by Kirsty Eyre
‘Still, the snow hasn’t got to us yet, so we’re OK. You did the right thing, becoming a scientist. Carry on doing what you’re doing, and the world will be a better place.’
‘Thanks, Dad.’
I know his twinkly blue eyes are smiling. I can hear it in his voice. There’s no one else in the world that makes me feel as loved as Dad. By the time I hang up, I’m in an infinitely better place. I block out the PhD thing, and append various fictional endings to my encounter with Joely Chevalier, involving inevitable nudity and a much more gratifying form of chemistry.
CHAPTER THREE
FRIENDS
By the time we hit early February, the lab is still icy cold, and nobody has been in to look at the heating. Dave wanders over to my work-space just as I’m in the throes of measuring umbilical vein endothelial cells.
‘How’s it going, Shitbag?’ His latex gloves twang as he launches them into the bin.
‘Good, Dinosaur.’ I try not to lose count. ‘You?’
‘Great.’ He washes his hands in the sink next to me. ‘Things are hotting up with Molly so—’
‘Hang on a minute,’ I say, pipette poised. ‘She wasn’t called Molly last week.’
He removes his tortoiseshell glasses from the bridge of his crooked nose, puffs hot air onto each lens, swabs them with a paper towel and drops them into the breast pocket of his lab coat. ‘You’re thinking of Jenny.’
In the four years that we’ve been lab mates, Dave has fallen for about fifty women. For a soft lad in his forties, he does rather well.
‘It’s the whole “single dad” thing. Girls love it.’ He picks up a placental sample, squints at the label, takes his glasses back out of his pocket and holds a lens up to the text. ‘You should try it.’
‘Try what?’
‘Online dating. Pummel’s the best thing I ever did. There must be some good lesbian dating sites.’ He takes his phone out of his back pocket and peruses a little too diligently. Dave lives in a fantasy where all lesbians look like airbrushed Hollywood actresses, have an insatiable sexual appetite, and engage in hot, heavy petting purely for the gratification of heterosexual male voyeurs.
‘Did I tell you we got funding?’ He flicks through photos of twenty-something girls.
‘No!’
‘KSG signed off a six-month extension yesterday. New person. Joely someone or other. French surname.’
I can’t stop smiling. Joely Chevalier. Even her name sounds as if she should arrive draped from head to toe in pure white silk on a jet-black steed. As I return to my work, it occurs to me: she’s now my Business Sponsor, so it’s my responsibility to build a relationship with her. I intend to take these responsibilities very seriously …
Subj: Obstetric Abnormalities Conference
Dear Joely,
It was great to meet you at the conference. Sorry I had to rush off!
I’m very keen to follow up with a KSG/Queen’s Research collaboration and work out how we could help each other. Maybe we could meet for a coffee sometime?
Best regards,
Billie Oliver
Senior Analyst, Queen’s Research & Development
Joely Chevalier. Billie Chevalier.
The girls get in touch, requesting ‘urgent brunch’. How can brunch be urgent? By its very nature, brunch is supposed to be late and slovenly.
Borough Market is buzzing, the smell of moules marinière mingling with slow-cooked beef bourguignon. I wander between carts of organic vegetables and piping-hot pans of Ethiopian goat curry. Past beef empanadas, salted brownies and cinnamon churros. Truffles and marinades, lobsters on ice, and beyond Charcuterie de Bretagne, where great hunks of cheese are piled one on top of another, the French flag pinned to the top of each tower. I’d love to show my dad all this. The only market he goes to is Bakewell cattle market, where you’re lucky if they’re not out of chips. Although the price of a bacon butty here would probably give him palpitations.
We meet in Vinopolis so that Kat can go cheese-mad in anticipation of some Vin et Fromage corporate hospitality masterclass her work is launching. It’s dark inside and feels refrigerated – hardly the place for brunch. My eyes take a moment to adjust before I can make out exposed brickwork, glass, stainless steel, and Kat sitting at a long oak table.
‘Bill!’ She throws her arms around me in the manner of an affected actress. Her hair has been dyed a deep burgundy and she’s a swirl of autumnal colours and knee-high suede boots – the sort of outfit a novelist promoting her fourth book would wear, rather than a corporate accountant.
I squeeze her shoulders. ‘How was Frankfurt? It was Frankfurt, right?’
‘Good,’ she says.
Bev appears from the washroom, smelling of geranium and orange handwash. Her Mohican is back to its trademark fluorescent pink. ‘Buddy!’ She claps her arms around me. ‘How did the PhD fair go?’
‘It got cancelled.’ I can’t bear to relive the horror. ‘Just like our Christmas party.’
‘You didn’t have a Christmas party? No wonder you never get laid, Bill!’ Kat says, gesturing for us to take a seat.
Bev sits down next to Kat and squeezes her knee. ‘That, Kitty Kat, would imply you’re guaranteed a shag at a Christmas party.’
‘Aren’t you?’ Kat teases.
‘Maybe at Ernst & Young, Katherine Mellor,’ Bev says. ‘But the annual Zoological Society of London’s knees-up in the reptile house is not so accommodating.’
A lady in a white apron and a severe ponytail brings out a tray of diced cheese samples, a plate of crackers, a bottle of Malbec and four glasses. Kat gets stuck in, commenting on the creamy consistency of the Beaufort Alpage, while Bev glances around the room, a strict vegan.
‘Bev’s just back from Doncaster,’ Kat says, a blob of Soignon goat log dripping from her chin.
I pass her a serviette. ‘Doncaster?’
‘I had to transport a pair of Bactrian camels from Yorkshire Wildlife Park down to Whipsnade. Four hours in a lorry with the male stamping and bellowing,’ Bev says.
‘Was he OK?’ I ask, not knowing what else to say. I know nothing about animals.
‘Turns out he was in heat and trying to mount his lady friend,’ Bev says.
Maria enters, laden with props. Her long dark hair cascades down the back of her fake mink fur coat. ‘Hi, girls!’ She takes off oversized sunglasses and air-circles her orange face with an orange finger. ‘Meet Melania Trump!’
‘What happened to you?’ Kat’s face scrunches in horror.
Maria unloads her bags onto the wooden bench, unaware that she’s being eyeballed by a wine-tasting group for leaving the door open. ‘The Lambeth LGBT players want me to audition for Melania the Musical.’
‘Does it matter that you’re not gay?’ Kat wonders.
‘To me?’ Maria asks, adjusting her hearing aid.
‘I think she means to the membership of the Lambeth LGBT theatre group,’ I say.
Maria thinks about this for a moment before reaching into her red leather holdall and retrieving a tube of lip gloss. ‘I don’t see what difference it makes, do you?’
‘Well, isn’t it like joining a Christian canoe club and not being a Christian?’ I say, realizing this is an appalling comparison.
‘That’s the thing, though,’ Maria says, dabbing at her bottom lip. ‘You’d be going canoeing rather than Christianing. I’m sure they don’t care.’
‘The lesbians or the Christians?’ I say, rummaging through my bag for my phone and finding it stuck to a sanitary towel.
‘Either. A canoe is a canoe just as a performance is a performance. If they kick off about it, I’ll just tell them they’re being heterophobic,’ Maria says.
A cursory glance at my phone tells me there’s still no email response from Joely Chevalier – not that I’m checking every ten minutes or anything.
The waitress reappears with her touch-screen tablet and looks over our heads at the wine-tasting group, who are getting rowdier by the minut
e. ‘I’ve been asked if the “gossip girls” can keep the noise down,’ she says.
‘Isn’t that a bit hypocritical?’ Kat snaps.
‘No worries,’ Bev says, taking Kat’s hand in hers. ‘I think we’re ready to order.’
‘Yes, sir, madam, sir?’ The waitress looks Bev up and down.
Bev remains undeterred. ‘Can we see your champagne list?’ She taps her fingers on her thigh. ‘We’re celebrating.’
‘Celebrating what?’ Maria asks her.
‘Gaaagh!’ Kat screams, thrusting a diamond-adorned finger at us.
A girl from the wine-tasting group on the next table makes a point of slamming down her wine list.
‘Congratulations!’ I say, leaping up to hug Kat and then Bev.
Maria takes what feels like a million photos with her phone – Bev and Kat, their heads squished together in premarital bliss, appearing on social media within seconds.
‘Have you set a date?’ Maria says, when we finally settle back down.
Kat nods. ‘December. Gives me time to plan. You know what I’m like with a spreadsheet.’
We do know what Kat’s like with a spreadsheet. Whether it’s comparing gym membership deals or planning someone’s hen party (Kat’s a popular ‘matron of honour’ choice), there’s always a spreadsheet to hand. When Neve and I went our separate ways, Kat did me a Splitting-Up spreadsheet.
Bev runs her hands over her Mohican. ‘So, how would you ladies feel about being best women?’ Her eyes flit between Maria and me.
‘It’d be an honour,’ I say, as Maria squeals with delight.
We fill an hour discussing the dynamics of the wedding. Bev, having two mothers and no father, can’t decide whether her mum or her mama should give her away. It’s even more upsetting for Kat – her dad still hasn’t come to terms with the fact that she’s with a woman and is refusing to come to the wedding. We’re talking venue options when my phone bleeps.
Re: Obstetric Abnormalities Conference
Dear Billie,
Sorry for my late reply. I’m working long days in Belgium. Next week, I return to London just for the weekend. Are you free on Sunday? It would be good to meet.
Best wishes,
Joely
I can barely breathe.
‘So, who is she?’ Bev looks at me.
I feel my cheeks flush. ‘Is it that obvious?’
‘Buddy, it’d be obvious even if I hadn’t known you since sixth form,’ she says.
‘Is this the French girl?’ Maria says, reaching for the Gruyère.
‘Before you get all excited, she’s probably straight,’ I say, trying to decide whether my blue-cheese sample tastes a little or a lot like mould.
‘That’s the most Billie sentence I’ve ever heard,’ Bev says.
‘How do you mean?’ I say.
Bev’s eyes widen. ‘Putting up the barriers before it’s even taken off.’
‘I do that?’ I frown.
‘Yes!’ The three of them chorus.
They stare at me for longer than is comfortable, and I’m debating whether to leave them to their porn de fromage so I can obsess over a response to Joely in the Ladies’ loo, when the waitress arrives with four flutes of champagne.
‘Cheers!’ Maria raises her glass. ‘To the gossip girls!’
The wine-tasting group cast furtive glances.
‘To the gossip girls!’ We raise our glasses.
Maria glances at my phone. ‘Bloody hell! She’s asking you out on Valentine’s Day?’
‘Valentine’s Day is on Sunday?’ I feel a surge of panic, which refuses to disappear even after three large gulps of champagne. ‘Shit, I bet she has no idea.’
‘Or maybe she does?’ Maria thumps me on the arm with encouragement.
‘Does she know you’re a raging homosexual?’ Kat says.
‘I have no idea,’ I say, wondering if this is problematic.
Maria looks at me. ‘Sometimes people need things spelled out.’
Shoehorning your sexual orientation into an email thread with a colleague/customer/sponsor is easier said than done. A couple of champagnes later, I finally settle on:
Re: Obstetric Abnormalities Conference
Hi Joely,
I’ve just realized Sunday is Valentine’s Day and although I’m in the habit of dating women, you might not be
Best,
Billie
In the sober light of the next day, I cringe at my email. I barely know the poor girl, who must be squirming with embarrassment. There’s no way I’m drinking ever again. I consider a follow-up apology mail, but Dave grabs my feet and mimes sawing them off in homage to the obsessed woman from Misery. He reckons I should have assumed it was a date and ‘that’s what most blokes would have done.’ I am not ‘most blokes’.
My hangover isn’t helped by my phone, which won’t stop bleeping with text messages from Grandma. ‘Are you prepared for the “Big Freeze Part 2”?’ I’m not sure whether she’s talking about a new Disney film or the weather. ‘Have you heard Dad’s changed his chocolate allegiance to Bournville?’ Having been a Dairy Milk man for four decades, this is in fairness massive news. ‘Did you know I’ve got a new phone? Can you do the FaceTime? Now?’
It takes standing in the Ladies’ loo to get a strong enough signal to FaceTime, thanks to Tel-Useless-4U, which I would happily leave were I not tied into a ridiculously cheap two-year partner deal with Neve.
‘Hello? Hello?’ I say, tapping the screen in a futile attempt to remove a blurred face that is not my grandmother’s.
‘Hi, Billie!’ A voice crackles as the horseshoe-shaped scar on Lorna Parsons’ forehead comes into focus. Why is my dad’s vet answering Grandma’s phone? ‘Your gran’s busy making tea,’ she says, as though reading my mind. ‘Are you in a toilet?’
‘No.’ I angle myself away from the flush.
She pulls off a fingerless glove with her teeth and traces the line of her scar with a bitten fingernail. ‘How’s work going?’
‘Good,’ I say, determined to keep the conversation short. Her large owl eyes flicker around my surroundings. ‘All OK with you?’ I append out of obligation.
She winds a tendril of mousy hair around her finger. ‘Yes, thanks. It’s pretty steady at the moment. Of course, things will get silly again when we hit calving season.’
‘I guess. Look, should I call back later?’
‘No, it’s lovely to chat. How’s the love life?’
I may have known Lorna pretty much all my life, but we haven’t been friends since adolescence. At school she was three academic years my junior and, back then, unless you were acknowledged at assembly for a sporting achievement or a music accreditation, you were invisible to anyone outside your year group. The only reason I knew Lorna was because her father was my dad’s vet and she used to turn up (with cheese and pickle sandwiches in neat, white triangles) at the farm on weekends to fawn over Andy Pickering, my dad’s farm hand – Andy was the ‘evil twin’, whereas his brother Paul was the ‘nice twin’; she seemed to have a thing for bad boys.
When we were little, we were friendly enough – we’d build dens down by the stream and used to pretend that we worked in a perfume factory. We’d crush fallen rose petals with a stick and mix them with rainwater in a bucket, coming up with names for each scent. ‘Pearl water’, ‘Lemon drizzle’, ‘Eau de fart’. When we got bored, we’d go up to the old barn to do gymnastics, using hay bales as crash mats. We’d take it in turns to run the length of the barn and launch ourselves off an old trampette that Dad got when the village nursery were having a sort-out. Grandma used to say we’d end up in A&E with the amount of crash landings we had, but the most damage we did was to the barn door, which fell off its hinges after an overzealous handspring of mine. It was fine between us until adolescence got in the way and made everything awkward – handstands becoming a no-go, lest knickers get flashed and errant pubes put in an appearance. From then on in, I got into football, whilst she remained loyal
to horses, and we simply grew apart.
As teenagers, we kept a firm distance. It was clear to both of us that we were becoming fundamentally different people. The biggest divide, though, was my sexual orientation, which Lorna has never been able to come to terms with. I can still feel her eyes upon me, judging me, staring at me like you might try to fathom impossible self-assembly instructions. Shortly after, I went away to university, then she did, and by the time she graduated from Nottingham Trent and returned with Guy Bonneville a few years later, we were pretty much off each other’s radar – until two years ago, when her father retired, and she became my dad’s vet and formed Parsons-Bonneville Premier Vets with her boyfriend, Guy.
‘Are you seeing anyone at the moment?’ Her big owl eyes assess me from my phone screen.
Disclosing my non-existent love life to her over FaceTime from a draughty toilet feels about as natural as discussing bowel movements with the Queen. ‘Nobody in particular,’ I say, doubtless making her skin crawl at the thought of a lesbian pick-and-mix.
‘You know I’ve a friend in publishing, lovely chap who—’
‘Hi, Billie.’ Grandma covers the screen with a burned oven glove. I’m saved. Her kind eyes smile under a tangle of wiry eyebrows. ‘Are you in the work loos again?’
I stick my tongue out at her. ‘How are you guys?’
‘Not great. Your father had to dig through a four-foot snowdrift at an unearthly hour this morning to get the milk out, only for us to be completely cut off from the co-op. Gallons of the stuff – it’s a wonder it’s not frozen over. It’s a good job Lorna has snow chains, otherwise we’d be in all sorts of bother. What we really need is one of those drones. Apparently, they’re all the rage down your way. It’s breaking your father. He struggles to do a jigsaw at the moment, and you know how he loves his jigsaws.’
‘It’s just a blip!’ Dad shouts in the background. ‘We’ve got through plenty of blips before.’
‘A blip? It’s more than a blip!’ she hollers. ‘Honestly, Billie, I don’t know how he does it. You wouldn’t catch our John up at four a.m.’
Grandma means Peter. John is my dad. You certainly wouldn’t catch Uncle Pete up at 4 a.m. You may, however, catch him up the skirt of a teenage waitress in a burger joint, which my auntie June did a couple of years ago, and for which she is still trying to forgive, although forgetting is a totally different prospect, especially when alcohol is involved.