Experienced

Chapter Nine

Ruth:Hey, do you fancy coming to Jody’s birthday party on Saturday? It’s a big open house thing, and we’ve all invited people. Thought if you weren’t busy it might be fun?

It had been a relentless couple of days at work and she’d let the swiping fall by the wayside, returning home each evening to Ash and the sofa and a bowl of pasta. Once Thursday hit, nearly a week since the date with Charlie, she wondered whether she should start looking for someone new. But the idea felt exhausting, even in entirely theoretical terms. Instead she had closed the app, slipped her phone into the pocket of her hoodie, put the kettle on and pulled a packet of biscuits from the kitchen cupboard. One weekend off hadn’t sounded like the worst thing in the world.

But the universe (or Ruth, she supposed) clearly had other plans. The text arrived once she was on the sofa, tea and chocolate biscuits in hand. She could refuse the invitation, obviously, invent an excuse, tell Ruth she just wasn’t up for it. She wouldn’t question it.

But the alternative was that she could just…go.

Ash was spending the long-weekend weekend with Tim’s parents. She had considered inviting Anton and Carmen round, before remembering that they were away too. The problem with most of your friends being teachers, or teacher-adjacent, was that the summer was either boom or bust. And this weekend was bust. She had visited her nonna the week before, clear-headed but aware of smelling of stale booze and sugar. There wasn’t a long list of other people she saw on the weekends.

The reality was that one night at a time of doing her own thing, of having a long bath or watching the shows Ash couldn’t bear or ordering from the deeply average kebab place that only she loved, was always enough. By the second night she was prone to spiraling, convinced she was destined to spend the rest of her life on her own, that all her friends had moved on and that no one had ever fancied her or found her interesting and probably never would, that she had perhaps ceased to exist entirely.

Bette:I’m in!

Bette:can I bring anything?

Ruth:It’ll be so great to see you! I’ve a list of people to introduce you to.

The party was becoming a more compelling prospect by the minute.

Bette:yeah?

Ruth:Yes. And Heather has some suggestions too.

Bette:if you’d led with that I wouldn’t have hesitated

Ruth:You hesitated? You replied within a literal minute.

Bette:my brain works fast

Bette:there’s a lot going on that you don’t see

Bette:via text

Ruth:Clearly.

Ruth:Anyway, come from 8 p.m. and bring a bottle or a plate of something.

A party. A party with new people to meet, in a house that sounded like some sort of queer utopia. She was going to need something incredible to wear.

Ruth hadn’t been exaggerating about the party. When Bette, keen not to be one of the first there, arrived after ten, she didn’t have to double-check her phone for the house number. She didn’t have to send a little text. In a street lined with Victorian terraces, Ruth’s house was surely the one from which Carly Rae Jepsen was issuing, the one with a visible disco ball in the front room, where the smokers perched on the brick wall outside were dressed in combinations of leather, tulle and dungarees. It felt like she shouldn’t be assuming things about people based on how they were dressed, but they seemed…queer. It lit something within her. She hadn’t been to a proper house party since coming out, and while she didn’t want it to be some big thing, it kind of was. She nodded hello to the smokers on the wall and pushed open the door.

There had been a famous house party in Ash and Bette’s second year of university, a mad, raucous, debauched party that everyone had talked about for the next eighteen months.

Jody’s party was nothing like that party. They could never have imagined a party this good back then.

People had found corners in which to snog in twos and threes and a four that looked logistically tricky. An elaborate game of Twister was being played with dots taped out on the floor. A couple of beautiful guys had stripped off their shirts—had they had shirts? Did they need shirts?—and were doing body shots from each other’s clavicles in the center of the front room. It was impossible to know where to join in, where to find her place among these strangers. There was a flash of wishing Ash was there beside her. It felt exposing to have arrived alone.

“Bette!” called a voice from behind her, and she spun round to find herself face-to-face with Ruth. She was flushed and warm as she pulled Bette into a tight hug, trapping the bag of crisps and condensation-wet white wine that Bette was clutching between them. Her sequined dress was cut low on her chest and high on her thigh, and Bette found herself wishing she could have the confidence to pull it off. Ruth’s feet were bare, her toenails painted gold.

“This party is amazing.”

“Yeah, Jody went all out. They decided at the last minute that the vibe was Bristol Bacchanal, so we all just bought some grapes and did some shots and made out with each other to kick things off.”

Bette nodded, feeling slightly hysterical. She imagined a sort of spin the bottle, an infinite partnering with every woman here. The thought filled her with hope and fear. Mostly fear.

“I’ll help you find a glass,” Ruth said, a knowing smile on her face. “And then you can see what sort of—well, festivities, I guess, you want to take part in?”

Oh. Right away then. It was going to be like that. Bette had put time into her outfit—her highest-waisted jeans, a new corset top, her nicest lace knickers, a long silk kimono she’d found in a charity shop. Leaving the house earlier, she’d felt sexy; she had posed and pouted in front of the mirror in Ash’s room and sent a photo to Ash that had prompted a line of heart emojis, and a few of the ghost head “I die” ones Ash employed with alarming frequency. But she was suddenly nervous, anxious and inexperienced and not ready for this and…

“Bette, calm down. I’m joking. This isn’t an orgy. This is Jody’s thirtieth. There’s a group in the garden talking about a pop-up they went to. There is zero requirement to sleep with anyone.”

“Oh thank god,” Bette said, letting out the breath that had started to choke her. “Not that there’s anything wrong with—you know—”

“I know, I know. Your commitment to not kink-shaming is noted. I just hadn’t prepared you for a sex party. Absolutely fair enough. But I saw you watching Lukas and his boyfriend and I couldn’t resist.”

“Oh god, the guys with the tequila?” Bette guessed, horrified at the thought of what her face must have been doing. “They’re so beautiful. I mean, aesthetically, you know. From an entirely theoretical point of view.”

“Don’t worry, you’re not their type either,” Ruth assured her. “Though you do look particularly gorgeous tonight. I refuse to believe that you might not be a little bit their type. Shocked every time I remember monosexuality is a thing, to be honest.”

Bette flushed at the compliment. She had followed Ruth through to the kitchen and accepted the glass of wine she’d poured with a grateful “Thanks. You look lovely too.”

Ruth twirled on the spot, showing off, as if Bette hadn’t already admired every inch of the dress. “I know, right? Bought it a couple of years ago, it’s my official party dress. My looking hot and dancing dress.”

“Well, it’s really working,” Bette agreed.

She thought Ruth looked flushed too, for a moment, and then remembered the warmth of her face when they had hugged. Ruth had been dancing.

“Heather!” Ruth directed over Bette’s shoulder. Bette turned as a tall Black woman with closely cropped hair and dark-blue lipstick came into the kitchen.

“Heather,” she confirmed, air-kissing Bette once she was within reach. “You must be Bette.”

“It’s so nice to meet you. Your house is amazing.”

It really was. The kitchen was quieter than the other rooms she’d walked past, and slightly better lit. It was operating as a thoroughfare to the garden rather than a space people had claimed as a venue, and she could finally take in the decor rather than guests. It was a wide galley, bottles and plates cluttering most surfaces. But it was clearly well loved; walls the rich yellow of the fancy butter Ash bought sometimes, open shelves lined with jars and crockery, pots of herbs crowded along the windowsills that were somehow lush and thriving. There were framed pictures on the walls, covers of The New Yorker that had food on them. It all felt purposeful, deliberate. Not like a shared house at all.

“It’s pretty special, isn’t it?” Heather said, smiling warmly at Ruth. “She’s the visionary, the rest of us just added bits and pieces once we came in.”

Ruth smiled, clearly pleased, and busied herself with finding a bowl and emptying the bag of crisps Bette had brought into it.

“So. I’ve got a shit poker face. Can’t pretend I haven’t heard about your project,” Heather said, the air quotes hanging around the word “project” amused rather than judgmental.

“Yeah, it’s—” Bette began. “It’s been a real journey so far.”

“Any success yet?”

Bette chanced a glance at Ruth, who was munching on a crisp and looking out into the garden. She hadn’t told her about how the date with Charlie had ended up going. It was difficult to point to a reason, to label and identify it, but when they’d texted that week she hadn’t mentioned the bar. And Ruth hadn’t asked.

“Umm—yeah. I guess I have? I went out with a woman last weekend. She was really hot—it was really hot—sorry, she is really hot,” she corrected, and Heather laughed. “I assume she’s still hot now. It’s only been a week.”

“Name?”

“Oh. Charlie. Charlie…something. She’s quite tall, your height probably? Curly hair on top, leather jacket.”

“Oh I know Charlie.” Heather sounded impressed. “She’s been around forever. Very hot. Big top energy. Exceptionally good with her hands.”

The way she said it made Bette positive that Heather had been fucked by Charlie too. A thrill zipped through her at being able to have this conversation, like she’d been accepted into a club she hadn’t known was hers to join.

“Umm. Yep. Yep, that sounds like her,” Bette confirmed, her blush now surely sweeping all the way down her chest. “Very good with her hands.”

“That’s brilliant!” Ruth said brightly. “A success!”

“I mean, if she’s pulling Charlie, I’d say so,” Heather said. “That’s a pretty outstanding first time.”

“Oh, it wasn’t my first time,” Bette rushed out, aware that her voice had become slightly high-pitched. “Because of Mei. I slept with Mei. She’s my girlfriend. Sort of. I mean—it’s complicated.”

“Sorry babe, that wasn’t clear. I just meant your first odyssey hookup. That’s Charlie’s vibe. I mean, I’m sure it was a great fuck, but I bet you’ve not spoken since, right?”

Bette shook her head. They hadn’t. She had thought about messaging on Saturday, when she woke up, thought of sending a little note to say thanks for the orgasm. Or something. That she hoped it had been okay for Charlie too. But she’d already unmatched on the app.

“I might leave you two to it, now you’ve met,” said Ruth, two glasses of what looked like whisky now in her hands. “I’m going to deliver a drink to our birthday royalty.” She kissed Heather’s cheek as she passed and left them alone in the kitchen.

With Ruth gone, Bette squirmed under Heather’s gaze, aware of how intimidatingly stunning she was, of the way her eyes lingered over Bette’s body. It didn’t feel seedy or lascivious, more that she was considering her, trying to work something out. Bette couldn’t help standing up straighter.

“So what’s next then?”

She didn’t have to wonder what Heather meant.

“Well, I probably have to get back on the app, right? That’s the thing I kind of hate about this. It’s so much phone admin. But I feel good about last weekend. About Charlie. So I think—more?”

“Oh, the apps are the worst,” Heather said cheerfully. “But, yeah, that makes sense! Or I could introduce you to people here tonight you might hit it off with? I mean, you’re fit, and you seem great. I can’t imagine it’s going to be difficult.” She shrugged. “If I hadn’t promised Ruth I wouldn’t, I’d be hitting on you.”

Bette couldn’t believe the ease with which the compliments dropped from Heather’s lips. As though they were irrefutable fact.

“Well, if I hadn’t promised Ruth too, I’d absolutely be flirting back,” Bette replied. It was fun to flirt, to feel hot. To feel wanted.

“Okay, well, let’s head out before we go upstairs and shag against both our better judgments.”

Bette laughed, trying to hide how strangled it sounded, and followed her back out into the hall.

Natalia was heaven: hair long and dark, eyes an impossibly pale gray, silk skirt falling over rounded hips. She was a city planner, working on making Bristol’s public spaces more accessible. Her hands circled and gestured enthusiastically as she spoke, doing far more than half the work of communication. At Bette’s request she was speaking deliberately slowly in her native Italian, the wine and the warmth and the overlapping languages making Bette feel a little fuzzy around the edges. After one too many instances of asking her to repeat herself, Bette gave up.

“Okay, sorry, sorry, English now. I’m too drunk. My nonna would be ashamed but I can’t keep up.”

Natalia laughed, her head falling onto Bette’s shoulder. It was one in the morning now, but the party had yet to start thinning out. Bette and Natalia were crowded together in a wide armchair. It was not quite big enough to accommodate two women with hips that could be referred to as “childbearing,” but they were making the most of it. Unsure whether it was the wine or the chair or the night generally, Bette could feel every place where Natalia’s body was pressed against her own, as though she were sitting too close to a radiator.

They were going to fuck, she realized.

The night had been building toward it since Heather had been called off while showing Bette around. Bette had looked for Ruth, but she knew too that she didn’t want to be that friend, the one who needed babysitting. Ideally she’d fall easily into conversation with someone, be impossibly charming. Someone who would text Ruth on Monday and say Bette’s great, isn’t she?so that she couldn’t help but agree. Instead she had found herself standing in the middle of a room, far too eager for a group to join, like the last person picked for netball. It was excruciating. And then she had caught Natalia’s eye. They’d been squashed into the armchair ever since.

“I’m going to blame the wine too. I can’t remember whether we’ve done this yet, so let’s pretend we haven’t. How do you know Heather?” Natalia asked, not lifting her head from where it had found a place against Bette.

It was as though the sound of her name had conjured her. Heather was suddenly standing in the doorway to the front room, an approving cock to her eyebrow and twist to her lips. She winked, with a guileless lack of subtlety, and walked out again.

“Oh, I don’t, really. We met in the kitchen. Tonight. Like, a couple of hours ago.”

“Oh right! So you know Jody then?”

“I’ve still not managed to meet them yet, actually,” Bette said, looking around as if the whirlwind of blonde quiff and velvet that was Jody might materialize before them. Every time Bette had glimpsed sight of them they had been surrounded by a dedicated crew of well-wishers. “I really should make sure I say hi before I leave tonight though. No, I know Ruth. Not that well. We only met a month ago. But she’s great.”

“Ah, of course. Ruth is lovely.”

And then Bette heard it, the question underneath the questions. “We’re not dating,” she said quickly. “I mean, we went on a date once, but we’re friends. I’m not dating anyone right now.”

“Yeah?” Natalia asked, lifting her head from Bette’s shoulder, her mouth suddenly no more than an inch from Bette’s. “That’s great news.”

“Yeah,” Bette confirmed, though she wondered at the truth of it. The specific semantics and how they might play if picked at. It was true. She wasn’t dating anyone. Technically.

Maybe it was better not to think too much about it. Natalia bumped her nose against Bette’s cheek. They breathed in together, and then Natalia’s lips were against hers, tacky and overly sweet with a gloss Bette might have worn when she was sixteen. It was strange and synthetic. But beneath the gloss her lips were soft, and Natalia’s hand pressed onto Bette’s thigh. She reached for Natalia’s shoulder and traced her fingers along the skin, to the center of her back and down her spine. It felt good to be kissing her, easy and warm and, as Natalia moved her hand up Bette’s thigh, veering closer and closer to hot.

She was aware, though, that it was a kiss that was a question rather than a statement. It was infused with softness rather than sex. And Bette felt uncomfortably aware that she’d not told Natalia the whole truth. Thought about how pleased Natalia looked when Bette had said she wasn’t seeing anyone. Heather knew the plan. She wouldn’t have smiled approvingly if she didn’t think Natalia would be up for it? Surely? But Natalia was kissing her carefully, reverently, one hand now pressed into Bette’s jaw. This felt like the end of a date, not the start of a hookup. She was kissing her like she’d walked Bette to her front door.

Then Natalia’s fingers started to stroke gently over the thin skin behind Bette’s ear, and she melted. Natalia wanted what Bette wanted. A shiver ran up her back and the hand that was still on Natalia’s back pulled her closer still.

“I live pretty close by,” Bette whispered, kissing her again before continuing, “if you want to come back with me?”

Natalia hesitated for a moment before nodding against her lips, and so Bette stood, reaching a hand out to Natalia to help her up too. She was shorter than Bette, by at least a couple of inches, though the masses of dark hair piled on her head made her seem taller.

“Do you need to say goodbye to anyone?” Natalia asked, and Bette looked at her, at eyes that were glittering with anticipation.

“Absolutely not,” Bette said. “Irish goodbye, I think. No one will miss us.”

Natalia led her out into the hall and, just before they walked through the front door, Bette looked back. Ruth was sitting on the stairs, talking with a guy Bette hadn’t met, a guy with a clean-shaven jaw and lips that veered close to too full alongside his angular features. He was sort-of absurdly pretty, almost doll-like, and he was looking at Ruth with an expression that made Bette feel like she was intruding on something. But Ruth looked over and met Bette’s eye, her brows raising infinitesimally before her hand came up in an almost-wave.