Chapter Eight
Once a month, on a mutually convenient Sunday afternoon, Ash and Bette cleaned the flat. It was a routine born of necessity; only once they had begun to add the day to a shared Google calendar did they manage to lift the house out of the state of malingering mess and dust it had existed in in the early years.
It helped too that their respective skills tessellated neatly together. Bette hated cleaning bathrooms, and Ash was grossed out by the thought of what could be found rotting in a back corner of the fridge. Bette had a mopping technique that left their floors gleaming, Ash somehow managed to polish their mirrors so they were streak-free. It wasn’t the only reason she dreaded the thought of the inevitable future, when they wouldn’t live together, but it wasn’t an entirely insignificant part of it. She resented the knowledge that she would, one day, have to clean a bathroom again.
The Sunday after her drink with Ruth was a cleaning-the-shit-out-of-the-house Sunday. Bette had spent the Saturday in a funk, heartsore and missing Mei and drafting texts in her notes app and frustrated by the entire situation. Her period had arrived that evening, which helped explain quite how deep the funk had been. But the heartsore feeling, that desire for Mei, remained. By Sunday afternoon she still hadn’t replied to Mei’s text and had begun to spiral about having left it too long.
“It’s not like it demanded a response,” Ash said with a shrug, pouring hot water over a mystic blend—two bags of Earl Grey, one of their regular PG Tips—in the pot. The end of the tea would mean a start to the cleaning; Bette didn’t mind the jobs, but an afternoon with her headphones in left her far too much time to think. She needed to solve the Mei conundrum before they started.
“Not explicitly, I guess? But it’s been, like, four weeks since I’ve seen her.” It had been twenty-nine days, and a couple of hours. But she could already see Ash’s reaction to that sort of pronouncement, and so went for the approximation. “I miss her, Ash. I don’t know why I haven’t replied, except that I had no idea how to tell her I catastrophically fucked up the only date I’ve had so far, and that it’s been a month and I’m failing and—”
“Okay, okay,” Ash said, waving her hand in front of Bette in a bid for her attention. “I think that’s probably more than enough of that. Far too much, honestly, but I wanted to hear where it was going so that I can effectively refute it.”
“There’s literally nothing in that you can argue with.”
“Oh my god, shut up, you giant baby. I thought you got your period last night? Shouldn’t this level of self-loathing be over by now?”
“Actually, in the past couple of months it’s like my PMS has stretched out to cover those first days of my period too. Little bonus for my brain.”
“Sure. Okay then, PMS girl, I’m going to spell this out. One—you aren’t failing. There is no ‘catastrophe.’ You have just started thinking about dating, and already women are swiping on you and wanting to meet you. Whether you think they’re the right women for this very very specific very very niche project is by the by. But this boring little ‘poor me, no one fancies me’ narrative is bullshit. Pure bullshit. Do better.” Ash’s love was tough when it needed to be. Bette craved it and feared it in equal measure. “Two—you don’t owe Mei an update. This was her call, all of this, and if you aren’t enjoying it then you don’t have to do it. Forcing yourself to sleep with a bunch of other people because Mei thinks you should isn’t healthy. Not for you, and not for the women you’re picking up.”
Bette bristled at the suggestion that she wasn’t entirely aware of what she was doing, not entirely in control of the whole thing. “It’s not that I don’t want to. I think it could be fun. Should be fun. Will be fun, obviously. And that first date with Ruth, I really did want to. That wasn’t me talking myself into something I didn’t want.”
“Well, I don’t see the problem then. Don’t reply to Mei. Let her wonder a bit. Let her come to you. And find another woman who is aware of your whole…” She paused and then gestured generally in Bette’s direction—“Your whole thing and then shag her. Or text Mei and tell her you’re done with the plan and that you want to get back together. Or that you’re done with the plan but you need some time. All of these options are valid. Moaning self-pity all weekend is not.”
She was, unfortunately, entirely correct.
“Sorry, Ash.”
“You don’t need to apologize to me. Stop whinging and let’s get started.”
Bette could feel Ash reaching the end of her tether, but she couldn’t help it. “And you definitely don’t think I should text Mei back?”
“I don’t,” Ash said, through gritted teeth. She was quite literally rolling her sleeves up, folding her hair up into a scarf and hanging her headphones around her neck. She was ready for the conversation to be over, ready for the bathroom to be clean. “But what I do think is that for every thirty minutes of cleaning we should do five minutes of swiping together. A little pomodoro method, but for cleaning and flirting.”
“Pomodoro?”
“Pomodoro. Twenty-five minutes work, five minutes off. I try and do it with my class, and it turns out you’re being a child today too, so let’s try it. Okay? Sound good?”
Ash collected the cleaning caddy from beneath the sink and plonked it down in front of Bette, looking at her expectantly.
“Perfect,” Bette agreed. “It sounds perfect.”
Later that week, Ash’s pomodoro swiping bore fruit. Bette arrived early for her date on Friday, scoping out the bar for a table they could prop themselves up at. The options weren’t thrilling: the bar stools looked criminally uncomfortable and the single booth had already been commandeered. It was clearly a bar intended for standing. For dancing. For snogging in dark corners.
Still, she had a good feeling about the evening ahead. Charlie had been sparse in her use of emojis, was in her thirties, and, crucially, hadn’t mentioned a boyfriend. It was a vanishingly low bar, but a promising start.
The bar itself was…fine. A bit too sticky, a bit too tacky, a bartender in a vest who looked as though he’d rather be literally anywhere else. But it was drag night and it wasn’t one of Bette’s usual haunts. It was a place that knew nothing of her, that expected nothing from her. She could be a one-night girl here.
Though, she thought as she looked around, 7:30 p.m. was probably far too early to have suggested they meet. Better than brunch. But only just. Bette felt out of place in the cavernous, almost entirely empty room, overdressed in a dark-green skirt that was slit up her thigh. It was a good few hours before the queens were due onstage, and the bar was alarmingly quiet. Pairs were dotted around, but Bette’s attention fell on the group of young backpackers, all of them immersed in their phones, bags piled up beside their booth. They were done with Bristol, that much was clear, the bridge and the Banksys behind them, likely killing time before they piled onto a night coach bound for London and then Paris or Amsterdam or Brussels. Bette had caught that coach. She hated that coach.
She pulled her phone out and clicked on her thread with Ruth.
Bette:longest coach journey you’d take if I gave you five grand
She could see Ruth typing almost immediately.
Ruth:I need context. Am I alone on the coach? Do I get to choose the scenery? How big is my seat? Do I have food with me? Can I take books? I think you’re expecting me to say eighteen hours or something, but I think I could do weeks, quite happily. I love a road trip.
Bette:I’ve just been reminded of the overnight coach I took to Paris
Bette:that’s the context
Bette:this is not a road trip
Bette:this is a coach journey
Bette:not some luxury tour bus
Bette:all strangers
Bette:absolutely packed
Bette:one toilet
Ruth:Damn, I forgot that bit.
Bette:your seat is a coach seat
Bette:obviously
Bette:you can take books, but
the guy beside you hogs the
armrest and huffs every time you
turn a page
Bette:you can eat, but everyone
else can too
Bette:the woman in front of you
has tuna mayonnaise that she
pulls out after eight hot hours
Bette:for breakfast
Ruth:This is a horrible game.
Ruth:But also, I hate to lose.
Ruth:Two weeks.
Bette:fuck off
Bette:no one would survive two
weeks of that
Ruth:Just for that, three.
Realizing that she didn’t want to be on her phone when Charlie arrived, Bette pushed it into her bag and instead committed to familiarizing herself with the drinks menu. Midori was a key ingredient in three of the house cocktails, all of which were euphemistic in name. It was just after she’d talked herself out of a stabilizing crème de cacao and Kahlua shot that she saw her.
Charlie turned heads. She was tall, assured, and walked with a swagger that made Bette sit up a little straighter, a charge of anticipation running up her spine. There was leather and a swept-up fringe and dark curls and eyes lined with kohl. There was no bag hanging from her shoulder or her arm, and Bette was unaccountably turned on by it, by Charlie walking out of her house with only what she could fit in her pockets. She was a manifestation of Bette’s very first lesbian fantasies.
When she met Bette’s eye, her face cracked open in a crooked smile. “Bette, right?” she said, already pulling out a stool.
Bette nodded. “Charlie?” she confirmed, though she was already certain of it. “Can I get you a drink?”
“Sure, that’d be great,” Charlie said, resting her chin on her hand and squinting over at the bar. “I’d say whisky, normally, but it’s impossible not to notice the—well”—she gestured around—“so maybe something weird and sweet and frozen, while it’s still happy hour?”
It was such a delicious reading of the room, a complete surrender to the environment, that Bette grinned back. “Perfect.”
And so they sipped on frozen cocktails, and Bette watched Charlie’s tongue turn bluer and bluer as they talked. During her first date with Mei the conversation had meandered all over the place, venturing into areas she’d never dared tread in her years of dating men: how she imagined parenthood, her relationship with her brother, the inadequacy she had felt in past relationships, the relief of figuring out why that was, her fears about Ash leaving her behind. When she left Mei’s the next morning, it felt as though they’d fast-forwarded through months of a relationship.
There was none of that with Charlie. It was a relief, really, to flit around films they’d loved as teenagers that should have been gay—Charlie had correct opinions on 10 Things I Hate About You—to hear about Charlie’s trip around Germany, and tell her about the one she’d taken to Portugal. It was light, so light and easy that they were on their fourth round before it occurred to Bette that she didn’t even know what Charlie did for a living. Didn’t know anything about her, really, save that she was at the table across from Bette. And hot. It was perfect. She was doing it. This was exactly what Mei had been suggesting.
The conversation fell apart somewhat once Petty LaBelle took to the stage, which was hardly surprising. She was captivating, her eye shadow a thick layer of gold-and-green glitter that made Bette rub at her lids in itchy empathy, her heels and waist both impossible in their architecture. Fun was poked at the backpackers (who tried to sneak out unobtrusively midway through the act), a couple of guys from the crowd were pulled up onstage for reasons Bette could only assume were their forearms or thighs, a rousing lip-sync to Avril Lavigne’s “Girlfriend” made everyone lose their minds. Between sets, while Petty changed backstage into ever more incredible outfits, the music was a predictable collection of crowd-pleasing ’80s tracks and gay anthems. When the unmistakable opening notes from “Faith” started, Charlie stood, and Bette realized their drinks had been sitting empty for a couple of minutes. It was her turn to buy. Or Charlie’s. Someone’s. But instead of heading toward the bar, Charlie reached out a hand to Bette, pulling her up and toward the crowd that had formed around the stage.
She felt light, her head floating pleasantly above her. Why didn’t this place know her? Why wasn’t she here every night, losing her mind over Petty and her bubble act? Why had she never had a frozen Sex on the Beach before? It was easily the best thing she’d ever tasted. Charlie was pressed against her back as they danced, strong and hot and breathing a path down her neck, her hands guiding Bette’s hips. Her arms were bare; the jacket must have come off when they’d abandoned their table. Bette’s bag was still there too, she thought (she hoped). But Charlie was probably on top of things. Ideally, Bette thought, she’d like Charlie to be on top of her, and then hid a laugh at her own innuendo.
Fuck, she must be drunk. Yes, that’s exactly what this feeling was. Frozen cocktail drunk was a whole other thing.
Really, though, it was impossible to care when Charlie was so close behind her, when she felt so desirable, like the alcohol and the music had finally lit whatever had been smoldering between them all night. She tipped her head back against Charlie’s shoulder, inviting the breath traveling down her neck to become tangible: lips, tongue, the scrape of teeth. Charlie didn’t need any further direction, and Bette shivered as she closed her mouth over the place where Bette’s neck met her shoulder. Electricity spread from that point throughout her body and Bette relished the feeling of it, of being close to someone again, before turning in Charlie’s arms to face her. She tipped her chin up, met Charlie’s eyes, and caught Charlie’s lips between her own.
It was good. Really good, if not quite the earthquaking, knee-shaking good that kissing always had been with Mei. Charlie tasted wrong, like sugar and like cigarettes. Ideally her teeth would be slightly meaner. But she wasn’t looking for a new girlfriend. She was looking for precisely this: a kiss with a hot woman in a crowded bar. The press of her thigh, grinding and insistent between Bette’s legs as soon as she had turned. The slide of her tongue against Bette’s. The soft curls on the crown of her head between Bette’s fingers. And Bette understood exactly what Ruth had been talking about. It wasn’t a perfect first kiss. Too hard, not in the way she wanted, and far too much tongue. But she could tell they’d have fun in bed together. It seemed obvious, how good it would feel to pull Charlie even closer against her.
The bar had gone from busy to properly crowded now. Crowded in a way that allowed them to be blissfully anonymous. No one was watching them. No one cared. On one side of them, a cute round-faced guy in a vest top was entangled with a queen who towered over him, her lipstick smudged around both their mouths. On the other a guy with a closely trimmed beard was dancing between two blondes in sweaty T-shirts. Bette’s tipsy brain supplied an appealing image: her burying her face in Charlie’s neck, pressed up against the wall of the hallway that led out to the street. But they couldn’t do that. Surely. Surely?
“Hey. Should we—?” Charlie asked, throwing her head over her shoulder in a way that Bette hoped meant they were on the same page. Bette followed her. And when Charlie pushed Bette up against the wall there was delicious confirmation they had been thinking exactly the same thing.
“Is this—?” Charlie breathed into Bette’s ear, her hand finding its way inside the split of her skirt to run up Bette’s thigh.
“Yeah,” Bette replied, pressing her lips to Charlie’s neck. “Um…yeah. God, yeah.”
There wasn’t anyone else in the dark hallway, everyone too distracted by the reappearance of Petty LaBelle. Regardless, Charlie had managed to land them right beside a hideous fake potted fern that probably masked them from view.
A little. From a certain angle, at least.
Maybe.
Bette reasoned that she probably had another twenty seconds to apply a rational brain to the inevitable next steps. Before she was having sex, in a bar, in a not entirely private fashion. There was still time to decide whether or not this was what she wanted. Whether this was how she wanted it. She and Mei had never had sex like this. But, of course, that was the point. This was the time for trying the kind of sex she’d never had with anyone else. Bette wondered how many other women Charlie had had up against this wall: a long-limbed femme in tiny denim shorts, a blonde girl with a heart-shaped face and an undercut. And, suddenly, Mei. Mei up against this wall, the plastic palm fronds tickling her shoulder, her thigh trembling. Bette shook her head, attempting to dislodge the thought.
“No?” Charlie said, her grip relaxing.
“Sorry,” Bette replied, and shook her head again before she reached down and pressed Charlie’s hand more firmly into her thigh. “No. I mean, yes. Yes, keep going. Please.”
As Charlie’s thumb traveled slowly around to the inside of Bette’s thigh, and began the journey upward, Bette returned to the thought that there were probably tons of women that she’d had like this. And she realized too that she didn’t care. It was fantastic. As far as she was concerned, Charlie should have everything and everyone she wanted. Bette was in such safe, practiced hands.
Charlie ran her thumb along Bette’s knickers, where she was already wet, and Bette groaned, biting down on her own lip and dropping her forehead to Charlie’s collarbone. She felt a rumble of laughter in Charlie’s chest as her thumb played with the elastic, before pushing it aside and applying pressure exactly where Bette wanted it.
“Like this?” Charlie whispered, voice hot against Bette’s ear. “How do you like it?”
“Softer—” Bette gasped, and then the pressure was perfect, a delicious tease. Exactly what she needed. “Like that—oh fuck,” she said into Charlie’s shoulder, her hips rocking forward entirely without her forethought or direction. All lingering thoughts of someone interrupting them left her; it was impossible to care. A hand found her ribs, and Charlie’s thumb grazed, soft and deliberate, up and down the side of Bette’s breast. It was gentle, not firm enough to be hot, she thought, trying to maneuver herself more definitively into Charlie’s touch. But Charlie kept her hand where it had landed, brushing imperceptibly back and forth. And gradually the heat of it built, making her feel desperate and short of breath. Bette found Charlie’s mouth again, biting at her lip, gasping into her mouth.
The hand between her legs was similarly methodical. Patient. Entirely at odds with their surroundings, with being in public. She was getting Bette there by degrees, so delicately that her orgasm crept up on her, building and building and then hitting her with a force that made her screw up her eyes and shudder, pressing her face into Charlie’s neck.
Charlie stayed close as Bette recovered herself, withdrawing her hand gently, shielding Bette from an audience that (mercifully) hadn’t appeared while Bette readjusted her skirt. Bette kissed her again, spinning them so that Charlie was the one stretched out against the wall. She felt Charlie shake her head against Bette’s lips.
“Don’t think I’ll get there like that tonight,” she said, easily, slipping her hand into the one Bette had already hooked into Charlie’s waistband. “But thanks. That was hot. I’ll be getting off on the memory of it all week. Dance?”
Bette’s mouth gaped open as she trailed off behind Charlie, their hands still linked. She’d done it. She’d had sex. With someone new. And now ABBA were playing, and they were going to dance a bit, and then maybe that would be it. They wouldn’t see each other again.
She had done it. Underneath the smug pleasure, the glow of knowing she was walking back onto the dance floor with her thighs still trembling, she quashed the desire to call Mei, to tell her exactly what had happened. To tell her just how great it had felt. To tell her it had felt great, and brilliant, and wrong. To tell her she’d done it, and that all of it could stop now.