by Harper Bliss
“Isn’t life amazing sometimes?” Kristin sits there beaming a smile at me in her very Kristin way. Legs held together ladylike. Not a hair out of place. When I first started working in the Pink Bean, I would never have dreamed we’d become friends, let alone that she’d make me a proposition like this.
“Oh, yes.” I nod and, maybe for the first time in my life, fully agree.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
During the past month, one of Kristin’s phrases has sat in the back of my brain at all times. What she said about when I sang at the Pink Bean open mic night. It was pure emotion. For as long as I can remember, in its purest form, that’s what music has been for me. Singing has put me in touch with emotions buried so deep within me, through all the years I believed I wasn’t worthy of having them.
At the time, when I took to the improvised stage of the Pink Bean, I didn’t see it as a big transitional moment in my life—I just wanted to sing a song—but in hindsight, it was. It was me communicating my emotions. My joy at being with Caitlin. At finding a home with the women who frequent the Pink Bean. At finding my true self somewhere in the ruins of my negative self-image.
Because of that moment, I’ve decided to take Kristin up on her offer to sing one Friday a month at the Pink Bean. I’ve had a lot of coaxing from Caitlin and Eva, of course. But my biggest fan, as always, has been my sister. I wish she could be here tonight. It would be difficult for her to come, but I believe that one Friday in the near future, she will. I will bring her here. I will have her sit in the audience and watch me. Bea will listen to her sister sing and hear what is possible, even for us Greenwood girls.
It was Declan who introduced me to a friend of his who plays the guitar. Jimmy is a skinny, pale man with dark curly hair and the longest fingers I’ve ever seen on a human being. For tonight, we’ve practiced five songs.
I wish Kristin would get a liquor license for the Pink Bean, so I could have a sip of something to take the edge off before I go on. Before we arrived, Caitlin took me to dinner, but I couldn’t swallow one single bite. Even though I kept repeating my new mantra in my head: music is emotion. Nothing less. Nothing more. Yet, it still feels as though I’m about to give a big piece of myself on that stage.
Jimmy is testing the equipment he brought in earlier. Our set-up is the most basic you can have. Two microphones, an acoustic guitar and a small amplifier. That’s it. Still, it feels like so much more than that night I first sang here. I’m glad to have Jimmy here with me. It stops me from feeling so on display, so naked.
Before I take my place behind the microphone, I look into the audience. It’s a good turnout and everyone is here. Micky and Robin are chattering the way they always do. Sheryl is working the room, making people feel at home and relaxed. Kristin is talking to Alyssa behind the counter, telling her not to steam any milk during my performance. Martha and Amber are sitting at a table, chatting discreetly, their public demeanor always so controlled—quite the opposite of Micky and Robin. Eva, Declan and a few friends are grouped around a table. Zoya and two women I don’t know sit at the table next to them. And right next to the stage, stands Caitlin.
Caitlin, whom I introduced to my parents only a few weeks after we started going out. Caitlin who pushed me to sing in public for the first time. Caitlin who brought me out of my shell with her patience and wisdom and life experience.
“I love you,” she mouths. But she doesn’t even have to say it anymore. I know it. I feel it every single day. Without her, I wouldn’t be about to launch into my first song tonight. I would still believe there was something wrong with me for not being able to fully give myself to another person in certain circumstances. Despite all the theories I teach as part of my job, deep down, I would still believe I wasn’t good enough for the kind of love she gives me every day. So, tonight. I will sing for her. Every note I push out of my mouth and every breath that will leave my lungs will be for her. For her belief in me. For the me she saw when I was too blind to see myself.
I wink at her, then look back at the crowd. I introduce myself and Jimmy, then say, “This song is dedicated to my partner Caitlin. For those of you who don’t know her, she’s that demure wallflower standing to my right.” I turn to her, a big smile on my face. “I love you.”
Jimmy and I have practiced a slower, fully acoustic version of Annie Lennox’s “Little Bird” as an opening song. I sing it without thinking of anything and just let the emotion within me come out. I ignore my inner critic and just sing. I let it all go and when I get to take a little breather when Jimmy sings some ooh-oohs for backing vocals, I look into the audience, and I feel their energy. I feel their emotion coming back to me, and it spurs me on for a big finale, just letting everything go, and not caring about how I got here and the person I used to be. This is me now and now is all that matters.
When the song ends and Jimmy and I bask in the enthusiastic round of applause we receive, I look to my right. Caitlin is still there. Her lips are split into the widest smile. I look at her and I don’t know what the future holds for us. All I know is that, because of her, so much has changed already.
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THE END
This Foreign Affair, Book Four in the Pink Bean Series, is available now.
Get it HERE
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Read on for an excerpt of This Foreign Affair
Excerpt of This Foreign Affair
Chapter One
“You’re here bright and early this morning,” Josephine says before I can even place my order.
“Walk of shame?” Micky butts in.
“Christ, ladies. I’ll have a coffee first, we can talk after.”
Micky looks at her watch. “I’ve never seen you here this early.”
Josephine elbows her in the biceps. “A large black coffee for Zoya, please.”
“Coming right up.” Micky gets busy with the coffee machine.
“How are you today, Jo?” I ask.
“Very well, thank you.”
“I suppose it’s out of the question for me to call Caitlin at this ungodly hour and ask her to join me?”
“You can try, but she wasn’t awake when I left.” She quirks up her eyebrows.
I wave my credit card over the terminal to pay for my coffee. “I won’t bother then.” I check my phone in case I missed a text message while ordering. The screen is blank. “Myrtle is sick and there appears to be a bit of a problem in my Airbnb down the street. The new occupant arrived late last night and is complaining the smoke detector is beeping every few seconds. I promised to change the batteries first thing.”
“Here you go.” Micky hands me my coffee.
“If I lived in Darlinghurst, I could have stopped by last night.”
“Such a pity you don’t know anyone in the area.” Micky smirks.
“Very funny. They arrived after midnight. I wasn’t going to rouse any of you because my caretaker was sick, was I?”
“Thank goodness for that,” Micky replies.
Rebecca used to deal with all of this, I want to say but swallow the words, because I don’t want to talk about my ex. It’s too early in the morning for that particular kind of grievance.
“I’ll become your neighbor soon enough.” I sip from the coffee. “Just need to sort out some stuff first.”
A sudden break-up from your partner of sixteen years is emotionally harrowing enough even without all the practical things to arrange: assets to divide, and figure out who gets which souvenir from that trip to Tasmania. As far as I’m concerned, Rebecca can have it all, as long as I never have to see her face again. My lawyer disagrees.
“One of the houses in my street is for sale,” Micky says.
I perk up my ears. “Really?”
“Yeah, I’ll get you the number of the agent. You should check it out.”
“Maybe I will.” My phone buzzes. “Ah, here we go.” I check the message. “Time to go.” I drain my coffee, give Micky and Josephine a wave, and make my way to the apartment I
own but haven’t set foot in for months.
The apartment is above a hair salon, which is still closed. I suppose no one wants to get their hair cut before eight o’clock in the morning. I take the stairs to the first floor and knock gently on the door, shuffling my weight from foot to foot. I never wanted to own a bloody Airbnb. Another thing I resent Rebecca for. Just add it to the pile.
The door flies open and a woman stands in front of me. She’s tall and has cheekbones for days, but what I notice most of all are her eyes. Not the color, but how they sparkle with something. I hope it’s not rage. I think it best to immediately launch into an apology.
“I’m so sorry about this.” I give her my widest TV smile and hold out my hand. “Hi, I’m Zoya. Your smoke detector battery replacer for today.”
The woman looks at my hand for a split second, then takes it in hers and gives it a quick, firm shake, her fingers squeezing tightly. “Camille.” She steps aside to let me in.
I look around. A high-pitched beep startles me.
“It’s been like that all night,” Camille says with a heavy French accent. Her hands are on her hips. “Not exactly conducive to a good night’s sleep.”
“I can imagine. Let me take care of this.” I look up at the smoke detector. A red light blinks. I don’t remember the ceiling being so high. Is there a ladder somewhere in this building? This whole scene is making me feel extremely inadequate. Rebecca was always the handy, super-organized one—a skill that allowed her to organize her affair around our life together for more than a year. I was just the fool who didn’t have a clue.
Just when I think I’m putting the whole sordid ordeal behind me, something like this happens to remind me of it. This apartment was Rebecca’s project from the start. Why it is up to me to deal with it now remains a mystery.
I scan the kitchen for a chair. I step out of my shoes and balance on it precariously. Camille scrutinizes my every move. I raise my hands but I can’t reach the ceiling.
I climb off the chair. “Looks like we’re going to need something higher.”
She gives me a look I can’t decipher. “I’ll try. I’m taller than you.”
“Thanks.” Why don’t we keep spare batteries in this apartment? I’ll have to talk to Myrtle. Or just sell the damn place. Then I wouldn’t be standing here in bare feet in front of a woman who is probably pretty pissed off at me. Although she hides it quite well.
I watch her clamber upon the chair. She does it gracefully, as if balancing on a piece of furniture is all she does in life. She stands on tiptoe and can just reach the outer shell of the smoke detector with her fingertips.
“Careful.” I steady the chair for her.
She has already screwed off the outer casing. “Hand me the batteries.”
I try to pull the package open but, as always with these things, it’s hard to find a spot to pierce it and I have to tear at it with all my might. I finally manage to pry out two batteries. Our fingers touch when I hold them up to her.
She drops the old batteries in my palm and, all the while balancing on the tips of her toes, replaces the batteries and screws the lid on again.
I hold out my hand to her for support when she climbs back down and she takes it. At least I’ve done something.
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” she says.
I shake my head. “I’m mortified. Really. I will reimburse you for the night. The person who usually takes care of this is indisposed at the moment and, as you’ve clearly noticed, I’m not very good at any of this.”
She waves me off. “Just an idea. Keep some spare batteries in a kitchen drawer, perhaps? I could have done this myself last night if I’d had the necessary equipment.”
“I can’t apologize enough. You must be so tired. How about I take you out for coffee? Show you what’s where in the neighborhood?” My earlobes flush. I don’t even know the area that well. The best I can do is take her to the Pink Bean and hope Kristin is there to tell her all about Darlinghurst’s best spots.
Camille ponders my question. “Okay,” she says. “Give me five minutes.” She heads into the bathroom.
I put the chair back and leave the remaining batteries on the kitchen counter.
Maybe when I see the real estate agent to view the house Micky was talking about, I can ask her to come and take a look at this place. Or maybe I should just move in here. I glance around. No, I couldn’t. Rebecca’s touch is all over the decor. That turquoise contrast wall in the living area. The photograph of an outback road in Queensland to my right. It used to hang in our house, until she redecorated it and relocated it here.
“I’m ready for that coffee.” Camille exits the bathroom with a smile.
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To read the rest of Zoya’s story, get This Foreign Affair HERE
Or get the Pink Bean Series: Books 4-6 box set HERE
A Note from Harper
Dear Reader,
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If you’ve enjoyed this book, you can make a big difference. Reviews are the most powerful tools in my arsenal when it comes to getting attention for my books. Being an author who writes for a niche market (lesbian fiction), I don’t have the financial muscle of a big New York publisher behind me when it comes to marketing. I can’t take out full page newspaper ads and put posters in the subway.
But I do have something much more powerful and effective than that, and it’s something those publishers would kill to get heir hands on: a committed and loyal group of readers. (You!)
Honest reviews of my books bring them to the attention of other readers (and encourage the Amazon algorithm to promote my books in 'Also Boughts' and search results on the website.)
If you enjoyed this book I would be very grateful if you could spend a few minutes leaving a review (it can be as short as you like) on the book’s page. You can find the links HERE >>
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Thank you,
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Harper xo
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Acknowledgments
I’ve been at this for a while now, but I still can’t explain why writing some books is such utter joy and some need to be painfully bled from my fingertips onto the screen (or page). This one, however, came gushing out of me during the last four weeks of 2016, and it was such a month of pure elation.
I’ve relished every minute of writing this book, perhaps because I was in familiar territory with the May/December theme, or because I was writing in first person (my preferred point of view), or perhaps because I could finally put the difficulties between book one and three in a series behind me. I don’t really know, but I do know that in Josephine Greenwood I created a character in which I could project a lot of my own doubts and fears about my body.
Despite my wife telling me I’m gorgeous every single day, I didn’t grow up believing the way I looked would ever do. First as a tomboy with no real inclinations toward showing many outward signs of femininity; later as a woman who would stand in front of the mirror asking herself out loud: who could ever love this?
I’m guessing that’s why, despite all our shortcomings and insecu
rities, Josephine and I fell in love with Caitlin simultaneously. And we both realized how the love of a good woman can help tremendously toward realizing your own worth.
I’ve been fortunate enough to have met that woman sixteen years ago, at the time when I needed saving from my thoughts of gloom the most. Prone to hyperbole as I am, it’s nothing but the simple truth that without my wife’s support throughout every single one of those sixteen years, throughout all the highs and very low lows, I would not be writing this as a note in my fourteenth full-length novel.
This lesfic journey has put me into contact with a bunch of wonderful people, and none more so than my beta reader Carrie. Thank you, Carrie, and once you get rid of that president we’ll come visit you and talk about lesfic for days on end.
I’ve worked with quite a few editors over the course of these fourteen books and there’s only one who manages to strike the perfect balance between constructive criticism and jokey comments. It’s a delicate feat that only my friend and trusted editor Cheyenne Blue knows how to pull off.
As always, I must thank my Launch Team. It’s a true privilege to have such a bunch of loyal readers in my corner who help make my books better and help me become a better writer in the process.
Most of all, Dear Reader, I owe gratitude to you and your continued support. Nothing in my life has ever made me feel more truly like myself than writing. I have screwed up a lot of things in my life, and I still do, but there’s such comfort in waking up in the morning and knowing that I’m about to do what I love most in the world: making up lesbian love stories. Thanks to you, I get to do this for a living—and I get to feel good about myself on a daily basis.