Experienced

Chapter Three

Bette found Ash in the kitchen the next morning, still in her tartan pajama bottoms, filling the kettle, a podcast blaring out of the tinny speakers on her phone. Ash had a faded fun run T-shirt on, and her hair hung round her face. It was a real end-of-term energy; even on Sundays Ash was normally up and dressed long before Bette got out of bed.

“Should I put coffee on?”

There was an exaggerated jump and shriek as Ash turned; she was prone to overreaction at all possible moments.

She threw an arm round Bette and kissed her cheek extravagantly before pushing her out of the way in search of the cafetière in the cupboard above the fridge.

“Morning! Nope, already on it. How’d you sleep?”

“Not bad,” Bette lied. She’d spent most of it filling the notes app of her phone with drafted messages to Mei she knew she wouldn’t send.

“Okay,” Ash said, hand still in the cupboard, “you seem weird. You were really weird yesterday. Are you just tired? Mei still blowing your mind?”

“Well actually we’re…” Bette started, her voice strange and catching in her throat. It was time. “We’re taking a break.”

Ash almost dropped the cafetière as she finally laid a hand to it and looked over with incredulity splashed across her face.

“You’re what?”

“Taking a break,” Bette repeated, feeling the strangeness of it. “We’re on a break.”

“A break,” Ash said.

Bette nodded.

“You and Mei broke up?”

“Yes…well, no. No we haven’t broken up. She was—well—not clear but—we’ve not broken up. I don’t think. We’re getting back together in October.”

“Hold on. I don’t…Shit, Bette. Shit. Do you want to talk about it? Do you want to be alone? What do you need?”

Bette shrugged, a heavy feeling settling in her chest. Thank god it was still the weekend. The idea of going to work today, of feigning cheerfulness, of being charming and professional, was horrific. She was suddenly aware of Ash close to her, Ash who smelled of clean sheets and salt and summer, who was so warm and so soft. She buried her face in Ash’s shoulder and allowed herself to be wrapped up in her. Bette let out a shaky breath.

“I’m okay,” she said. “I’m okay.”

Ash held her a bit tighter. “Would you feel better if we had coffee and freezer pastries?”

Bette nodded and trailed off to sit on the window ledge while Ash scooped coffee grounds into the cafetière, pulled a tray with two croissants on it from the oven, and put them on a plate. She pushed the plunger down on the coffee and carried it through to the front room with the posh little cups that Bette sort of hated—they were far too small—but which Ash thought “photographed well.” Bette picked up the plate and followed. They fell into the sofa Ash had found online for a steal that they’d carried all the way home to Totterdown, flushed with how clever they were to avoid paying the ￡30 to hire a man with a van. It had taken them six hours to make it a single mile; they’d kept stopping and sitting down on it to watch clips on YouTube whenever it got too heavy. When they finally managed to maneuver it through the front door and into their flat, their phones out of battery and data, aching in places Bette was certain neither of them had muscles, they had agreed that staying in the flat for at least another year was the only way to make it worth it. It had been more than eight since then, in the five-room flat; a place that was unequivocally home. Though there was foam poking through the sofa in places now, Bette still felt sentimental every time they sat on it together.

Ash arranged the pastries on the table and poured the coffee. It looked, like everything Ash did, as if it belonged on Instagram. She had a tendency to make things beautiful, in a way Bette never bothered with, even on her best days.

“Okay, so—a break,” Ash said, tucking her legs up beneath her. Marge deigned to jump up and sit between them, her striped tail tickling Bette’s ankle. “Do you want to talk about it?”

The thing was, she really didn’t want to talk about it. She still wasn’t sure she understood it enough to be able to defend it.

“Not yet,” she replied. “I just—I want to wallow today.”

“Okay.”

There was silence between them for a moment, and then Ash cocked her head to the side slightly, as if she already knew what was coming. Bette took a shuddering breath.

“It was so perfect. I was so happy,” she said, the tears inevitable now, making their way down her cheeks.

And really, that was exactly it: she’d been so happy, and couldn’t have imagined anything better. Mei had dropped by the office in February, after a year spent on a project in Italy. She was an artist who had once run workshops for them, in the years before Bette had started. She had walked in in a vest top and a pair of loose-fitting black trousers secured high on her waist with a thick belt, her fringe hanging down into her dark eyes. Bette had fancied her instantly. Her colleague Erin, a head shorter than Bette, her body built of compact muscle, eyes a pale green, had brought Mei over to introduce her. Bette was self-aware enough to recognize that, if it hadn’t been for Erin’s fiancée, Niamh, she might have spent her early lesbian months struggling to navigate an all-consuming work crush. So it had been quite an image, really, watching them walk over together. And when Mei had shaken Bette’s hand and met her eye, Erin had smirked in a way that told Bette that her cheeks were pink. That she had entirely given herself away.

“I’m going to stay in Cheltenham with my parents for a couple of weeks,” Mei had said. “I’ve been away for a while so they’re desperate to look after me. But I’ll be back in March, in case you need any sessions covered for the last bit of the year?”

She took the pen straight out of Bette’s hand and found a Post-it on her desk.

“Just let me know, yeah?” she said as she handed both back.

Bette watched her leave, and then looked down at the Post-it scrunched up in her sweaty palm. For a session, or a drink, if you like it read, with a number printed carefully and clearly below. Bette sucked in a breath. She had been out only a couple of months, had been thinking about a way to ask Erin about the apps, or whether there might be any women Erin could introduce her to. It couldn’t possibly be this easy.

She had texted Mei that night, and then with increasing regularity over the next fortnight. She was clever, thoughtful, and made Bette laugh. It had felt like a drink drink when she left the Post-it, but somewhere in the two weeks since, Bette had lost all confidence. They were texting daily about art, about food, about books they’d read, about their favorite places in Bristol. It felt good, charged. Full of sparks. But she couldn’t be certain.

Finally there was a night when she drank just enough wine with Ash to consider getting on a train to Cheltenham to ask Mei herself. At Ash’s emphatic rejection of the plan, she texted Erin instead.

Bette:no worries if you’re not sure but I wondered whether Mei ever dates women?

Bette:installation artist Mei, I mean

Bette:the one who was in the office a couple of weeks ago

Bette:obviously don’t out her or anything if she wouldn’t be cool with

that

Bette:and sorry for assuming you might know

Bette:it’s not like I think all queer women know each other

Bette:or that that’s a label you use

Bette:I mean, I don’t even know why I’m assuming

Bette:or what I’m assuming

Bette:you know what, ignore me

Bette:I’ve had wine

Bette:sorry

It had taken Erin fifteen minutes to reply, and Bette felt every second of each one waiting for the response.

Erin:she’s gay and she fancies you

Erin:loser

Erin:see you tomorrow

Erin:go to sleep

There had been a lingering little hangover, and Erin had teased her mercilessly the whole next day, but it had been worth it. And when Mei came back to Bristol, they went for a drink after work in the pub around the corner from Bette’s office, sipping gin and tonics and talking in exactly the same way they had been via text. Bette couldn’t stop looking at her mouth, at the way her tongue caught on one of her teeth when she smiled. How could Bette have ever thought this felt platonic? Once the sky outside was dark, and the ice in their final drinks had melted, Bette realized they’d gone without dinner.

“It’s only a proper date if there’s food!” she reasoned as she pulled Mei out of the pub, tipsier than she’d thought once up and on wobbly legs.

“I’m not sure that’s a thing,” Mei laughed. “But I wouldn’t want you to be confused and have to ask Erin again. So we’ll probably have to get something to eat.”

There was something in there about Erin that Bette felt she should probably be embarrassed about. But she couldn’t bring herself to focus on it. She spun round, a hand landing in the curve of Mei’s waist, pulling her close, at once pleased and utterly flabbergasted by having nailed the move. “If we want to make it a clear and unambiguous date, there’s probably another way we could do that.”

“Is there?” Mei asked, her mouth close to Bette’s, stretched wide in a smile. “What way would that be?”

Bette’s heart was racing. This close, Mei smelled of coconut shampoo and something smoky, like burning wood chips, probably from her studio, and Bette had never wanted anyone more in her entire life. She leaned closer, her nose bumping against Mei’s as she angled their mouths together. The kiss was chaste, a press of soft lip to soft lip, and Bette felt it in her knees. Mei smiled against her lips and pulled back slightly, only to press her lips to Bette’s again.

“See?” Mei said, pulling back again. “Unambiguously a date.”

“You know what? I’m not sure,” Bette replied, her voice shaky. “That could have been a friendly kiss. You know? Nice little platonic moment between colleagues.”

Before she could clock what was happening, she felt pressure on her collarbone, right above her heart, and realized that Mei was pushing her backward. Her feet scrambled to catch up, but Mei’s other hand had already found a place in the center of her back, guiding her carefully and expertly. It was so hot. Bette felt a brick wall against her back and was embarrassed to hear herself groan. Mei smiled, and leaned in.

It was nothing like the first kiss. Mei’s mouth opened against hers almost immediately, sucking Bette’s bottom lip into her mouth and gently biting down on it. It shouldn’t feel this different, Bette thought. Men had mouths too. Surely Mei being a woman couldn’t change things this much. But even more than the softness of Mei’s lips, the sweetness of her tongue, it was the knowledge that it was Mei kissing her—a woman kissing her—that set Bette alight. She felt sharp relief, mixed in among all the rest of it. This was exactly how she hoped it might feel. The hand on her jaw angled her and she felt Mei’s tongue tracing her lip. The hand on her back moved around to the base of her ribs and she was so distracted by everything that was going on with her mouth that she forgot to worry about straightening up or sucking her stomach in. Her head and her whole body were entirely consumed by Mei. There was no space for anything else. She kissed her and she kissed her and she kissed her.

“So?” Mei said, minutes later, as she stepped back. Her lips were swollen and wet, and Bette was pleased with her own foresight in not wearing lipstick. She already wanted to touch her again.

“Unambiguously a date,” Bette replied, her voice steadier than she’d imagined it would be. “Very inappropriate kiss for colleagues. HR would have a field day. Or Amanda would, I guess,” she continued, the company’s office manager wandering uninvited into her head. “That’s probably her role, given that we don’t have an HR department. Should I be worried that we don’t have an HR department?”

“Just to continue our commitment to being unambiguous, I’m refusing to acknowledge the HR chat going on right now.” Mei bent down and picked up a tote bag she must have dropped between her feet when she pushed Bette against the wall. “So. Chips? Or home to mine?”

Bette shrugged. “Both?” she responded.

The next weeks, those early weeks, had been some of the most overwhelming of Bette’s life. She woke fizzing with excitement to see Mei, to text her, to kiss her, to sleep with her. It was as if all of Mei’s edges fitted hers. Every cliché she could think of—a puzzle piece, a perfect bit of furniture in an awkward room—felt inadequate, not soft enough to convey the blurriness of their edges, the way in which they fitted not just against each other but into each other. Bette had always dismissed the concept of soulmate, the suggestion of a perfect partner. But it was impossible to imagine anyone better suited to her than Mei. It had been so easy to fall for her, to willingly give herself up to the feelings that overwhelmed her. Four months had been enough to find herself somehow inextricable from Mei, as if she’d given too much of herself to be able to get it all back.

“Yeah,” Ash said, dragging Bette from her reminiscence, her tone weird, almost dismissive. As if there was a question mark at the end of it. It was not what Bette had been anticipating. Ash stroked Marge absent-mindedly and, predictably, the cat jumped down and stalked off. Ash brushed fur from her dressing gown, a frown forming between her brows. “I mean, it was clearly so great in the early days, but…”

The implication brought Bette up short.

“What do you mean was?”

“It’s just seemed more—I don’t know, it’s felt like you—no. Forget it. Forget I said anything. Sorry.”

Bette wanted to demand that Ash tell her what she meant. But she could guess already. She knew that she’d been around less, that she’d canceled plans. But she’d thought Ash had understood. It was the first time she’d ever felt like this. It was normal, surely, to get lost in it a bit.

“Should we watch something?” Ash asked, reaching over for Bette’s hand.

Bette nodded. It was easier than talking about it, exactly the right thing. “Grey’s Anatomy?” she suggested. “Can we find an early Addison one?”

“Course,” Ash said, reaching over for her laptop. “Eat a pastry. It’ll help.”

It did.