bill.
A blessing since it meant she never had to worry about some ruthless, scheming slapper luring him away. Sure, he had his gentleman callers, but he was so firmly wedged in the closet—because of his homophobic family and colleagues—that he needed her as his little beard.
Three years ago he'd given her an engagement ring, or 'beard ring' as she liked to call it. The plan was to get married and adopt since Peter was infertile (thanks to his sister kicking him in the nuts when six). He definitely wanted kids. And she wanted control. Making a family with her best friend was a prophylactic measure, a way to guarantee love never turned septic.
Everything would be safe, calm and sane. Always.
She played with the ring on her finger as Peter approached.
His shoulders were a little hunched but as a fellow quarantine inspector she could understand that. Going through people's luggage for several hours at a time was murder on the upper back. Still, he really should do the corrective physiotherapy exercises she'd shown him. She'd remind him. His slight hunch didn't keep the other female staff from eyeing him like a croquembouche. Hah! She was the only beard for Peter. Her high interception rates totally did it for him.
A smile creased his lean face, emphasising his tan. She would have to talk to him about using better sun protection when golfing. What if he got some terminal form of skin cancer? Not on her watch.
"Hey, home skillet." He mussed her hair as he stood by her.
She ducked away, head shy. "Keeping it fly, home fry?"
"Fo' sho'." He planted a kiss on her cheek.
"Radballs."
He took the seat opposite her across the Formica table. "Your hair looks good."
"Thanks, I got a trim." He always noticed because he was that kind of guy—the best. "I made you a coffee."
"Thanks. So, what's crackin'?"
She'd wanted to do this differently, had tried to book their usual restaurant for Friday but hadn't been able to get a table. She took the blame for that, she should have called two weeks ahead to make sure. Settling for the break room wasn't ideal, but she was so excited about popping the question she hadn't wanted to wait another week.
"I, ah, want to ask you something." 
"Yeah? Shoot." He wrapped a hand around his mug and sipped.
"Well, we've been together a few years now..."
Peter broke his Scotch Finger and dipped it in his coffee. "Uh-huh."
"I think we're ready to move to the next level."
He looked up from his coffee, eyes widening. "You do? Fantastic!"
Wow, he was super excited, super keen. And here she’d been worried she was asking too soon.
His hand took hers, the warm touch comforting. "Where were you picturing us together?"
"Sweden."
He frowned. "Sweden?"
"Well, Sweden is one of the safest countries in the world with one of the lowest overall crime rates." She'd done her homework, of course. "It's a very safe travel destination."
"I, ah..."
Oh, God, he looked as gutted as that exchange student she'd busted with pork products in his suitcase. Perhaps the invitation had come too early in their relationship. She downgraded it. "But only if you're not too busy and it doesn't interfere with your other, ah, plans."
He freed his hand from hers. "Kat, I thought you were talking about us moving in together. Which suburb was best."
"Oh." Well, alright, she could see how he might make that mistake but he still hadn't answered her question. "So would you like to go on holiday together then? To Sweden?"
"Kat, I think we need to take stock of things here."
"Take stock?" That didn't sound good. It usually meant stocktaking flaws and problems.
His eyes met hers. "We've been engaged three years and you think going on a holiday together is taking things to the next level."
Well, wasn’t it? "So what do you think we should be doing?"
"After three years most people would be living together. My family keep asking why we're not married yet."
"Really?" Pushy much? His parents and his sister were so...narrow-minded. Critical.
"I know it's a big step, and your family had issues, but we talked about this. When do you think you're going to be ready for us to move in together and get married so we can adopt?"
Sometime soon. Well, maybe not too soon. "But you said you were happy with the way things were." She was happy with the way things were.
"That was two years ago, Kat."
"No way. Holy skinks stuffed in a snag sling." How did time go by so fast?
"Maybe it's time to change the plan."
She grabbed her mineral water, gulped it down to stave off the pressure stealing back into her ears. "What do you mean?"
"If you're having second thoughts, perhaps we should both move on."
"Move on?" She blinked. "Who with?" Okay, she probably wasn't the only potential beard living in Sydney but there weren't that many around were there?
"I think I'm ready to come out of the closet."
"Oh." Alarm bells shrilled in her head. "Are you...is there someone?"
He lowered his eyes and not for the first time she experienced a stab of envy at the length and luxuriance of his eyelashes.
"Alex has asked me out."
"Alex?" The tall blonde ex-Brit with the soft, breathy voice of a five-year-old? And a similar IQ. Not him. A pissy snort escaped her despite her best intentions. "Last week he almost cleared a businessman traveling from China with twelve tiger penises in his suitcase. Twelve." She almost held up her fingers to emphasise her point but would have been two symbolic tiger penises short.
Peter frowned. "Not everything is about how good someone is at their job, Kat.”
“You’re right, what matters is how kind a person is.” She mimed sticking a finger down her throat. "I don't suppose he told you about those seeds in the tampon box he almost let through."
"Come on, Kat, who searches someone's tampon box?"
"I do. When Bill sits down next to a bag, I don't stop looking until I find something."
"Alex is new to the job so cut him some slack."
New? He'd been there three months. "Give me a break, the man couldn't find dried possum testicles in passenger luggage even if the possum was standing on top of the suitcase and jumping up and down demanding them back."
Peter opened his mouth, closed it again as a colleague walked past. He leaned forward, lowered his voice. "Whether or not Alex is as good as you at quarantine inspection is not the issue here."
Were they having their first fight? It sounded like a fight.
An abnormal calmness filled Kat, as if she were watching their conversation via satellite drone while she sat about a million miles away. "So what is the issue here? That Alex asked you out and you immediately decided you wanted to tap that?" Okay, bitchy comment, but a beard was allowed to be bitchy when dumped, right?
Peter didn't bite. She'd always loved him for his patience.
"Kat, I'm ready to settle down, to have a family, but I get the feeling you're never going to be ready, and you know I don't blame you. With your background, I'd find it hard to take that risk too but I can't wait forever."
Her nasal passages stung, not because his words were a low blow but because they stank of truth.
Her stomach wrestled with itself. "You don't think I can change?" Good lord, she sounded pathetic. "I can change." It was true, she could make herself do anything.
"Well, I’m sure it’s possible, Kat, but you play it so safe you even insist on eating the same thing at the same restaurant all the time."
What was wrong with eating the same meal at the same restaurant? She and her taste buds knew what they liked and it was the best way to avoid food poisoning. Did he realise the risk of food poisoning doubled outside the home? And he was wrong about her always playing it safe. "What about the investigation course I'm doing? You can't call career change 'playing it safe'."
"You're doing the training but do you think you'll actually take a new job if the opportunity comes up? Do you even plan to go to job interviews?"
Good question. Bill, her detection beagle, might be ready for retirement, but Kat would have been happy to train another dog since that was a new challenge in itself.
An unpleasant suspicion raised its head. "Why are you asking about me leaving my job? Am I cramping your style?” She’d never objected to any of his boyfriends. It was one of the reasons they were perfect together, no ugly jealousy, no unseemly arguments.
Peter rested his mug on the table. "Kat, I want you to be happy, and I don't think that's going to happen while we're pretending to be engaged and you're doing a job that demands about ten percent of your intellectual capacity. You know the import conditions back to front, and you're a good handler, but you're just applying the same set of rules over and over. I think you could do so much more."
Her cheeks burned. "I like my job. I'm good at my job."
He took her hand. "Yes, you are. You're a quarantine inspection tigress, but don't you want something more? Something more than looking for possum testicles and dried deer penis? Something more than just being my beard? I know you want to feel safe and secure, something you never got as a kid, but if your life is just a set of rules and routines to be obeyed, you're going to wake up at fifty and realise that you missed out on all the opportunities for passion and excitement in your life because you were too busy playing it safe."
Via the satellite imagery in her head she watched herself gulp her mineral water. How had this happened? She'd asked Peter if he wanted to go on holiday and now he was revoking her beard status. Why? She'd been the happiest beard alive.
Despite the pressure clamped like forceps around her skull she squeezed his hand. "Aren't you worried what the jerks at work will say? These are guys who tease me about my lesbian shoes.”
"I'm tired of pretending."
He sounded tired, and Kat didn’t have the heart to say anything more on the subject. But once Peter came out, the same guys who attributed lesbian tendencies to her shoes would wonder why the hell she’d been engaged to a gay guy for three years. Things could get rough for her too. It was a selfish thought but she couldn’t dismiss it. “I’m on your side whatever you decide.” They’d shared too many movies, pizzas, quarantine stories and luggage searches for her to turn her back on him.
After dipping his second Scotch Finger he met her eyes. "You’re still my best friend."
A lump the size of a three-piece luggage set formed in her throat. "I do want to live together and do the family thing, I just need more time."
He raised his brows. "You mean another three years? I'll be forty by then, getting a little old to adopt."
Yes, alright, he had a point. "Just..."
"What?"
"Don't give up on me."
"Jeeze, Kat, like I would ever do that."
"And don't introduce me as your ex-beard to people."
He gave her an as-if-I-would glare from beneath his brows.
She shook her head. "Stop that, you know how it gets my ovaries in an uproar when do your Rupert Friend impersonation."
He rubbed her arm. "I will always be here for you and your ovaries, Kat. Always."
She forced a smile but far, far away, in the command centre that streamed the satellite imagery of her life to her, her inner survivalist was making plans. Plans to change her life, to change her job, to make sure no one ever found out she'd been dumped as a beard, and that her best friend thought her life and job a tad pathetic, even if he'd said it with great tact.
It was time to make changes, to show Peter she could change. Perhaps then he’d see she could do other things too, like getting on board with the full-time beard project and agreeing to move in.
Change and win him back. The thing with Alex would never last.
Her fingers went to the engagement ring she wore. "Do you want the ring back?"
He wrapped his hands around hers. "No. You hang onto it for as long as you want."
"Yeah, okay. Thanks." It might turn out to be the only thing she could hold onto.