lit, and inside it
wasn’t much better. Bare electric bulbs hung from the ceiling and cast a yellowed light not much more powerful than the flame of a candle. The room was oddly absent of any proper tables, but
instead furnished with a mix of small coffee tables, most of them in carved Edwardian style with tall, curved legs and bulbed feet that gave them a Daliesque appearance, like an army of wooden
spiders that might come to life at any moment. A wide, long bench seat ran along three walls, dotted with cushions and throws in shades of pale pink, yellow, and deep red with gold trim on which a
handful of customers lounged. Painted wooden screens set up at irregular intervals interrupted the geometric straight lines of the place and added some booth-like privacy that could easily be
removed when the tables were pushed aside and the bar was turned into a dance floor. Posters affixed to the walls advertised themed discotheques, thankfully occurring on other nights of the week. I
was not in the mood for loud music. Tonight, music was notably absent, and just the low murmurs of whispered conversations filled the air. There was not even a jukebox.
‘Not elegant, I know,’ she told me, ‘but intimate. Just what we need. You settle in, and I’ll fetch drinks.’ She pushed me towards at the back of the long,
low-ceilinged room and I tucked myself onto the bench, rearranging my limbs several times until I found what I hoped was the most attractive position to any onlooker as I watched Clarissa order at
the bar. Her waistcoat highlighted the squareness of her hips and sharp angularity of her broad shoulders, and her cropped hair elongated her neck. She swept her long fringe back behind her ear
with one hand and then took the wine glasses that the bartender presented to her, one in each hand, and turned towards me.
The other patrons didn’t even glance at her. I was astonished by this. To me, Clarissa brought a stage with her everywhere that she went. To see her walk across a room was to see her lit
by an invisible light that cast the world around her into shadow. She was a butterfly in a sea of moths.
‘Thank you,’ I said, relieving her of one of the glasses so that she could sit down without spilling the contents of the other.
‘Now,’ she said, ‘my melancholy Moana. Tell me something I don’t know about you. Tell me a secret.’ She ran the tip of her finger around the length of her glass and
I noticed for the first time that evening that her nails were painted bright red.
I thought of all the secrets I could tell and nearly laughed.
‘What kind of secret?’ I asked her.
‘The kind that you’re too afraid to tell anyone. Tell me and I’ll forget I ever heard it, right away.’
‘You might write it into a play.’
‘Only if it’s a very entertaining secret.’
‘I’m in love with my room mate,’ I blurted out. ‘I watched her make love to a man. And now I can’t think about anything else.’
A wide smile spread across Clarissa’s lips and she leaned back against the sofa cushions.
‘Oh. I confess, that is vastly more entertaining that I was expecting. Perhaps I shall indeed make you into a play. Tell me more. Tell me all about it.’
I told her first about growing up with Iris and how my feelings had been lustful from the outset. Of the nights that we shared huddled together in a single bed (‘How charming,’
Clarissa remarked), and the bedsit that we shared now, in Hammersmith, and Iris’s job with the legal firm and how Thomas had inconveniently appeared in our lives out of the blue.
She just sat and stared straight ahead into the distance, as if my words were playing out in front of her like a film on some invisible screen, and carried on playing the tips of her fingers
against the wine glass. All of a sudden, as if it were nothing, she put the glass down and relocated her hand to my knee.
My voice faltered for a moment. Her touch was so warm, as if she had been standing
wasn’t much better. Bare electric bulbs hung from the ceiling and cast a yellowed light not much more powerful than the flame of a candle. The room was oddly absent of any proper tables, but
instead furnished with a mix of small coffee tables, most of them in carved Edwardian style with tall, curved legs and bulbed feet that gave them a Daliesque appearance, like an army of wooden
spiders that might come to life at any moment. A wide, long bench seat ran along three walls, dotted with cushions and throws in shades of pale pink, yellow, and deep red with gold trim on which a
handful of customers lounged. Painted wooden screens set up at irregular intervals interrupted the geometric straight lines of the place and added some booth-like privacy that could easily be
removed when the tables were pushed aside and the bar was turned into a dance floor. Posters affixed to the walls advertised themed discotheques, thankfully occurring on other nights of the week. I
was not in the mood for loud music. Tonight, music was notably absent, and just the low murmurs of whispered conversations filled the air. There was not even a jukebox.
‘Not elegant, I know,’ she told me, ‘but intimate. Just what we need. You settle in, and I’ll fetch drinks.’ She pushed me towards at the back of the long,
low-ceilinged room and I tucked myself onto the bench, rearranging my limbs several times until I found what I hoped was the most attractive position to any onlooker as I watched Clarissa order at
the bar. Her waistcoat highlighted the squareness of her hips and sharp angularity of her broad shoulders, and her cropped hair elongated her neck. She swept her long fringe back behind her ear
with one hand and then took the wine glasses that the bartender presented to her, one in each hand, and turned towards me.
The other patrons didn’t even glance at her. I was astonished by this. To me, Clarissa brought a stage with her everywhere that she went. To see her walk across a room was to see her lit
by an invisible light that cast the world around her into shadow. She was a butterfly in a sea of moths.
‘Thank you,’ I said, relieving her of one of the glasses so that she could sit down without spilling the contents of the other.
‘Now,’ she said, ‘my melancholy Moana. Tell me something I don’t know about you. Tell me a secret.’ She ran the tip of her finger around the length of her glass and
I noticed for the first time that evening that her nails were painted bright red.
I thought of all the secrets I could tell and nearly laughed.
‘What kind of secret?’ I asked her.
‘The kind that you’re too afraid to tell anyone. Tell me and I’ll forget I ever heard it, right away.’
‘You might write it into a play.’
‘Only if it’s a very entertaining secret.’
‘I’m in love with my room mate,’ I blurted out. ‘I watched her make love to a man. And now I can’t think about anything else.’
A wide smile spread across Clarissa’s lips and she leaned back against the sofa cushions.
‘Oh. I confess, that is vastly more entertaining that I was expecting. Perhaps I shall indeed make you into a play. Tell me more. Tell me all about it.’
I told her first about growing up with Iris and how my feelings had been lustful from the outset. Of the nights that we shared huddled together in a single bed (‘How charming,’
Clarissa remarked), and the bedsit that we shared now, in Hammersmith, and Iris’s job with the legal firm and how Thomas had inconveniently appeared in our lives out of the blue.
She just sat and stared straight ahead into the distance, as if my words were playing out in front of her like a film on some invisible screen, and carried on playing the tips of her fingers
against the wine glass. All of a sudden, as if it were nothing, she put the glass down and relocated her hand to my knee.
My voice faltered for a moment. Her touch was so warm, as if she had been standing
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