In at the Deep End

by Kate Davies

  And then, before the evening got completely out of control, Jasper stood up on Sam’s speech-giving chair and shouted, ‘Oi, Sam! We have a surprise for you!’

  Two women pulled a chair into the middle of the room in front of the projector and Sam sat down. She called out, ‘Where’s my baby?’ and Alice pushed me forward. I knelt on the floor next to Sam and she bent down to give me a kiss. A drunk woman behind us shouted ‘Fucking lezzers!’ and everyone laughed.

  And then there was silence. A square of yellow light appeared high on the white wall of the warehouse, above three paintings of the same woman, standing, kneeling and sitting. The light danced and flickered for a moment before the words HAPPY BIRTHDAY, YOU PERVY BITCH! flashed onto the wall, to more cheering and more applause. Sam looked at me and squeezed my hand, excited.

  One by one, Sam’s friends appeared on the screen, talking about how great she was. And then it was my turn.

  There was my massive head on the screen, saying things about how much better my life was with Sam in it and blowing her a kiss. My head was in my hands by the end of it, but I could hear everyone saying, ‘Awwww!’ and ‘How sweet!’

  Sam rubbed my back. ‘Hey,’ she said. I opened my eyes. ‘That was gorgeous. I love you, too. So much.’ She kissed me, and her friends cheered, and everything was all right.

  For about five seconds.

  Because that’s how long it was before a woman – a beautiful woman – appeared on the screen, pouting and waving her fingers. She was like a caricature of a sexy person, with oversized lips and huge brown eyes and dark curly hair, styled like a Forties pin-up. ‘Bonsoir!’ she said.

  Virginie.

  Sam was smiling, her hand over her mouth in surprise. She turned to Jasper. ‘How did you get her to do this?’

  ‘Sam, my darling girl,’ said Virginie, in an almost cartoonish French accent, ‘I am so sorry I’m not there with you today. You know how much I miss you, and how much I love you. But don’t worry, OK? I’ll reward you with the most delicious spanking the next time we’re together. OK? Bisoux! Charlotte sends her love too!’ She blew a kiss to the camera, and a young butch woman’s head popped into the frame, waving and saying ‘Bon anniversaire!’

  Sam was still smiling and shaking her head. I was smiling too, smiling and smiling, because if I didn’t force the corners of my mouth upwards, I knew they’d turn down, and then I’d cry, and I couldn’t have that. I didn’t want to make a fuss and ruin Sam’s birthday. Why shouldn’t Virginie send her a birthday message? Sam had been nothing but honest about their relationship.

  And then, from the back of the room, that voice again. ‘Bonne anniversaire!’

  The atmosphere in the room changed. People were looking at each other, looking at me. I registered gasping, and chairs scraping back and people turning to look, and Sam saying, ‘No fucking way.’

  She was taller than I thought she’d be, and horribly, unfairly charismatic. It was a shock to see her moving, to hear her talking, to be reminded that she was real. Everything about her was exaggerated – her large eyes, her small waist, her big hips, her cleavage. She even walked with a wiggle, like Marilyn Monroe. So twentieth century, I told myself. She’s basically designed herself to appeal to the male gaze. I wouldn’t want to look like that, even if I could. But who was I kidding? Definitely not myself. I wanted to cry.

  And yet I couldn’t stop staring as she made her way from the back of the room towards Sam, her arms outstretched, her curls bouncing. I felt like I was watching a very attractive car crash.

  They hugged – they didn’t kiss, thank God – and they were murmuring things to each other that I couldn’t hear, and the other guests started clapping and chattering to each other.

  Virginie turned to me and said, ‘And you must be Julia! You are even more beautiful than Sam said you were.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, trying to smile.

  Alice put a hand on my shoulder, but I shook her off; if anyone was nice to me I would cry. I shook my head, lips tight, and walked towards the toilets without looking back. I locked myself in and sat on the concrete floor and thought, what the fuck just happened? I began to feel dizzy, as though I was losing my grip on everything, like I might just float away, so I tried to concentrate on how pretentious the copper-pipe taps were.

  Someone was knocking on the door. ‘Julia?’ It was Polly.

  ‘I’m fine!’ I said, as brightly as I could. I was going to pull myself together and be the life and fucking soul of the party. I was going to kiss Virginie on both cheeks and share in-jokes about Sam with her, like the way she sings in the shower, and how angry she gets when she accidentally puts on one navy sock and one black sock. And tomorrow I was going to tell Sam that I’d changed my mind and that I couldn’t do it, and that if she wanted to be with me she would have to break up with Virginie.

  I looked at myself in the mirror. My eyes were a little on the shiny side, maybe, but other than that, you wouldn’t know I’d been crying. I took a deep breath and opened the bathroom door.

  Polly was waiting for me outside, her arms crossed, next to Alice and Dave and Ella. Alice rushed up and hugged me. She didn’t say anything. She probably didn’t know what to say.

  ‘What the fuck,’ Dave said.

  ‘I had no idea she was coming,’ Polly said.

  ‘I know you didn’t,’ I said. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘I’m going to fucking kill Jasper.’

  ‘You should,’ said Dave. I could tell from his voice that he was furious, and I was so grateful, because I didn’t really feel like I had the right to be angry.

  ‘You’re the one she loves,’ Polly said. ‘She’s always calling Jasper up and telling her how you’ve changed her life.’

  ‘But she’s not the one who came over to talk to me,’ I said. ‘You are.’

  We all looked over at Sam, who was doing tequila shots at the bar with Jasper and Virginie, one arm around Virginie’s waist.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Polly said.

  ‘You shouldn’t be apologizing,’ I said. And as I looked at Sam I knew I couldn’t do it; I wouldn’t be able to get through the evening, pretending to be OK with Virginie, pretending to have a lovely time with them both. ‘Tell Sam I’ll see her tomorrow,’ I said.

  ‘Any time you want a drink,’ Polly said.

  ‘Thanks.’

  Ella put an arm around my shoulder, and Alice took my hand on the other side, and Dave walked in front of us to open the door for me, and I must have felt very numb and detached from reality because all I remember thinking was, I wonder if this is how celebrities feel when they’re being rushed away from the paparazzi?

  I heard Sam slurring, ‘Where’s Julia?’ but I kept walking. ‘Julia!’ Sam called. ‘Wait!’ But the four of us ran around the corner. Dave ordered us an Uber, and we rumbled back to our flat in silence. Ella came with us, and she put me on the sofa with a blanket around me, and Dave cooked us pasta. We didn’t talk much. I didn’t feel sad or angry or guilty. I didn’t feel much of anything, really.

  29. BAISE-MOI!

  Ella borrowed a pair of pyjamas and slept in my bed that night. It felt strange having someone else next to me, someone with an unfamiliar smell and an unfamiliar heat, but I was grateful not to be alone. I woke up in the night and started to cry and she fetched me a cup of water and told me funny stories till I fell asleep again.

  She wasn’t there when I woke up the next morning. I couldn’t seem to get out of bed. At about eleven, Alice brought me a cup of tea. She sat on my bed as I drank it.

  ‘Ella’s getting pastries,’ she said.

  I nodded.

  ‘Heard from Sam this morning?’

  I shook my head. ‘She’s probably still asleep. She was wasted.’

  ‘You have to talk to her.’

  ‘I know,’ I said, trying to breathe away my anxiety, like self-help books tell you to. ‘Why can’t she just be normal?’

  ‘Maybe if she was, you wouldn’t be so
into her,’ Alice said, playing with the duvet. ‘Dave’s completely normal, and completely committed to me, and I find myself thinking all the time about what it would be like to be single. I know that makes me sound ungrateful.’ She looked at her hands. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to make it all about me.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘I’m bored of my own drama already.’

  She looked up again. ‘So, are you going to call her?’

  ‘Of course I’m not,’ I said. ‘She’s the one who needs to apologize.’

  But she didn’t call. Not till it was nearly dark, anyway. I lay on the sofa all day, imagining Sam and Virginie together in bed. I bet Virginie did things I didn’t know were even options, sex-wise. I bet they’d had sex on the Eiffel Tower and used a baguette as a sex toy and smeared foie gras all over each other’s bodies, or whatever it is that French people do. It wasn’t until I was running myself a bath that the phone rang. I checked my watch: almost 8 p.m.

  ‘Babes,’ she said, ‘I’m so sorry about last night.’

  I didn’t say anything. To be honest, I was feeling relief – relief that she’d finally called, that she was apologizing – but I had the high ground, and the view was lovely from up there so I didn’t want to give it up just yet.

  ‘I had no idea she was going to show up,’ Sam said.

  ‘I know you didn’t.’

  ‘And I’m sorry I’m only just calling now. She’s just left.’

  ‘Did she sleep in your bed?’

  A silence. ‘Where else would she have slept?’

  I know honesty is a good quality – up there with ‘earns money’ and ‘makes me laugh’ on the list of things I’ve always wanted in a partner – but I was beginning to think there was such a thing as too much honesty. ‘Did you have sex with her?’ I asked, closing my eyes, wincing, waiting for the blow.

  ‘No.’

  I opened my eyes. ‘Promise?’

  ‘Babes, I wouldn’t have done that to you. I know you’re not ready for that yet.’

  I felt horribly, pathetically grateful. I almost said thank you, but I stopped myself.

  ‘Where did you get to, anyway?’ Sam said then. ‘It was a fun night, wasn’t it? Before that, anyway.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Marlon from Concrete Street asked for my number!’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘You were the biggest hit of the night, by the way. My friends all thought you were a hot slut.’

  ‘Don’t call me a slut.’

  She paused, clearly taken aback. ‘It’s a compliment in our community.’

  ‘I don’t like it.’

  Another pause.

  ‘Please don’t be like this, Julia. I didn’t invite Virginie. No one meant to hurt you.’

  ‘Well, I am hurt.’

  ‘Please let me see you, babes.’ Her voice was rising. She was beginning to worry, and I was glad. ‘Please come over. I’ll buy us takeaway and look after you. Please?’

  What was the point in putting it off? I had to talk to her about this while I was in the driving seat.

  On the bus, I rehearsed what I was going to say to Sam, feeling sick with nerves. I was going to give her an ultimatum. She had to choose between me, a beginner lesbian who thought ‘That’s very nice’ counted as talking dirty, and a stunning woman who knew how to say ‘Fuck me’ in several European languages. But then she opened the door and smiled. I tried to look stern but she kissed me and I forgot what I had been planning to say.

  The most important thing was to hold onto her, at any cost.

  We went upstairs and had slow, hungover sex. As we lay in bed afterwards, Sam stroking my arm, she said, ‘I’ve been thinking. I really want you to meet Virginie properly. You’ll feel so much less threatened if you actually talk to her.’

  I propped myself up on my elbow. ‘I don’t think I can.’

  Sam looked into my eyes. ‘If you really want me to break up with her, I will.’

  ‘Really?’ I felt dangerously hopeful.

  She nodded. ‘But will you come and meet her first? Before we throw in the towel without even trying to make it work? Meet me halfway?’

  And my heart, as they say, sank.

  ‘Come with me, next time I go!’

  Which was such a hilarious idea that I laughed out loud. Did she actually think I would happily swan into Virginie’s house, shake her hand and maybe have a cup of tea with her, and then sit at the kitchen table painting my nails while she fucked my girlfriend? ‘Absolutely not,’ I said.

  ‘Please? There’s a big sex party that Virginie and I go to every year, in this big old chateau outside Lyon. It’s happening in a couple of weeks. There are still tickets.’

  I didn’t say anything.

  ‘We could just watch. You wouldn’t have to do anything you weren’t comfortable with.’

  ‘I can’t just sit there while you fuck her,’ I said.

  ‘That’s not going to happen. We won’t just ditch you and go off to have sex. Charlotte will be there, too—’

  ‘I suppose you expect me to hook up with Charlotte, do you?’

  ‘Of course I don’t!’ She looked at me. ‘If you wanted to, you could play with someone at the party and I could sit it out. To ease you in.’

  ‘I don’t think I’m going to want to do that.’

  ‘Or we could have a threesome—’

  ‘But you will have sex with Virginie.’

  She took her hand away. ‘It’s like you’re obsessed with the idea of me having sex with her.’

  I laughed. ‘Oh, I’m the one obsessed with you having sex, am I?’

  Sam sighed. ‘If you come with me, I’ll share a room with you. But if you stay here, I’ll probably stay in Virginie’s room.’

  ‘Are you blackmailing me?’

  ‘I can’t believe the woman I love just accused me of blackmail.’

  ‘I didn’t—’

  ‘You did. It’s fine. If that’s what you think, that’s fine,’ she said, standing up. ‘Maybe it’s best if I go on my own.’ She walked to the door.

  I felt like something was breaking inside me. Who was I before I met her? Sexually inexperienced, lonely, depressed, a breaker of penises.

  ‘I’ll come,’ I said, because in that moment it seemed the only thing I could say.

  She turned around. ‘You will?’

  That smile.

  I nodded. I could do this.

  ‘You won’t regret it,’ Sam said, kissing me on the cheek. ‘I promise you, we’ll have a great time.’

  30. CONDOMS ON THE PILLOWS

  I lied and told my friends I was going to Paris with Sam – I didn’t want to tell them we were visiting Virginie. They would think Sam was taking advantage of me, but she wasn’t; if anything, I was taking advantage of her. I was getting a free holiday and several three-course meals (plus cheese, if I had anything to do with it). Yes, I might have to sit through a bit of sex. But if I really couldn’t handle it, Sam would break up with Virginie. I had nothing to lose. And I didn’t want anyone else’s voice in my head telling me I was doing the wrong thing.

  As the trip drew closer, I could feel myself starting to snap at people. I started ignoring Cat’s texts and calls, and I stopped going dancing, and I longed for the nights when Alice and Dave went out till late. I was using all my energy trying to behave like a normal person in the face of impending Virginie-based doom. I didn’t have anything left for anyone else.

  Owen kept trying to corner me at work, to ask what was wrong. He was preparing for his Senior Account Manager interview, and he kept asking me things like, ‘Do you think this tie makes me look like I have a Strategic Approach to Objectives?’ I knew I should start preparing for mine, too – it was scheduled for the Tuesday after I got back from Lyon – but I’ve always liked the adrenaline rush that comes with leaving things to the last minute. Besides, it would be nice to have something to distract me while Sam was busy having Gallic sex.

  Work, stran
gely, was an escape. I focused on the emails I received, from people whose problems were far greater than my own. I focused on replying to Eric, who had written to tell me he’d been referred for an operation on his heart, and complaining about the waiting times.

  I’ve been told that I might have to wait eighteen weeks – that’s nearly five months! I don’t think it’s acceptable that someone with more money can pay to have it done right away, and poor old sods like me have to wait five months. I’m trying not to feel down in the dumps about it. My aorta’s lasted me ninety-six years, so hopefully it can hang on in there for a few more months. Besides, I’m dreading the op, to tell you the truth. Almost as much as I used to dread the Bomber Command ops. Tell you what, before we went out on a bombing raid, we each used to widdle on the back wheel of the plane for luck. I’d widdle on my hospital bed if I thought that would do me any good.

  I hated the idea of Eric worrying about his operation. Just before my granddad died, he had a knee replacement, and he’d been very nervous about it. I’d visited him on the ward beforehand, and we’d played cards, but he’d gossiped too loudly about the man in the bed next to him and everything had smelled of disinfectant, so I’d only stayed for half an hour. I can still see the way he looked at me when he asked me to stay for another round of Rummy, a bit shy, like he knew I’d say no. And I had. I’d made an excuse and walked away. I was going to do better by Eric.

  I wrote him an official reply, reassuring him about the government’s commitment to reducing waiting times, but I went out at lunchtime and bought him a Get Well Soon card, too – one with tulips on the front, because he’d told me they were Eve’s favourite flowers. I wrote that I hoped he’d be jiving again before too long – and then I added: I would love to come and see you in Brighton one day soon, if you’d like a visitor? I put my home address at the top of the card. Eric had become a friend, after all, even though we’d never met. The only one who wouldn’t judge my relationship with Sam. Because he didn’t know anything about it.

  Two weeks later, I was sitting on a Eurostar train, looking out at a blur of red bricks and sky-blue arches as we pulled away from St Pancras station. I had briefly considered pissing on the back wheel of the train for luck, Eric style, but I’ve never been good at peeing in front of other people. I very much hoped no one would be doing water sports at the French sex party; I bet Virginie looked amazing when she peed, like a sexy public fountain.