Experienced

Chapter Twenty-Six

By December, work was the busiest she’d known it, a whirlwind of events, projects coming to a close, and the imminent commencement of their January sessions. For the weeks Erin was on honeymoon Bette had been covering her events too, until she’d returned to the office, face tanned and full of questions about Ruth and Mei that Bette managed to dodge.

Bette arrived at the office early and left late. She cooked for Ash a couple of times, and resisted the temptation to order more takeaway than she could afford. She got into the habit of getting up and making coffee in the mornings before Ash left. Her nail polish was unchipped and she went to bed with her hair mostly dry. She visited her nonna twice more, watched more Golden Girls, and took Ash along with her as promised. She thought about getting a subscription to The New Yorker, realized it was because Ruth had those well-designed covers framed in her kitchen and decided not to. She did yoga in the leggings that had sat in her drawer all year, rather than in a T-shirt and her pants. She finished three books. She made a plan for Christmas and texted her mother back.

And she booked a ticket to a queer meet-up she found online.

The idea of getting back on an app, of dating someone new, was deeply unappealing. Being on her own for a bit felt like the right thing to do. But she missed the queer presence in her life she’d had since meeting Ruth. She’d come to depend on it. And in the absence of a text suggesting they try being friends again, she needed to meet some new people.

The bar was full when she approached it. It was a Thursday, a week before Christmas, and half the women inside were dressed in novelty jumpers that were Mark Darcy levels of awful. But it was a bar, and it was full of queer women. She hadn’t seen that nearly often enough to be put off by the presence of some glitzy pompoms. At the door there was a sticky label to press to her chest, and a cute woman with a pen who blushed and laughed when Bette pointed out that there was a -te on the end of her name.

“Name, not verb. Got it. Anyway, this is your drink token,” she said, gesturing at the bar behind her. She was in a jumpsuit and trainers and had a warmth and ease about her that suggested she was used to reassuring nervous strangers. “First one’s included. A warning: the wine’s pretty average. If you like beer, go for that.”

“And then I just—I mean—is there like, a format? Or do I just—”

“It’s just a meetup tonight. Very low-key,” the woman said, smiling reassuringly. It was a nice smile. The woman—Claire, her name tag read—had great lips and a gap between her front teeth she could have passed a pound coin through. “So find a group you fancy joining. Or pick someone who looks nervous. If you’re the person looking nervous, one of us will come and find you in a bit.”

“I promise I’ll talk to someone,” Bette said, cringing at her own obvious eagerness to please.

“Okay!” Claire replied, clearly not bothered one way or the other. “See you in a bit then!”

Bette leaned against the bar as the guy behind it filled her glass, and thought that if that was the only conversation she had tonight it had still been worth coming. She’d stepped into a queer space, had put a name tag on her chest that identified her as part of this group. It was a good thing to have done.

“Bette!” she heard from behind her, and she turned to see Heather, in towering heels and black leather trousers, walking toward the bar. Of course Heather was there. Of course she was. “I didn’t know you came to these!”

“I don’t! I mean, I haven’t. But I thought it would be good—good for me.”

“Well, there’s nothing quite like a fortifying social engagement to make you feel good about life.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean good for me. In a broccoli way. Or anything. I meant, like, a good thing to do. That it would be good!”

“I’m teasing you, babe,” Heather said, resting a hand on her arm. “Maybe—I don’t know—maybe take a breath or something?”

Bette did, and then took another. It helped.

“So, how have you been?” Heather asked. Bette scanned her face, trying to work out how much she knew. But Heather was serene. A swan. If there was any work happening, it was deep below the surface.

“I’m fine,” she replied.

Heather nodded, head cocked to the side, and then leaned over the bar and ordered two shots of tequila. She was silent as they were poured out, and then handed one to Bette.

“Oh, I—”

“Look, I’m not going to make you drink something you don’t want. That’s not cool. Or classy. Very much not my vibe. But maybe you want to?”

She did, sort of. And so she drank it, beer still in her other hand, and winced as it hit her esophagus. She’d always hated tequila. Or she’d always hated the hangover following university nights that ended with tequila. Hated that the last time she had drunk tequila had been with Ruth. Hated that it now reminded her of that night.

“Okay,” Heather said, staring intently at her. “How are you? Actually?”

It was a neat trick. Bette’s throat still burned and it was too hard to lie.

“Not really that fine,” she admitted. Saying it, she wanted it to feel like a weight off her shoulders, to have admitted it here, tonight, in front of Heather. It didn’t. It made her feel hollow, and sad, and foolish. “Not really fine at all, to be honest.”

“Didn’t think so,” Heather said, her voice all warmth and empathy. She gestured over Bette’s shoulder. “Want to come and join me and the girls?”

Bette’s heart raced, certain that if she turned round it would be to come face to face with Ruth. She was aware, all of a sudden, that she wasn’t strong enough for that, wasn’t ready for it. Would walk out, probably, if Ruth was behind her. She turned.

Ruth wasn’t behind her.

Heather gestured toward a group of women Bette didn’t recognize. They were dressed as glamorously as Heather, exuding the energy of a girl band who’d wandered into the bar after a gig. As a collective they were intimidating: the only whole group in the room who didn’t have at least one member in a Christmas jumper, whose glitzy heels and statement jewelry performed the requisite nod toward the season instead. Bette felt great in the dark jeans and gold top and winged eyeliner she’d put on before leaving the house, but in the midst of this group she was aware of looking more like the journalist on the tour bus, battered notebook in hand.

It was a relief, then, that the group welcomed her in. Heather was clearly greasing the social wheels, and Bette kept glancing around, acknowledging to everyone else in the room that she was aware she didn’t belong with the glamorous set. But it was hard to feel that for too long. Impossible, once Zoe had inquired where she’d bought her top, and Ola had asked seven interested follow-up questions about Bette’s job, and Molly had grilled her about her at-home, very-much-out-of-a-box dye job.

“Have you all been here before then?” Bette asked. They weren’t mingling much, and Bette couldn’t quite work out why they’d come if their plan was to stand together in a cluster all evening. Surely there were other bars they could do that in. Fancier bars, nicer bars, with less stark lighting.

The group hushed for a moment, stealing surreptitious glances at Zoe.

“Oh, all right,” she said, throwing up her hands, an armful of bangles jangling as she did. “I’m bi. I just came out. Like, a month ago. And so the girls thought we should come and celebrate somewhere. We were looking for a club night or something, but when we Googled things for queer women in Bristol, it was literally just this.”

Bette grinned at Zoe, having done precisely the same thing, feeling an odd compulsion to hug her. She wanted to gesture between them and say, Me too! me too! How could we have missed it?!

“We’ve all been friends forever, see?” Heather explained. “Since primary school. And we’ve been three-quarters queer since, like—”

“Since our second year of university,” Molly continued. “Since that drunken party when I kissed Anna and realized I wanted to do it again. But Heather’s been gay forever, and Ola’s been out since school. And now we’ve got the whole set!”

“Anyway, it’s not a whole big thing,” Zoe said, her cheeks flushed. “But I’ve left my husband at home, and we’re having a big queer weekend. This is the first stop. It’s probably really rude, to come here and not talk to anyone else. Anyone else apart from you, obviously. But it’s nice.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Bette said. “It’s just really nice to stand in a room full of queer women.”

“Yeah!” Heather said emphatically. “Gay bars are full of queer guys and straight girls. Which I get! I’m all for a space for queer men to be safe to dance and flirt and fuck. A space where girls can dance without being groped. But there aren’t spaces for us, really. We get occasional curated club nights. Not this weekend though, so we thought we’d come here. For Zoe. And then we’re going dancing. Because gay bars may not always feel like spaces for queer women, but at least the music is great. We’ve got an Airbnb for the weekend.” She looked at Zoe, the corner of her mouth creeping up. “So ignore her, because it’s definitely a whole big thing. BIG! LESBIAN! WEEKEND!”

“Except I’m not a lesbian,” Zoe corrected.

“And I’m not either,” added Ola.

“Heather’s actually the only lesbian,” Molly said, shrugging at Bette. “But she did do most of the planning, and this is her city, and we are all technically women who fancy women. So…”

“Pfft, semantics.” Heather waved her hands lazily in front of her.

They all laughed, and then Ola turned to Bette.

“How do you know Heather, then?” she asked.

She should have anticipated it. Should have planned a non-Ruth-related answer. Of course they were going to ask.

“I met Bette at Jody’s birthday over the summer,” Heather said, which had the benefit of being true and also leaving out the bit that was making Bette’s back sweat.

“Oh cool!” Ola said, and that was that. The conversation moved on. It wasn’t all that interesting as an origin story. Not really worthy of note. So it felt ridiculous that Bette could still feel her fingers tingling, feel every breath struggling to work down into her lungs.

“It’s such a great house, right?” Zoe said, directing her words toward Bette. “I’m obsessed with their kitchen.”

Images crowded in: standing in the kitchen with Heather and Ruth, the magazine covers framed on the wall, watching Ruth as she turned in the sequined dress, the herbs on the windowsill. Ruth holding her bag of salt and vinegar crisps, Ruth’s face as Heather asked her about Charlie, Ruth beneath her in bed.

Ruth.

Ruth.

Ruth.

Bette’s heart was pounding in her chest; she could taste it in the back of her throat, iron-rich and heavy. Her face was so hot she felt sure the rest of the group could feel it radiating. She managed to nod at Zoe, trying to turn her mouth up in a smile. It was, based on the faces looking back at her, an unsuccessful attempt.

She needed to get out.

“I—I forgot I have to—I have to go. I hope the weekend is fun. It was really nice to meet you all. Thanks for being so nice,” she said, determined to get out before things progressed into a full-blown panic attack. She was due one, probably. Had been saving it up for a moment precisely like this. She pushed past jumpsuit Claire at the door, calling back an apology and then strode off, sucking in lungfuls of air, trying to get a good distance away before she collapsed.

She was halfway along the pier, her coat still clasped in her hand, before Heather caught up with her. There was no preamble, no time for Bette to prepare herself.

“Ruth’s not fine either,” Heather said, and then ran her hand across her mouth, gripping her jaw as if her teeth ached. “I shouldn’t be telling you this. But she’s not all right. And if there was a thing you could say to change that, then I think you probably should.”

“She made what she wanted pretty clear,” Bette said, heart still pounding in her ears. She felt trapped. Stuck. She crossed her arms across her chest. “I don’t think there’s anything left for us to say.”

“The thing you should know about Ruth—I mean, the thing I know about Ruth, the thing that makes me worry, is that she’s her own worst enemy. She’s so determined not to be hurt again. But not everyone is going to be Martha.”

It was the first time Bette had heard her name.

“I put myself out there, Heather, I really did. She’s the one who walked away. And I can’t make her want to be with me.”

“No,” Heather agreed. “You can’t. But also, the wanting isn’t the problem. You know that, right?”

Heather reached out and squeezed her arm and then, mercifully, turned and walked back into the bar. There was a tree a few meters away, and Bette stumbled toward it. She rested her forehead against the trunk, the cold air painful in her chest.

She knew it, of course she did. She’d been there the night before the wedding. Ruth wanting her had never been the problem. But Ruth didn’t trust Bette, didn’t trust herself, didn’t want to take the leap. She’d walked away.

Somewhere after the first perfectly assembled room, Ash slipped a gentle arm through Bette’s. Bette knew that the hunt for Tim’s Christmas present had been a ruse. The truth was that Ash was oddly soothed by the winding route of IKEA, by the arrows on the floor pointing the way. She did most of her hardest thinking there. So an out-of-the-blue trip on a Friday evening after work meant a conversation, meant something was on her mind.

Bette reached up and squeezed the hand that was curled around her elbow. “So. Talk now, or over meatballs?”

Ash exhaled and looked up at her. “Meatballs. Is that okay? It’s nothing bad. I just want to talk when I can see your face. Once we’re properly sitting down.”

“Course,” Bette replied as they rounded the corner into the sofa section. It was a good hour later when they finally emerged at the checkouts, and then wheeled their purchases up to the restaurant. They had managed to make their way out only slightly weighed down by things they suddenly couldn’t live without: a pair of new cushions for the sofa, three house plants for the bathroom shelf, some tumblers that looked fancier than they had a right to, a bag of Daim bars. An enormous stuffed crocodile for Tim (“he reckons he sleeps better when I’m there, so I’m getting him a horrible substitute for Christmas”) that poked ominously out of their trolley. They spread out at a big booth table in the restaurant, quiet so close to closing, and Ash queued up for their dinner before wheeling it over.

It was Ash and Tim, Bette was sure of it. Ash had waited as long as she could for Bette to be sorted but now Bette was back at square one and Ash was ready to move in with Tim so they could keep saving for a deposit and move on and Bette was going to have to be thrilled about it which of course she was but also she’d been dreading this day for nearly a decade and god she didn’t know if she was ready, if she’d ever be ready. And now it was here, and she didn’t have a choice.

Ash had been in her seat for less than a minute, had just taken her first bite, when Bette lost the patience she’d been clinging to around the warehouse. “Okay, you have to tell me.”

Ash nodded, took a gulp from her plastic cup and set her cutlery down by her plate.

“I was thinking about what you said a little while ago, about Mei being the first person you’d been with where you felt like you could be yourself.” Bette felt her eyebrows creep up, felt wrong-footed. It sounded as if this wasn’t going to be quite the conversation she had readied herself for. She nodded, running her fries through the gravy, leaning forward so that it didn’t drip down the front of her sweater. “And I get it. I remember heart attack, and that faux-feminist swing-dancing Virginia Woolf-obsessed guy, and the one who tried to get you into tennis. You were working so hard to be a perfect girlfriend, to present them with everything they were looking for, everything they might need. I should have noticed at the time, but it’s really obvious now that you weren’t getting what you needed.”

Bette laughed, and Ash rolled her eyes.

“Yeah blah blah blah you’re gay. I don’t actually mean the sex. I don’t think you can put it all down to that.” She held up a hand, stopping Bette’s rebuttal before it could begin. “I’m not dismissing how important that is. I don’t know what it’s like to have sex with people I’m not fundamentally attracted to. But there was more to it than that, I think.”

She cut a meatball in half and dipped it into the jam, then speared a few peas onto her fork. Bette waited for her to finish, not wanting her to lose track of the thought. Ash chewed carefully and then set down her cutlery again.

“You’re really good, I think, at performing happiness. At convincing yourself—at convincing everyone—that things are exactly as you want them. It’s what I was worried about when you were with Mei. You were always in a state before she came round, making the flat perfect or stressing out in the kitchen, and we both know you hate cooking. You shuffled your life around her, making sure you were free when she might want you over. You were always on edge. But as soon as she was there in front of you, you were happy as anything. Everything was perfect. Even if it wasn’t.” She stared down into her lap, where Bette was sure her hands were probably twisting together, and then looked up and met Bette’s eye. “Bette, I wanted to say this, in case you needed to hear it. I love you. Not because you cook dinner for me, or make sure we always have toilet paper, or plan lovely things for us. Or because you’re always happy and jolly and up for a laugh. I love you despite the fact that you’re crap at all of that, and you’re often in a really shit mood. You’re really crap so much of the time and I truly, absolutely, love you. I mean, I think we’d kill each other if we were dating…”

They both laughed, and it eased an ache in Bette’s chest that had settled there since Ash had begun talking. She maneuvered some peas onto her fork.

“Anyway. You like to please,” Ash said, then stopped abruptly as Bette snorted out a laugh, her mind flashing suddenly to Ruth, to Natalia, to Mei, to Evie, to Netta. And then, painfully, to Ruth again. “Oh come on, that’s not what I meant. You’re a people pleaser. You have been forever. But I’m kind of worried that you think love is…”

“Conditional.”

Ash nodded, her face tender. She reached across the table for Bette’s hand. “Yeah. And I just want to see you with someone who makes sure you know that theirs isn’t.”

“It’s not Mei’s fault.” Bette’s voice was quieter than she intended, but she wanted to defend Mei, to defend the time she had spent so committedly fighting for her.

“No, of course not. I’m not saying it’s all her fault. But it’s not yours either. I just want to see you happy. I want you to know that you’re worthy of all of it, and not just because you work hard to make sure that the people you date are happy. Not because you try to seem happy, even when you’re not. But that you’re enough. Just you. Even on nights when you’ve cooked nothing, and you’re in a funk, and someone else has to clean the flat.”

Bette could tell that Ash was intending for her to laugh. But she couldn’t hold it back; tears started running down her cheeks and into her meatballs.

“Bette! No! Come on! I really didn’t mean for this to be a crying thing,” Ash said, squeezing her hands tightly. “But I promise that there are people who know just how great you are. You deserve to be with someone who loves all the messy bits of you too.”

It wasn’t hard to work out who Ash was talking about. Bette thought of scrubbing mussels, of watching ice-dancing over and over, of fighting over dinner and making up over dessert, of laughing and kissing and fucking and lying beside Ruth in a panic while she slept.

But she’d played all her cards at the wedding. She’d stood in front of Ruth and said all of it. She’d revealed it all, all the messy shit, and Ruth had walked away.

Knowing she wanted Ruth, that she could make her happy, wasn’t enough. It hadn’t been enough. How could it possibly be enough?