by Emma Morgan
‘What did you think of Blunderwein then?’ he asked.
They were skiving while Eustacia saw to lunch.
‘It was OK,’ Grace said, trying to avoid looking him directly in the eye, because she’d only been able to stand five minutes of it.
‘I don’t know why you insist on plying her with music every time she comes up. She’s a lost cause,’ said Eustacia, giving Jeremy a beer and Grace a glass of white wine.
‘I don’t want wine, I want beer,’ Grace said.
‘You’ll have what you’re given,’ she said, and Grace took the glass.
‘There’s hope for everybody,’ said Jeremy.
‘Not for her, matey. She’s too set in her ways. Aren’t you?’ asked Eustacia.
‘Yep, ’fraid so. I’m sorry, Jeremy.’
Grace’s answers, her lack of interest, made him look gently puzzled. Not annoyed or anything, he wasn’t that sort of man, but perplexed in a ‘darling, I can’t get the clue for three down’ way. He couldn’t understand why Grace loved the Stones and Nirvana and tolerated Bach but couldn’t stand anything else.
‘Wait a minute, Grace, come to think of it something did cross my mind earlier this morning. Now what was it? Do you remember, darling? I was walking to the shop and I thought of something. Something for Grace. Something for Grace.’
‘Is that a mantra?’ Grace asked.
‘I beg your pardon? Yes, that was it. Off the wall but it’s worth a try. Always worth a try.’
And off he pottered in his immaculately ironed (by Eustacia of course) chinos.
‘That Blunderwein thing?’ Grace asked.
‘Yes,’ Eustacia said.
‘It had cowbells and a bloke playing the sitar in it. Which is not that weird compared to some of the awful stuff he’s foisted on me. What does Jez mean by “off the wall”? Off whose wall? It must be off the planet, more like. Have you got any olives?’
‘Don’t call him Jez please. He hates it. Be nice. He is trying.’
Eustacia looking stern was a face which Grace associated with order and calm; it was as reassuring to her as a lullaby. Now it was accompanied by a sound like whales mating coming over the integral speakers.
‘Jesus,’ Grace said, ‘that is horrible.’
‘I’ve got olives or peanuts.’
Eustacia was possessed of every grown-up skill imaginable including the filling of food cupboards with suitable supplies.
‘I want both.’
‘You’re being petulant today. And stop following me,’ she said, because Grace had trailed her into the kitchen. The doorbell rang and Eustacia went to answer it; she was followed into the kitchen by Tess. Now she did look like an artist. Tess had ridiculously long brown wavy hair that touched her bottom vertebrae and which she washed with rainwater from the butt. Tess had a handful of silver rings and an aromatherapist for a best friend. Tess grew her own tisanes for period pains. She wove baskets voluntarily. She was a Persian cat of a person with the same naturally indolent, purring nature. She should have been an artist’s model reclining next to the stove in a Paris studio. Unfortunately for her natural vocation she took up with a farmer and had two kids and so she worked around the clock. But she was still the same girl who used to sit on one of the lawns in a rickety deckchair and eat ripe cherries on summer afternoons. She was a hugger and attacked Grace to Grace’s great reluctance. Then she let her go and picked a long brown hair off her front.
‘Sorry. The hair. I had to wash it this morning. It was full of straw and I thought washing it might wake me up.’
She yawned, stretching her arms up over her head.
‘Have you been sleeping with the sheep then?’ Grace asked.
‘Mike has been sleeping in the barn the last couple of days.’
‘Most people go to the spare room after an argument.’
Her twins Rowan and Linden came in after her. They were stick-like, wraith thin, with matching blond hair and skin that you could almost see the blood moving through. Small ghost children versions of their robust father, nothing to do with their side of the family at all. Grace had never told Tess but her children gave Grace the spooks. She herself had never made a negative comment about them despite what Grace regarded as constant provocation on their part.
‘We want to use Jeremy’s computer,’ said Linden.
‘You are being inaccurate,’ said Rowan. ‘Jeremy has a Mac.’
‘Well, technically speaking a Mac is a computer.’
‘I think the word you were looking for was “please”,’ said Tess.
‘You always say that, Tess,’ said Linden. ‘Can’t you just accept that it is implied?’
‘Go and find Jeremy and ask him,’ said Eustacia and the twins disappeared in the direction of the study.
‘I’m beginning to think I should buy them a computer and a telly,’ Tess said.
‘I’ve met a girl, someone, a woman,’ Grace said to her sisters as casually as she could. She shuffled her socked feet on the warm floor and wished that she had under-floor heating.
‘Really, Grace?’ Eustacia turned towards her, olives in one hand, peanuts in the other, like a fifties advert for being a good hostess, and smiled her lovely smile. ‘That’s wonderful! Really?’ she asked.
Another person might have been insulted by the enthusiastic level of her surprise. Grace wasn’t. She was pleased that she cared.
‘Yeah, really. An actual human woman.’
‘Tell us all about her,’ Tess said.
‘I think I might perhaps be in love with her,’ said Grace, as though this was an affliction that had come upon her like warts.
‘Hmm,’ Eustacia said, and her expression changed to one of reserve.
‘What?’ Grace asked, quickly on the defensive.
‘I don’t want to say this.’
‘Yeah, you do. Go on. Get it over with. It’s too soon. I’m too old. I have no idea about anything.’
‘Why would we say any of those things?’ said Tess.
‘I wanted to say there was no “might” about it. Might is a qualifier to protect yourself.’
‘And I thought I was the therapist.’
‘It’s hard to see your own foibles.’
‘Oh well then. I am in love with her.’
‘Good God! That’s amazing!’ said Eustacia.
‘That’s fantastic,’ said Tess.
‘And so when are we going to meet her?’ Eustacia said.
‘Sometime.’
‘That’s very vague,’ said Tess.
‘It’s early yet, we’ve only been going out for a couple of weeks. I don’t think I should inflict my family upon her right now. Not you two obviously. You’re nice.’
‘Why haven’t you told us about her before?’ said Tess.
‘Well, just, you know.’
‘Why don’t you bring her down here!’ said Eustacia. ‘Or I could come over?’
‘Come to mine,’ said Tess. ‘Next weekend.’
‘Not yet,’ said Grace.
Her sister Bella might have taken umbrage at this but not Eustacia and Tess, who never took umbrage at anything.
‘Then let’s have a toast! To Grace’s girlfriend! Is that the right word? Would you prefer “partner”?’ said Eustacia.
‘Girlfriend is fine.’
‘What’s her name?’ said Tess.
‘Sam.’
‘To Grace’s girlfriend Sam!’ said Eustacia. ‘Long may she be loved!’
‘Hear hear,’ said Tess.
‘I liked that,’ said Grace.
They both hugged her and she let them.
This is how Violet met the woman (I)
Annie and Laurence and Violet went to a club with drag queens because Annie liked them, possibly because their beauty maintenance levels rivalled hers. Violet found them sad. The tragic songs they sang about love and loss made her eyes water. She hoped that they had happy lives and worried that they didn’t. It had been ages since she had gone out anywhere at night an
d it was horrible. The music and the lights were migraine-inducing and the noise of strangers shouting at each other was too much. There were so many people here and the crush made her feel panicky. She wanted to go home. To her annoyance the club didn’t seem to concern Laurence, and Violet realized that she had underestimated him. That didn’t mean she had to like him, though. She awarded him half a bronze star for lack of homophobia instead of a whole one. She was making him an imaginary star chart in her head. He had lost three stars already because he had spent most of the evening boringly braying on in that voice of his that made Violet feel like a minion who should tug her forelock whenever he deigned to glance in her direction. He was solicitous to her too, wanting to please Annie obviously. Like an over-attentive waiter. ‘And what can I get you, Violet? And how do you like your job, Violet?’ My jobs are crap, she wanted to tell him but didn’t. She was trying to be friendly for Annie’s sake but she was bored with it. She excused herself and went to the loo and sat in there for a while, feeling marginally protected from the hubbub outside by the cubicle walls, even if they were only made of plywood. For entertainment she read the graffiti on the back of the door. Apparently, someone called Alison would do all sorts of things for money. She went into a reverie. Would she do any of those things for money? She thought not. She would hold hands for a fiver. That was about it. Someone banged on the door and she had to come out. She was washing her hands, impressed that there was soap in the dispenser and hot water coming out of the tap, when the tall woman at the sink next to her asked her if the big woman with her was her girlfriend.
‘Yes,’ said Violet, taken aback.
‘That’s a pity,’ said the tall woman, looking Violet right in the eyes.
‘Why is that a pity?’ asked Violet.
‘Well, if you hadn’t had a girlfriend, I was going to ask you out.’
‘Oh, you mean girlfriend,’ said Violet, shocked.
‘Yes, that’s what I said.’
‘I know, yes, it’s that I didn’t understand you. I thought you meant was she my girlfriend, you know, my friend, so I said yes. I’m not gay.’
‘I am,’ said the woman.
‘Well, yes, I suppose you would be.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Violet.’
‘That’s a nice name. Are you having a good time?’
‘Not very.’
‘Would you like to come home with me then?’
‘I was going to go home with my friend/not that kind of girlfriend Annie and play Scrabble.’
‘Come home and play with me instead.’
And before she knew it, there she was. She had been drunk so it was like drunk driving in that respect, one minute you’re in one place and the next another and you can’t remember the journey. She felt sober now though, standing in the living room while the woman was in the kitchen, which was a tiny room off the living room with a swing door that she had pulled across behind her. Violet found this touchingly polite, as though tea-making was a ritual that should be conducted in private. It looked like she had shut herself into a miniature saloon. The living room was large and in one corner there was a small tiled fireplace that had been blocked up and postcards of famous paintings were stuck around it. Violet walked over to it and touched the tiles. Cold. The paintings were all by Impressionists. It made her interested in the woman. It was warm in the room, too warm. She took off her coat but didn’t know where to put it.
‘Cézanne,’ Violet said, and it must have been loud enough for the woman to hear because Violet listened to her say, ‘Yes, Cézanne.’ The way she said it, it sounded like ‘Shazaam.’
‘Abracadabra,’ Violet said to herself.
The five drinks she’d had were wearing off and she felt increasingly nervous. Probably this had been an extremely stupid decision based on a desire to get away from Laurence. She had a history, much to Annie’s disapproval, of going home with strangers. Men liked her, she wasn’t really sure why. Perhaps because she was small, and it was true that men liked small women like Annie said? She enjoyed the fact that she was the one who got to change the balance of the evening every time. She was pursued and then she was the one who got to say ‘yes’. It wasn’t as if her shyness wore off around men but that she found it made her feel powerful, that moment of acceptance, it was the only time that she ever felt that way. It made her feel better, although it was sometimes hard to distinguish if the man was flirting with you because he liked you or because he was just a flirt. It stopped her, at least for a night, being the one on the outside looking in; she was an essential part of the story. Annie said she was ‘easy’ and Violet knew she was right.
The woman was standing there in front of her with two art deco cups.
‘Do you want to sit down?’
She put the cups on the coffee table and took Violet’s coat and went away with it. She’s stolen my coat, thought Violet, now I’ll never be able to leave. I’ll be trapped here for ever like an abducted princess held by an evil witch. Not that this woman looks like an evil witch. In fact, she is very pretty. Why have I noticed how pretty she is? What am I doing here?
The woman came and sat on the sofa next to her and put her hands on Violet’s.
‘Your hands are cold,’ she said, and she rubbed Violet’s between hers as though she was going to start a fire there. There was a silence that felt intense, like the oxygen in the room had been condensed. Violet’s heart beat faster. The woman moved in to kiss her, closing her eyes, and Violet watched her doing it. It reminded her of a scene from a film but she couldn’t remember which one. She returned the kiss and closed her eyes too. It felt softer than with a man. Smoother lips. Not too wet. She’d done a lot worse. She didn’t feel anything else though, no tingle, no rush of lust. The woman stopped kissing her. Violet opened her eyes.
‘Now what do we do?’ Violet asked. ‘I don’t really know what happens now.’
‘There are no set instructions,’ said the woman, smiling and moving her head away.
‘OK,’ said Violet and she sank back into the sofa cushions. She felt flushed. It could be that she was still drunk. Or maybe it was adrenalin.
‘You don’t have to stay. You can go home if you want to.’
Violet said nothing; she was trying to consider if it would be a good idea to stay or if it was better to go now before things accelerated and the choice overwhelmed her.
‘What normally happens next? With a man,’ said the woman.
‘Well they … probably at this point they put their hand up your shirt and try to deal with your bra.’
‘Shall I do that then?’ said the woman.
‘OK,’ said Violet, at a loss as to what else to say. It seemed only reasonable. The woman put her hand up Violet’s shirt slowly and on to her breast on top of her bra and Violet felt as if this was some sort of medical examination, but then the woman started to gently stroke her over the bra with her thumb. Violet was glad that she was wearing her best lacy one and not one of the grubby ones. It felt soothing. Violet closed her eyes again.
‘Nice bra,’ said the woman. ‘Like this?’
‘More or less,’ said Violet, still with her eyes closed. The stroking combined with the alcohol was hypnotic. For the first time since she had left the club she relaxed. ‘A man almost strangled me with my bra once, he tried to go from underneath.’
‘Rooky,’ said the woman. ‘Would you like to touch me? I’m not wearing a bra.’
Violet opened her eyes. Strange as it was, she had nearly forgotten that she was with a woman. ‘OK,’ she said, since it seemed rude to refuse.
Violet put her hand up the woman’s shirt and it was true, she wasn’t. Her breasts were downturned, not upturned like Violet’s own, and warm. Avoiding the nipple area Violet started to stroke her with a thumb so that they matched.
‘What’s that like?’ asked the woman.
‘Nice?’
They sat with their hand on each other’s breast and the woman moved forward to ki
ss her again and pushed her gently back against the arm of the sofa. Violet felt the light pressure of her legs against her own. This is not unpleasant, thought Violet, it is actually nice. She took her mouth away from the woman’s and whispered, ‘I’ve never seen a live naked woman before apart from my friend Annie and briefly in changing rooms, but that’s different.’
‘We don’t have to take our clothes off if you don’t want to,’ said the woman quietly with her mouth on Violet’s ear, ‘we can do whatever you want,’ not knowing of course that this was the worst thing she could have said to Violet.
‘Can we stop now then?’ asked Violet, who had goosebumps all over her upper body.
‘Yes. Did you not like it?’
They withdrew their hands from each other’s clothes. Violet crossed her arms over her small chest and one leg over the other.
‘It’s a bit like the first time I ate an artichoke. I couldn’t really work out what was going on. But what you did did feel …’
‘Nice?’ said the woman, raising her eyebrows.
‘Yes.’
‘What would you like to do now?’
Don’t give me choices, Violet started to panic, and the woman must have been sensitive to that because she said, ‘We can keep kissing if you want, nothing else.’ Violet felt grateful to this woman whom she had only met an hour ago but who yet seemed to understand her in some small way.
‘Can we?’ asked Violet.
‘Sure.’
‘I do mean it. When you say that to men they say yes but they don’t mean it.’
‘That doesn’t sound good.’
‘I don’t mean, you know, that anything nasty happens. It’s only that they seem to be overtaken by something they don’t want to stop,’ said Violet. ‘They always want to go that little bit further.’
‘Unpleasant.’
‘More annoying really,’ said Violet. ‘I have a theory though that they quite like the tension. The “will she won’t she” bit.’