Experienced

Chapter Thirteen

You should come to football with me,” Ash said. They were in the kitchen, a pot of coffee brewing on the counter while they worked their way through bowls of cereal. Bette was up unusually early, but it had been bright, and Ash had been loud, taking out her frustration at having to go to work on a Saturday by letting every door in their flat slam as she walked through it. “I think you might enjoy it.”

Ash had joined a ladies’ team the winter before, rediscovering her old love for it, like falling for a childhood sweetheart all over again. Things had been quiet over the summer, but autumn was coming now and the season was starting up again.

“I thought we’d agreed that my athletic skills are exclusively aquatic?”

“Not to join the team. I want us to keep winning,” Ash said, clearly horrified at the thought. “No, because there are so many gays on the team. Might be fun?”

“Oh!” Bette replied. It hadn’t even occurred to her. It should have, but the last season had been pre-Mei, and back then she’d been so intimidated by the idea of spending time with them all. Ash would come home with stories of her teammates, of their fun girlfriends, of a whole big group of women with their shit together. It had felt unfathomable to consider that Bette, mere months into figuring out how she felt about women, might get there too. Might find that confidence.

“Wouldn’t it be weird for you? If I slept with one of your teammates?”

There was a long pause.

“Funnily enough, I wasn’t actually thinking about you sleeping with any of them,” Ash said, the sentence leaving her with the energy of a protracted sigh. “Just thought it might be nice for you to meet some new people.”

Bette cringed. Tunnel vision. It was probably good to meet new people regardless, outside the project of it all. Because people were good, and interesting, and fun. Not because they were prospective shags. Fuck.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, Ash,” said Bette, sincerely and seriously.

“Not a big deal,” Ash said. “Just—this does seem to be taking over your life a bit. Like, it doesn’t have to be a thing that that’s where your mind immediately went. But—maybe—I don’t know, there’s something…”

Bette nodded into her bran flakes and banana.

“Do you want to finish that thought?” she asked, uncomfortable and embarrassed and determined to take Ash down with her.

“Not really,” Ash replied, standing up with her bowl. She brought the coffee pot back to the table and focused on pouring out two mugs. “Just—no, you know what? I really don’t.”

Bette took a coffee and they both drank in silence. Ash was quick to finish; she drank as though desperate to escape.

“Well, it sounds like it could be fun.”

“Sure,” Ash said, noncommittally. “It is. It’s the start-of-season party Thursday. If you want to come.”

Bette nodded and pulled her phone out, ostensibly to check the date. But the air between them felt stilted and strange. Bette wouldn’t go to the party. She knew she wouldn’t. She went to Jody’s party because there was the promise of being introduced to someone fun. But parties full of new people didn’t tend to be her favorite places to be.

“Bleurgh,” Ash said, “look, can we just imagine that neither of us said anything? Just—a reset? Or something? I have to leave now and I don’t have time for us to get into it. But I’m sorry I made things weird.”

“I made it weird first!” Bette said, loving Ash so much she could barely stand it. “I’m sorry, I really am, it’s just—it’s just been a lot lately.”

“Okay, well, let’s just ignore any weirdness and pretend I was already gone when you got up this morning and just—shit,” she said, looking at her watch. “I really do need to go. This meeting starts in half an hour. They’ll murder me if I’m late. Okay. I’ll be home with ingredients by midday. They promised we could all be gone by eleven.”

Bette nodded and waved at her as she hurried off, a mouth full of the last of her cereal. After a beat, Bette pushed her chair back so that it scraped along the floor and ran out after her. Close to the door, she pulled Ash into a hug and squeezed her hard.

“Love you,” Ash said into her shoulder.

“You too,” Bette replied. “See you for lunch. Can I do anything?”

“Make the table nice? Put that wine we bought in the fridge? But it’s all fine otherwise. They’re not coming until two. I’m looking forward to getting out of school as soon as I can and coming home to cook.”

They should have known, in hindsight. Any time Ash assumed that things at school would run on time had ended in tears. And this, a Saturday morning of meetings to start the term that the teaching staff had fought against and lost, was bound to overrun. Sure enough, at half-ten Bette’s phone vibrated relentlessly on the kitchen table. By the time her tea had brewed and she picked it up, Ash’s messages filled the entire screen.

Ash:Bette there is literally no way I’m going to be done in time

Ash:I hate this day

Ash:Carmen is going to meet us here when we’re done and she and Anton will come straight back with me

Ash:Tim too

Ash:But that probably won’t be until two

Ash:I know I said I don’t need your help but now I need your help

Ash:If I send you the recipe could you shop for me and get things started?

Ash:It’s not a difficult recipe

Ash:But I hate asking

Ash:This was supposed to be on me

Ash:I know it’s not your ideal Saturday

Bette picked up her phone and laughed at the escalating panic on display.

Bette:sorry

Bette:was making tea

Bette:just joining the meltdown now

Bette:course I can cook, I’m not completely useless

Bette:just send the recipe

Ash:You’re a lifesaver and I love you and I’m naming my firstborn after you

Bette:obviously

Circling the supermarket in frustration, Bette pulled her phone out of her pocket. Ash was busy, and Bette didn’t really want to bother her anyway. What she wanted to do was have a bit of a bitch.

Bette:been to three shops now and no one has clams

The reply was almost immediate.

Ruth:Why on earth are you shopping for clams?

Bette:it’s Ash’s plan but she’s still at school

Bette:we’re having people to lunch

Bette:there are going to be five of us

Bette:I don’t really cook for five very often

Bette:it’s supposed to be easy

Bette:but I have been looking for clams for an hour now and I am more and more certain they don’t exist in Bristol

Bette:or in the sea

Bette:like, at all

Bette:they’re a hoax

Ruth:Send it to me

Bette:??

Ruth:The recipe

Bette felt a prickly little rush of embarrassment. It was one thing to play up the frustration, to make Ruth laugh and sympathize and tell her it was going to be fine. But sending the recipe felt a lot like being useless. Like asking for help. But it wasn’t as though Ruth was leaving her with an alternative. She pressed forward on Ash’s recipe and then pushed the phone into the back pocket of her jeans, ignoring the buzz of reply as she looped around the biscuit aisle in mild despair. Once she had three chocolate-covered varieties in her basket, she felt strong enough to look.

Ruth:Yeah, you need clams for that.

Bette:great this has been really helpful

Ruth:You could make something else? You’re still in the supermarket, right? What looks good? Surely Ash will be fine with anything you want to make?

Of course Ash would be fine with that. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was that she had said she was on top of it, that she had things in hand.

Bette:of course she would

Bette:it’s not a big thing

Bette:I just like having a recipe

Bette:don’t worry, I’ll figure something out! I’ll do some googling!

The exclamation points saved it, Bette thought. The exclamation points were Monica Geller’s “breezy.” Only…effective.

Ruth:Send me a picture of the fish counter.

Or perhaps not so effective.

Bette:??

Ruth:Fish counter. Come on.

Bette walked back over, pointed her phone at the fish, and made uncomfortable and apologetic eye contact with the guy behind the counter as she snapped a couple of blurry pictures. She sent the best one. Ruth is typing…appeared and then hovered over their conversation for what felt like an age.

Ruth:Right. Buy three sacks of those mussels, a 300ml pot of single cream, a bag of tarragon from the herb section in the fruit and veg, three little shallots (or a brown onion if you can’t find any), and a jar of grainy French mustard. I’ll bring wine and bread.

Bette wanted to be annoyed by the suggestion she wouldn’t know where tarragon could be found. But she didn’t, so it was an irritatingly helpful text. And in addition to the tarragon information, it included an implication that she wouldn’t be alone.

Bette:…what

Ruth:I’m coming round to help

Bette:you’re coming round to help?

Ruth is typing…appeared again, and flashed in and out. Over and over. A woman tutted loudly behind her, and Bette apologized and pushed herself and her trolley up against the cheese section.

Ruth:I live round the corner. You’re spiraling. I’ve got most of a bottle of white we can cook with and I can get to Harts before I come. Mussels and crusty bread. It’s a breeze. And if Ash likes clams, you’re probably safe with mussels too.

Bette:okay

Ruth:Buy the mussels. Hurry up. See you in 30.

Bette:okay

Bette generally responded well to direction. But the rush of relief at being told exactly what she needed to do was surprisingly overwhelming. It was hot. Why was it hot? Ruth was a friend, coming round to help her. It was important not to make things weird. She and Ruth were friends, and Bette didn’t only think about sex. Plus, Ruth was seeing Gabe.

It was a little weird when Ruth arrived, she decided. Weird in the sense that Ruth walked in with a bottle of wine under one arm and two baguettes poking out of a tote bag, and looked so capable that Bette instantly wanted to cry or hug her or something; an impulse she couldn’t really identify. Weird in the sense that it felt immediately as though she’d always been in Bette and Ash’s kitchen, as though there existed a place in it that was carved out for her.

Weird in the sense that it wasn’t weird. At all.

They stood shoulder to shoulder at the sink and Ruth showed her how to pull the gross stringy bits from the mussels. The beards need a good tug. Be confident, come on. They scrubbed the shells and Bette chipped her orange nail polish and hoped they wouldn’t end up eating it. Ruth asked for the biggest pot they had and it wasn’t big enough, so they decided to use two. And then Ash walked in with Tim and Anton and Carmen and the kitchen was suddenly filled with so many of her favorite people, all of whom she was cooking for. Technically. She was, at the very least, helping. It felt good.

Carmen, always infinitely softer than her tall, brittle frame suggested, wrapped herself around Bette’s back and scattered kisses on the top of her head. She smelled as she always did, like bright, citrusy perfume; the expensive kind that lingered all day in the way that Bette’s never managed to. Bette turned to see Anton (his scruffy Saturday beard growth flecked with a gray he pretended not to be pleased with) open the fridge, find a jar of olives, and pull them out with his fingers. Ash rolled her eyes and handed him a fork. They looked exhausted, Ash and Anton both, and Bette wanted to pour them wine and sit them down. But it was good having everyone in the kitchen together.

“You’re amazing,” Ash said, peering over Bette’s shoulder and into the seafood-filled sink. “I love mussels. This is perfect. Honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever loved anyone quite as much as I love you in this moment.”

“Me neither,” Tim called out from across the kitchen. His hand was buried in a share bag of crisps and he looked weighed down, as if he’d taken some of whatever had happened from Ash’s shoulders and was now struggling beneath it.

“Well, it’s actually…” Bette started, and then Ruth interrupted.

“Sorry, I’ve sort of crashed things! I’m Ruth,” she said, and Bette realized the problem with feeling like someone belonged in your kitchen and in your home: you forgot to introduce them. “This was all Bette, but it was sort of a two-person job, so I dropped in for a bit. It’s so nice to meet you all!”

“You’ll stay, right? For lunch? Bette?” Ash said, her eyebrows raised.

“Yes?” Bette said, looking over at Ruth, who shrugged and nodded, looking pleased.

“I’ve got plans tonight, and I’ll need to be picked up at six. But I could give this address, if that works? I’d love to stay.”

“Of course!” Ash said. “So pleased to have you.”

And then once Ash had poured everyone a glass of wine and Tim had found a second bag of crisps, she shooed everyone into the front room and they left Bette and Ruth to get on with things. Ash squeezed Bette’s elbow as she walked past, and Bette felt immeasurably pleased that she had sent the message in the supermarket. That she had said yes to Ruth’s offer of help. That she had found a way to be here in their kitchen keeping things together while Ash drank wine and took a breath and was looked after.

“Okay, so give me the headlines,” Ruth said, once they were alone, sipping from her glass.

“Headlines?”

“Tell me about Anton and—Carmen, was it? I think I can get away with the Ash and Tim knowledge I have, but give me something about the others.”

It was the thing she liked most about Ruth, she realized. How thoughtful she was, the effort she put into every single interaction.

“So, Anton works at the school with Ash. He’s the Year Five teacher. They both started at the school at about the same time, so he’s been a friend of ours for years. He started dating Carmen maybe a year ago? I think? She’s a playwright. I think she’s got something happening at the Old Vic at the moment, but don’t quote me on that.”

“Year Five, dating a year, playwriting,” she nodded. “I can work with that.”

“Anton also has a secret aspiration to leave teaching so he can be one of those Formula One tire-changing guys. And Carmen has lived in nine different countries because her mum’s a diplomat, so she’s got amazing stories.”

“Now they’re the headlines I really wanted. Perfect.” She clinked her glass against Bette’s. “Okay, should we finish up?”

Ruth helped her fry the sliced shallots in butter and they divided the mussels and wine between the two pots.

It all smelled fantastic. And when Ruth nudged Bette to pull the lid off a couple of minutes later it all looked fantastic too, the mussels plump and vivid, their black shells glistening. They poured over the cream and sprinkled in the chopped tarragon and then Ruth added more spoonfuls of the mustard than Bette would have dared to. She looked so good cooking, so competent and comfortable, her hair tied up out of the way on top of her head, and Bette thought about Gabe, wondered if he had seen Ruth like this. They stirred the whole lot with the big soup ladle and carried both pots straight to the table.

It all kept feeling weirdly comfortable once they sat down, as if they’d done it a thousand times. As if Ruth fitted in easily with them, not complaining that she had somehow ended up straddling an awkwardly placed swinging table leg, refusing to switch with Bette. Ruth caught Tim’s eye and topped up his glass, and asked Carmen about her latest play, and Anton about his Year Fives. She complimented Ash’s earrings and they ended up violently defending vintage jewelry that irritated their skin because they were both idiots.

It made her think, entirely without meaning to, of Mei being at the dining table, that first time they’d had dinner with Ash and Tim. They’d been dating only a couple of weeks, and Ash basically demanded she come round for dinner to be approved of. It had been lovely; Tim and Mei had hit it off, and Mei had brought a cake that she had made herself that completely won Ash over. Late in the evening, after dessert, Ash had shot Bette a look as they cleared the table that said follow me. When they made it into the kitchen she mouthed marry her marry her, and Bette had blushed so pink that Mei had noticed when she sat back down at the table. God. Fuck. She missed her.

“So how did you two meet?” Tim asked. The grin that threatened at the corner of his mouth told Bette that Ash had obviously already filled him in. They’d all been to the pub, a few weeks earlier, and Bette had broken the “break” news to Carmen and Anton. She’d shied away from details, and they’d not pushed. But now, with Tim very definitely pushing, Carmen looked interested and leaned forward eagerly, her glasses slipping down her nose. With a gentle nudge she shushed Anton, who sounded like he was hovering around the same school-focused rant that he and Ash went on every time they all sat down together. Ruth turned to Bette and sat back, and she recognized the passing of the story baton, the expectation falling on her to explain it. She’d not previously considered how to put it.

“As one of the architects of my profile, Tim, you should know that Ruth was one of its first—how would we put it?” She turned toward Ruth, who shrugged. “Appreciators, I guess? Anyway, we went out, and then an hour or so in she came for my entire life, and we decided we were probably going to be friends instead.”

Everyone laughed, and Ruth bumped her shoulder reassuringly against Bette’s.

“To be fair,” Ruth said, “you were going about finding some no-strings-attached sex in—well, not the way I’d do it. So I helped you rethink it. And now look at you! The girls are lining up!”

“They’re not lining up,” Bette said, feeling the blush bloom on her throat, even closer to the surface than normal after the wine in the kitchen. “Don’t listen to her. I’ve had a couple of dates.”

“So Project Shag for Mei is going swimmingly?” Anton asked, and Ash sent a furious expression in his direction. He looked indignant. “What? That’s what you’ve been calling it! It’s been a hit, Bette? Right?”

Bette’s stomach flipped over, her skin prickling uncomfortably. She wanted to feel fun and flippant about it, to laugh with them all, to be casual and easy. But that pang of Mei-lessness, of imagining her at the table, was vivid, and all of a sudden none of it seemed especially funny.

“Fine, yeah,” she said.

“Oh come on,” Ash said, warm and keen as she topped up glasses. “It’s a bit better than fine! You’re in demand! Tell them about Charlie, Bette.”

“I just—sorry—” Bette said. She realized, suddenly, what the problem was. Talking about it like this made it feel like a game. It was one thing to have had a laugh making the profile with Ash and Tim, to finally listen to Evie’s agonizingly long voice note and send Ruth a mock-serious review of it. Sitting around the table, with all her happily partnered-up friends, it felt distinctly more exposing. Like she was an oddity, her life a thing to be considered and discussed. She thought of sex against the wall and Charlie’s hand, of Natalia on top of her on the sofa, of faking it with Evie, of Ruth’s face at the restaurant. Of all the swiping and the shit conversations with women who barely warranted a mention.

She didn’t want her romantic life pulled apart and analyzed like some sporting…thing. All she really wanted was to have Mei back beside her. That was the point of the whole gambit, and it was also decidedly not the bit that anyone wanted to hear. “Sorry. It’s not—I feel kind of weird talking about it.”

“Shit,” Carmen said. “We’re horrible little gossip gremlins. I know we shouldn’t push. We’re just boring and living vicariously.”

“Boring?!” Anton said, mock outraged. “Piss off! I am fascinating. Or I can make things less boring for you. See how you fancy the single life again?”

“Oh, I absolutely dare you,” Carmen laughed, reaching forward to dip the end of her bread into the pot.

“Yeah, mate, I’m not sure you want to see how that would end,” Tim said.

Ash, her expression apologetic, steered the conversation back to school. Bette exhaled in relief. Under the table, Ruth reached over and squeezed her arm, and Bette felt her heart jump into her throat.

It was easier after that. There were other things to say, things that had nothing to do with Bette’s romantic life. It had been a big week; a good one in terms of providing endless topics for discussion. Parliament was a mess. There was a TV show Carmen was watching that Ruth had opinions about. Anton and Carmen had been to Ireland, and were brimming with anecdotes and recommendations for pubs to visit and long walks to do. Ruth pulled out her phone to make notes and Bette couldn’t help thinking about Gabe, about the fact that it was probably him that Ruth would go to Ireland with, and felt suddenly resentful that she and Mei had never gone anywhere together. Tim and Anton were planning a weeklong hike in Yorkshire during the next school break and, as they often ended up doing when they were together, talked for an inconceivably long time about tents and boots. Bette wondered, only half listening as everyone else asked interested questions about the route, how she’d ended up with so many friends who walked. Not to get somewhere, not to look at a nice bit of green and then sit down and have a pint, but walking for the sake of it, as though it were fun in its own right.

In the early evening, when the mussel shells were cleared away and the last bottle of wine was open, Bette considered whether she could convince Ruth to stay and watch a film. It would be great to offer her a reason to stay around.

And then the doorbell rang, and Bette remembered. Ruth had plans.

“Oh, that’ll be Gabe! He’s early,” Ruth said, and Bette felt a combination of indignation and nervous anticipation. Gabe was here, with no time for her to prepare, and she was going to have to play charming host.

“Do you want to get him, Bette?” Ash suggested. “Bring him through for a glass of wine?”

“Oh, no,” Ruth said, her tote bag already on her shoulder. “He’s just collecting me and we’re off! I wouldn’t have invited him round without asking.”

“Come on, we’d love to meet him,” Ash said, looking at Bette expectantly. “Wouldn’t we, Bette?”

“Of course we would,” Bette replied, finding her voice somewhere in the back of her throat. “Of course. I’ll just—I’ll go get him.”

Gabe was waiting on the doorstep, his white T-shirt tucked into his jeans, his dark hair curling around his ears, his face somehow slightly less beautiful and much more compellingly human than she’d remembered. He wasn’t a doll at all. He was an attractive, spicy-cologne-scented, annoyingly friendly-looking man. He put a hand out for Bette to shake.

“You must be Bette? You’re just as she described you. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said, his accent unplacable, his words warm and deliberate.

“And you,” Bette replied, though Ruth hadn’t described him at all. “I mean, she’s talked a lot about you, and it’s a real pleasure to meet you. Do you want to come in for some wine? Ruth’s inside. I know you have plans so you don’t feel like you have to—”

“Thank you. I’d love to meet some of Ruth’s friends, of course,” Gabe said, stepping up and through the door. She pointed ahead of him down the hallway and heard the cry of welcome as he found the front room. She paused in the hallway for a second, staring hopelessly at her own reflection in the mirror. He seemed like a demonstrably good guy. There was no reason for her stomach to be twisting uncomfortably. None at all.

Back in the front room, Gabe had taken her seat beside Ruth, and Ash was midway through introducing him to everyone. He caught Bette’s eye as she walked back in and stood up from the chair. It was somehow worse than if he’d just stayed put, hadn’t realized that she was now without anywhere to sit.

“Sorry, Bette, I realize I’ve—” he started, but Bette cut him off.

“It’s fine! You stay there, I’ll sit on the sofa for a bit,” she said, gesturing at him to sit down again. And he did, so she perched on the edge of the sofa, feeling entirely out of things, as though she were watching the conversation at the table on a television. The sofa was too soft to sit up properly on and Bette felt herself curve over, felt her knees too high and her arse too low and her mussel-and-bread-and-wine-filled stomach too squashed up. It was so horribly and oddly lonely that it made her chest ache. Or maybe that was the wine. Gabe and Ruth would head off soon, and she’d be back in among everyone.

“Ruth mentioned you’re a journalist?” Ash was saying, as she passed Tim’s unused water glass to Gabe, and tipped a couple of fingers of wine into it.

“I am,” Gabe nodded, with a gesture of thanks. “Though it’s becoming increasingly difficult to make a living from it. Sometimes feel like ‘journalist’ isn’t quite as true as ‘journalist-photographer-events-and-wedding-waiter.’?”

“All the good people are hyphenates,” Carmen said. “Playwright-usher-language-tutor-occasional-gardener here. My CV’s a total mess.”

“What’s your plan tonight then?” Anton asked them, and Gabe looked at Ruth with a smile.

“We’re going to the drive-in,” he said. “They’re showing Jaws.”

Who was this guy? Roller disco and the drive-in and a white T-shirt and jeans and dark curls like he might break out into a rendition of “Greased Lightning” at any moment.

“And if we’re going to pick food up on the way…” Ruth started, her tote bag back on her shoulder.

“Already sorted,” Gabe replied, and Bette felt an odd flash of triumph, at having no doubt in her mind that Ruth would have preferred to be involved in the snack curation. She had a lot of opinions about food. Opinions that Gabe should probably listen to.

“Well, have a great time,” Bette said, standing up, and everyone at the table looked over, as though they’d forgotten she was there. “I’ll show you out?”

It took a moment for Gabe to shake everyone’s hand again, for Ruth to give Ash a hug and a thank-you, for Bette to shepherd them back into the hall.

Bette stood back to let them pass, and Ruth kissed her on the cheek as she did. It wasn’t the sort of air-kissing Bette was used to: two cheeks touching briefly and a demonstrative “mwah” in her ear. It also wasn’t the loud smack of lips on the meat of her cheek that Ash would land on her most days, at some point or other. This was pure warmth, the press of Ruth’s soft lips close to her mouth, a gust of breath hitting Bette’s jaw as Ruth pulled away.

“Thanks for today,” she said to Bette, and she turned back as she reached the tiny iron gate. “I had so much fun. Your friends are lovely.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” Bette said, realizing how sincerely she meant it. Ruth grinned and pressed a hand to her chest over her heart.

Bette waved, feeling oddly bereft, and then watched them leave together down the street, shoulders brushing up against one another.

“They’re such a great couple,” Carmen was saying when Bette returned to the front room.

“It’s casual,” Bette replied automatically, feeling oddly weighed down, dropping heavily back into her chair. “They’re not technically a couple.”

There was a pause.

“Sure,” Ash said, her tone curious. It was a curiosity that should have stopped Bette continuing, but her mouth didn’t get the message in time.

“I mean, yeah. He seems great. It’s just that Ruth’s been really clear about wanting to take it slow with him. So she probably wouldn’t want you all thinking they’re a couple. You know? They’re just dating, casually.”

She cringed, regretting having started, biting the inside of her cheek to try and stop the steady stream of words coming from her mouth. The semantics were irrelevant. She didn’t need to be making some big deal out of this.

“Sure,” Ash repeated, with a significance Bette couldn’t bear to think about. Maybe that was the feeling from the hall; all of a sudden Ruth was one more friend who had a default person to spend Saturday night with. Everyone she knew had a someone again, a big capital-S Someone. Ruth might not want to be serious yet, but that’s the direction it was heading. At some point soon, Gabe would want to be serious with Ruth. Anyone would. And so of course Bette couldn’t help feeling a bit miserable, a bit left behind. She only wished that she’d managed to conceal it better. She couldn’t stand the pity written on everyone’s face.

“Anyway,” Ash said, clearly keen to take the conversation in a different direction, to save Bette from herself. “More wine? Game of cards? Or do you two have plans?”

Anton shook his head, Ash left in the direction of the kitchen in pursuit of another bottle, and Bette took a long drink from her glass.