Chapter Eighteen
Bette wasn’t quite sure, later, how she got home. She hadn’t returned to the office, had given Erin some vague excuse there was no way she believed. En route to lunch, blithely unaware of what awaited her, she had walked out with only her wallet, keys and phone, and so her backpack sat under her desk, awaiting her no longer imminent return. She trundled home in a daze.
When she finally stepped into the kitchen, Ash took one look at her face and wrapped her up in a hug so fierce that she could feel herself fighting for breath.
“Sofa?” she asked. “Tea?” she added, seeming to understand without instruction that full sentences might be too much. Somewhere among the sadness and the mortification and the sick feeling, Bette felt overwhelmed to be so known. She nodded.
There was something soft around her shoulders and a mug in her hands faster than she could fathom. It was too warm, really, to have both at once. But Bette was happy to be blanketed, to be covered and cosseted. Ash encouraged her to take a few sips, and then guided her gently until Bette’s head was pillowed by Ash’s thighs, until Ash’s hand was buried in Bette’s hair, until Bette’s arm was hooked around Ash’s knees.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Ash asked, her nails scraping gently on Bette’s scalp.
“I don’t—I just—” Bette started, the words stuck in her throat.
Ash waited, and Bette lost track of time as she tried to form sounds into words and words into sentences and sentences into some sort of explanation for what had happened.
“It’s Mei,” she managed.
“I thought that must be it,” Ash said. “Oh love, I’m so sorry. What happened?”
“She’s bringing someone else to Erin’s wedding. She has a girlfriend. Her name is Tamara. Erin and Niamh have had them to dinner. They’ve been together more than a month.”
“Fuck off,” Ash breathed, low and shocked.
“I know.”
“But—but—”
“All of that too.”
“I can’t believe this. That poisonous snake bitch,” Ash said through gritted teeth now. “Hold on, was she seeing her—”
“A week ago?” Bette knew exactly where this was going. “When she called and then I went to the hospital and pretended to her mum that we were still together and drove her to Cheltenham? Was she seeing her when she tried to kiss me in her parents’ hall? When she didn’t reply to my text checking in on her dad? When she didn’t call all week, which I assumed was about her family being around but was actually probably…this?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah,” confirmed Bette.
The hand that had been moving through Bette’s hair tightened as Ash took a shaky breath.
“Ash,” Bette said, squirming to get away from her nails. “Ouch.”
“Shit, sorry.”
They fell into a silence. Bette felt sick and out of control, like she was approaching the first plummet of a roller coaster, full of regret and dreading what was next. She was trapped; there was no way to avoid the fall. She focused on trying to breathe, which had ceased being purely instinctual when Erin had said Tamara’s name. She could hear Adriene, the YouTube yoga woman, telling her to take the deepest breath you’ve taken all day and she tried it, over and over, until her head felt cleaned out. Empty.
“It’s only three o’clock,” Bette realized.
“Inset day,” Ash said, by way of explanation, sounding miles away.
“Thank god,” Bette said, with deep sincerity.
It was a sign of how bad Ash thought things were that she found the first series of the American Married at First Sight and cued it up. Ash hated reality dating programs, no matter how many different ones Bette tried to get her into. But she moved only to refill their mugs, not complaining about the unreality of the format, or the participants who only wanted to boost their Instagram following so they could shill beauty products. She didn’t even look up the couples online, to prove that they hadn’t lasted after filming. They simply stayed on the sofa, Bette’s head on Ash’s thigh, as afternoon became evening, and then night.
“I texted Ruth,” Ash said, voice gentle, hours after either of them had last spoken. “She’s bringing ice cream when she gets home.”
“What the fuck?” Bette said, sitting up with a start, rubbing at her eyes. “Why would you text Ruth?”
“Honestly? Because you need to eat something, and I thought I could probably convince you to have ice cream, but I didn’t want to leave you alone and Tim’s working late tonight and then I remembered Ruth lives near the stoner Tesco and took a punt she might be around.” There was a Tesco down the hill from them that sold a range of Ben and Jerry’s that Bette had never seen rivaled by any other supermarket in the country. It was open late.
“Since when do you have Ruth’s number?” Bette asked.
“Since she cooked the mussels, obviously,” Ash replied. “I text her every now and then. Mostly for recipe advice. That’s all right, isn’t it?”
Bette wanted to say no. Wanted to say that Ruth was her friend. But it was impossible not to feel warmed by the idea of them conspiring together to look after her.
“It’s not—of course it’s okay. I just…I don’t want Ruth seeing me like this,” Bette said. Ash looked at her for a moment.
“Sorry,” she replied, truly sounding it. “I didn’t think you’d mind. You’ve been spending so much time together, so I assumed it wasn’t going to be a big thing.”
“I know we’ve been hanging out,” Bette replied, head in her hands. “But it’s—it’s not—ugh I don’t even know. Fine. Thank you. In advance, for the ice cream. Do I look okay?”
Ash considered for a moment.
“Do you want the truth or do you want something gentle and reassuring?”
“Gentle and reassuring. Obviously. I’m not nearly stable enough for truth.”
“You’re the most beautiful person I know, Bette,” Ash said, her voice entirely genuine. “And I love you.”
Bette was silent for a moment.
“Truth?”
“You look horrendous. You’re a horrible crier. One of the worst I’ve ever seen. I’m running a flannel under cold water for you. Maybe your eyes will calm down.”
She dumped Marge into Bette’s lap and ran down the hall to the bathroom. Marge hovered, rather than committing to comfort or risking ridicule by making it clear she wanted to be petted. But Bette ran a firm palm down her throat anyway, over and over, until Marge was pushing back into Bette’s hand, purring. As Ash arrived with a flannel and passed it to Bette, Marge jumped down, embarrassed to have been caught seeking affection. She stalked off.
“Better?” Bette asked, her face scrubbed, handing the flannel back to Ash.
Ash grimaced. “Not—I mean—no. No, definitely worse. Your mascara is now everywhere too. And you look sort of scrubbed raw. Shit. Sorry. But look, it’s fine! Ruth’s just coming to drop off ice cream and then she can go home. It’s fine. You don’t have to see her.”
“We can’t make her walk up the hill with ice cream and then kick her out once she’s here!”
“I mean, I’m very much of the opinion that you’re calling all the shots today,” Ash said. “Whatever you need. If you want her to just go home, then we can send her home, we can eat the ice cream and we can go to bed.”
“No. No, she should come in. It’ll be fine.” And it would be, surely. Ruth would come, she’d give her the ice cream and a spoon, she’d commiserate and then she’d leave. It didn’t matter that Bette’s eyes were puffy or her makeup was all over her face or that she’d slipped out of her jeans at some point in the late afternoon and that beneath the blanket was in pants and her top from work. It was only Ruth.
The show reached its inevitable finale, and the interviews happened. A couple of the couples committed to making it work, were more in love than anyone ever had been, apparently, and Bette vaguely considered stalking them on Instagram. Just to see how they had fared, to see how they felt about their “soulmate” and “best friend” after the cameras had left. But it was a task for another time, not for this tender, bruised horror of a day.
Without the reassurance of the next episode, Bette felt at a loss, already anxious and determined to fill the room with noise. Her head was back on Ash’s thigh, but the silence seemed to suggest that she should sit up, figure out what was next. And next was probably a conversation about Mei. And she didn’t want that. She was about to suggest they put Parks on, one of the good Ben Wyatt–rich episodes in the third season, when Ash pulled the laptop toward them and balanced it on Bette’s head, where it still rested in her lap. When she put it back down there was an hour-long Scott Moir and Tessa Virtue ice-dancing compilation starting and Bette felt herself tearing up.
“This is perfect,” she said, her voice choked up. Ash’s hand tightened in her hair.
“I know,” she said gently. “Loser.”
They stayed like that until the end of the video, Ash’s hand comforting against her head. And when it was over, she felt like it was probably time to sit up. She pushed herself up off Ash’s thigh and stretched out her back. It felt as though she was one of those spring-loaded snakes, her spine contorted and compressed. She was sitting, but she wasn’t quite ready to move on from the ice-dancing.
Bette found a video of her favorite performance, from 2018, and put it on. She sat back on the sofa, cross-legged, and fiddled with the blanket over her lap. And then when the video was over she dragged the timing bar back to the beginning and started all over again. Ash tutted but indulged her, picking up their mugs and heading, inevitably, in the direction of the kitchen to refill them. Left alone, Bette let the video play again, tears dripping silently down her cheeks.
A knock at the door shook her out of her stupor, and she paused the video and wiped her face with the blanket. But gathering herself to stand up made her realize just how desperate she was for the loo. She dashed down the hall to the bathroom as Ash squeezed past to let Ruth in.
Once behind the closed door, she risked a glance at herself in the mirror. Ash hadn’t been exaggerating. She looked awful. She splashed clean water on her face, which was supposed to help. Her mother always told her to splash cold water on her face when she was upset. Or tired. Or anxious. Or when her throat was sore before school. Or when she’d hit her elbow. It was her foolproof cure for everything.
Bette blinked through the drips falling from her eyelashes and buried her face in a clean towel from the shelf. Mei might have been a liar, a manipulative arsehole. But at least, thanks to her influence, they always had the shelf of fresh towels in the bathroom now. Bette slipped into her room and pulled a pair of pajama bottoms on.
Ash’s and Ruth’s voices were muffled from the front room, and Bette felt uncomfortable about how long she’d been gone. Determined not to be pitied, she walked in with a smile plastered on, stretched over her teeth.
“That’s such a gorgeous fake smile,” Ruth said, by way of greeting. “Hope it’s not on my account. I was promised despair in exchange for the ice cream.”
“Don’t worry, I can get back to despair pretty quickly,” Bette assured her, aware of how crackly and strange her voice sounded.
“Glad to hear it,” Ruth said, but her tone was kind. She was curled up on the sofa, and Marge had taken up residence on her lap.
“I know,” Ash said, following Bette’s eyeline. “Cat whisperer.”
There wasn’t really space for three polite friends on the sofa, and the two armchairs they rarely used weren’t where she wanted to be. Ash, of course, saw the whole situation in moments and pushed herself up.
“Really early morning for me,” she said. “I’m going to take my leave of the emotional invalid and hand things over. You two will be okay?”
“Course!” Ruth said.
“Yeah, thanks Ash,” Bette agreed. “Thanks for this afternoon.”
She leaned over and pressed the space bar, and the final thirty seconds of the video played out. With a glance back at the sofa, and a quiet laugh, Ash waved them both good night.
“I love you,” Bette called out, and she heard Ash shout it back. The video came to an end and she clicked back on the beginning, starting it all over again. Scott Moir raised his eyebrow and the Moulin Rouge music started playing, all curtains and pantomimes. And then they were off.
“How many times have you watched this video?”
It hadn’t really occurred to Bette that Ruth might find it weird that she was sitting, wrapped in a blanket, watching a video from the PyeongChang Winter Olympics on a loop. She realized, briefly, that this was perhaps something to be defensive about. Or to lie about. But she had been stripped raw by the day, all defenses worn down.
“Today? Or ever? Either way, I don’t really know. I’ve lost count. A lot. Look at them. They’re perfect. They’re so in love.”
She could feel Ruth’s eyes on her, and Bette wanted to direct her back to the screen, didn’t want her to miss a single bit, wanted her to understand.
“Bette, surely they’re…colleagues? Teammates? Friends, maybe? I guess?” Ruth pulled her phone out, evidently invested in having an answer to offer. A moment later, she held it out toward Bette. “Look, they’re both in relationships with other people, see? This is ice-skating, it’s not real life. They’re acting!”
Ice-dancing, Bette’s brain grumbled. And anyway, she wasn’t interested in evidence, in harsh and horrible reality. She felt something settle in her throat. Mortified, she talked around it, sure she could control it if she could only get her thoughts out.
“Of course I know that. But look at her flip up and sit on his face!” she said, and heard Ruth choke back a surprised laugh. “Look at him catch her! Imagine being able to trust someone like that!”
There was a long silence, and Bette turned to find Ruth still looking at her, her head cocked to the side in contemplation, her face serious and considering. But when she finally spoke it was with barely held back laughter.
“I am genuinely concerned that you’ve gone a bit mad here. What’s really going on?”
“This is really going on!” Bette shouted, far too loud so late on a weeknight. The lump in her throat was back and she was going to choke on it. “What if I never have this?”
Bette looked down at her hands, twisting in her lap, and heard Ruth take a deep breath.
“Look, I don’t want to be a dick. But Bette. You are never going to have this.” Bette opened her mouth in indignation, but Ruth reached out and covered Bette’s clasped hands with her own. “This isn’t aspirational relationship stuff. It’s a performance. They’re acting. Also, these people have been doing nothing but skate together since they were kids. They’ve won gold medals doing this. I think your gold medal chances are, well—look, I’m going to say it: they’re slim. You are absolutely never going to have this. No one else has this. Literally only they have this.”
It was impossible to argue with Ruth’s logic, and Bette was furious. The fury swelled, bubbling and coursing through her, until it finally burst out in the only way it could—a half laugh, half sob that she couldn’t quite get control of. Ruth reached over and put an arm round her, pulling Bette into her side.
“You’re such a sap,” she said, affection written so clearly in her voice that Bette was certain she must be imagining it. Sure enough, when she looked up at Ruth, her face held mostly exasperation. Eventually “Come What May” came to an end, and the American commentator sounded overwhelmed and talked about how lucky they all were to have seen this partnership, and Bette leaned over to start the video again.
Ruth reached over and closed the laptop, almost trapping Bette’s hand inside.
“No! But…”
“I’m cutting you off. That’s plenty for one night. No more getting sad over ice-skating. It’s depressing and I refuse to watch you doing it to yourself. Pick something else to watch. I’m getting the ice cream.”
“Ice-dancing,” Bette muttered under her breath.
“Whatever,” Ruth threw over her shoulder, as she left the room.
It was ridiculous, Bette thought, as she listened to Ruth’s careful footsteps down the hall, to get choked up about the idea of someone making fun of her YouTube habit and scooping ice cream into bowls. But, to her credit, it had been a really emotional day.