Chapter Two
Bette was running. She hated running. But her route from Mei’s to the park had taken her past the pub where they’d had their first date. And so Bette was late. She’d promised her flatmate Ash she wouldn’t get distracted, that she’d be there to celebrate the end of term, that she hadn’t become a person who met someone and instantly ditched her friends. Though, in the end, she’d rather be that person than this one: the one who was late because she was delayed having a long public cry about a non-breakup.
Because that was the thing. The whole morning with Mei had eventually boiled down to one salient point: this wasn’t a breakup.
The problem was, of course, that it absolutely felt like one. It would be as though Mei were going somewhere technologically and physically remote for a while, as if she were setting up an installation at the South Pole. Except that she’d be in Bristol, and they often worked together, so there was every chance they were going to see each other in the interim.
It was going to be hell.
What would be ideal, Bette figured, would be to go home, crawl into bed, and emerge only after the mandated three months had passed.
Instead, the thread of messages from Ash made it clear that that was not the Saturday she was destined to have. She was, instead, late for the park. She was also supposed to be bringing crisps and a dip, which she didn’t have, the procurement of which was going to make her even later. Bette had said yes to the plan days ago, when she imagined Mei joining them once she’d finished in the studio, imagined them lying on a picnic blanket together, imagined her head resting on Mei’s stomach as they dozed. Imagined them posed like a bus ad for tinned GTs.
It wasn’t going to be like that at all. Ash was already there, with Anton and Carmen. They were all going to assume she was late because she’d been in bed with Mei, and while that wasn’t technically incorrect, she couldn’t quite handle the disconnect between their idea and the reality of the situation. The thought of explaining it to them was appalling.
They wouldn’t get it. She didn’t get it.
And so, standing out of breath in front of the crisps in the corner shop, she decided that it was probably easiest not to mention it. If they asked about Mei, about the morning she’d had, she could keep it light. Breezy. Pretend that she’d got out of bed late and had to rush through getting ready and that the conversation in bed hadn’t happened at all.
She caught a glimpse of herself in a fridge door as she was standing in line to pay, horrified at her lank hair, more dirty brown than red when it needed a wash. Beneath her sunglasses she could feel the crustiness of her eyes, certain last night’s eyeliner was smudged beneath them. She was wearing a denim shirt dress that popped open relentlessly over her boobs, and was, predictably, doing so now. She was late and a mess, she thought, as she dumped the crisps on the counter, did the Sisyphean button-up and tied her hair back in a sweaty little bun.
It felt impossible that eighteen hours earlier she and Mei had been standing in a Van Gogh exhibition that was all light and colors and cushions.
It had been three months since their first date, and everything had been bliss: late-night text marathons and long walks around the quays and Mei cooking for her. There was a night when they’d laughed so hard that they’d been shushed in a restaurant, and another when they’d made out in an almost-empty cinema. When Mei’s parents had come to visit they’d gone for lunch at a French place and Mei had put an easy hand on Bette’s thigh under the table and Mr. Hinota had invited her to visit them in Cheltenham.
And then yesterday they’d gone out for a late lunch and walked through the exhibition hand in hand. They’d spent a whole hour in the corner of one of the rooms, letting the light fall on their intertwined arms, Mei resting her head back against Bette’s shoulder. They’d talked about their favorite artists, about the prints they’d bought and built their personalities around during university. About Mei falling in love with Yayoi Kusama’s mushrooms, with the cypresses Van Gogh had painted, and with Matisse. About Bette buying a print of Hockney’s pool, of Paul Fischer’s women by the beach, and of Klimt’s woman in gold.
“How did you miss that you were gay?” Mei had said, as if Bette’s cheap poster prints were revealing. And they’d both laughed. As though it wasn’t a thing they needed to worry about, just a bit of Bette’s past they could poke fun at.
Ash had dropped a pin, and Bette followed it through the park to a shaded corner. From a distance, she could make out Anton lying with his head on Carmen’s stomach, and she briefly hated them. And then Ash waved and Carmen called out a hello and she felt an annoying rush of love for them instead.
“Afternoon,” Ash said, the single word managing to contain genuine pleasure at her arrival and gentle passive aggression that was probably related to the time. She was on her feet before Bette could respond, wrapping her in a hug. Her black hair was shiny and sleek and twisted on her head, her sunglasses were enormous, and her shirt was so white it was hard to look at. She embodied a perfect summer afternoon. Bette was aware of looking rumpled and disgusting in last night’s clothes.
“Sorry I’m late,” Bette said, getting the first apology out of the way. “But I come bearing gifts.” She reached into her bag and pulled out the bags of crisps, one after the other: Skips and Monster Munch and Pom Bears and Walkers and everything else she’d been able to find, tossing them into a pile on the middle of the blanket.
“Hero!” Anton said, cap low over his eyes as he reached for a bag of prawn cocktail and pulled them open with satisfaction. He found a particularly big one, angled it into his mouth, and then wiped his hand on the front of his gray T-shirt before reaching in for another.
“A beautifully curated selection,” Carmen agreed, trapped in place by Anton’s head but reaching a hand over to squeeze Bette’s in greeting. “How’ve you been, babe? Feel like it’s been ages.”
It hadn’t, really, maybe just more than a month since Anton and Carmen had last been round for dinner. But it felt like ages to Bette too—so much had happened that she didn’t quite know where to start. She could feel what Carmen wanted her to address, could see the slightly suggestive quirk of her mouth. Instead, she decided on a place of relative safety.
“Yeah, work’s been pretty full on.”
Art’s Aflame (a name so cringe-worthy that Bette used it as little as possible) was a charity that sent visual artists out into primary schools and community groups. She’d been working for them for a few years, long enough that the routine of it all was beginning to itch under her skin. But she’d managed to get some funding for a few new projects that would start in September, planning for which had made up a big part of her life in the past month. Carmen, a playwright, understood the grind of fundraising.
“I’m sure whatever project you’ve dreamed up is great,” Carmen said, entirely severing Bette’s train of thought. She squinted over from behind her gold-rimmed glasses, attempting to shield her eyes from the sun. “But this isn’t really the content I was after. Your job is fine, but it’s not new. Not new like your girl.”
Bette would have relished it, a few hours earlier. It had still been such a thrilling little pleasure to find herself the center of conversation about sex, about romance. About love. Last time she’d caught up with Anton and Carmen it had all been so gloriously fresh.
There was plenty to fill Carmen in on. She could have told her about meeting Mei’s parents, or talk about how Mei and Ash’s boyfriend, Tim, had made plans to go climbing, or tell her about the art school friend of Mei’s they’d had dinner with. Her life had been so infused with Mei that it was impossible to scrub her from any corner of it.
Carmen was waiting, expectantly. She could tell them all. Tell them about the break. There’d be sympathy and warm hugs and they’d probably stay into the evening to make sure she was okay. Bette felt sick at the prospect of it.
If she said she was going to be dating new people, they’d get that. But a break from Mei, to have some one-night stands? She still didn’t know how to couch it, whether she was saying I missed out on an important experience and I’m excited to claim it or Is it a problem that it’s so good with Mei that I can’t even imagine being with anyone else? She was mad at Mei, mad that Mei had entirely misunderstood what Bette needed. But she worried too that maybe Mei knew precisely what she needed, that Bette had, again, missed something fundamental within herself. It wasn’t as though it would be the first time.
And so: “She’s great. We went to see the Van Gogh exhibition last night. The lights one? I think you’d really love it.”
“Ooh yeah, I was planning on booking a ticket for the next few weeks,” Ash said, as she pulled an honest-to-god quiche out of a basket. Bette was so grateful. Get them all onto the exhibition and Ash’s baked goods and she might get away with avoiding the Mei thing for the rest of the afternoon.
“Shall we book some tickets for August?” Carmen directed at Anton.
“God, yes! Freedom! We’re finished,” Anton said, stretching his arms out along with each word, and only just managing not to clobber Carmen in the nose. She swatted at him and pushed at his shoulder until he was forced to sit up. “This year felt really long. Stupid long. Thought shit was supposed to go faster the older we get.”
He reached over for the slice of quiche Ash was holding out in his direction, biting the point off and sending her a thumbs up while he chewed.
“It does. It’s the perception of time thing,” Ash said. “Each year we live is a smaller percentage of our life as a whole, so it feels shorter.”
“That’s—that’s—Ash, that’s really bleak,” Carmen said, her mouth curling up in distaste.
“Truly chilling,” Bette agreed.
“Shut up, it’s a nice thing!”
“Nope, it’s not,” Anton told Ash, and she scoffed at all of them.
Bette bit into her own slice of quiche and sort of wanted to cry. It was great, and Ash was great, and Carmen and Anton were great too. It was all great, everything was great, except she was heartbroken, and tired, and at any second someone might ask her another question. She lay down on the picnic blanket beside Ash’s hip and closed her eyes.