Experienced

Chapter Six

It took Bette until Thursday to open the app again. It didn’t mean she hadn’t been thinking about it. She had, uncomfortably often. But each time her mind returned to the date, to her expectations, it was accompanied by a rush of guilt, of deep embarrassment. It was not a comfortable feeling, not one she welcomed, to be so awful at this. To have gone on a date that resulted in a hot woman having to explain dating to her. But by Thursday, thoughts of Mei and the task ahead of her outweighed everything else.

Ash had laughed when Bette had returned home following the date. Not kindly or sympathetically, but raucously and with relish. Bette wanted to be furious but it was, she conceded, objectively funny to proposition someone so baldly and be so sweetly and comprehensively rejected. And so she allowed Ash the laugh. But it was clear that she was going to have to update her profile herself, or risk being thoroughly mocked while Ash watched her attempt it.

Ash was at Tim’s on Thursday, so Bette took advantage of having the run of the house. The evening was mild, cooler than it had been in a month. Mild enough to permit a scalding-hot bath and a very cold beer, to sip while her chin sat below the waterline.

Their bathroom was without question the worst room in the house, spots of mold blooming in the corners where the landlord had neglected it for too long. Ash and Bette, who had put loving effort into their living room and kitchen, who had sought permission to paint over the gross shade of magnolia she assumed all landlords must be issued with tins of, had long subscribed to the logic that there was nothing much they could do with their bathroom apart from keeping it clean. They’d had no hand in choosing it, and were resigned to the boxy, utilitarian nature of its design, which made the room feel even smaller and more crowded than it already was.

Mei’s bathroom, on the other hand, was a dream. She had shelves and baskets fitted to the walls, plants everywhere, and piles of towels so soft and fresh that Bette wanted to bury her face in them. The walls were painted a deep navy-blue and the white tiles shone brightly alongside it. There were long hours spent talking in the bath there, late at night after the sun had set, knees knocking together in the center of the tub.

One Saturday morning she had arrived home from Mei’s, walked into her own bathroom, and decided it needed work. Now, there was an IKEA shelf above the window, lined with pots that sent trailing vines and leaves down in search of light. She relegated all towels stained by her Real Red hair dye (the shade was anything but) to a “dye day” pile that sat in her wardrobe, and found a set of new ones to keep pristine. She’d bought a bath rack that balanced precariously over the sudsy water and a couple of fancy-looking candles that smelled of citrus fruits. The bathroom was no longer a room she hated.

She sank further into the water, and took a steadying breath before clicking back onto the app. It was clear, she supposed, scrolling down her profile, to see where she’d gone wrong. The part that said “What are you looking for?” was blank, and she’d skipped right past the “About me” section too, in favor of answering prompts and uploading a handful of photos. It was a profile entirely devoid of any tangible information. She was surprised that Ruth, so self-aware and clear about what she wanted, had swiped on her in the first place.

She clicked on “Something casual” and added it to her profile. But the “About me” was the real challenge. Every draft was like stripping off layers of her skin. “I’m newly out” made her feel prickly and embarrassed. “Not looking for anything serious” felt like an overused line. There was no way of including the word “sex” that didn’t make her cringe. In the end she decided to go slightly retro, something that would be easy to pass off as a joke if it was laughed at in the wrong way.

disaster lesbian wltm hot queer women in bristol for casual fun, fucking, etc.

It would have to be fine. She dropped her phone onto the floor beside the bath and slid into the silence below the water.

She matched with Jess on Saturday morning, before she’d got out of bed. The conversation opened with a hey and a winky face that Bette tried and failed not to judge. This wasn’t a search for a wife, she reminded herself. This was casual.

Bette:hey!

Bette:gorgeous shot of you at the

wedding

Bette:if that’s a wedding?

Bette:kind of assume every fancy

event is a wedding

Bette:which seems silly, actually

Jess:love your style

Bette:thanks! that’s lovely of you.

Jess:you Bristol?

Bette:I am! 10 years now.

Bette:you?

Jess wasn’t verbose, but that didn’t necessarily matter. She was pretty. Hot, actually. Blonde hair sweeping down across her face, pouting at the camera. There was a guy in half her photos, a horrible yellow smiley sticker pasted over his face. Probably an ex.

Jess:my boyfriend and I love to play

Jess:wanna meet up?

Not an ex then.

Bette:not really my thing, sorry

Bette:no shade! Guys just aren’t my jam!

Jess unmatched less than a minute later.

On saturday afternoon, leaning on the trolley halfway down the biscuit aisle in Sainsbury’s, waiting for Ash to return with the ground coffee they’d missed, she matched with Sophie. Her phone pinged with a notification, and Bette swiped instantly on the raven-haired pixie cut and the great orange lip.

Sophie:Bette is such a cool name!

I’ve never heard it before? Is it short for something?

Bette:it is!

Bette:Elisabetta

Bette:I was Beth when I was little

Bette:then I read Little Women and decided I didn’t want to be the one who died

Bette:so I started saying Bette instead

Bette:spoilers, sorry

Sophie:Haha

Sophie:That’s amazing

Bette:didn’t figure out until after I

came out that I picked the name of

an iconic L Word character

Bette:should have known

Sophie:Oh I’ve never seen it!

Bette:it’s great and fully insane

Bette:are you based in Bristol?

Sophie:I am! For a year now. I live in Clifton, which makes uni easy

Bette:what are you studying?

Sophie:Music! It’s amazing. My sixth form didn’t really have a great program,

so I honestly still can’t believe I actually got in

Huh. Sixth form.

She clicked out of their conversation and back onto the profile.

Sophie, 19.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

“Ooh, she looks young,” came a voice from close beside her ear.

“I know, I know! It was an accident, I didn’t mean to swipe!” Bette said, her voice high and defensive. As Ash took over the trolley, laughing back at her, Bette found the age section in the settings tab. And unmatched from Sophie.

On Wednesday, on her walk home after work, she swiped on Netta. Netta had black braids twisted on her head, huge eyes and a smooth expanse of collarbone and shoulder on display that Bette wanted to sink her teeth into. She had clicked only on “Something casual” too, she was thirty-one, and Bette felt like she might be getting on top of the swiping thing.

It was late Wednesday night, when she was brushing her teeth, that the notification came through; Netta had swiped back.

“She’s so beautiful!” Ash said, looking over Bette’s shoulder, before spitting in the sink.

“I know,” Bette said around a mouthful of toothpaste. Ash threw her an awkward wink (the other eye trying and failing to stay wide), and then left her to it. Bette’s phone vibrated again.

Netta:Hey! Thanks for swiping and sorry I’m late to swipe back! Great to sort-of meet you.

Bette:it’s nice to not-quite meet you too!

Bette:what’s your week been like so far?

She groaned. She hated that question, especially from a stranger. There was nothing to say, surely, but “fine.” Why on earth had she led with that?

Netta:Yeah, fine.

It was what she deserved. She clicked back onto Netta’s profile. There were mentions of travel, and a love of romantic comedies. Confident she could recover from the most boring question possible, she clicked back on their chat.

Bette:best Nora Ephron romcom?

The response was nearly instant.

Netta:There’s a right answer here

There was, Bette agreed.

Netta:You’ve Got Mail, no question

That was not it.

Bette:whhhhhhaaaaaaatttttt

Bette:but…but…WHMS?

Netta:oh you’re one of THOSE people

Bette:one of those people who recognize true brilliance?

Netta:It’s an excellent film! Not denying! You’ve Got Mail is better

Bette:but Sally!

Netta:but Kathleen!

Bette:the rolodex!

Netta:the caviar!

Bette:he’s never going to leave her!!!!

Netta:OK, I’ll give you that one

Netta:A perfect line

Bette:all right, let’s go

Bette:give me your thesis

Netta:it all essentially boils down to Tom Hanks > Billy Crystal

Netta:plus you get the greatest breakup in cinema with Greg Kinnear

Netta:plus books. And an ending that makes both characters truly happy

Netta:she gets to be an editor, or a writer, or whatever

Netta:gets rid of the albatross

Netta:let’s face it if she actually wanted to save the shop there are so many other things she could have tried

Netta:she didn’t try

Netta:he gets her and to run his nice little bookshop empire, at least until Amazon fucks them all over

Netta:and that’s not even addressing the fact that I can practically guarantee that your favorite bit of WHMS (because she is without question the best part) is

Carrie Fisher

Netta:She’s amazing, she’s perfect, but you can’t ask her to carry the film. She’s not the lead.

Netta:sure he basically catfishes her and sure he should tell her earlier and sure it’s all a bit fucking icky

Netta:but TOM HANKS

Netta:in AUTUMN

Bette realized she was staring at her phone in delight, toothpaste now dripping down her chin and onto her pajamas. She washed her face and took her phone to bed.

Bette:that is…alarmingly convincing

Netta:Thank you. My goal on this app, from the beginning, has been to convert people to You’ve Got Mail

Netta:you’re a Bristol local, right?

Bette:I am!

Bette:love it here

Netta:Oh yeah? What took you originally?

Bette:uni, years ago, and then I just never wanted to leave

Bette:you?

Netta:Just a meeting

Bette:lol and you never left?

Netta:No no I did

Netta:Home in London now

Netta:I’m in Walthamstow

Netta:you know it??

Confused, Bette clicked back to Netta’s profile. Sure enough, she was 176 miles away.

Bette:shit, sorry, thought I had my settings at 10 miles

Netta:Sorry! I was in Bristol yesterday

so it will have picked me up and pushed me in your direction Netta: Was a real fly-in fly-out work visit

Netta:But, like, on a train.

Bette:of course

The disappointment settled in her. It had all been going so well. And now it was just one more to add to the week of disappointments and false starts.

Netta:Are you ever up in London?

Bette:practically never

Bette:you in Bristol much?

Netta:Not that often. But I might be in the next month or so? Trying to sign a deal there so I’ll have to be back. Let’s have a drink then?

Bette:yes absolutely

Bette:sounds great

Netta:You’re really fit, btw. Even if your Ephron opinions need work. Really glad we swiped.

Netta:Anyway, looking forward to it

It could have been worse, Bette conceded. There was a spark; it felt like a date might be fun. But the disappointment ate at her nonetheless.

For her birthday, every year since she had moved to Bristol, Bette’s mum had given her two swimming vouchers for the Lido in Clifton. She’d rolled her eyes the first time; certain it was a little nudge from her mother to immerse herself not just in chlorinated water but in an entirely different crowd. Her first visit started out precisely as she’d feared. It was a pool that felt far too fancy for her, a haven for people who had money for treatment packages and posh lunches. Who dressed in labels she didn’t recognize and whose swimming costumes weren’t pilling around the seams and sagging around their boobs. People, in other words, who weren’t students. Who didn’t work for arts charities. She wanted to hate it, wanted to feel above the whole thing, wanted to sneer at a pool that had a membership waiting list.

Unfortunately, it quickly became one of her favorite places in the world.

On Sunday, the first plunge into the water went straight to her head. It was a heated pool, but the air outside was so warm that it felt like a cool relief in contrast. She could feel the sweat wash away from her body and tried not to think too much about everyone else’s sweat; sweat she was now swimming through.

Submerged in the water, her mind was normally blissfully empty. She had come to the pool to clear her head, but she thought immediately of the ten days of swiping, of every failed and aborted possibility. Of the fact that every time she wanted to text Mei she opened the app instead, and that it didn’t satisfy the same desire. Her arms cut through the water, propelling her forward, and with each stroke she felt the frustration tense in her shoulders. She hated the apps. It felt so unnatural, so forced. So boring. She had been so lucky with Mei. To meet someone she clicked so instantly with, someone she fancied who fancied her. Who wasn’t in another city, or already attached, or nine-fucking-teen. It all seemed so unlikely. How did people do this?

After twenty minutes of pushing herself up and down the pool the tension in her shoulders had eased, her arms beginning to ache satisfyingly from the repetitive movement instead. Her brain felt better too, buzzing less with general frustration and irritation and more with trying to solve the conundrum at hand. Ash was no help, in terms of hook-up experience, or finding-hot-people-on-a-dating-app experience. In fact, she knew surprisingly few people who had spent much time single in the past few years. She was an outlier.

Except Ruth. It occurred to her that Ruth, who seemed pretty au fait with dating apps, who had definitely referenced other dates, had given Bette her number. If not quite for this purpose, then not not for this purpose.

She’d lost count of her laps early on, but her shoulders told her she was finished. She pulled herself up out of the pool, wrapped the hired towel around herself and, despite the heat, made a beeline for the sauna. It was horribly, gloriously hot, and it was impossible to think about anything but the sweat dripping off her nose, by the fact that every breath in was damp and unsatisfying. Eventually, convinced she might faint, her head blissfully clear, she stumbled out, sucking in lungs full of fresh summer air. As her heart rate returned to normal, she showered off the sweat that had collected in every crevice of her body and then laid out her towel on one of the corners of decking in the shade. There was half an hour left of her slot, and although she felt like she probably should dive back into the pool, all she really wanted was to lie down out of the sun.

As she settled in, fiddling fruitlessly with the straps of her swimming costume in hope of it suddenly offering a suggestion of support, her mind returned to Ruth. Was it poor form to text? They had been on a failed date; it was probably tasteless to text her in hope of more dating advice. But then, on the other hand, Ruth had said she wanted to hear how things were going. Surely this was only offering what she’d asked for?

Bette agonized over it for another minute before reaching into her swimming bag for her phone. She could text hello. A simple hello, and then they could see where things went from there.

But when she unlocked her phone, in between a photo from Carmen of her and Anton at the Van Gogh and a reminder from Ash that they needed oat milk, there was a message already waiting for her.

Ruth:So how goes the hunt?

Huh. Maybe she could have worried less.

Bette:hunt makes me sound properly

predatory

Ruth:Sorry, didn’t mean it like that.

Bette:oh no, I wasn’t complaining at all

Ruth:Lol. Okay.

Ruth:So how goes the hunt?

Bette:is it terrible if I have a bit of a whinge about it?

Bette:because…honestly?? a bit crap?

Ruth:Is it all women who want someone to have sex with them (and their boyfriend) or they’re twenty-two and make you feel ancient or they’re women who live 300 miles away who were in Bristol a week ago?

It was uncanny.

Bette:…

Ruth:I met you on the app, remember?

I know the game.

Bette:it’s not been all awful?

Bette:there was one woman who seemed great, but turns out she was only in Bristol for the day

Bette:but otherwise yeah it’s women who want threesomes

Bette:or women who make me feel like I should be thinking about a pension

Bette:so, on the whole?

Bette:pretty slim pickings

Ruth:You don’t have a pension?

Ruth:Not the point, sorry, I know. But also maybe worth looking into?

Ruth:Have you thought about meeting people in other ways?

Bette:like in person??

Bette:what is this?? 2005??

Bette:or whatever, I wasn’t gay in 2005

Bette:that might not have been the vibe

Ruth:Oh it was all MySpace and hot people at college for me in 2005.

Bette:god I wish I’d been out at school

Ruth:I mean, it wasn’t entirely smooth sailing. Section 28 was a pretty big thumbs down. But there was a lot of fun to be had.

It wasn’t as if Bette didn’t remember. But it had all been so theoretical to her back then.

Bette:sorry, really didn’t mean to be flippant

Ruth:No! Not at all! Just…there’s no one perfect way, I guess?

It felt so obvious, when Ruth put it like that. She had spent the past year feeling jealous of everyone who had come out sooner than she had. But there was something to be said for having been twenty-nine, for living with Ash, who had been nothing but thrilled, for not having to take a label into school with her and have it poked and pointed at.

It felt good, she realized, to talk to Ruth about things. Useful. These were things that, for all Ash’s perfect, brilliant friendship, they couldn’t share.

Bette:do you fancy grabbing a drink?

Bette:platonically, obviously, I’m not trying it on (again)

Bette:but I have about a thousand more questions and I have a feeling you’ve got the answers

Ruth:Ha! That is entirely possible. You can reap the benefit of my wilderness years. Friday? After work?

That was exactly it, Bette thought. She needed a guide. Someone who had been where she wanted to go. Someone who had ventured into the wilderness and had made it out the other side. Bette ran her hand over her swimming costume, trying to determine whether it was dry enough to wear home. It was still damp at the elastic seams and so she kept her head down, wondering how far she could push her slot, wanting to bask a little longer in the unexpected joy of having help and advice on the horizon.