In at the Deep End

by Kate Davies

  Jane opened her eyes and smiled at me. ‘Morning.’

  She sat up in bed. She was still topless. I looked away.

  ‘Please don’t tell Sam what happened,’ I said.

  She laughed. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t. Sam’s scary.’

  ‘She’s not.’ My anger was long gone. There was no room for it inside me, what with all the shame and self-hatred. I had never loved Sam so purely. I couldn’t believe what I’d done. I got out of bed and looked around for my clothes, because being a terrible person is much easier to deal with when you’re wearing underpants.

  ‘Well, I’m scared of her,’ Jane said. ‘She pushed me up against a wall once and accused me of turning her ex against her.’

  I paused, about to put my T-shirt on. ‘Didn’t you?’

  ‘No! She turned Marie against me, and all her other friends. She started making comments when Marie went out in certain clothes—’

  ‘She’s never done that to me.’

  ‘—and she started telling Marie who she could see and who she couldn’t see, and when Marie got sick of Sam controlling her, she was too scared to break up with her on her own, so I went with her.’

  I sat down on the end of Jane’s bed, slightly sick with dread. ‘And how did Sam take it?’

  Jane shrugged. ‘She was very grown-up and polite about it, actually. But then a couple of weeks later she came up to me as I was walking down that cycle path, you know the one between Hackney Central and London Fields? And she pushed me up against the wall and accused me of breaking up their relationship and fucking Marie behind her back. Which I wasn’t, by the way.’

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘That’s your side of the story.’ I pulled my T-shirt on.

  ‘That’s the only side of the story.’

  ‘It isn’t though. Obviously.’ I started to do up my jeans. The button was fiddlier than I remembered it being.

  ‘Whatever.’ Jane grabbed a towel from the floor. ‘Just be careful.’ She walked to the bathroom and turned on the shower.

  I closed my eyes. For a moment I could imagine I was back at home, in my bedroom, about to join Alice and Dave in the living room for brunch and Netflix in our pyjamas. I opened my eyes again. I was still in Jane’s bed. I was still an awful human being.

  I got an Instagram message from Jane as I got on the plane that evening. Didn’t want to text you just in case … Last night was hot. Don’t worry, I won’t tell her. Call if you ever need someone to talk to, and look after yourself. I turned the phone off without messaging back.

  38. SHRIVELLED PEA

  The worst thing was how happy Sam was to see me when I got home. The way she smiled when she opened the door, how tightly she hugged me.

  ‘I know I’ve been awful these last few weeks,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t have asked you to be there for me through that. I’m through the worst of it now, promise.’

  I couldn’t say anything, because of the guilt.

  ‘I’ve been terrible, haven’t I?’

  ‘Not terrible …’

  ‘Let me make it up to you?’

  She started to kiss me, to take off my cardigan. I was sure she’d be able to tell what I’d done, taste it on my lips the way when you can tell when someone has been drinking or eating tuna melts. I had to tell her. Rip it off, I told myself, like a plaster.

  So I closed my eyes and said, ‘I ran into Jane in Edinburgh.’

  She let go of my cardigan. ‘What happened?’

  But there was something dangerous in the way she asked the question, and all of a sudden I realized that telling her was a terrible idea, so I said, ‘I just ran into her in the street, when we were flyering,’ and walked over to the sink and examined the taps, as if they were interesting, which they weren’t.

  ‘Good,’ she said. And then: ‘I’d rather you didn’t have sex with Jane, if that’s OK.’

  Did she know? Was she testing me? I stared at a droplet of water on the base of the tap, the way it reflected the whole kitchen distorted, upside down. ‘OK,’ I said, nodding too much. ‘Noted!’

  I wasn’t the sort of person who usually said things like ‘Noted!’ But I was doing all sorts of things I didn’t usually do at the moment, it seemed.

  I felt like a worm. Less than a worm, actually – I felt like one of the shrivelled peas I always find underneath the fridge, no matter how carefully I’ve Hoovered the kitchen. I couldn’t bear what I had done. I needed someone to tell me it was OK, justifiable somehow. After dance that Sunday, some of us went for lunch in Soho – expensive noodles, uncomfortable seats – and afterwards, Ella said she needed to go to Foyles to get a birthday present for her mother.

  I thought the cookery section might be a good place for a confes-sion – the comforting smell of books, the promise of many meals to come – so as Ella was contemplating buying a cookery book all about butter, and Zhu was trying to persuade her to buy something about Middle Eastern food instead, and Bo and Rebecca were off to the side, leafing through a book about mindfulness, I told them what I’d done.

  ‘What?’ said Ella, clearly appalled.

  ‘I know,’ I said.

  ‘You have to tell her.’

  ‘Do I really?’ I said. I leaned against the Jamie Oliver shelf. He was staring straight at me from one of his covers, brandishing a roast chicken, as though even he thought I was a coward.

  Rebecca walked over and rubbed my back. ‘You might think, ethically, that honesty is the best policy. But ask yourself why you want to be honest. If you’re just doing it to make yourself feel better, and you know it will hurt her, that isn’t a particularly noble course of action.’

  She had a degree in PPE from Oxford. She had to be right.

  ‘I don’t actually think you’ve done anything particularly terrible,’ Zhu said, shrugging. ‘You’re non-monogamous, aren’t you? The only thing you did wrong was not tell her.’

  ‘I really don’t want to tell her,’ I said. ‘She would go – I don’t even know what she’d do.’

  Bo handed me a book called How to Break Up with Anyone. ‘I’m just saying.’

  ‘I’m not going to break up with her,’ I said.

  No one seemed particularly pleased to hear that.

  The guilt didn’t go away, but I learned to live with it, the way you learn to live with back pain, or the Conservatives winning the general election. As long as I didn’t think about it too much, I could fool myself into forgetting about what I’d done. The trouble was, whenever I spoke to Cat or Alice, they brought up the bitey sex I’d had with Jane – Cat didn’t see what was so bad about it, but Alice thought it counted as cheating. I knew in my gut that telling Sam was the right thing to do. But although I’d told Jane I wasn’t scared of Sam, I was, a bit. I didn’t want her to push me up against the wall, unless it was in a sexy way.

  Alice told Dave about me and Jane, which made me so angry I didn’t speak to her for several days, until she made a banana bread that smelled so good I couldn’t help asking for a slice. I learned my lesson after that; I wouldn’t talk to my friends about my relationship with Sam any more. Sam didn’t want me to, and after what I’d done, respecting her wishes seemed like the least I could do.

  Owen bought me a Pret brownie one lunchtime and said I didn’t seem myself. He asked if I was upset about him getting a second interview. I said I was, which was true. He seemed very flattered by that.

  ‘No one’s ever been envious of me before,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sure that’s not true. You always queue up and get the latest iPhone before everyone else.’

  He nodded thoughtfully. ‘But no cool person has ever envied me before.’

  ‘You think I’m cool?’

  He shrugged. ‘Come for a drink with me and Carys next week,’ he said. ‘She’s cool too.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ Owen said. ‘What’s the worst that can happen?’

  So I agreed.

  But I went to Sam’s that night, and as we go
t into bed, my phone lit up with a text from Owen: Carys is free next Weds if you are?

  ‘Why is he texting you this late at night?’ Sam asked, reading the message over my shoulder.

  ‘We’re going for a drink next week with his sister.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘He thinks we’ll get on.’

  ‘Why?’

  I should have said, ‘Just because.’ But instead I said, ‘She’s queer, and Owen thought we might get on.’

  ‘You don’t need more friends,’ Sam said.

  Sam had always encouraged me to look at other women in the street, to imagine what they’d look like in a strap-on, etc., but things were clearly different now she’d broken up with Virginie.

  ‘I don’t want you to go,’ she said.

  ‘What?’ I said. ‘Why?’

  ‘I just don’t.’ She lay back on the bed and looked up at the ceiling.

  I thought of what Jane had told me about Sam and Marie, and I said, ‘You can’t tell me who I can be friends with.’ But it sounded like a question.

  ‘I’m not,’ she said, turning to me, softening. ‘I’d never do that.’ She kissed me on my forehead. ‘It’s just – I’m finding it really hard, now that I’ve broken up with Virginie. I couldn’t bear to lose you too.’

  ‘You’re not going to lose me,’ I said, glad the light was out because I felt as though my face was flashing with guilt.

  She took my hand. ‘I just think our love is a delicate thing at the moment. We don’t want to tip it off balance by bringing new people into the mix, do we? So maybe text Owen back and put the drink off.’ She smiled at me. She was waiting for me to text him.

  I felt like she had a right to be jealous, considering what I’d done. So I typed out a message, very aware of her eyes on the screen. Actually I can’t do Wednesday … maybe another time, I wrote. And I put my phone on silent before he could reply.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, and she kissed the top of my head.

  The next morning, a card flopped through my letterbox, just as I was about to leave for work. I recognized the spidery handwriting, so I sat down to read it.

  Dear Julia,

  I’m sorry I’m only just replying to your lovely card. I’m afraid I’ve been in the wars. I haven’t been sleeping well; the war has been playing on my mind. I can still see myself in my bomb turret, looking down on the German cities, well alight. The things we did don’t sit easy with me. I’ve been very breathless, too; apparently it’s my dicky aortic valve playing up. But the good thing is they’re moving my surgery date up. Or is it bad news???

  It would be absolutely smashing if you came to visit! If I’m up to it, I’ll take you down to the seafront for a bowl of soup. Or rather you’ll take me (I’m afraid I’m in a wheelchair at the moment. I hate the thing. It makes me feel old!).

  Anyway. Mustn’t grumble!!! My daughter’s come to look after me for a few days. She’s very good. She’s here now, telling me to stop writing this letter and get some rest. I have to go for an appointment at the hospital tomorrow, to the Geriatric Unit. Geriatric! I ask you. That’s adding insult to injury.

  Please write back and tell me how you are doing. I’m always wittering on about myself. I’m sure you have a much more exciting life than I do. How’s the swing dancing going?

  Look after yourself and I look forward very much to seeing you soon.

  P.S. – Here’s another tune for you: ‘Ain’t Misbehavin’’. It’s nice and slow, which suits me these days!

  Your friend,

  Eric

  I folded up the letter and sat down on the sofa. And then, I started to cry. The tears had been pretty close to the surface, it has to be said, but they caught me by surprise. Caring about people over the age of seventy-five only ever led to heartbreak. Mind you, caring about a thirty-year-old wasn’t going brilliantly either. I’d send Eric some flowers, I decided.

  When I got to work, I searched the Interflora website, but everything looked a bit funereal. Then I thought perhaps I’d send some brownies instead, but as I was trying to decide between double chocolate and salted caramel, Owen walked up to my desk and stood there, stirring his coffee.

  ‘Shame about Wednesday,’ he said.

  ‘Oh,’ I said, eyes on my screen. ‘Yeah. I’m sorry about that.’

  ‘Can you do the Thursday?’

  ‘Sorry?’ I said, looking up.

  ‘Instead of Wednesday. To meet up with Carys.’

  ‘No,’ I said. I gave him an apologetic smile.

  ‘Friday the week after?’

  ‘Can’t do that either. I’m sorry.’ I looked back at my screen, not really seeing anything, hoping he’d take the hint.

  Owen frowned. He crouched down next to me and asked, ‘Is everything all right? Are you annoyed with me?’

  ‘I’m fine. It’s just not a good time, OK?’

  Owen stood up, eyebrows raised. ‘Sorry I asked,’ he said.

  We didn’t speak for the rest of the day.

  I didn’t buy the brownies. I was about to, but then I Googled geriatric heart failure diet and read a lot of articles about how sick elderly people are supposed to avoid foods that are high in fat and sugar and eat lots of fruit and vegetables. I’ll just write back to him, I thought.

  I Googled Eric when I got home that night. There were hundreds of results; I guess when you’re one of the last people that can remember the war, everyone wants to talk to you. There was an interview with the Telegraph: Warrant Officer Eric Beecham DFC smiled up at me from my computer screen, grey hair, brown eyes, hands folded over the arm of his chair like he was posing for a school photograph ninety years too late. There was a video of him on the Argus website, talking a reporter through his log book – lovely handwriting he had – and articles about a fundraising campaign he’d run, to raise money for a memorial to the men of Bomber Command. There were articles in support from the Daily Mail and The Times, and others criticizing the ‘jingoism’ of the memorial in the Guardian and the Independent.

  I decided to tell him about Sam. I hadn’t had the chance to come out to Granddad – which might have been for the best, as he’d once told me to watch out for short-haired women in case they got their ‘claws into me’ – but I decided it was worth taking the risk with Eric.

  I went to my room and found a dusty sheet of writing paper and a matching envelope, left over from a set I’d loved as a teenager. I found a fountain pen, too – I thought Eric deserved a fountain pen – and I sat at the dining table and started to write.

  I told him how sorry I was about his dicky heart valve, and that the war was playing on his mind, and I told him I thought he was unimaginably brave. I told him that everyone at Stepping Out loved his music recommendations, and added: We’re an LGBT swing-dance group – did I ever tell you that? even though I knew I hadn’t.

  And then I wrote:

  You once asked me whether I had a fellow, and I never replied. Well, I don’t have a fellow, but I do have a girlfriend. Her name is Sam, and she has beautiful brown eyes. I hope that you get to meet her one day.

  I would love to come and visit you next weekend, if I’m still welcome. Maybe on Sunday, if that’s a good day for you? Soup on the seafront sounds wonderful.

  Your friend,

  Julia

  I was about to go to the post box when I got a text from Sam: Babes, how about a night in at yours tonight? Takeaway? I’m leaving work in five mins. So I went upstairs to have a shower and left the letter on the table.

  39. A TERRIBLE HUMBLEBRAG

  The sex Sam and I had that night was so good that Alice and Dave broke up over it. That sounds like a really terrible humblebrag, I realize. I’m honestly not bragging at all. It was horrible.

  We were woken the next morning at eight by raised voices.

  ‘We do have sex.’ That was Dave.

  ‘I’ve had to come on to you every time in the last few weeks.’

  ‘I’m just tired!’

  Sam rubbed he
r eyes and pushed herself up on her elbow. She checked the time on her phone and rolled over onto her side again, pulling the pillow over her ear.

  ‘Sam’s never tired, is she?’ said Alice, in an extremely audible ‘whisper’. ‘Julia’s never tired.’

  Sam gave up any idea of going back to sleep.

  ‘Fine, then, dump me and find yourself a nice lesbian to fuck.’

  ‘I don’t want to fuck a lesbian. I want to be fucked.’

  ‘By a lesbian?’

  ‘No! By you! It’s like you don’t fancy me any more!’

  ‘Alice, love. You haven’t looked me in the eye during sex for years. Years! You’re the one that doesn’t fancy me!’

  A beat. And then Alice said, ‘So why are we getting married?’

  Sam and I looked at each other. We were sitting so still that I felt they must sense our attention, the way you can feel someone staring at you even when your eyes are closed.

  ‘I knew it,’ Dave said.

  ‘Wait, Dave—’

  ‘I knew you didn’t want to marry me.’

  ‘I never said that—’

  ‘You’ve been pulling away from me ever since I proposed. I can’t fucking believe this.’

  ‘Dave—’

  ‘Don’t bother.’

  We heard heavy footsteps, the slam of the flat door. The thud-thud-thud as Dave ran down the stairs.

  And Alice’s sobs.

  I started to push myself up off the mattress but Sam reached out a hand to stop me.

  I looked at her. I whispered, ‘She needs me.’

  ‘Stay here. She needs some space.’

  I sank back into the pillows. And then I changed my mind and pushed myself up again, grabbing a pair of pants from the floor and pulling them on. ‘She’s my friend.’

  ‘She’ll still be your friend in half an hour.’ Sam pushed me onto my back and pushed her hand down my pants.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Not now.’

  Sam sighed heavily and sat back on her heels. ‘Alice has too much of a hold on you.’