by Clare Lydon
“No silly! He met a girl and got married. Now she has a grandchild that she never sees, tragic. But she’s on Facebook all the time and showed me pictures. She’s going to teach me. You’re on Facebook aren’t you?”
I nodded.
“We can be friends!”
“Can’t wait,” I lied. There was about as much chance of Mum mastering Facebook as me turning straight.
“Oh, and I’ve got something else to tell you. Remember Phil?”
“Phil?”
“Yes, you know –your Phil…”
Phil was a guy I’d gone out with some 13 years previous, my last serious boyfriend before edging out of the closet for good. Mum still spoke fondly of him, as if he were the last hope of me ever settling down and having children. I didn’t tell her that it’s still possible to have children if you’re gay – children with another woman wasn’t on her roadmap and might just send her tiny mind into a tailspin.
“I think the statute of limitations on him being ‘my Phil’ might have run out years ago…” I said.
“Yes, well he called – lovely phone voice, you know – and he wanted your number.”
“And you gave it to him?”
“No!” she said. “But I told him you were due back in the UK this week and told him to call back then.”
“Great. You do remember I’m gay don’t you, Mum?” My voice was sing-song. It didn’t disguise my irritation.
“Of course! I just thought it might be nice to have a drink with him, that’s all. No need to be so touchy about it.”
What a lovely thing to look forward to – a phone call from Phil. Even if I hadn’t turned out to be a card-carrying lesbian, I’m sure I would have split up from him given the fact that while he was tall, solvent and not bad looking, he was also crushingly dull.
I felt an old surge of annoyance that even though my mum had known my preference for Martha rather than Arthur for over a decade, it didn’t stop her stockpiling men for the rainy day when I realised my true heterosexual calling.
We trundled on and out into the airport car park, the trolley rattling along the uneven concrete and my parents having an argument about which bay they’d left the car in, but Mum ultimately being correct.
So I was home – but had I done the right thing being run out of town by a broken heart? As I settled into the back seat and the English motorway spread out on either side of me, I felt at once at home but also like an imposter in my own country.
Chapter 3
I’d left England three years earlier and landed in Australia with only $5,000 in my pocket and a phone number on me. The $5,000 dollars lasted just long enough; the phone number got me a job selling advertising space with a local newspaper. I was soon spending oodles of Aussie dollars up and down the gay bars of Sydney’s Oxford Street and Newtown, the bright lights burning a hole in my pocket and the Aussie dykes lasering my heart with their promises of a far-off future.
The first woman I met was Teri, an engineer from Newtown who doubled up as a drag king by night, airing twice a week as Butch Cassidy. Our relationship didn’t last long; she dumped me when I took exception to her fucking other willing cowgirls waiting in the wings. Turned out, this was one cowgirl who couldn’t be tied down.
After Teri came Alex, a truck driver who didn’t consider it a day’s work unless she had an oil stain on her clothes. I spent two consecutive nights in her multi-coloured sheets in Beverley Hills before sliding out on morning three. I left quietly with her cat Toby ushering me out the way I’d come in, a satisfied look on his grey, bony face.
My third conquest was Pat who worked in radio and was big on the Sydney lesbian scene. Pat was a hipster and no slouch in the sack, but when I gazed into my crystal ball it wasn’t Pat I saw kissing me in the hall after a hard day, so we split after a couple of months, the search for love still on. First to apply successfully and have her application rubber-stamped was Karen.
Karen, who was a major part of the reason I’d fled Oz and flown back to England. Gorgeous, blonde-haired, blue-eyed Karen, who crept up on my heart like some lesbian poster child. She’d painted a picture-perfect vision of our future together on a huge canvas in my head, before casually setting fire to it in a flaming haze of betrayal.
We were together for just over a year, time enough for me to buff up my heart for her and offer it as a shiny prize. She accepted without hesitation and together we embarked on a year-long love mission – we were astronauts, floating in our self-made bubble.
During the time I had Karen to myself I thought I’d never been happier. We spent the usual first three months in bed, both enthralled by the new body beside us. After three months in which I kissed every part of her countless times, we began to venture into civilisation, going to art exhibits, the cinema and sharing dinners out. After four months, I declared my love and she hers. Our friends got on, we were in love. With Karen, there was no standing on ceremony: I fell hard, with a dramatic and decisive thud.
We delayed the tried and tested co-habiting route, wanting instead to cherish our freedom as well as our relationship and not fall into the trap that so many of our friends had. So I kept a flatmate and so did Karen, only she ended up shagging mine and having an affair, breaking my heart into a thousand fragile pieces.
After the ‘unfortunate birthday incident’, as my friend Tom christened it, Paula had the good grace to move out the next week, only her temporary home was Karen’s. I assured Karen this was not a good move if she wanted to continue our relationship. She assured me she had no intention of doing that, and perhaps I shouldn’t stop by our favourite haunt that Friday night because she’d be there with Paula and I might feel a bit uncomfortable and, well, single. I took her advice.
In the weeks that followed it suddenly became devastatingly clear that my happiness and Australia didn’t appear to be compatible. Every time my heart and head fizzed into action, galloping towards a magical realm, an axe would fall elsewhere cutting the blood supply and killing the plan stone dead.
It was only after six weeks of drinking and heartache that I arrived home one night and realised what I was craving: home. Proper home. There was nothing to keep me in Sydney anymore. I’d tried the Aussie girls, we didn’t seem to click and with Karen still fresh in my system I simply didn’t have the energy to play the scene. So I’d fired up my laptop, looked up cheap flights to the UK and decided to alter the course of my life.
I began the farewell process, having goodbye parties with my workmates, my book club, my gay boys and finally my best friends – Tom and Tess. They were the first two I’d told my plans to three months previous and both had been aghast, doing their best to talk me out of it.
“All it ever does is rain!” protested Tom – he was originally from Manchester, so he knew.
“Who am I going to talk sport with now?” Tess had asked. But in the end, they knew they were fighting a losing battle and that my heart was made up.
The night before I flew they both came over to my now empty flat armed with sparkling wine, Chinese food and a goodbye playlist created by Tom. As Kylie played, Tom proposed a toast.
“To Karen. When I see you, you’d better hide because I’m going to slap you for running our girl out of town,” he said.
I spat my drink out and smirked.
“You have my permission.”
“To our girl Jess,” Tess said, giving Tom a stern look. “I can’t believe you’re leaving us in February and not staying for Mardi Gras – what kind of a gay are you?!”
I laughed – Tess knew very well my contempt for all things Pride.
“You know, I saw Karen and Paula out at Love Lounge last week – I didn’t know whether to tell you,” she added. I shrugged with what I hoped came across as indifference.
“It’s fine,” I lied.
“Anyway, they didn’t look happy – I flung them a death stare on your behalf.”
“Good girl,” said Tom.
We’d finished the evening with shots of Russian vodka and Tes
s reiterating she didn’t know what she’d do without me. But there was no looking back now: the die was cast. I was 32 and going home with only a rucksack on my back and a wealth of memories and friendships to show for my time in Oz.
When the plane took off, I wondered what Karen was doing, if she was happy, if she knew I was leaving or wanted me back. Whatever, it was too late now.
I was gone.
Chapter 4
My brother Jack was waiting at the family home when we arrived, along with his wife Vicky and their two sons, Luke and Freddie. The kids had no idea who this dishevelled woman their dad was so pleased to see was, being aged three and two and never having met me before.
“Meet your best new babysitter, boys!” was Jack’s introduction as I kissed them both hello. Luke was the older of the two by 13 months and had fair hair, while Freddie was a walking shock of blond.
“If you’re paying, I’m available,” I said, scooping Freddie up in my arms. To my surprise he acquiesced without a murmur, looking at me quizzically with his big blue eyes.
Jack had met Vicky at university ten years earlier. Drawn by her way with a hockey stick and her frankly cracking tits, he’d successfully wooed her and somehow managed to persuade her to marry him four years later.
I’d been a reluctant bridesmaid, mainly because it involved wearing a lilac dress and slingback heels, both of which had no regular place in my wardrobe. My concerns were doubled by Vicky’s sister Kate, also a lady of lavender and unaccustomed to wearing flowing gowns. Particularly when they had to be worn in front of a crowd and Jesus nailed to a cross.
“You do remember who you’ve asked to be your bridesmaids, don’t you?” Kate had asked Vicky when she’d presented us with her choices at the first dress fitting. “Lilac isn’t really my colour.”
“Nor mine,” I’d chipped in, both of us behaving like sulky teens, starkly out of place amongst the pearly white interior of the bridal shop.
“Just try the dresses on, play nicely and I’ll buy you both lunch afterwards – deal?”
Since then, Team Bridesmaid had been a regular duo on the London scene pre-Sydney and I was looking forward to catching up with Kate now I’d returned.
“So how does it feel to be back?” Jack said as we sat down on our parents’ cream leather sofa. Jack worked in the city doing something terribly clever with numbers and had inherited Dad’s thick head of dark hair, which he kept very short. He was dressed in black jeans and a Ralph Lauren polo shirt, his feet encased in jauntily striped socks. His style was what the Americans would call preppy.
“Surreal,” I said, taking in the new addition of a glass coffee table and numerous dried plants around the room. “And after a day on a plane, I’m feeling super.”
“And how are you after Karen – Kate told us,” Vicky said. She winced slightly.
She too was wearing jeans along with a cream lacy top that had slid down one shoulder, revealing her tanned skin. I shrugged.
“Okay, you know.”
She gave me a concerned look as Freddie finally wriggled free from my embrace and toddled over to sit on his mum’s lap. Vicky smoothed back his fine hair and kissed his head.
“Well, Kate says to call her for a drink very soon. She also mentioned that she knew someone who had a room near her. Have you got her number?”
“I do, thanks.”
“And whatever the reason, we’re very glad you’re back,” Vicky said.
“Thanks. But can you do something about the weather?”
A few hours later Jack, Vicky and the boys were gone, Mum and Dad were being happily entertained by some Sunday murder-mystery and I was lying in the guest room, exhausted but unable to sleep with my mind working overtime.
So I was back in London, seemingly for good. Plus points: roof over head, far away from Karen, back with family. Minus points: back with family, freezing cold, missing friends. You have done the right thing, I told myself. This is absolutely the best course of action. It makes total sense and this is the next chapter of your life. I lay having a pillow-fight in my mind for a couple of hours before it eventually shutdown and I drifted into a fitful sleep, dreaming of Bondi Beach, sharks and Karen. No need for a dream diary to untangle that one.
Chapter 5
The next morning my mum woke me at 9am, jetlag be damned. She also made me a bacon sandwich and chatted non-stop – all that was required from me was the odd nod and smile throughout mouthfuls of food and slurps of tea. Did I want to come with her to pilates later? What about bingo this evening? How about a slice of apple pie? I politely declined all three, which left her muttering into the washing machine as she filled it. I stacked the dishwasher and disappeared upstairs to call Kate.
“The wanderer returns with a broken heart. How’s being back in the bosom of your family, girl?” Kate said.
“Strangely normal. How are you?”
“Same old same old – three years on and that’s still the case.”
“That’s what everyone keeps saying.”
“That’s because it’s true. People who do adventurous things make us all feel bad when they return and nothing in our lives has changed.”
“Adventurous. Okay, I’ll go with that.” I paused. “Listen, Vicky said something about a room. Is it still going?”
“Unfortunately not. But come out for a drink later and I might have another option.”
“Sounds intriguing. Okay, where should I meet you?”
“Athena in town, just off Greek Street. Google it if you’re not sure. I finish here at 6, so let’s say 6.30?”
“Perfect. And I don’t have a phone yet so don’t be late.”
“Yes, miss. And wrap up warm. Remember, no thongs, you’re not in Bondi anymore.”
“Har de har.”
My first foray back into London lesbian life. I put my parents’ cordless phone on the bedside table and lay back on the guest double bed, the sheets still comfortably creased from my night’s sleep.
The radio alarm told me it was 10.21am. I worked forward in my head to where they’d be in Sydney right now – 8.21pm, time for TV or Monday night beers. Tom would be out on Oxford Street, jeans fresh from the wash and tight T-shirt hugging his just-worked-out torso. Meanwhile, Tess would be sinking a schooner of beer in Newtown after a hard day teaching. The thought of Newtown made me feel sick.
That was what I knew and now it was my old life, in the past. I’d given it all up to come back to live with my parents in a magnolia room with my mum inviting me to bingo. I closed my eyes. I needed a plan of action to combat these thoughts and take my mind off the fact that I’d lost the love of my life and that, at 32, I was sleeping in a room with patterned pelmets. It was temporary, never forget.
My mum broke my maudlin thoughts with a timely knock on the door.
“Jess, can I come in?”
She poked her head round the door before I could answer, as was the pattern of my childhood. When she saw me still lying on the bed, she recoiled.
“You’re not dressed yet! I’m going to the shops in a bit and wondered if you wanted to come too?”
“Into town?”
“No, Sainsbury’s. Why don’t you come with me and we can buy you some food. I don’t know what you like to eat anymore and I want you to feel at home.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Jump in the shower then – half an hour?”
She closed the door and I knew she was right. I had to start moving and getting on with my life, not lying flat and procrastinating. I swung my legs off the bed and propelled my body upwards. First step in the process, food shopping.
I looked out the window to check on the weather – compared to Sydney, it looked like the ice age had cometh. I dressed appropriately in thick socks, T-shirt and my favourite red hoody. However, as soon as I stepped outside the front door and saw my breath running away from my body, I dashed back in and rescued my old work coat from the spare room wardrobe. It didn’t really go with my casual attire but right now
warmth was my priority, not fashion.
I was early in town to meet Kate, full of the lasagne Mum had cooked and wearing a jacket that I’d forgotten I had. I was looking for some shoes when I came across it and it immediately took me back to working at the call centre and late-night drinking sessions in Soho with my mates. There was even a stain on the side that was testament to my amazing durability back then.
Getting on the tube again was an experience too, having done it every day for six years and then not at all in Sydney. But now I was back in London, I’d have to get used to it again – the crowds, the smells, the elbowing. As we pulled into Oxford Circus I was sucked into a swathe of commuters and swept along towards the neon way out sign. A minute or so later I was spat out into the swirling central London winter air, infused with the smell of cigarettes, traffic fumes and hot nuts sold from tiny metal carts.
Being 20 minutes ahead of schedule, I decided to find the bar first. Once inside, I ordered a Heineken from a surly bartender in a black vest top who wasn’t as cute as she thought she was. I sat myself down at a table near the door so I wouldn’t miss Kate, but it was also good for people-watching. I was curious to discover what, if anything, had changed in my three years away.
I dimly recollected that London dykes had been more standoffish than those in Sydney, with hair and attitudes that could do you some serious damage. Sydney women had been more welcoming – or perhaps I’d thought that because I’d got a shag within ten days of landing there.
But today was a different day, a different time and perhaps my luck was about to change. My mind flicked through my Karen album as I thought this, so I took a swig of beer in a bid to cleanse the images.
If I was looking for evidence of a better scene, this bar was proof. It was cool but charming with a smart wooden bar and they’d got the lighting spot-on, keeping it low and intimate. I shifted in my seat, watching a couple of lesbians walk by hand in hand in the early evening sun. I smoothed myself down in an effort to ensure I was presenting a positive face of lesbianism through the bar window.
