Love Happens Here

by Clare Lydon

  Saturday November 26th

  To get online, the first thing I had to do was write my profile. I pulled up the app Melanie had success with, and after filling in all my details, I was asked for five key phrases to describe myself.

  What would my friends say? Flighty, indecisive, tequila-intolerant, brunette, good tits. I wasn’t sure I should go with that.

  What about me? I pulled out a pad and pen, then began writing. Average height and build, shoulder-length maple brown hair, loves cats, tans easily. I wrinkled my nose — I needed to make it more than just another lesbian with a fondness for pussies.

  Okay, take two. Five phrases or words. I could do this, I worked in marketing for goodness sake. I tapped my pen on my pad but my mind went blank. Eventually after a few minutes, I wrote: athletic, good dancer, blue eyes, deadline-driven, likes avocados. Deadline-driven? Honestly, I was rubbish at this. Perhaps this was why GSOH was so popular.

  I needed help. I got up and walked through to the lounge, where Holly was stretched out on the couch watching football. Holly worked as a recruitment consultant in the City, a hangover of a job from her post-university years. She had a degree in history and politics, which she’d soon realised led to precisely no jobs in the real world. So when a friend of a friend had offered her a position in his firm, she’d taken it. That had been five years ago. Now, she spent her days placing people in jobs they may or may not want and got paid handsomely for it.

  I squinted at the TV. “Who’s playing?” I sat on the opposite end of the sofa.

  Holly didn’t move her gaze from the screen. “Us and Chelsea.”

  I tapped my foot a few times before speaking again. “So you know my profile?”

  Holly didn’t respond.

  “Hols?”

  She ignored me again.

  “Hollister?”

  She looked at me. “Your profile.”

  “Yeah — can you help me?”

  “At half-time.”

  “Okay.” I stood up, biting my fingernail. “You want a cup of tea?”

  “Please,” she replied.

  Our shared flat had white walls and a laminate floor, a blank canvas to decorate. However, because we were renting, we couldn’t do that without our landlord’s permission so we kept it minimalist. One corner of our living room held the L-shaped sofa and TV, one corner a small white dining table and chairs. The kitchen took up another corner, and we also managed to fit in a small desk. Surprisingly, the room still felt spacious.

  At half-time, Holly slurped her tea while thinking of five key phrases to describe me. “How about annoying, interrupts football matches, drinks wine too fast, prone to hiccups, perky breasts?” She waited for my response.

  “I predicted you’d mention my breasts.”

  “They’re worth mentioning,” Holly said. “I’ve always told you, I’ll exchange some of my height for some of your breasts. Seems a fair swap.”

  I laughed. “It would be — but it’s not helping to write my profile, is it? And I’m not mentioning my breasts — that seems desperate.”

  Holly raised an eyebrow in my direction.

  “I am not desperate!”

  Holly grinned as a train rattled by on the track just outside the window.

  Our flat was in a shabby chic, up-and-coming area. South-facing, it was baking hot all year round, which meant we had the windows open constantly. It was also noisy, built right next to a train track. Hence when a train passed by, it was best to shut up until it’d passed if you wanted to be heard. We both stared at the train full of people heading into the city. Once the train was out of earshot, we refocused.

  After a couple of minutes, Holly clicked her fingers together. “Got it — how about this: Christmas cracker seeks possible Mrs Claus. Must love Christmas, tinsel, ice-skating and mulled wine. Post-Christmas activities also considered on application.”

  “It makes me sound like I might murder them in their sleep with my special Christmas ham.”

  “I disagree — it’s themed, it’s unusual, it’ll make you stand out. Plus, isn’t this quest all about finding someone for Christmas, someone to spend the holiday with? You want them to love Christmas, don’t you?”

  I paused. “Of course, but there might be a gorgeous Muslim or Jewish lesbian out there who doesn’t do Christmas. I don’t want to alienate her.”

  Holly waved a hand through the air. “You’re over-thinking it. If there’s a non-Christian dyke who likes the sound of you, I don’t think the whole Christmas deal will put her off. Plus, Christmas is cute. It’s fun, it’s light, it’s airy. Christmas spells romance.”

  Half an hour later, I was sat on my bed with my iPad, trying to work Holly’s spiel into a more workable format. But the more I thought about it, the more I was inclined to agree. This would make me stand out from the crowd. People might think I was a Christmas nut who secretly wanted to be an angel or a fairy, but so be it. It was worth a shot, and if I had no bites in a few days, I could always change it. I posted the best image of me I could find, hammered out the words before I could talk myself out of it and clicked post.

  Let the games commence.

  My history as a lesbian Lothario wasn’t great, truth be told — but I was determined this December was going to be different and memorable. I was tired of floating in a sea of lesbian debris. This time, I wanted to take control and steer my course with confidence.

  I first kissed another woman in the school library when I was 16. Her name was Nicola Sheen and she had the smoothest skin in our class. Honestly, if Nicola walked in right now, the girlfriend search would be over because to my 16-year-old self, Nicola Sheen was the perfect woman. Tall, dark and devastatingly handsome, the fact she had a boyfriend called Craig only made me want her more. At 16, she hadn’t yet realised her true vocation was to love me.

  I became friends with Nicola when we were 14, quite late in my school career — Holly treated her with suspicion, seeing as she’d been by my side since the age of 11. By the time we turned 15, I wanted to spend every waking minute with Nicola, but had no idea why. Every opportunity I had, I texted Nicola and hung out with her, and we told each other our deepest, darkest secrets. She told me she had a crush on Craig Dale way before they got together. In turn, I told her I liked Ed Hartman. It was a lie, but I had to say something.

  When we told each other stuff like this, Nicola favoured lying together on the bed — she’d watched too many American movies, but I wasn’t complaining. Lying next to Nicola on my flowery duvet, I’d never felt so almost-content in my whole life.

  We so nearly kissed a few times, but it was always her who pulled back, always her who had a freakish look in her eyes. But then, one day in the library down the history aisle, the lines blurred. When our lips locked, the klaxon that sounded in my head was loud enough to be heard in Scotland. In that moment, I knew what the invisible struggle I’d been grappling with was, and my life changed.

  Nicola sunk into the kiss, even slipping her tongue into my mouth. I remember I groaned — why wouldn’t I? I’d been waiting for this moment for 16 years. Most straight people have their first meaningful kiss before they reach their teenage years. Mine didn’t arrive till I was old enough to get married, smoke and join the army. I’d kissed boys before, but kissing Nicola Sheen made much more sense. If she’d proposed right there and then, I’d have dropped everything and said yes.

  But she didn’t. Of course she didn’t. Instead, she pulled back, looked at me with a veil of horror falling over her face and ran out of the history aisle as if I’d just produced a gun. She avoided me for days afterwards, despite my constant texting. And when she did eventually speak to me, it was to tell me we should keep our distance from each other, because what happened could never happen again.

  However, such grand statements only played more into my love-struck hands. I was studying English literature after all, and this seemed to have all the hallmarks of a dramatic Shakespearian tragedy. Only, I was convinced our story would hav
e a happy ending — the folly of youth.

  Three months later, Nicola announced she was pregnant. She really went out of her way to tell the world she wasn’t a lesbian. After that, she moved away and we lost touch. I knew she had a miscarriage and went to university, but I often wondered where she was and if she ever thought of me and that kiss. Or even if she’d ever had another kiss like that one. I knew I hadn’t.

  At university, I got together with a woman named Melissa. She was on the hockey team and was a real competitor at everything in life — including being the best in our relationship. She was an expert in putting me down and I was an expert at taking it, until around two years into our liaison when she decided to sleep with someone else and I was off the hook. I slept with a couple more women after that, but gave up on relationships for a while, happy to have the space to breathe.

  I stayed in Bristol after graduating from its university, taking a job in a local marketing firm that set sail to my current career. The company was a small family-run business and I loved it there — I’m still in touch with them and visit every time I head west. Three months into working there, I met Amy, who owned the pet shop next door.

  And after Nicola Sheen, Amy was my second significant love.

  Everybody loved Amy — my mum, my friends, my colleagues — everyone. There really was nothing not to love. She owned her own business, loved animals and was one of the most caring people I’d ever met.

  After a year, I moved into her neat three-bed terrace, the floors covered with Amy’s carpets, the walls with Amy’s artwork. After two years, Amy started making noises about having children — at 35, her biological clock was booming. At 24, mine was not. A year later, Amy proposed: one knee, roses, diamonds, the works. I accepted, we told the world, and the world embraced us as one.

  Only I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t close my eyes without thinking about getting married and having children, all before I knew what I was doing with my life. Before I was ready. I was only in my mid-20s, and suddenly, my life had been thrown into fifth gear.

  After three months, Amy asked if I still wanted to get married.

  I told her I didn’t know.

  That was enough for her.

  We split up two months later amid a backdrop of tears and what-ifs. I couldn’t stay in Bristol, so I handed in my notice and moved into Holly’s spare room in east London. Moving in with her was the perfect choice because Holly had known me for over half my life. She knew I loved Mexican food, garlic mayonnaise, and cats. She knew I’d still worn knee-high socks at High School far later than it was considered cool to do so. She’d held my hair when I vomited after drinking too many pints of Snake Bite on my 18th birthday. Aged 25, London and Holly were the far better option — better than being married with kids.

  So yes, love. It’s come my way twice, and if I’m honest, I sometimes wonder if I’ve used up my lot. Should I have married Amy and stayed in Bristol? I might already be a mother — I knew Amy was.

  I shook my head. No, I’d done the right thing moving east. But now, 18 months later and after precisely three one-night stands and a four-date fling, I was ready to get back in the game. I wanted a girlfriend. I’d already fallen in love with city life, which took a little time for a country bumpkin like me. Now, I was ready to fall in love for real with a living, breathing woman, rather than that mannequin in Top Shop who I always think would make a fine lesbian.

  Tomorrow night was date one. Her name was Ruby.

  If she kissed anything like Nicola Sheen, that would be amazing.

  Monday November 28th

  I was a Cancerian and Ruby was a Scorpio. According to most experts, that meant we were a match made in lesbo-heaven. If we got together, my future was set to be awash with emotional rapport, empathy, compassion and sensitivity. One site I checked last night even said we were ‘sextile’, whatever that meant. One thing was certain — even before Ruby turned up, we were destined for greatness.

  We’d arranged to meet in the West End, in a run-of-the-mill Soho boozer. It wasn’t a gay bar, but then again, there weren’t many of those left these days. Apparently with equal marriage and all the rest, we simply didn’t need gay bars any more. I wasn’t sure I agreed.

  I loved this part of Christmas — the build-up. Don’t get me wrong, I loved the day itself too, but it was the anticipation that thrilled me every year. When I was little, my parents would bring me to the West End to see the Christmas lights as an annual treat. We’d get hot chocolate, hot dogs and cinnamon donuts, and the size and sparkle of the event never failed to amaze me. Even now, years later, the sight of the West End Christmas lights still flush my insides with festive cheer. They also make me miss my dad so much, I have to stop and catch my breath.

  I’d styled my shoulder-length chestnut hair with a new product, but it felt odd, like a dry alien life-form perched on top of my scalp. However, my foundation was smoothed in, my lipstick so bright it could stop ships. I’d done a fashion show for Holly the night before and we’d settled on some tailored black trousers and a black shirt — simple, but effective. The stage was set, now I just needed my Juliet. Or Ruby, as the case may be.

  I bought myself a glass of Merlot and nabbed a table at the back of the pub. It was November 28th and already the place was overrun with Christmas spirit — by that, I mean drunk office workers. Scarves lay abandoned on the scuffed wooden floor as drinks were hoisted, ties were loosened and heels crunched on broken glass. London had come alive to celebrate the imminent birth of baby Jesus.

  I recognised Ruby straight away from her profile picture — she had crazy curly hair, so she was easy to spot. She struck me as the kind of person who was always catching her breath, always rushing, always late. She just had that aura about her.

  It was her love of tennis that had drawn me to her profile — that, and the fact she made a good joke about cats. I was desperate for a cat, but Holly wasn’t keen — I was still working on her. If I ended up with Ruby, not only were we sextile, we’d also have cats. Perhaps three of them.

  She squeezed past the crowd to sit down in the chair I pushed out for her. Ruby was carrying a pint of lager and a posh-looking laptop bag that screamed “steal me!”.

  She shook off her coat and smoothed herself down, before we smiled shyly at each other and shook hands. She had a strong handshake, not too firm, just right.

  Ruby turned out to be in the music industry. I pricked up my ears — not only cats and perfect compatibility, but also free gig tickets on the horizon. This was getting better. She was around my age but needed a better moisturising routine — the skin around her eyes and mouth was dry and drawn — but winter could do that to you. She was wearing a floral perfume that she’d clearly just reapplied, and her pink lips were rounded and glistening with lip balm. I leaned closer to get a look at the logo that was stamped liberally around her shirt.

  “Is it a squirrel?” I pointed my finger at one of the animals sitting happily on her breast. However, Ruby moved at that critical moment and my finger brushed her nipple.

  She shot backwards as if I’d just slapped her.

  I held up a hand as my cheeks hissed into red action. “Sorry — I was just pointing at the animal on your breast.” More blushing. “I mean, your shirt. Is it a squirrel?” This wasn’t going well.

  Luckily, Ruby had a sense of humour. She peered down at her shirt. “That’s a funny-looking squirrel — it was a rabbit last time I looked.” She gave me a grin. “So, is this a usual habit — feeling up your dates within five minutes?” She took a sip of her pint, never taking her eyes from me.

  I blushed a deeper shade of red. “I normally give it at least ten.”

  But after that, things took a turn for the better. One thing I didn’t have to worry about was flowing conversation. Ruby liked to talk. And talk and talk, which suited me as I was happy to listen, smile, nod and assess. Was Ruby going to be my future girlfriend? I was just happy that the chat was about celebrities, the best lunchtime salads, cats an
d tennis.

  “So do you have a cat?”

  Ruby shook her head. “I’d like one, but it’s just not very practical. Living in a flat-share isn’t the ideal environment for a couple of kittens, is it? When I get a place of my own, which will be in about 200 years at the current rate of progress with my finances, then maybe.” She sighed and sat back in her chair. “Until then, I’m going to be catless and sad.” She pouted to emphasise the point.

  I decided Ruby was a contender — she had an easy smile and was wearing heels, which showed effort or stupidity, depending on how you looked at it. Her hair looked like it had been dipped in sunshine and she made me feel completely at ease, which was no mean feat. Perhaps the girlfriend quest would be over before December had even dawned? Perhaps Ruby was the one to tip the balance and prove that not everyone on the internet was desperate?

  She seemed too good to be true. Why the hell was she still single?

  Two hours later, I had my first clue as to just why that might be.

  First, Ruby was a fan of drinking and this became obvious to me just over an hour into our date. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not a teetotal prude, far from it. However, Ruby was on to her fifth pint of lager while I was still sipping my second glass of wine. Perhaps she was nervous and deserved the benefit of the doubt? All of a sudden, that wrinkled skin around her eyes made more sense.

  Second, by her fifth pint, she also told me she’d love to introduce me to Jesus Christ our Lord. A personal introduction? I was flattered.

  “What are you doing on Thursday?” Ruby asked, her eyes glassy, her skin blotchy.

  “Why?” Nothing that involved her, I was pretty sure.

  “We’ve got a special ‘Let Jesus Into Your Life At Christmas’ evening at our church. I’d love for you to come along,” she replied.

  “Oh, I’m busy on Thursday,” I lied, smiling.