Faith
Lesbian Lullaby No.1
Angharad J Davies
Copyright © 2013 Angharad J Davies
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1493694146
ISBN-13: 978-1493694143
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’d like to thank my friend Nic for helping me to edit this, the first story in the Lesbian Lullaby series. And also my partner Rachel, for reading seemingly endless rewrites, and encouraging me to write more and publish.
“We are such stuff as dreams are made on; and our little life is rounded with a sleep.”
The Tempest
William Shakespeare
1
Reluctantly, I open swollen, heavy eyes to a coal-black bedroom and know, in spite of the early hour, that I am once again painfully, frustratingly, wide awake. I'm compelled to roll over, across the cold expanse of bed to examine the quietly ticking clock on my cluttered bedside table. But the action is redundant; I already know the time. 4.15am. Just as before; just as one hundred and eighty six times before.
I move slowly onto my back, and a single, acidic tear creeps slowly from the corner of my eye. Curling myself defensively against the coming emotional assault, I try desperately to summon the strength to resist. But, finding my reserves empty once more, I pull the thick, soft duvet to my chin, sink deep into the bed, and once more give way to my grief.
2
“Fucking hell, Beth, you look like shit!”
My vain, but rather brilliant literary agent sits at a large oak desk in her Central London office and looks at me whilst taking a long sip from a delicate china cup. Unfazed by her typically coarse, unsympathetic greeting, I answer the question in her heavily lined eyes.
“I'm tired Celia and, no, I'm still not sleeping properly yet.” I puff a short, sharp breath between my lips. “Don't bloody complain. It means I've finished my next book well before our deadline.” I'm now clearly in a place where attack is the best form of defence.
She purses her highly glossed lips at me.
“Of course I'm pleased about the book, but I didn't mean for you to work yourself into the bloody grave to get it done.”
I reluctantly feel a sliver of shame; a common feature of my conversations with friends since the break-up. Celia senses my slight mood change, and finally takes pity on me, unusually softening her tone.
“Look, everyone knows you've had a shit time of it lately honey and no one expects you to bounce back straightaway.” She pauses, and the vague hint of a frown on her smooth, botoxed forehead makes me sense that she is worried about continuing. She takes a breath.
“Matthew and I think that maybe you need a bit of a break before the book launch. It's going to get completely fucking crazy soon, and you need to be properly rested and looking your best. I mean, show Marc Jacobs those bloody bags and they'll inspire the new autumn collection. You do seriously look like shit. You need to get away.” She races through her little obviously-prepared speech so fast that my poor sleep-deprived brain needs a few seconds to catch up.
The look on my face tells her in no uncertain terms as to what I think of her idea.
Then, with clear reluctance, she delivers the bombshell.
“Look, I didn't want to tell you, but Amy's coming back from Paris for a few weeks and she's asked me if you'll let her get the rest of her stuff whilst she's here.”
Maddeningly, the usual shakes return at the mention of my ex-girlfriend and my lungs suddenly feel deprived of oxygen. I fold myself carefully into the nearest overly-stuffed, beautifully upholstered chair.
“Shit!”
Silence. Then puzzlement.
“Why did she call you?”
“Because I’m the only person that you bloody well talk to these days, and I don't think you'd even be speaking to me if there wasn't a book due.” It was a fair point. I had let myself become the worst kind of cliché; a tragic, forlorn, heartbroken recluse.
The old dreaded knot of anxiety returns at the thought of seeing Amy, and of the re-opening of barely scabbed-over wounds, when from somewhere deep inside I finally, thankfully, feel some fire. Bollocks to her, I think to myself. Let her come and get her stuff. It was about bloody time. It had, after all, been over six months since she'd left.
Celia quietly watches the flurry of emotions crossing my face, and her tone when she continues shows a clear concern that she's caused some damage.
“Look, Beth, I can arrange for someone to be at the house when she comes. It doesn't need to be you. And Matthew and I really do think a break somewhere would be good for you. You've lost so much bloody weight lately, as well as having to deal with the no sleeping thing. Take some time out. Get some distance. Have a few vodkas and for fuck’s sake, get a shag! It'll help you move past it.” Celia's usual brusque, earthy, practicality returns.
I take a deep breath and sink further into the chair, lifting my face toward the sunlight filtering in through the office blinds, searching out some warmth. In spite of my difficult mood, I feel myself coming round to the idea of a change of scene, and feel a desperate urge to remove myself from my semi-masochistic morning routine. Celia senses my resolve slipping and moves in for the kill.
“Look, just leave it to me to organise. I'll sort everything. Just get yourself home and pack enough for a week or so. Ollie can stay with us; you know the kids love having the cat around. I'll have to sort Matthew out with a new inhaler, but he'll cope.” Celia, showing her usual level of sympathy for human frailty, pauses and deliberately gives me room to digest. “Is there anywhere you fancy going?”
The last ounce of fight I have finally melts away, and I close my eyes.
“To the sea. I need the sea.”
3
I squint through both the hammering rain and the rapid windscreen wipers at the country road ahead, and blink hard against my developing headache. Probably a result of having to concentrate for so long, driving in such crappy weather. The sign on the A3074 said just 3 more miles to St Ives. I hadn't been to the beautiful little seaside town in years, but had really loved it as a child.
Celia was over the moon with her plan.
“I've pulled a favour with an old mate from school and got you into an apartment overlooking Porthminster beach.” She hands me a piece of paper and beams. “All you need to know is on that.”
A car horn blares, suddenly bringing me back to the present. I see a sign for a Tesco superstore and desperately resist the miserable, reclusive shrew in my head telling me to stop off for a bottle of White Zinfandel and a half dozen glazed Krispy Kremes. Conscious of Celia's concern I concede that I should at least try to get something decent to eat.
I am sure that the very detailed instructions I had been given mentioned something about a pub. For the first time in months my stomach growls loudly at me, as if complaining after being woken from months of enforced hibernation. I silently pray that the pub serves food.
In the dark, gloomy autumnal weather I somehow manage to find a car park and head to the pub's address on the harbour front. My paper guide tells me to collect the apartment keys from behind the bar.
It's still raining hard and by the time I get to the pub, I'm soaked.
I walk into the warm, homely, amber-lit pub and head straight to the bar, fumbling wet coat, car keys and the by-now sopping email. The keys slip out of my wet hands and head south.
“Shit, shit, shit!”
I clumsily retrieve my keys from the wet slate floor and slowly begin to straighten upwards, only to be met by the most perfect pair of breasts I have ever seen, beautifully clad in a very fitted, vivid blue V-necked t-shirt; they were waiting patiently behind the bar.
“You okay there?” There was more than a hint of a smile in the tone.
I flushed. Caught.<
br />
“Oh, umm. I'm here to collect a set of keys.” Deep breath. “A friend has organised an apartment for me for a few days.” I hand over the extremely damp email and screw up enough courage to actually look at the girl across the dark wood of the bar counter.
I’m forced to take a snatched breath as I survey short, funky, golden blonde hair, matching golden brown tan and a cheeky white-toothed smile.
“Oh, yes. I think Tony knows about this. Tony!” She shouts along the bar and saunters to the end. I use the opportunity of her turned back to admire the rest of her somewhat shapely form, and my inner bitch issues a snort of derision; way out of my league and ten years too young.
The shapely blonde girl returns quickly with a set of keys.
“The address and access details are on the email.” She winks. “But let me know if I can do anything to help you settle in.”
I blush from the good natured flirting.
“Actually I was thinking about getting some food while I was here. Are you still serving?”
“Yes. Till nine thirty.” She efficiently passes me an oversized menu.
“Great.” I take a quick scan. “I'll have the mussels and a large glass of Sauvignon Blanc.”
Feeling even more courageous and by now, incredibly curious, I look more directly at her and she boldly returns my gaze. It's only then I realise that her eyes are as blue as her very fitted t-shirt. I feel a long dormant flutter somewhere below my waistline. Startled by my unexpected reaction, I blush once again.
She smiles, much more softly this time.
“Take a seat and I'll bring them over.”
I realise very quickly that I'm way, way out of my depth and head for the relative safety of a quiet corner of the bar.
Forty-five minutes later and both the mussels and wine are long gone, and have been followed by two massive scoops of raspberry sorbet. I'm stuffed, but I am also starting to feel warm inside for the first time in months.
The shapely blonde girl criss-crosses the bar to clear away my almost-clean crockery, and the sway of her hips as she squeezes past my table succeeds in making me feel considerably warmer.
“Did you enjoy?” She smiles brightly and the fluttery thing below my stomach happens once again.
“I did, thank you. Although my waistline won't thank me for it tomorrow.” I wink at her, the hastily drunk wine giving me some unexpected courage. She grins in response.
“Well, not that I think there's anything for you to worry about, but if it bothers you that much I can think of lots of interesting ways to help you work it off.” She winks back.
I gaze at her for a few seconds in stunned silence, my ever helpful friend telling me she can't possibly be serious.
She slowly tilts her head to one side, recognising my confusion and to help me out, purposefully leans forward, gently touches my hand with hers and speaks with unexpected candour.
“My shift finishes in half an hour. I'm more than happy to show you where your apartment is if you're happy to wait?”
The question hangs in the air for what seems like an age.
I look down, courage suddenly gone, having been replaced by an entirely illogical sense of being somewhat unfaithful. I aim a mutter at those beautiful breasts; some obvious, inane untruth about having to call a sick friend. Filled with panic, I hastily leave some money on the table, grab my coat and bolt for the door, grateful for the cooling rain against my red hot cheeks when I escape into the sea air.
4
I face the bed. Its seemingly vast Egyptian-Cotton covered surface was taunting me, drawing me deeper into an abyss of self-loathing and contempt. A decent night’s sleep had eluded me for months. Anxious, uncomfortable dreams, followed by nothing short of blind panic on waking, ruined whatever meagre rest I managed to negotiate for myself. What little sleep was managed was only obtained by ransom; paid for with painful memories and 'what-ifs' every single morning when I opened my eyes.
I despised myself for allowing my break-up to wreak such havoc on my wellbeing; for reducing me to a ghost-like figure of myself. More recently this had been battling with a kinder part of me; the part that told me to give myself a break and just allow myself to grieve. This cerebral conflict inside my head had become almost constant and allowed room for little else these days; it was starting to take its toll. Celia was right, I did look like shit. And I felt like shit.
Steeling myself before beginning the regular night-time round of psychological self-flagellation, I cast one last look towards the bed, and head instead for the large leather sofa in the sitting room.
5
I wake early again the next morning in the clean, impossibly stylish apartment, feeling inevitably achy and stiff. I stretch my reluctant muscles and battle fiercely to fend off the usual feelings of anxiety and frustration closing in on me. But on waking that morning, for the first time since the break-up, I stubbornly decide not to expend any more mental energy on finding an answer to the question of sleep.
And something else had changed. Very surprisingly Amy was not the last thing on my mind before I finally gave in to sleep the night before. I smile wryly to myself, quietly pleased with my seismic breakthrough, even if it had come from behaving like a naive, hormonal teenager. I squirm a little at the thought of my behaviour the night before. I was unfortunately going to have to give the great food in that pub a miss for the rest of my stay.
I spend a long time trying to energise myself in the immaculate, limestone-clad shower, dress far too quickly to possibly look even semi-decent and head to the hotel next door for some breakfast. Still quite unbelievably hungry, I wolf down Eggs Benedict, two thick, buttery, toasted doorstops, a large orange juice and a huge mug of strong, black coffee. Having my appetite back felt really good; I smile smugly to myself, half convinced it's the work of the sea air. I pay my bill, rise from the table and virtuously decide to work off some of my oversized breakfast with a long walk.
I've always loved Porthminster beach; the beautiful expanse of soft sand and clear, blue water, framed on one side by the pretty view of St Ives, and the other by the dramatic cliffs of Carbis Bay. Stupidly determined to brave the bay's small, icy waves, I take off my shoes and roll up the bottoms of my now-too-big, boyfriend jeans. My weight sinks me into the sludgy, wet sand; its cold coarseness seeping through my toes. My eyes close and I become a child again.
I take some time to listen to the waves rhythmically roll in, and am surprised to be so calmed by the gentle rush of sound and the shrill cries of the seagulls above my head. Having spent my entire childhood near the coast, I realise then just how much I miss the sea. I happily lose track of time as the cold, clear water laps around my feet and the breeze gently skims across my face; my perpetual inner critic now silenced by this unexpected peace.
The rain had stopped at some point during the night, but there were some ominous dark clouds heading in my direction. I really hoped for a storm; to sit at the massive expanse of windows on the apartment balcony, watching the black clouds and dramatic waves. As if to show me that my wish would be granted, the wind suddenly whips around me and blows my untied scarf from around my neck. I run, comically half-stooped, trying to retrieve it from the edge of the sea, when a pair of worn green Hunter boots appear in front of me and a hand swoops to rescue the errant piece of fabric.
“I believe this is yours.”
I look up, only to find the shapely blonde girl from the pub looking down at me, laughter once again clearly evident in those too-beautiful eyes. Shit! My startled expression clearly shows my embarrassment, as she jumps in a bit too quickly.
“Don't worry, I'm not stalking you. St Ives is a bit of a small town, especially when you have one of these.” A small border collie runs up beside her. “It's Harvey-Moo's favourite beach" she explains.
“He's just beautiful.” Grateful for the distraction I bend to ruffle his head, and the playful pup happily leans into my touch.
An awkward period follows and I remain partially ben
t, firmly focused on the quietly ecstatic pooch. The silence is finally broken by her clear, direct apology.
“Look, I'm sorry if I came on a bit strong last night.”
I glance up in surprise.
“Please don't be sorry. I was incredibly flattered. Nothing to do with you, you know. I mean, look at you, you're bloody gorgeous. I'm just out of a relationship.” My stumbled explanation was spat out, as machine-gun fire. The blood rushes to my face yet again. What power did this girl have over my circulatory system?
“I see.”
We fall silent again. Determined to stop feeling like that stupid, hormonal teenager, I take a rough breath and continue more slowly.
“No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have flirted with you... Well tried to flirt with you" I laugh uncomfortably, pause, and then for some unknown reason, decide to open myself wide.
“Look, I was with my girlfriend for a long time, for years in fact, and it's only recently ended. I'm still trying to deal with it, and all evidence at the moment suggests that I'm really not doing a very good job.”
I sigh deeply. It was the most I'd confessed to anyone since Amy had left. She looks at me with some sympathy.
“How recent, if you don't mind my asking?”
“About six months ago.”
“That's not so very recent.”
“We were together for fifteen years. From university.” I quickly become defensive, again. What a bloody cheek!
“I see.” More silence.
“So how much longer are you intending to mourn her loss, exactly?”
Her challenging, unapologetic stare was met with clear anger in mine.
“Okay, I'm sorry. It's none of my business.” She waits for only a second before giving in to her very clear need to make her point.
Faith Page 1
