by L. T. Smith
To make matters worse, I tried to help—stop the glasses, stop the spray, stop the free flow of booze spilling across the bar. My kind of helping hardly ever works out the way I want it to work out. My well-intentioned efforts ended up with more of a mess, soaked paper napkins piling on the bar, and more work for the bar staff. Considering I had believed myself to be their champion, preaching how overworked they were, I had made matters worse.
It wasn’t just the embarrassment of upsetting glasses and spilling drinks over people that made me want to curl up and die. It was that my humiliation was being observed by someone I wanted to both impress and bollock at the same time. My actions had just made me look even more of a dickhead than usual, and that took some doing.
Virgina tried to help with the clean-up, but I dismissed her, not allowing her to get past me and get stuck in with the tidying up. But given that acknowledgement, I couldn’t quite grasp why, after I had slapped the final serviette onto the counter, I was so surprised when I turned around and she wasn’t there. Virgina had gone. Poof. Like she hadn’t really been there to start with. All that was left was a barman holding a glass of Coke with ice, sans lemon.
“The lady wanted you to have this at her pleasure.” The barman carefully placed the Coke in front of me, probably to make sure I knew it was there so I wouldn’t accidentally launch it over the bar.
I tentatively touched the glass, the coolness burning the tips of my fingers. “Thank you.”
Even as I spoke the words to him, my attention was sweeping around the room looking for Virgina. Instead I spotted Gill, her arms waving to catch my attention, the look of relief on her face evident.
I’m not sure why I released a sigh. Not even 100 percent sure if it was from relief or annoyance, but it was out there, forcing me to recognise that it was time to move from the bar and carry on with the evening.
I gestured for Gill to stay where she was, as I knew that otherwise it could become a case of losing sight of her once again, and, to be honest, I couldn’t be arsed going through the drama all over again. The evening had gone from one embarrassing situation to another, and I seemed to be the key link to them all. Falling over…definitely me. Acting like I was a fucking medium or Sally Morgan wannabe having an “I see dead people and hear angels” kind of moment when I thought I was dying, or walking like I‘d just been taken from behind by something big and rough and probably with a lot of body hair, my legs not only having the coordination of a newborn gazelle but the strength of one too. An underdeveloped gazelle, maybe one with a limp.
And it didn’t end there. I hadn’t been the most understanding friend to Gill in the restroom. In fact, I’d been pretty sharp with her. It wasn’t because I wanted to be peed off with her, I just felt frustrated. Frustrated with the way she acted, the way I always seemed to be the one she turned to when she needed someone, when in fact...
When in fact that was not the real reason at all. I was frustrated because Gillian Parker didn’t need me in the way I wanted her to need me. Not only when she wanted help or a spy or an undercover BFF. I wanted her to want me for more than that. Much more.
Through all my mental meanderings, Coke in hand, I was making my way closer to her. Gill’s face became more animated, more radiant, more encouraging as I approached. At one point I was sure I saw her eyes sparkle. Instead of thinking, “Oh my God!” at the vision that was her whilst willing my knees not to buckle, my heart not to pound too loudly, or my expression not to give away how I felt about her, I did none of those things. I had a completely different thought. There was no green in her eyes. And that stopped me in my tracks.
I couldn’t claim that I didn’t know to whom I was comparing Gill; I knew all too well. I knew I was attracted to Virgina, had known it since I first heard her voice when I believed I was waiting to follow the light onwards to the Pearly Gates. What had taken me by surprise at that specific moment was that I had compared Virgina’s eyes to Gill’s with no obvious connection—one minute describing Gill, the next alluding to Virgina. And even though I hadn’t actually said it as a comparison, it obviously was.
Gill gently grasped my arm and pulled me into a less crowded space. “What’s the matter? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
For over twenty years I had believed Gillian Parker’s brown eyes were the beginning and end of my world, the centre of my universe; and now some other woman had come along, and in less than two hours had turned my world upside down. Maybe I’d never had a chance with Gill, or would ever have a chance with Gill, but at least I knew where I stood. As long as she was in my life, I would have been happy to love her from afar. But now, now everything had changed, and I wasn’t sure that it was for the better.
“I see you’ve got yourself a drink.” Gill tapped the glass with her index finger, the thrum of the connection travelling through the vessel.
My attention shifted to my Coke, the ice bobbing like overexcited swimmers. My lips twitched slightly as I once again noted the lack of lemon.
“How many have you had?”
Gill sounded concerned, and had I been in her shoes, I would have acted the same way. “It’s just Coke, honestly. First one.” I took a gulp. The chill and the bubbles created a burning sensation in my throat, but I swallowed it down before forcing out, “Where’s Tom?”
Gill pointed beyond me, her own head tilting sideways as if to see past me.
“He’s near the buffet table, talking to some of his team.” Her eyes squinted and then widened, and her lips became thinner. “Don’t look now, but the slapper has just sidled in next to him.”
Like every other female on the planet, anytime someone tells me not to look, the first thing I definitely need to do is exactly the opposite. Curiosity is a heady thing, but rumour has it that it also kills cats. Does that stop us getting our fill of gossip or nosiness? Not a chance.
I should’ve known by the way everything slowed down as I turned to look that it wouldn’t end well. My head moved in an agonisingly measured way, my eyes closing deliberately only to open unhurriedly with the swing of it all. My right foot shifted to allow my hips to twist and my body to follow. I initially had a half-smile on my face. The anticipation of finally witnessing what all the probably dreamed-up fuss was about stirred some hidden amusement within me, but it was short-lived. My half-smile twisted into an ugly grimace, the ache of clamping my teeth together serving as a punishment of sorts.
There, almost leaning on Tom Griffiths, was Virgina. Her back was to me, but I knew her straightaway, and not by her outfit, either. It was her shape, her hair, her everything. I didn’t even need to see those hypnotic eyes to know it was her. My gut told me so, and the ping and snap inside my chest confirmed it.
“That’s Gina Donaldson, the trainee doctor at the surgery.” Gill was close, her breath skimming my cheek.
Usually I would have reveled in the sensation, but for some reason, this time her closeness just made me angry.
Gina. Short for Virgina. Obviously. “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” This wasn’t a case of the name being the name of my enemy, the name not being a “hand nor foot, nor arm, nor face, nor any other part.” This was more than an epiphany in a Shakespeare play. This was me realising that I had totally got everything completely wrong. Everything. Every-fucking-thing.
VirGINA had helped me because she was a trainee doctor. She had looked deeply into my eyes to check for a concussion, not because she was drawn by the greenness of them. She had walked me to The Maids Head because, firstly, she was already going there, and secondly, she was a trainee doctor. Again. And a trainee doctor who so evidently had the hots for one of her mentors—Tom Griffiths.
I felt a fool, an idiot, a twat. Anger blossomed through me like a bursting blood blister. The more I observed her talking to him, the laughter they shared, the light touch of her hand on his arm—even if it was momentary—the angrier I became.
Tom looked over, his eyes searchi
ng for Gill. At that precise moment, I hated him. He had both of them, Gill and Gina. Both of them. I had the urge to march over and punch him in the face, glory in the satisfying crunch of his perfect nose under my fist. I didn’t do it, not just because by doing this I would fuck Gill off and give Gina an excuse to get her hands on the man she was lusting after as she tended to his nose, it was far more primitive than that. I was not a violent person, even though my gut response indicated otherwise.
He lifted his hand and waved at Gill, actually had the balls to wave at his fiancée whilst holding court with another woman. My aversion to violence wavered. Gina’s head cocked and I assumed she’d asked him a question, because he began to talk to her again. It was when he pointed over in Gill’s general direction that a sense of panic hit me. I did not want to be introduced to Gina by Tom, nor did I want to stand uncomfortably in the company of two people I definitely wanted to avoid.
Gina’s head began to turn towards us, and I swung back around and faced Gill.
“Well?”
Her expression was almost pleading, and I began to have a better understanding of the saying “between a rock and a hard place.”
“Well what?” I knew damned well what she was asking, but I was trying to formulate a response that wouldn’t break her apart. Considering this should have been my ideal scenario—the time I could be the shoulder for Gina to cry on—it didn’t have the same appeal I had always anticipated it would.
“Do you think there is…?” She swallowed hard. “Do you think…?”
I had an urge to tell her she should always ignore whatever I thought, as my thoughts were usually fucked up, but I swallowed the words down.
Instead, I placed my hands on her shoulders and looked into her face, the beautiful face of the person I had wanted to kiss for over half my life. This was my chance to tell her that her fiancé was a dog and she would be better off without him, citing the same pool of lies I had used in our teenage years to get rid of all those boyfriends. But there had always been others that took their place, other young men with ideas of being Gina’s one and only, and I was once again on the sidelines looking on. I had never told her how I felt, never shared that part of me with her. Gina had always been supportive of my girlfriends, had always told me the truth whether she liked them or not. She wasn’t as shallow and selfish as I had been.
It was time to set things right; time to acknowledge that Gillian Parker was straight and in love with Thomas Griffiths. Time to realise that Gillian Parker was my best friend and would never look at me the way I had always wanted her to look at me.
“You need to talk to Tom, Gill. Don’t listen to anyone else’s thoughts. Ask him. Talk to him. Be straight with him.” The last bit could’ve been construed as a play on words, but I actually meant it.
“But you’re my best friend, Brynn. I trust you. You’re the one I’ve always come to.”
“And Tom is your fiancé, Gill. You need to be able to talk to him about things that worry you. You can’t bottle things up, fear the worst, believe the worst, without even sharing your feelings with him.”
Her eyes glistened, and I knew she was on the verge of crying. My heart felt a clenching sensation, and then a cracking. I’d always been there for her. Always. I had sworn to be her protector, to keep her secrets and fight her battles, to listen to her worries and fears and loves and losses. She was my best friend, always my best friend. All my girlfriends had always had to live up to Gill; she had set the bar for them. She had set it way too high.
Until tonight. Until I had literally fallen for someone else.
Fallen for someone? Fallen? Been attracted to, definitely, but surely not fallen.
“Brynn, I…”
I could hear the pleading in her tone and knew I had to do something even more drastic. “Call me tomorrow and tell me how it went, okay?”
I leaned forwards and kissed her cheek, my eyes closing at the contact. Her skin was cold, slightly clammy. It was more than a goodnight-and-good-luck gesture; it was a goodbye to old dreams. That kiss marked the end of my constant longing for Gillian Parker, even if I was the only one who knew it.
Before she had a chance to protest, I left. The air outside cooled the tears streaming down my face.
Chapter 10
The walk back to the car park was unadventurous, no teetering or falling over. That may have been because I changed my route and opted for Princes Street instead of Elm Hill. Princes Street was also cobbled, but it was smoother than the way I had come. Or the reason I stayed upright could’ve been because I didn’t think about walking, I just did it.
The reason I didn’t think about my route or how I should take it was because my head was full of so many more pressing thoughts. I really didn’t want to churn them over and over and over in my mind, but it seemed I had no choice.
My chest hurt. Specifically, it hurt because my heart was breaking. The realisation that you are not as important to someone as they are to you is never a good feeling, granted. But the acceptance of this realisation hurt even more. I knew that Gill loved me; it was obvious every time we were together. But she didn’t love me the way I had longed for her to love me. The all-consuming, full-of-passion-and-longing everlasting love that I’d always felt for her wasn’t reciprocated, and there was nothing I could do about it. Seeing her utter commitment to loving Tom, her concern over possibly losing him, had driven home to me that I had to let go of that dream, that longing for Gillian Parker. It might’ve been easier to let go of the past if something could come from my initial feelings for Virgina, but I had been hit with a double whammy. It was apparent that my lusting after straight women didn’t stop with Gill. I couldn’t even decide how I should feel—angry, frustrated, betrayed, or slightly miffed. The first three, definitely, with maybe a dash of bitterness and loneliness to add some extra spice to it all. I was happy to get to my car and start the drive back to my place. At least I had to put my thoughts on the back burner whilst I concentrated on the traffic. Well, mostly.
Forty-five minutes after leaving The Maids Head, I was home, my shoes kicked into the corner of my hallway and my dress discarded in a silken heap on top of the ottoman in my bedroom, my underwear following after. Teeth and hair brushed, pee taken, face and hands washed, and then under the duvet. Then up again to turn out the light before climbing back into bed and covering my head with the quilt.
I lay there in the dark, my eyes trying to make out snatches of light to ease the boredom and also to distract my brain from trying to overanalyze every bloody detail of what had transpired that evening. Everything was so fucked up, so fucking fucked up. I couldn’t even say when it had become fucked up. Was it after my realisation that both Gill and Gina were unavailable to me? Maybe it was when I had stupidly flirted with a woman to whom I had felt an instant attraction. Or from when I buggered over in the street and acted like a complete twat. Not to mention the earlier possibilities when Gill had come to see me the previous week, or when I’d dumped Jenny. They all contributed to the outcome in some degree, but they were not the only reason for my fucked-up fuckedness of being a fucking loser.
It all stemmed back to me being thirteen years of age and falling for my best friend. Everything else was slotted in and buggered up because of the roots of it all. Gillian Parker resting her head on my knee and crying so much that her tears soaked my jeans was something I would never forget. Remembering the feeling of her clammy, sticky skin as I brushed her hair away from her face made me rub my fingers together, their current dryness belying the memory of then.
I squeezed my eyelids closed, hoping to erase the image of her desolation, her sobs racking through her body and into mine. I’d felt utterly and completely useless. I hadn’t known what to do, how to act, whom to tell. All I could do was stroke her hair, stroke her bloody hair!
Suddenly I sat up forcefully. The events of that time in her life had changed us both—her for living it, and me for living it with her. I’d not wanted her to tell me what ha
d happened, not wanted our childhood ripped away with words explaining scenarios I couldn’t fully understand.
I flung the covers back and swung my legs out of bed, then placed my feet on the carpet. I didn’t get up, just continued to sit there wriggling my toes into the deep shag pile. There was a certain comfort to be had from the action, something almost childlike and innocent.
My breathing was deep yet quite even; slow, steady breaths in accompaniment with the wriggling of my toes. A sigh released itself into the air as my hand rubbed my chin to aid my thinking.
The moment I had found out what Gill’s dad had been doing to her had been the moment I’d fallen in love with her, although I hadn’t recognised it at the time. That admission to myself had come only when I couldn’t deny it any longer.
Deny what, exactly? That I wanted to protect her, beat the crap out of her father, her mother, and anyone else who had ever hurt her? Yes, I had always experienced an ache, a longing when I was around her, but was it sexual? Sometimes my body reacted to her when she was very close or if I was feeling vulnerable, but not all of the time. The thing I felt all of the time with her was…
I shook my head to see if I could clear out some of the crap that was filling it. Too many scenarios involving me staring love-struck at Gill were trying to play out, and I could feel again the utter despair of a budding lesbian who finally admitted to being attracted to girls at seventeen. Well, one girl in particular. The only one I had ever been close to.
“Fuck!” I got to my feet and paced around my bedroom. “It is not happening. It will never happen. Got it?” I slapped the side of my head and grimaced at the sting of it.
I climbed back into bed, my fists zealously pounding my pillow before I flopped back and threw my duvet over my head again.
I counted enough sheep to become a sheep farmer, and also relived way too many memories of times I’d spent with Gill. All the boys she had dated, all the lies I had spread about them, all the times I had dropped everything and anyone just to spend time with her. I was a fool in love, as they say, a fool desperately in love. Or lust. Or longing. One of them, or all of them. Whichever it had been, it had lasted more than twenty years, longer than most marriages. Eventually, sleep came.
