Alice Takes a Cruise Ch. 03

At the front door I thanked her for looking after me.

'It's me who should be thanking you,' she said seriously.

I gave her a girlish hug, expecting her to disengage after a polite length of time. But instead she returned my embrace more firmly. Involuntarily I relaxed into her arms, breathing in the faint scent of her hair.

She pulled away with a laugh and kissed me lightly on the cheek, as the French do to anyone above mere acquaintance. 'You'd better get some sleep. And drink lots of water, or you'll wake with a hangover.'

'Yes, miss.' I attempted a salute, but succeeded only in almost poking my eye out. 'Come round again tomorrow,' I added impulsively, as she walked down the path.

She turned and smiled, surprised and pleased. 'I'd like that.' She opened the front gate. 'You know you have lovely hair, Alice.'

Then she was gone.

Did she deliberately set out to seduce me? I've no idea. Maybe a part of me was ready to be seduced – though it didn't feel like it at the time. After the trauma of parting with Peter, I felt that any relationship which demanded emotional commitment was impossible. And sex? That was even more out of the question. I masturbated, of course. I wasn't frigid. But rarely, and always behind my bedroom door, in the dark, when I knew mother was safely asleep. With practice I became quite good at pleasing myself, but in truth they were fairly joyless occasions, always followed by massive helpings of guilt.

I suppose I had tried to shut that side of me down after Peter. I knew that I could never fall in love with anyone while mother still needed me, so I simply pretended that any desires of that kind didn't exist.

Perhaps Jenny sensed that in me. Or perhaps she saw it in herself and guessed that I felt the same way. Once she told me that it had been a whole week after her brother died before she'd been able to look at herself naked. She'd felt as if she were flaunting the fact she was still alive. It struck a chord. How could I ever think of enjoying myself - particularly in a physical way – while mother was suffering so much?

The following evening Jenny came round. After ensuring mother was asleep, I had prepared a little dinner for us both – in the kitchen because that was the least audible room from her bedroom. But I could hear her through a baby alarm if she awoke.

I had put a white linen cloth over the small table and some late roses from the garden in a vase. It looked a bit over the top, but I had no real idea what was appropriate. I hadn't entertained for months. Suddenly convinced it all looked ridiculous, I was on the point of removing them both and laying the cutlery on the bare table top, when the doorbell rang.

She was beautiful.

I don't know why it struck me as the most immediately obvious thing about her, but it was so true I couldn't ignore it. How had I not seen it before? She had had her hair done – that was the first thing. A deep brown – almost black – it shone and cascaded in soft curls to just below her shoulders (this was almost ten years ago, so forgive me if it sounds unfashionable). And she had put on lipstick and makeup, adornments she had never bothered with for the support group meetings. Her dress was a shimmering turquoise silk sheath to her knees, far too cold for the time of year, but she had probably only had to walk from her car. She seemed slimmer too, and taller. I glanced at her feet. She was perched on elegant, strappy stilettos, so minimal as to be almost non-existent. Her toenails were painted the same deep red as her lips.

'Are you going to let me in? I can only stand in these shoes for up to five minutes.'

I felt myself blush as I realised I must have been staring. 'Of course. Of course. Come in. Come in.' I asked her for her coat, then saw she didn't have one. I may even have asked her if she wanted to use the bathroom, I was so tongue-tied.

She laughed. 'And I thought I was nervous.' She leant forward and gave me a kiss on the cheek, just as she had the previous night.

I felt myself sway slightly from the enveloping sweetness of her perfume, then we were apart again.

'Ralph Lauren,' she said.

'What?'

'My perfume,' she smiled.

'It's lovely,' I said. I seemed to have developed a slight catch in my throat. 'I must try it.'

Jenny started for the living room, but I steered her towards the kitchen. 'I've set the table in the kitchen. Mother won't be disturbed by us then. Do you mind?'

She admired the white linen, the roses. 'It's perfect.'

'I've made some dinner. I hope you're hungry.'

'I could eat a horse.' She sat down and bent to unstrap her shoes. 'And do you mind if I take these off? They're killing me.'

'I feel distinctly underdressed,' I admitted. I was wearing a pair of loose linen trousers and a pale pink cotton top. They didn't sound much, but they had taken me over an hour to choose. I had fiddled with my hair for another hour – in between ministering to mother and preparing the dinner.

Jenny appraised me steadily from head to toe, one of those serious looks I was already coming to know. 'You look gorgeous.'

Well, it wasn't quite the word I would have chosen – one girl to another – but it had the effect it was no doubt intended to. I glowed.

Dinner went well. Oh, why be modest? It was a triumph. Though I was still barely twenty-two, preparing most of mother's meals had made me quite an expert in the kitchen – though, naturally, the dishes I prepared for Jenny and me were nothing like the largely pureed babyfood I took upstairs. I had even managed to find a few more bottles of wine hiding behind a lot of junk in the cupboard under the stairs.

Jenny told me about her family; how her parents had divorced soon after her brother's illness had been diagnosed; how her mother had been totally unable to deal with it and was now living alone 'somewhere up north'. It was plain Jenny thought she had deserted them and that it was still too painful to talk about.

'Don't you ever see her?'

'I used to,' she admitted. 'But then I got tired of trying to get her off all the prescription drugs she was taking.' She looked at me. 'Does that sound callous?'

It did, but I didn't want to say so. 'I don't know her.'

'Very diplomatic.' She laughed and took a large gulp of wine. 'Oh, maybe I'll try again one day. Not yet, though.'

'What about your father?'

'I see him occasionally. He's in the film business and spends nearly all his time in America.'

'Leaving you to look after your brother.'

She waved her glass. 'Oh, I wouldn't have wanted it any other way. He would have been useless. When he became more successful he offered to pay for full-time care for Jack, but I told him to pay me instead. I was doing most of it anyway. With his money it meant I could give up work.'

'You must have really wanted to look after him.'

She poured us both another glass of wine, emptying the bottle. 'Yes, well, I had an ulterior motive.'

I waited for her to say more, but she seemed reluctant. She held the empty bottle in front of her. 'Let's open another.'

'Don't you have to drive home?'

'I'll get a taxi.' She gave me a look, half unsure, half challenge. 'Or I could stay.'

I must have hesitated too long.

'No, of course I'll get a taxi. You won't want to disturb your mother.'

I was grateful for her understanding. 'It's ridiculous, but she doesn't like people even to know about her condition.'

'Don't worry.' Jenny stretched her hand across the table and gave mine a firm squeeze. 'I know what you mean.'

'Thanks.' I returned the pressure of her hand and for a moment we just looked at each other. Her fingers felt cool, strong, reassuring, and she seemed happy to leave them there.

I withdrew my hand. Jenny laughed. 'What about that wine?'

I blew the dust off another bottle and she opened it and poured us both generous glasses. I was already a little lightheaded; this one was going to last me the rest of the evening. I took a genteel sip. Jenny gulped down a mouthful. I tried to remember what we'd been talking about.

'You said you'd had an ulterior motive.'

'What?'

'For giving up work and looking after your brother.'

'Oh that.' She seemed reluctant to elaborate, but then evidently decided she would. 'Have you ever been in love, Alice?'

The apparent change of direction confused me. 'What? No.' I remembered Peter. 'No,' I repeated, though less certainly. 'I don't think so.'

But she seemed hardly to be listening.

'You'll know it when it happens. It's like being hit by a bus.'

'Is that why you were glad to give up work and look after your brother? It was an excuse?' I wasn't so befuddled with drink I couldn't put two and two together and still get four.

She immediately became defensive, though I hadn't intended it as an accusation. 'I don't feel particularly proud of myself, but he was still the most important person to me. I made sure his needs always came first. He never suffered because of…' Uncharacteristically she suddenly seemed lost for the right word, as if she were about to say one thing, but then decided on another. '…because of anything else I was doing.'

'So who was he?'

She frowned in genuine puzzlement. 'Who was who?'

'The man you fell in love with.'

It silenced her. She took another gulp of her wine, looking at me steadily over the glass. 'There was no man.'

'Oh,' I said, thinking I understood.

She waited, knowing I didn't.

'Oh,' I said again, this time really understanding.

'Yes. Oh,' she echoed. 'Shall I go now?'

I felt a blush creep up my neck. Had I looked so disapproving? Was I really such a prude? 'Of course not.'

Uncertainly, she tried the beginnings of a smile. 'You're not frightened to be alone with me?'

Yes, part of me wanted to scream out, but I silenced it. I tried to think of something to say that would make me sound like a woman of the world, but failed miserably. 'I've never met a real, live lesbian before. You're not what I would have expected.'

Her smile turned to a laugh. 'Next time I'll wear corduroys and smoke a pipe.'

'Don't laugh at me. You know what I mean.'

She stopped laughing and put her hand on mine. 'Poor Alice. You're a bit of an innocent, aren't you?'

Petulantly I took my hand away. The worst thing in life is to be accused of something you know to be true. 'Of lesbianism? I should think so.' Even to myself I sounded idiotic.

'I'm sorry.' She drained her glass and stood up. 'Perhaps I should call for that taxi.'

'No, don't.' The words were out before I could stop them. 'I mean you don't have to go.'

Jenny looked at me as if she were trying to gauge my sincerity, a gaze as steady as if she had merely drunk a glass of water instead of almost a bottle of wine. 'Are you sure you wouldn't rather pretend you'd never met me?'

I tried to match her gaze. 'No. I want you to stay.'

There was a long silence. I could almost hear her considering her judgment on me.

'Please.'

It seemed to be the right word. She smiled and sat down again. 'Well, you're going to have to drink your share.' She filled my glass to the top and refilled her own. By unspoken agreement we both raised them and clinked. 'You need to be drunk if you're going to listen to my sob story.'

In truth, despite being my first – albeit vicarious – experience of lesbian love, it wasn't so bizarre. If I substituted Jenny's girlfriend for any man it would have sounded as mundane as a million other doomed affairs.

They had met at a club; they had gone out together a few times; they had fallen in love – or rather, Jenny had. Financed by her father, she had given up her job not only to look after her brother, but to spend as much time as possible with her lover. To Jenny, it had been the beginning of a long-term relationship. The object of her love, unfortunately, had had other ideas. Within a few weeks Jenny had discovered she was seeing another girl. A few stand-up rows and lots of tears later, it had all been over.

Related so baldly it seems a brief business, ended almost before it began. But in truth, Jenny took the best part of an hour to tell the tale, dwelling particularly on the feelings the girl had prompted in her, how she had been unable to sleep for weeks, how she had walked in a daze, how she had longed for her every waking moment. Then how she had hated her, how it had taken her almost a year to get over her.

'And what do you think of her now?' I asked.

She laughed. 'That she was great in bed.'

'Oh.' I could feel another blush coming.

'Whoops, sorry.'

But actually I didn't feel embarrassed any more, not in front of her. Maybe it was the drink, or maybe I was actually beginning to think of her as a friend again. 'No, don't apologise. You were right. I am a bit of an innocent.'

For an answer she stood up, leant over the small table and before I realised what was happening, took my face between her hands and gave me a kiss on the lips. 'Yes, but a very beautiful one.'

I was struck dumb. I could feel the blush returning. I couldn't decide whether to be outraged or flattered.

Amused by my discomfort, Jenny smiled. 'That was nice. In fact, I'd like to have another go.'

But this time I was quicker. I was out of my chair, already a step away. 'Perhaps it is time for that taxi.'

Jenny closed her eyes and swayed a little on her feet, putting a hand to her forehead. 'Oh dear, I don't think I should have done that.' She slumped to her chair and put her head in her hands.

'Are you all right? Would you like a glass of water?'

She raised her head. 'I'm not really used to drink,' she said, attempting a weak smile.

I raised my eyebrows. 'Really?'

She spoke as if it were obvious to anyone: 'I told you I was nervous.'

She slept in my room and I slept on the sofa in the lounge, the room immediately below mother's. I warned her to be as quiet as possible; I didn't want mother knowing anyone else was in the house. I knew from bitter experience that she reacted badly enough when one of her previous carers had had to stay over – she would probably have complained about it for a week if she'd learnt a complete stranger had stayed the night.

But I needn't have worried. When I put my head round the door after settling mother, Jenny was already sound asleep, an elegant naked foot sticking out from under my duvet.

I washed the dishes then made up the sofabed. I'd slept there often enough before. If mother was going through one of her restless phases, it was easier for her to bang on the floor with her stick than call to me in my bedroom. But that night I just couldn't drop off. I kept thinking of the evening just passed, of Jenny, how beautiful she had looked in her turquoise silk dress, her large eyes, how they had gradually become hooded with drink, of how – well, why didn't I admit it to myself? – how amazingly sexy she had looked.

And though I tried not to, I also thought of the kiss she had given me. Brief though it had been, fleeting even, I could still remember every moment of it, her hands on my cheeks, her lips approaching mine, then the touch of her soft flesh. And now I came to think of it in detail, to really study it, as it were, I decided that it had been no ordinary kiss, not the kind of kiss one receives, say, from a relative at a wedding. There had been a distinct pressure, a firmness, even a certain lingering involved.

Of course, part of me was horrified at the thought I had been kissed on the lips by a lesbian. But another part of me – perhaps the lonely, frustrated, unloved part – was excited by it. I could feel my heart beating that little bit quicker just at the thought of it. Wanting to recapture the feeling, I even put the back of my hand to my lips, closed my eyes and tried to imagine I was kissing her. Ridiculous, of course.

Mother woke me only twice during the night. The first time she wanted turning; an hour later she wanted a drink. I stayed until she was asleep again, then went downstairs to the kitchen to wash the glass. I was standing at the sink in my long t-shirt when Jenny came in, my duvet clutched around her.

'I heard you moving about,' she said. 'I thought it'd be OK if I got myself some water.'

The vision of beauty of the previous evening was a little tarnished. Her hair was anyhow and her makeup had smudged.

'How do you feel?'

'Not too great.' She caught sight of herself in the mirror. 'God, I look terrible. I should have stayed in bed.'

I took a couple of tissues and wetted them. 'Here.'

She took them, but then held them out to me. 'Would you mind? I don't seem to be able to focus too well.'

For a moment I was reluctant. But she looked so helpless, I almost laughed at my timidity. What could possibly happen to me?

I wiped the tissues over her forehead and cheeks. She closed her eyes so that I could wipe the remains of her mascara off, then wetted another tissue and wiped away the last traces of her lipstick. I tried to pretend otherwise, but it felt very sensual to be stroking her skin, albeit with pieces of soggy recycled paper, and judging by the somewhat dreamy expression on her face, Jenny felt it too. Or perhaps she was just half-asleep.

'I've got some cleanser in the bathroom.'

'No, that was lovely. You have very gentle hands.' She smiled. 'But you know what?'

'What?'

'I'd kill for a cup of tea.'

'Why not?' I laughed. 'It's only four o'clock in the morning.'

So we sat at the table again and drank tea. And talked. And laughed. And sat in silence occasionally. It felt so natural to be with her, so comfortable. It was as if we had known each other for years. Though she was very different from me – more worldly, more knowing – we seemed to be kindred spirits. I felt as if I could tell her anything.

Which was maybe why I ended up in tears again.

I don't know what we were talking about – mother, probably – but quite suddenly all the exhaustion and frustration and loneliness of my life welled up inside me and burst out. I could feel the tears pricking my eyes and immediately tried to hide behind a tissue. But the sight of Jenny's immediate look of concern told me to just let go, no matter how hard I tried to hold back.

'Oh, Alice,' was all she said. Then she was out of her chair and round my side of the table.

Without thinking, I rested my head against the softness of the duvet. I wanted her arms round me again, just as she'd done outside the support group meeting. I wanted to bawl like a baby and be comforted like one. But the duvet was not very helpful. I could feel her trying to free her arms, while still keeping it wrapped around her.

Then, 'Oh, bugger it.' She let it drop. I felt her naked arms come round me and hold me. Suddenly my head was resting on her skin. I opened my eyes and found myself looking at two beautiful breasts, soft, welcoming. I tried to pull away, but Jenny's arms held me – not fast, but enough for it to be somehow ungrateful of me to force them away.

Jenny looked down at me. 'They wash clean,' she smiled. 'Just let go.'

So I did as I was told. Just as outside the support group meeting, I let myself go. I cried and cried, while Jenny held me, stroked my hair and said 'there, there,' over and over and my tears ran down the smooth valley between her breasts.