Out Late with Friends and Regrets (9 page)

“Let me guess.
 
Dame Hilda Bracket?”

“Close.
 
Definitely
tweeds,” said Fiona firmly.

“With an Inverness cape, perhaps?”

“Yes, yes, of course, not forgetting the monocle!”
    

“Dear
God
!” snorted Ellie, “The love child of Dame Hilda and Burlington Bertie!”

“Sort of! But seriously, Ellie, you’re still exotic enough to knock anybody sideways, whatever my stupid assumptions.”

Ellie looked pleased.

“Hmmm, yes, ‘exotic’ is fair.
 
I’m actually quite a rare racial and cultural cocktail; a quarter each English, Dutch, Irish and Jamaican.”

“You make me feel very conventional.
 
I’m plain old Anglo-Scottish … Anyway, I’m burning to ask, what do you do – something to do with the university, I’ll bet.”

“You could say that.
 
I’m a lecturer.”

“In what?”

“Anthropology.”

“Coo!”

“Don’t be too impressed, it’s the soft option for a lot of students! OK, Fiona, my turn to ask about you.
 
You going to tell me your surname, by the way?
 
Mine’s Van Zandt.”

“Hay, Fiona Hay.
 
Just
 
a shopkeeper, I’m afraid.
 
Casual wear and T-shirts.
 
I print words and pictures on the merchandise, logos and jokey stuff, to order. I’m sorry, it sounds really boring, doesn’t it.”

“If it’s an honest crust, don’t knock it, sweetie.
 
All work is honourable, and all that. Speaking of which, we should be giving that barman some, in a minute…”

Fiona went to the bar, and on her return with the drinks was ready with her challenge.

“So, Ellie Van Zandt, how come someone like you answers a Lonelyhearts ad?
 
You surely aren’t going to tell me that you have difficulty in attracting women, especially when everyone knows that students automatically fall in love with their tutors?
 
I dunno, you’ve got all that huge, transient population as a natural resource…”

“I don’t do students,” responded Ellie primly, adding with a roguish twinkle, “not mine, anyway!
 
But actually, grazing one’s way along a running buffet doesn’t exactly foster stable relationships.
 
And I have to say, the last few months have been deadly – nobody new, nobody interesting around at all, who isn’t already taken, that is.”

“Oh, good.
 
That really does wonderful things for my ego.
 
To be the very last resort in a dull world …”

“Mmm, do I smell the delicious aroma of crispy martyr?
 
Actually, even in the big city it’s not
that
easy to get to know a good cross-section of like-minded females, as you’ll find, if you decide to pursue your inclinations.”

“Oh, I’m committed now.
 
I may know nothing, but so far it feels totally right.”

“So.
 
Your advertisement really intrigued me.
 
How did it come about?”

  
Fiona told her a little of the circumstances, without going into too much detail; about Rosemary’s shock suggestion, and particularly how the more she thought about it, the more the conviction of it had taken root.
 
She added a wry account of how difficult she had found it to write in such a way as to attract the attention of someone who might guide her though the rainbow portal into a new life.
 

“
“The where I belong thing w
as inspired by an obscure old Velvet Underground track I heard on the radio. I was desperate and right out of ideas, and zappo, it was the light-bulb moment.
 
Well, it got
your
attention, Ellie!”

“True.
 
And alas, here was I eagerly anticipating a long-haired, doe-eyed femmy type with gigantic bazooms, and instead it looks as if I’ve got myself a job as mentor to a very tasty, potential competitor … God, ain’t life a bitch!”

With that, Ellie ordered a bottle, advising her new charge that, since they were obviously in for a session, this made more sense. They clinked, and Fiona took a deep breath.

“So it’s true then, the concept of a butch-femme dynamic in relationships?” asked Fiona, enjoying the novelty of being delightfully embarrassment-free.

“Not exactly,” replied Ellie, sloshing her wine around in the glass in a thoughtful manner, “that old stuff is rather misleading.”

“Explain, expand, discuss.
 
Illustrate with examples.”

“The classic lesbian couple, with a masculine-looking type, and a feminine femme,
is
alive and well, and common enough.”

“But?”

“You simply wouldn’t know most gay women when you pass them in the street, darling.
 
Now I’d put myself more at the butch end of the scale, but I’ve been to bed with a number of women who are of a similar degree of, well,
butchness
, if you like.”

“Right...”
 

“You sometimes see two real diesel-dykes enjoying love’s young dream together, and I’ve friends you’d never suspect were anything but straight, coupled up.
 
Gaydar is somewhat overrated.”

Fiona nodded, fascinated.
 

“For instance,” continued Ellie, “there are plenty of sporty, no-nonsense women – you know the type, big watch, no make-up, change the wheel on your car type of women – with five kids at violin lessons, a tubby hubby and an Aga.”

“Crikey, asking someone for a date could be positively hazardous to your health, by the sound of it!”

“Yes,” said Ellie, “and the situation is made even worse by the fact that so many lesbians themselves go along with the myths – it’s exasperating!”

“No wonder you answered my ad! Lamb to the bloody slaughter, I bet you thought!”

Ellie sighed, grinning.
 

“For my sins …”
 
she admitted.

Fiona made an ugly,
 
pissed-off-goblin face.

“So I guess you don’t want to sleep with me, then!”

 
“Stone me, she can’t wait!” laughed Ellie delightedly, “It’s obvious you fancy the pants off me, dear!”

“Sadly, not nearly as much as I fancy my aerobics teacher, even though you’ve got ten times her personality!”

“That’s my girl,” said Ellie, winking, “you’ll be a joy to coach!”

The conversation flowed.
 
Fiona was savvy enough to be aware that Ellie was very skilfully drawing information from her, without pressure and without seeming to be anything but a good listener; and realised she didn’t actually mind.
 
Normally so close about the past, tonight she found it good to unburden a few difficult things to someone who neither criticised, nor belittled her with sympathy.

“You know what?” said Ellie, eventually, “I don’t really see you as a Fiona.
 
Do you mind if I call you Fin, for short?”

“You don’t like Fiona?”

“No, don’t get me wrong, it’s a good name.
 
But it’s a bit... sensible and ladylike, if you know what I mean,” said Ellie.

Fiona guffawed.

“I’ve never particularly liked or disliked it myself,” she admitted, “but you just never think about that sort of thing, do you? I used to get called Fee at school, but - Fin’s got real possibilities...
 
Yeah, let’s go for it!”

It was buzzy, it had a finger-clicking feel to it; it fitted the person she was ready to be.
 
New life, new name; it worked.

By this time she had relaxed to the extent of being quite unfazed when Ellie asked where she lived.

“Two miles beyond Cantlesham, down a quiet lane -”

“Cantlesham?” exclaimed Ellie, “As in, ‘Disgusted of Cantlesham?’ The town adrift in its own dreams of English niceness?
 
Natural home of the pastry fork? And you live two miles
beyond
the back of beyond?”

“God, you’re so
rude
, Ellie!”

“Rude? Young lady, I am
never
rude!”
 
said Ellie, sucking in her cheeks.

“How about offensive and obnoxious?”

“OK, offensive and obnoxious I accept.
 
Honestly though, It’s hardly the hippest spot on the planet for a seeker after Sapphic satisfaction, is it?”

Fin was sniggering, a little muzzed at the edges from a lot more to drink than she was used to.

“’Tis, so! On Gay Pride day all the lavender-scented old biddies and retired colonels go jigging through the pedestrian precinct in Xena breastplates and backless trousers!” she declared.

“’So gay the music, so giddy the measure’, eh?” said Ellie.

“Not.
 
Actually, I think I may have to move away from Cantlesham.”

“I’d say it was a priority, Fin.”

At this point Ellie turned her head, and hollered, “Oi, Benno!” above the hub-bub.
 
As he approached, she asked Fin, “Fancy some home-made lasagne?
 
Benno’s lasagne is to fah-h-h-hkin’
die
for!”

“I say Professor,” slurred Fin, “isn’t that a teensy-weensy little split infinitive in there, hmmm?”

“Pipe down, junior, I’ll speak to you later – hi Benno, how’s the lasagne tonight?”

Benno’s principal feature was a heavy walrus moustache, beneath which a gleaming smile could just be detected.

“Why you have to ask, Mees Van Zandt? My lasagne
always
beautiful, like your mama
never
make!
 
Fan-ficky-tastic!”

“That’s two, then, Benno, and say Hi to Dotty for me.”

Benno turned and made for the Staff Only door, all tight black trousers and swervy gait.

“That man has a peach of an arse,” Ellie commented loudly.
 
A small movement of his shoulders indicated that he had heard.

“Case in point,” resumed Ellie, turning back to her pupil.
 
“You could just imagine Benno in all the chains and leather gear, but he and Dotty have been happily married for years. Got a smashing pair of twin boys.
 
The accent’s a dead fake, too.
 
Born in Hackney.”

“It’s an incredible bar,” commented Fin, looking up at the stark pipework.

“Yeah, been like this since the millennium.
 
Everyone keeps telling Ben to give it a makeover, but he can’t bear to close long enough to get it done up!”

The lasagne was indeed delicious, and helped soak up the next bottle.
 
Both women were now experiencing that delightful sense of reduced responsibility that follows tipsy but precedes plastered; and when Ellie took Fin’s hand and suggested they go down to the disco, it seemed like a really good idea.

Desiree was playing delightful old cheesy pops, in between newer indie and club tracks, and the two danced indiscriminately to everything, both the hip-shakers and the cheek-to-cheekers.
 
There was some minor scuffling in determining who should lead during the latter, and consequently several random changes of direction, resulting in unexpected collisions.
 
The other dancers were a pick ‘n’ mix of male and female, and sexual frontiers appeared to be fairly fluid. Ellie bought mineral water at the bar, and they drank and sweated liberally by turns, in between their exertions on the dance floor.
 
Then the karaoke book came round, and Ellie scribbled on one of the slips without examining the selection.