embarrassing behaviour last night. I know I vowed to be sexual, Kitten, to stop living a life that was riddled with repression, but if being sexually adventurous results in as much betrayal as being shy and unadventurous, then why should I bother?
Anyhoo, I left without waking Guy and Valerie, and got the bus home. Then once I was at my house, I couldn’t find my key. So I ended up sitting on my own doorstep, emptying my bag, object by object, trying to stay calm. A few minutes after I’d started this process, the front door opened and Janey appeared. ‘What you doing?’ she asked, blinking, surprised.
I’d spent all this time emptying my bag, chiding myself, when I could have just knocked. ‘I thought you’d be at your lectures,’ I said.
‘Dissertation day,’ she said, gazing at the step where the innards of my handbag lay displayed: a pack of hankies, some nail polish, my asthma inhaler, my purse, a book of stamps …
I opened my mouth to say, ‘I lost my key,’ but I couldn’t say the words without bursting into tears.
Before I know it, Janey’s clearing a space on the step by my side, sitting down next to me and wrapping an arm around me. ‘Oh, Debs, please don’t cry!’ she says. ‘Whatever happened, we’ll sort it out.’ And I look up through my tears, because the way she said ‘we’ makes me feel like I matter. ‘Look,’ she says, opening my pack of tissues and passing one to me, ‘I was just popping out to get a pastry and some coffee from Buttercup’s. Dissertation food.’ She gave me a wink. ‘Join me? I’ll pay. I need some time off.’
And I’m so touched that I agree.
Buttercup’s is a bakery round the corner from where I – or we, rather – live. I don’t go in there often because it isn’t en route to the bus, but once we’re seated in the tiny front room, with sunlight falling warmly on our red gingham tablecloth, I feel better – especially when the rosy-cheeked waitress brings us each an almond croissant and coffee in mugs. There’s a small fake carnation in the middle of the table, in a small glass vase. Not classy, but sweet. Perhaps that’s a little like me.
As I tell Janey about my night, including my becoming a total dominatrix, she doesn’t laugh or look amazed. She tips her head, watching me intently, her eyes so blue that it’s as if they’re lit from behind. Of course, I gloss over the sex, just explaining that it was way out there for me, and at times I speak in whispers because there are others nearby – there’s an elderly couple next to us, each doing a crossword puzzle in a different newspaper, and behind them is a girl with a pierced nose listening to music on her earbuds … but I swear she keeps glancing across, as if she can hear me anyway.
When I get to the part about waking up to find Guy and Valerie curled together, Janey’s eyes narrow with fury. The way she tears at a bit of croissant reminds me of the way Henry used to rip up junk mail. He hated junk mail, did Henry.
‘This is the trouble with threesomes,’ says Janey. ‘People get hurt.’
I sigh. ‘I should have guessed it would be a car crash,’ I say.
Janey reaches across and takes my hand. ‘Sweetheart,’ she tells me, ‘this isn’t your fault. I’ve heard that threesomes can be wonderful. But you need strong boundaries – and everyone needs to be clear.’ She says that Guy shouldn’t have set up a threesome with two women he was close to. ‘He could have bought a sex worker,’ Janey explains, ‘or asked a friend who is clearly just a mate.’
‘Instead, he asked French Glamour Girl,’ I say.
‘He asked his PA,’ says Janey. ‘His PA; who he’s obviously fucked before.’
‘Obviously still fucking,’ I sigh.
‘Well, we don’t know,’ says Janey. ‘And that’s the prob.’ She adds that she and Lil recently argued about a similar situation. But when she starts giving the detail, she suddenly flushes and bites her lip. ‘I shouldn’t,’ she
Anyhoo, I left without waking Guy and Valerie, and got the bus home. Then once I was at my house, I couldn’t find my key. So I ended up sitting on my own doorstep, emptying my bag, object by object, trying to stay calm. A few minutes after I’d started this process, the front door opened and Janey appeared. ‘What you doing?’ she asked, blinking, surprised.
I’d spent all this time emptying my bag, chiding myself, when I could have just knocked. ‘I thought you’d be at your lectures,’ I said.
‘Dissertation day,’ she said, gazing at the step where the innards of my handbag lay displayed: a pack of hankies, some nail polish, my asthma inhaler, my purse, a book of stamps …
I opened my mouth to say, ‘I lost my key,’ but I couldn’t say the words without bursting into tears.
Before I know it, Janey’s clearing a space on the step by my side, sitting down next to me and wrapping an arm around me. ‘Oh, Debs, please don’t cry!’ she says. ‘Whatever happened, we’ll sort it out.’ And I look up through my tears, because the way she said ‘we’ makes me feel like I matter. ‘Look,’ she says, opening my pack of tissues and passing one to me, ‘I was just popping out to get a pastry and some coffee from Buttercup’s. Dissertation food.’ She gave me a wink. ‘Join me? I’ll pay. I need some time off.’
And I’m so touched that I agree.
Buttercup’s is a bakery round the corner from where I – or we, rather – live. I don’t go in there often because it isn’t en route to the bus, but once we’re seated in the tiny front room, with sunlight falling warmly on our red gingham tablecloth, I feel better – especially when the rosy-cheeked waitress brings us each an almond croissant and coffee in mugs. There’s a small fake carnation in the middle of the table, in a small glass vase. Not classy, but sweet. Perhaps that’s a little like me.
As I tell Janey about my night, including my becoming a total dominatrix, she doesn’t laugh or look amazed. She tips her head, watching me intently, her eyes so blue that it’s as if they’re lit from behind. Of course, I gloss over the sex, just explaining that it was way out there for me, and at times I speak in whispers because there are others nearby – there’s an elderly couple next to us, each doing a crossword puzzle in a different newspaper, and behind them is a girl with a pierced nose listening to music on her earbuds … but I swear she keeps glancing across, as if she can hear me anyway.
When I get to the part about waking up to find Guy and Valerie curled together, Janey’s eyes narrow with fury. The way she tears at a bit of croissant reminds me of the way Henry used to rip up junk mail. He hated junk mail, did Henry.
‘This is the trouble with threesomes,’ says Janey. ‘People get hurt.’
I sigh. ‘I should have guessed it would be a car crash,’ I say.
Janey reaches across and takes my hand. ‘Sweetheart,’ she tells me, ‘this isn’t your fault. I’ve heard that threesomes can be wonderful. But you need strong boundaries – and everyone needs to be clear.’ She says that Guy shouldn’t have set up a threesome with two women he was close to. ‘He could have bought a sex worker,’ Janey explains, ‘or asked a friend who is clearly just a mate.’
‘Instead, he asked French Glamour Girl,’ I say.
‘He asked his PA,’ says Janey. ‘His PA; who he’s obviously fucked before.’
‘Obviously still fucking,’ I sigh.
‘Well, we don’t know,’ says Janey. ‘And that’s the prob.’ She adds that she and Lil recently argued about a similar situation. But when she starts giving the detail, she suddenly flushes and bites her lip. ‘I shouldn’t,’ she
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