Seasons of Love: A Lesbian Romance Novel

by Harper Bliss

  Say no, I tell myself. By all means, say no. “Of course,” I say, because with Alan, the old Alice thrived. We never had children, but another person was birthed while we were married: this version of me that I’m now so desperately trying to cling on to. The one who’s so adamant to push Joy away.

  “Splendid. Why don’t you sit down and I’ll get us a drink. Earl Grey tea?” he asks, presumptuously.

  “I’ll have a glass of red wine, please.” I take a good look at his face while I make my request. Despite the extra wrinkles and the hair loss, he looks good for a man of his age. His posture is straight-backed, and there’s no sign of a paunch beneath his sports jacket. Yet, the mere thought of waking up with a man like him—the way I would have done if we hadn’t divorced—chills me to my core.

  Alan regards me with those heavy-lidded eyes of his, as if to say: are you sure you want to drink an alcoholic beverage at this time of the day. “Coming right up.”

  When he returns and deposits our drinks on the table, I’m mostly baffled by how much I don’t care about learning anything about his life. Not because it’s too painful—on the contrary. Time has done its bit. My wounds have healed and all the scar tissue has, in fact, disintegrated. He’s just a man sitting across from me. And, if he’s anything to me, he’s a glimpse into the future I could have had. We could be sitting in this pub as husband and wife. A completely legitimate couple of whom no one would ask themselves any questions. Not like when I’m out with Joy and I’m always a little ill at ease. But at what cost does it come? I wonder. What price am I willing to pay to appear conventional, to avoid upsetting complete strangers, people who know absolutely nothing about my life?

  “Still going strong at Jones & McAllister?” he asks.

  “Business is thriving.” As I say the words, I can’t help but wonder what I’m doing sitting in this touristy pub with my ex-husband, a man who sparks zero emotions within me, when I could be spending the weekend with a woman whom I love. A woman who, compared to this man that I married and intended to spend the rest of my life with, has given me ten times more pleasure in a few weeks than he did in years. “Alan, I’m very sorry. Thank you for the wine, but I just realised I have to be somewhere. It slipped my mind. It was good seeing you. I hope you and Sheryl are well.” I push myself out of the booth and hold out my hand.

  Perplexed, he takes it in his and gives it a limp shake.

  “Goodbye,” I say and hurry out of the pub, already stretching out my arm to hail a cab. Alan was not a bad man. Our marriage was conventional, proper, something both our parents and all of our friends and colleagues could approve of. It was passionate for about five minutes. And for the longest time, I believed it was all I wanted in life. When I lost it, I was shattered by the loss of something I was taught to desire. But the main reason why I never had much interest in investing myself fully in another affair with a man my age—someone deemed appropriate for me—is because I, honestly, couldn’t be bothered. If that was it, then what was the point? I never wanted another Alan. And other Alans were all I saw, until Joy got out of that yellow Mini in the Algarve and made my world spin on its axis.

  Besides, if my husband can leave me for a younger woman, why can’t I, a free, single woman, be with one? But this is hardly a feminist, or even a fairness issue. Not because I know that life isn’t always fair, but because it’s so much more than that. It’s the new zest for life I’ve felt coursing through my veins. It’s watching Joy sleep peacefully on her back, obliviously, and thinking: I will always be here for you. I will never hurt you. I want you to reach the maximum potential of happiness in your life. I love you. I want you.

  A cab finally stops and I direct the driver to Joy’s street in Shoreditch. Because I know it’s not a choice, but if it were, I would choose her. God, I hope she’s home. Traffic is slow, as usual. Should I call her? Maybe she’s picking up her laundry at Miranda’s. Why does she not own a washing machine at the brink of thirty? My mind races, and I feel frazzled, dizzy almost, but also deliriously happy and stupidly optimistic. Because, perhaps for the first time in my life—and, ironically, I have my ex-husband to thank for this realisation—I don’t care what anyone thinks of me, or expects from me. I choose love and passion. I choose Joy, and I choose me.

  ✶ ✶ ✶

  “That took you long enough,” Joy says when I reach her flat. I got out of the cab a few streets from her building, so fed up with the pace of traffic, that I decided to walk. And I didn’t care what anyone thought of that middle-aged woman hurrying down the street, her cheeks flushed and the sides of her trench coat flapping behind her in the wind. Because that woman was on her way to tell the person she loves once and for all that, yes, she was right. Telling Miranda was the only possible solution.

  I need to catch my breath after climbing the stairs and while I do, I notice a bag of ironed blouses and t-shirts on the kitchen table. “You went to see Miranda?”

  “I did,” Joy says. “Jeff was back and he clearly didn’t know, so either she hadn’t had the chance to tell him, or she’s really sticking to her foolish plan of denial. She did fold my laundry, though.”

  “I’m sorry for freaking out last night, Joy. I can assure you, with my hand on my heart, it will never happen again.”

  “Good.” She cocks her head to the right. “I’m glad you came. I was about to go on a bender.”

  “Oh really?” I could be snarky, and ask if that’s her solution to everything, but if this is a comparison of flaws, or even of destructive behaviour, I’m sure I would come out on top.

  “Yes, but now I have a different kind of bender in mind.”

  “Don’t keep me in suspense.” I walk over to Joy, as if pulled towards her by an invisible rope—and hasn’t it felt like that from the very beginning?

  “You’re very much a part of it.” She puts her arms on my shoulders and stares into my eyes. “You, naked, in the sheets that Mum washed.” Her giggle is infectious and I snicker with her, because, really, what else are we going to do?

  When we’re done laughing, I tell her in all earnestness, “You can do your laundry at my house from now on.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  At work the next Monday, Miranda is her usual chatty self. I don’t want to provoke her by saying something untoward, but in many ways, this stand-off, this charade, is much worse than being with Joy behind her back. I also realise Miranda will need time, and lots of it, to come to terms with our relationship. I’m not expecting family dinners any time soon. But love is the most powerful motivator of human action in this world. Miranda loves Joy. I love Joy. We have to discuss this.

  “Can we talk?” I knock on her door just before lunch.

  “If it’s about work, I’m all ears.” She doesn’t look up from her computer.

  I don’t confirm this intention, nor wait for an invitation to continue. Instead, I close the door and sit. “It’s not about work.”

  Miranda plants her fingertips on the tabletop and inhales deeply twice, before looking at me. “Alice, if you’ve come in here to further ruin our friendship, then please be my guest, but don’t expect anything from me. Not a response, and especially not some words of acceptance. Joy is my child and I simply won’t have it.”

  “I haven’t come to seek acceptance, Miranda. And yes, Joy is your daughter, but she’s not a child anymore. She hasn’t been for a long time. She’s suffering because of this. I understand denial as a first line of defence very well, but you ignoring this… important thing in her life is hurting her.”

  “She’s hurting. She’s suffering. That’s a good one.” Miranda’s spine is rigid as a broomstick, her voice icy and unemotional. “What did you think, Alice? That a weekend of rest and relaxation would solve the issue for me in my head? That I would step into the office today a different woman? That I wouldn’t care anymore who Joy is seeing? It’s not because I refuse to accept, even for a single second, that this is happening, that it doesn’t hurt me. In fact, it makes me sick to
my stomach. And I will deal with my daughter in the way that I see fit. I don’t need your advice, thank you very much.” At last, she relaxes her muscles and leans against the backrest of her chair. “By the way, now that we are freely dispensing advice… I know my daughter much better than you do. And, well, she will grow tired of you sooner rather than later. That’s not even wishful thinking on my part. It’s a given. I love her dearly, but she seems incapable of staying with the same person longer than a few months. That’s not going to change for the mighty Alice McAllister, you know? Best brace yourself for some heartache.”

  “I understand you’re saying this because you’re upset—”

  Miranda cuts me off. “You’re completely delusional, Alice. You leave for Portugal an over-worked, straight woman and you come back a lesbian who’s in love with my daughter… Have you even stopped to think how ludicrous that is? I know the sun can be rather strong down south, and something must have really gone wrong for you to believe all these, frankly, insane words that keep on coming from your mouth.”

  “Okay.” I rise. “It was a mistake to come in here.”

  “Not the only mistake you’ve made lately,” Miranda hurls at me as I exit her office. In the hallway, I steel myself, not willing to let anyone see how shaken I am. I lock myself in my own office, forego lunch, and think of ways to win over my friend. I come up empty.

  ✶ ✶ ✶

  In the evening, when I meet Joy for dinner, I give her the broad strokes of what Miranda said, leaving out the comments about Joy’s flakiness in relationships.

  “I want to instate a rule,” Joy says, in reply. “Obviously, Mum is a very important person in both our lives, but we can’t let her take over our relationship. So here is my suggestion: we say what we have to say about her in the first five to ten minutes we’re together, then we move on. We’re all waiting here. She’s waiting for it to pass, while we’re waiting for her to come to terms with the fact that it won’t. We can spend our time deconstructing every little thing she says, but it’s not going to do us much good, is it? All we can do is wait and give her time. We can’t expect miracles.”

  “You’re wise beyond your years,” I say, no longer feeling the hunger I came to the table with because I want her so much.

  “I know. My wisdom is wasted on people my own age. That’s why I hang with the likes of you.” She gives me one of those smiles that make me melt. And melt I do, but not without wondering if we can actually do this. If we can wait Miranda out without causing too much damage.

  “So we wait,” I say. “Whatever shall we do with ourselves while we do?”

  “I can think of a thing or two.” Joy is in full seduction mode—not that she needs to be. “There’s Bobby’s photo exhibition next week. And I really want to go see that play that’s on at the Young Vic. And my new colleague, Clare, has invited us to Juno’s baby shower.”

  “Juno?” All these plans I didn’t use to have, I think while I ask Joy. “What kind of a name is that?”

  “It’s modern.” Joy just shrugs. “And, did it fail to register that I said she invited us? I’ve started telling people at work about my significant other. It’s such a thrill, Alice. These are people I only met after we got together and it feels so good to just be able to blurt things out about us without getting any quizzical looks because they know who you are.”

  “Unlike your friends who came to your house the other day and had to smoke a joint to deal with the pressure of not mentioning Miranda.”

  “They were doing their best. Bless them. But I won’t make that mistake again”

  “This is an unusual situation to be in, but one I wouldn’t want to miss.” I reach for her hand on the table in a gesture of what Joy taught me a few days ago is called PDA. “But the very last thing I want is for you to fall out with your mother over me. She’s stubborn, like you.”

  Joy is so at ease with herself she takes my hand in hers without so much as blinking. “Did I like it when she started seeing Jeff, when I walked in on them groping each other in the kitchen, and when she moved him into our house? I most certainly did not. But did I learn to live with it? Oh yes, I did. Because that’s just what we do for family. I wanted Mum to be happy again after Dad died. That’s why I’m saying we should wait her out. It took a long time for me to accept Jeff. But I did, in the end. That’s how I know Mum will come around. She has no choice and, most importantly, she wants me to be happy.” She squeezes my hand. “You make me happy, Alice. Happier than I’ve been before. She’ll take notice.”

  Miranda’s words from earlier today flit through my head again. Joy must have noticed because when I don’t immediately reply, she asks, “What is it?”

  “Nothing.” I’m torn between giving into my own insecurities and telling her what Miranda said about Joy’s propensity for short affairs, and protecting Joy by never having her find out what Miranda said about her in the heat of the moment.

  “Tell me, Alice, please. Let’s not have secrets, no matter how small.”

  “Okay.” I take a deep breath. “When I spoke to Miranda today she told me I was delusional to think that you would stay with me. That I had better prepare myself for a bout of heartbreak because you don’t really do long-term relationships.”

  Joy sighs. “What would she know about that, really? I mean, sadly enough, I can understand why she would say such a thing, especially under the current circumstances and to you, but it couldn’t be less true.” She looks at our intertwined fingers for an instant. “She has only just come to terms with me being a lesbian. I wasn’t going to tell her about why my relationship with Tamsin failed. And, granted, Alex was a mistake. That was never meant to last. But I’m only twenty-nine. What does she want? For me to have a proven track record of monogamy before I’m thirty? She was just lashing out, Alice, because she doesn’t even want to consider how much I care for you.” She gazes into my eyes. “I can only hope you didn’t believe her.”

  “Not for a second.” Whether it’s the truth, or a half-truth, doesn’t even matter in this moment. When Joy looks at me like this, there isn’t a shadow of a doubt in my mind that she has anything but good intentions for our relationship.

  “But now we’re talking about Mum again.” Her lips curve into a lopsided smile.

  “I know. I don’t have many friends like Miranda. In fact, I have none.”

  “Speaking of friends. I have every intention of showing you off to every person I know in the coming months. Is there anyone you want to introduce me to? I’ll be good, I promise.”

  Is there? I hadn’t even given it a second thought. My life consists of work, the occasional work-related social gathering, dinner once in a while at Miranda’s, and going to the opera or a museum maybe once or twice a month. I feel suddenly embarrassed by this. Not because it displays a huge lack of social prowess, but because it makes me realise exactly how much of my time I single-mindedly devote to my job. “I’m not sure. My parents are no longer with us. My sister lives in Budapest and I see her once a year if I’m lucky—or unlucky, depending on how you look upon it. I’m afraid I really do spend most of my time if not working, then at least thinking about it.”

  “God, Alice. I can see why Mum wanted you as a business partner. That woman is one smart cookie. You must regret the 50/50 split equity because you have made her rich. Your hard work has basically funded my college education. And that house in Portugal is as much yours as it is hers.”

  “Miranda had a family. It was different for her. I’ve never begrudged her anything because if it hadn’t been for her I might still be working for someone else. She pushed me to take the risk, and the risk paid off.”

  “Risk? It’s not a risk when you work eighty hours per week, Alice. My mother is conniving enough to have seen that in you.” She regards me with a pensive look. “And you had a family when you started out. You had Alan. Did you never want to have children?”

  I shake my head. “When I look back now, I have to say no. But back in the day,
after you were married, it was just automatically assumed that the woman would get pregnant, but I never did. I could have pursued it more. I would have if I really wanted to. But I guess I didn’t.”

  “What do you mean? You couldn’t have children? Or your ex couldn’t?”

  “Well, Alan certainly can. He has a child with Sheryl.” There was a time when saying this would have somehow made me feel mortified—not sad, but inadequate, I guess. “Technically, I can have children. I’ve had everything thoroughly examined. It’s just not as straightforward as with most people. It would have involved a lot of tracking, charts and intercourse I didn’t really feel like having.” Then, I’m hit with the first inkling of a thought I most definitely don’t want to have. I can choose: push it away and ignore it, or just ask Joy. The longer I let the thought linger in my brain, the less of a choice I seem to have. I have to ask her this, and I have to ask her now. “How about you? Do you want children?” There’s a good reason why asking Joy this hadn’t crossed my mind yet. I’m fifty-one and never had a pronounced child wish, and the past two months, my mind has been so occupied with new emotion after new emotion. But Joy is so young, and I’m so terrified by her upcoming response I break out in a cold sweat.

  “I don’t know.” Her gaze is no longer pinned on me, instead it drifts into the distance. “I’ve never been in a situation where I really had to ask myself that question. I never had to see a doctor to have the pill prescribed, for instance. I never had to worry about a condom breaking or the morning-after pill. And I’ve never been in a relationship where the question might have popped up.”

  “Yes, but aside from circumstance.” I tap my chest with my free hand. “In here. How do you feel about it?”

  “I really don’t know, Alice. I’m not the kind of person who is preoccupied with faraway notions like that. But if you’re asking whether I can feel my clock ticking and whether I have a growing, burning desire to be with child, I haven’t. This may change. I don’t know.”