The Way You Smile

by Kiki Archer

  Stepping out of the shower and finding her trusty Special K towel, Camila took a moment to wrap her hair into a turban before staring at her reflection in the small cabinet mirror. She never looked too bad with her hair pulled back from her face, the few wrinkles that had started to form disappeared with the tight wrapping. She nodded, she’d pull her hair into an Essex facelift today, a tight top pony that wouldn’t need to be dried… and that wasn’t being lazy, it just got hot on the van, plus she never liked to put too much effort in or dress in a way that might encourage any comments from the workmen. She’d also wear her tracksuit, her Tesco one. Camila felt her breath catch as she watched her own reaction in the mirror. There’d been a look of decision, followed by a look of realisation, followed by a look of pain. She couldn’t wear the tracksuit because Harriet still had it, and that thought hurt. It was that look of pain that had led to the gasp. Obviously she wasn’t hurt at the loss of the tracksuit, she was hurt at the loss of Harriet.

  Camila dried herself with another towel before walking out of the bathroom, straight to her bed and tucking herself back under the duvet. The curtains were open, but it wasn’t a bright day, in fact it was dull and miserable, just like her life. Sitting up and pressing her back against the cushioned headboard, Camila knew she had to snap out of it. She needed to focus. She knew she had to take stock and assess all she’d achieved. She was a mother of two good and healthy boys. She ran a home. She seemed fairly well liked by the people who met her.

  Camila gave up and slid back beneath the duvet. She didn’t really have a network of friends and her house wasn’t that special. She didn’t have a flash car or exotic holidays. She didn’t do spa days or pamper herself. She didn’t have adventures, unless you counted that one time Mick had taken her on the ferry from Hull for a day trip to Bruges. He’d pitched it as a weekend cruise. A cruise liner, he’d said, with shows and restaurants and a cinema. But it turned out to be an old tub that had actually caught fire in the North Sea two years earlier. “The Pride of Hull” it was called and it stank of alcohol and regret, hen and stag dos, men and women on their last bid for freedom before they became shackled to a life they didn’t want to live.

  Camila cursed herself again. This wasn’t like her. She was upbeat, her glass was always half full. Half full of water admittedly, as she couldn’t afford anything stronger. Harriet’s glass however would be full of Martinis, or Margaritas or Long Island Ice Tea, definitely something exotic, something expensive because she’d picked up the bill in the Thai restaurant without giving it a second glance. She hadn’t even looked at the receipt, she’d just paid and moved on. Oh, how to live life like Harriet. The glamour of the parties and the photo shoots, the choice of cars that never broke down, the choice of women. Camila paused at that thought. Harriet was someone who’d have sex on tap. She’d have a whole list in her phone that she could call up for some fun, most of them probably just grateful to hear from her again, taking all they could get whilst they could get it. Camila closed her eyes. She could have been one of those people. But what did she want to get? Was it the lifestyle? Or the friendship? If it was friendship. Or was it Harriet herself? Did she honestly want her? Another woman? For what? For the jokes? For the laughs? For the romance?

  Camila felt herself drawn back to the Four Weddings rain scene, but again it was Harriet who was standing there in the street. She opened her eyes, she needed to concentrate, she needed to process. It had been the same when Mick had first left her, a constant toing and froing in her mind, wondering if she was to blame, wondering if she actually cared, wondering if it was anger or relief that she felt. She’d done the same back then: tucked herself into bed and just processed. She’d asked herself all the hard questions and tried to be honest with her answers, concluding that the over-riding feeling was one of c’est la vie. These things happened. People had affairs. Relationships broke down. Was she even that bothered? She’d decided no, and since that realisation she’d been able to move on without the internal debates about what she’d done wrong, or what she hadn’t been able to offer him that had forced him elsewhere. She’d also decided she didn’t need to hand out blame because no damage had actually been done. Yes, she felt a bit stupid, but she didn’t feel hurt or betrayed, similar to the boys who just assumed their dad was a cock. Had she been too blasé in her conclusions? The fact that she and the boys had been able to move on with very little altering in their lives signalled no. It was what it was.

  She closed her eyes again, and this was what this was. A confusion based on feelings she’d never felt before. A confusion based on a situation she’d never been in before. A hot, successful, powerful woman liked her. Or more correctly, a hot, successful powerful woman liked her then apparently didn’t. So why was she bothered? Was it infatuation? Or did she want to be Harriet’s confidante… or her lover? Camila slid further under the covers at that thought, wondering what it would be like to just go there. To just say yes. To experience a woman’s body on her own. Would the sex be hard or soft? Would there even be a final sexual act? How lovely to think there’d be no agenda, no quick warm-up for the grand finale, a finale that was rarely grand and actually only pleasured the man because as much as the final thrusting was sexual, it didn’t technically induce much pleasure, not for her anyway.

  Camila paused her thought. Men definitely viewed sex as something they got from a woman. Would lesbians view sex as something they gave to a woman? Strange, given the different technicalities of the male and female anatomy, but plausible given the way women gifted themselves to their man with sex, often using it as a bribe, or a reward, or simply something you owed him because it had been a week or so since he’d last had it. Did that mean a woman would want to give herself to another woman for the pleasure she could gift, or the pleasure she could receive? That must be it. It must be a 100% mutual decision. If two women were going to have sex, both women must want to have sex, you couldn’t just lie there and take it like you could with a man. Camila smiled, and she wouldn’t want to just lie there. She’d want to feel the soft skin. To feel Harriet’s soft skin.

  Slipping even further under the covers, Camila imagined what she’d do first, given the opportunity. First she’d take off Harriet’s glasses. She’d look straight into Harriet’s eyes as she let her fingers run slowly up Harriet’s body. She’d want to see the reaction she was causing. She’d like to watch Harriet’s lips part as she traced her fingers over her stomach, as she moved up the curve of her breast. Camila swallowed. Would Harriet’s nipples be as sensitive as hers were? Would they want to be teased before being touched? She’d tease her anyway. She’d trace over the curve of her breast and around her hard nipples, but she wouldn’t touch them. She’d do everything she’d want someone to do to her. Take their time. Build up the action. Tease. She’d like Harriet to reach down and tell her to spread her legs before touching the inside of her thighs. Both of them letting their fingers wander, but never going where they were needed the most because they’d know that everywhere felt good in the build-up. Everywhere brought pleasure. Harriet would get that. She’d play on that.

  Harriet would understand how a woman liked to imagine. To imagine their nipples being squeezed, to imagine slow fingers being pushed deep inside. She’d understand how this imagination could bring you so close to the edge. Wanting what you weren’t quite getting. Desperate to be touched properly. Kissed properly. Harriet would take control. She’d build everything up. Harriet would kiss the inside of her thighs. She’d pause on her lips. She’d take her time. She’d use her fingers to bring pleasure elsewhere, finally going there and grazing her nipples.

  Camila let her hand run over her own chest. Harriet would touch her before gently squeezing her, then she’d pull the nipple up into her mouth. She’d then look up with her big blue eyes. She’d tease the nipple with her tongue, knowing she was on show. She’d move her hand back to the thighs. She’d push the legs wider. Camila slid her own legs apart in the bed. Harriet would be gentle and explo
ring before plunging straight in there, fucking her as deeply as she could, her fingers wet with the build-up. Camila pulled on her own nipple and touched herself properly. Harriet would fuck her with force. She’d get on top of her. She’d kiss her as she fucked her. She’d make her come quickly. She’d make her come hard.

  Camila turned her head into the pillow, muffling her own cry of pleasure.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “You’re late,” said Julie, handing over a can of Fanta. “You look like you’ve just got out of bed. Why are your cheeks so red? Have you been running?”

  Camila hauled herself the final way into the rickety pink van, slamming the heavy door shut. “I don’t want Fanta.”

  “You always have Fanta.”

  “You always give me Fanta because it never sells.”

  “It’s only a month out of date. Here, take it.”

  “I thought Figgy drank it?”

  “Who?”

  “Figgy and Queenie, the infamous Fanta drinking jodhpur-wearing new customers.”

  Julie throttled the ignition. “There she goes. She might be old but she’s certainly trusty.”

  “Figgy?”

  “Oh bloody hell, Camila, I wondered how long it would take you before you started rattling on about Harriet again.”

  “I haven’t said anything about Harriet and the only thing rattling’s this van.”

  “She’s vintage.”

  “No, she’s converted ice cream.”

  Julie heaved on the huge steering wheel. “I’m a good friend. We can talk about her if you want to.”

  “The van? Okay, she looks like a pink metal rust bucket and smells of fat.”

  “Oooo, you’re feisty this morning. It matches your slick-back hair and your council estate clothing.”

  “Julie!” Camila reached up to grab her seatbelt. “You gave me these leggings.”

  “They’re not leggings they’re tights.”

  “They stop at the ankle!”

  “They’re footless tights. Haven’t you noticed how see-through they are?”

  Camila looked down. She’d spent rather too long in bed before grabbing the comfiest thing she could find second to her missing Tesco tracksuit. Plus the weather was dingy and there hadn’t been much sunlight coming into the room, added to the fact she hadn’t turned the bedroom light on as she was still enjoying the slightly illicit atmosphere. But now, sitting in the bucket seat of Julie’s bacon butty van with the sun suddenly streaming in from behind the clouds she could see that her ‘leggings’ were indeed totally see-through. “You one hundred percent said they were leggings!”

  “To be worn under a shirt dress or something, not as the main player with a waist length cricket jumper.”

  “It’s not a cricket jumper; yes, it’s white and loose knit, but it’s not cricket.”

  “It looks cricket and it exposes your bottom.” Julie pulled the van in at the end of the cul-de-sac. “I’m stopping. You need to sit up.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh bloody hell, I can see them from here. You’ve got white pants on. Big ones.”

  “I like to be comfy on the van.”

  “Didn’t you check yourself before you stepped outside?”

  “You were honking me.”

  “Well, you’re going to get honked at all day in that get up.” Julie revved the engine and pulled into the road. “You might not actually, because your hair looks so slick.”

  “Aren’t we going back?”

  “We haven’t got time to go back, plus your hair will distract from your two denier stockings.”

  “You gave them to me, Julie!”

  “It’s fine, you can wear the long apron.” Julie revved again.

  “The one that fell in the grease trough and never cleaned up properly? Thanks.”

  “That’s what friends are for. Whoah! Who the bloody hell is that!”

  Camila looked down at the car that had swerved onto the pavement on the other side of the road, horn beeping and lights flashing. “You pulled out onto their side, Julie!”

  “They were going too fast! And look, another rich bitch in a sporty Merc. Ha, it’s not Harriet, is it? OH BLOODY HELL IT IS HARRIET!”

  Camila stared at the woman now getting out of the Mercedes. “It’s Harriet! Drive, Julie! Just drive!” she screeched, ducking as far down in her seat as she could.

  “She’s already seen you.”

  “I don’t care! You need to drive!”

  “She’s waving at you.”

  “JUST BLOODY DRIVE!”

  Julie revved the engine. “If that’s what my friend wants, that’s what my friend will get.” Julie shunted herself in her seat as if gee-ing the lumbering vehicle along. “She’s a bit of a slow starter; maybe jump in the back in case she comes to the door.”

  Camila released her seatbelt and clambered through the gap between the broken-leather bucket chairs, suddenly plunging forward with arms and legs spread as the vehicle lurched into life. “Julie!” she screeched from her face first position on the floor, remnants of grease and floor bits scuffing her cheek like an oil-based face scrub. “My jumper!” Camila sat up and stared down at the once white wool. “It’s filthy! And my face!” She used the back of her hand to wipe away the grit. “When did you last clean this floor?”

  “I’m going to have to speed up, she’s got back in her car.”

  “Just let me sit—” It was too late, the van jolted ahead, sending Camila into an awkward forward roll, accelerating her towards the rickety double doors at the back of the van and even Camila didn’t need Cassie Stevens’ knowledge of gravitational velocity to know she was about to burst out onto the street. “Turn!” she hollered trying to grab anything that would stop her momentum, the only thing in reach being the dirty pedal bin.

  “What?”

  “TURN!” The pedal bin slipped through her fingers.

  “Left?”

  “JUST TURN!” Camila hit the side of the grease trough that collected the fat from the griddle. It hadn’t been emptied, just like the pedal bin, but at least she was at the cupboard under the front hatch now and not smashing through the double doors at the back. She lifted her hand to her head. The thick congealed layer on top of the grease trough must have cracked, allowing the cold liquid fat to surge out of the gully and onto her shoulder. She rubbed her pony tail. Damn, it had sloshed onto that as well.

  “Where now?” asked Julie.

  “What?” managed Camila, pulling herself back into a crouched position and daring to peep forward.

  “You told me to turn left. We’re in next door’s cul-de-sac. Sinclair Street.”

  “WHAT?!”

  “And she’s behind me.”

  “Turn!”

  “I’m going to have to three point it. I got my angles wrong.”

  “Oh god, Julie, please just get us out of here.”

  “She’s parking.”

  “I don’t want to see her.”

  “Why not?”

  “Look at me!” Camila hauled herself up and lifted her arms to the side as Julie turned in her seat.

  “Oh my fucking god! You look like a tramp! A tramp with transparent leggings and huge white fucking knickers!”

  “She can’t see me like this!”

  “Your hair’s literally dripping with fucking grease!”

  “You didn’t clean the grease trough! The fat cracked!”

  “Oh god, she’s coming.”

  “Please, Julie, just drive.”

  Julie honked the horn loudly. “Get out of here,” she growled, as if scramming a cat from the road.

  “You can’t talk to her like that.”

  “Make your bloody mind up, would you!” snapped Julie, crunching the van into reverse. “I’ll back out,” she said, rocking in her seat to get the vehicle moving.

  Camila peeped towards the front windscreen. “She’s just standing there.”

  “Of course she’s just standing there. She’s probably thinking
what the hell’s Julie’s pink bacon butty van doing in a car chase with a fucking greasy tramp held hostage in the back.”

  “Stop swearing!”

  “I have every right to swear. You need to tell me what’s going on!”

  “I like her.”

  “WHAT?”

  “I like her! I can’t let her see me like this.”

  Julie slammed on the brakes, causing Camila to fall onto her knees, the thin fabric of the leggings ripping on impact. “You like her?! Like lesbian like her?!”

  Groaning as she rolled onto her bottom, Camila rubbed her scuffed skin. “Ouch.”

  “You’re in lesbians with her? Right. I’m not having anything to do with this. Out you go.”

  “I just…”

  “Go on. Your lesbian lover’s waiting for you.” Julie shouted out the window: “THE BACK DOOR’S OPEN. YOU CAN LET HER OUT.”

  “No! Julie, please!”

  Julie turned in her seat. “What about poor Mick?”

  “You said you’d go there with her!”

  “I was testing you! I never thought you’d actually…. with a woman?? Oh, Camila.”

  “Nothing’s happened!”

  “And it’s not going to after she sees you looking like that. YES!” she shouted. “GO AND LIFT THE CATCH ON THE BACK DOORS!”

  Camila sat still, stunned like a half squashed rabbit in the headlights as the van’s back doors were thrown open. Harriet stood there, arms wide apart, the pale sunlight behind her giving her a Jesus type silhouette. “Oh hi, Harriet,” she managed to say.

  Harriet jumped into the van and down onto her knees. “Are you okay? What’s happened? You’re bleeding.”

  Camila looked to her now exposed left arm, a knit on her jumper must have caught and untangled. “No, I think that’s tomato ketchup.”

  “But that’s not ketchup on your knee. You’re definitely bleeding. Are you okay? What’s happened? You’ve got some grit in there too, we need to get it cleaned up. Julie, do you have a first aid kit?”