The Sun on my Skin Ch. 03

"I'm sure I will survive not seeing this movie," she replies with just the slightest hint of amusement.

"There's a Starbucks, like, just down the road, you could talk there," Ali suggests.

"Or there 's that wine bar place across the road, over there," Nessa adds, pointing out through the glass doors of the cinema.

"I feel like I'm being ganged up on," Heather complains. "Okay," she sighs. "Here's my ticket, Ali."

"Thanks, Heather," Ali replies, smiling.

"Here, get some popcorn or whatever," I say, handing a fiver to Nessa.

"Thanks, Tina."

"It'll be nachos, not popcorn; that's what Vanessa will choose," Heather tells me as we make our way out of the cinema. "She keeps suggesting them and home and when she saw they had them here... Another taste my daughter has acquired, thanks to you. Or maybe her liking girls is my fault."

"Heather, I didn't make Vanessa gay any more than you did. Don't buy into the crap that some people at your church may tell you."

"What church? I don't go to church. Whyever did you think I did?" she asks, genuinely confused.

"Oh, well I sort of assumed..."

"Because I'm upset that Nessa wants... wants a girlfriend instead of a boyfriend? Is that what you think?"

"No, I mean, well that night at the Parents', er, Consultation Evening you were saying about getting to choir practice... I sort of assumed that meant at a church."

"No, it was a community rock choir thing. They practise at the same community centre where I teach Pilates and one of the women in my Monday afternoon class suggested I give it a try so I did — for a few weeks, anyhow."

"So you're not religious then?"

"My parents used to take me when I was a girl, for sure, and I guess I think there's something when, er, when we're gone, but I don't know about God." She pauses just under the edge of the canopy in front of the cinema. "So where do we go? That wine bar or Starbucks?"

"That depends: will you have a drink if we go to the wine bar? I mean alcohol, or are you driving?"

"We drove here so, no: no alcohol. You can drink though."

"No... I don't think I want to drink, not if it's just me. Starbucks it is then."

We hurry along the wet pavement, heads bowed against the rain, and enter the clattering, noisy warmth of the Starbucks.

"What do you want?" I ask as we join the line at the counter. "I'm buying."

She's still thinking when the barista asks me what I want. "A... Chai Tea Latte, please, with skimmed milk," I reply, changing my mind from coffee at the last minute, "and make it hot. And..." I look towards Heather.

"Oh, er, can I get the same, please?"

"That's two skinny chai teas, extra hot. Would you like any pastries?"

I glance again at Heather who shakes her head. "No, thanks," I reply to the barista.

The place is only moderately busy, so there are a couple of empty tables and I opt for the one that seems a little more secluded. Since we're here to talk, I don't want Heather to feel she'll be easily overheard. We sit and I watch as Heather takes a slightly wary sip of her drink. "Mmm, that's nice," she says, sounding a little relieved.

"Have you not had it before?" I ask.

"No, I usually have coffee, but it sounded nice. I guess you have, from the way you ordered it — extra hot and all."

"Yeah, a real Starbucks regular, that me!" I smile. "Not really, but I have had this chai before; I think they keep the syrup stuff they use to make it in the fridge, so it sometimes comes out just tepid, you know?"

"Thank you for the tip, Tina," she replies and silence falls between us.

To break the silence, I start to ask how she is just as Heather says, "That word you used — synchronity?"

"Synchronicity," I correct carefully, and she nods.

"What does it mean?" she asks.

"It means something that happens by chance, but that seems to have some significance or meaning," I explain. "Us all turning up at the cinema, for example — it felt significant, like there was a reason, right?" She nods.

"I thought the reason was Vanessa and her phone, but it was just chance, I know."

"Maybe... but perhaps it can have some significance, some purpose if that's what we choose. Like us being able to talk about things."

"About Vanessa and Ali, you mean."

"In part but... Look, what happened with my parents and Pippa hurt — it hurt a lot — and I know I made that clear. Perhaps I should have been a bit more... I don't know... nuanced. I painted you in the role of my parents, I know I did, and that wasn't fair. Finding out about Nessa's feelings for Ali obviously came as a big surprise to you and you'd had, what, an hour or so to come to terms with it all."

"It might have been a surprise for you, but it was a shock to me."

"All the more reason why I was being unfair on you, although being gay isn't, you know, a disaster or anything."

"I guess that makes sense..." she concedes, "but you don't get how it feels as a Mum."

"What don't I get?"

"The fact that it's wrong! The fact that society says it's wrong, women, girls, together..."

"Heather, you do read the newspapers or watch the news occasionally, don't you? Apart from the fact that lesbianism was never illegal in the same way as male homosexuality was, gay marriage is legal. Society doesn't say lesbianism is wrong."

"Okay, maybe society doesn't, but people for sure do!"

"Yes, that's true, I won't deny it. Things are getting better, slowly, but there are homophobes and bigots still, just as there are misogynists and racists. I know, as a young, black woman that Nessa already has prejudices to contend with..."

"Exactly!" Heather interrupts. "She doesn't need another reason to attract hatred and discrimination."

"Heather, I can tell you love your daughter, that you want to protect her but..." I hesitate, unsure if this is going to be a wise thing to say, "but ultimately it's her decision. If Nessa truly is gay or bi, then you can't make her straight, any more than my parents could make me straight, or that I could have turned Ali gay if she was straight."

"But what if she's making a mistake?"

"I guess we all have to make our own mistakes, don't we? We just have to make the best of what follows."

"I guess I didn't listen to my parents..." she says quietly. "I just don't know what to do or what to say to Vanessa... to my little girl..."

"I can't tell you that, Heather. As you say, I don't know what it is to raise a child..." Heather interrupts, trying to apologize for saying that, but I wave it away. "It's true," I insist, "but... well, for what it's worth, I can't help feeling that if you reject her, try to tell her she's wrong, then she's likely to dig her heels in and try to convince herself she is gay, even if this is just an experiment for her." I want to add that I can't help hoping, for Ali's sake, that it isn't the case, but I keep that quiet.

"What if it's an experiment for Ali?" she asks, unexpectedly.

"Uh... good question," I say, thinking hard. "I... okay, I admit that I was relieved that I wouldn't have to hide my own sexuality."

"So you haven't talked to Ali about it at all?"

"Of course I have. I did warn her that, well, that Nessa might be just experimenting... yes, fine: I didn't consider that Ali might also be exploring her sexuality. I should have, given that it was Nessa who, er... never mind."

"Tina, what? Vanessa did what? What did Ali say?"

"Okay, well, she said that it was Nessa flirting with her, talking about some gay actress or something and asking Ali if she might ever fancy a girl, want to kiss her, you know?"

"And Ali decided she did, am I right?"

"Yeah. Sorry... that's not really what you wanted to hear, is it?"

"It seems to me that you think that what I want in this doesn't matter."

"Of course it matters," I protest, "it's just that what your daughter wants matters more."

"Huh." She lapses into silence, thinking. I take a sip of my drink, wondering what to say next.

"Heather, listen. Vanessa is still your daughter, still the same person." Heather looks as if she's going to interrupt, so I press on. "From what Ali said, the two of them have been girlfriends for several months — since the summer in fact. What changed yesterday wasn't Nessa but you; you've found out a bit more about her, about who she is."

"It feels like she's changing."

"I understand, really I do, but isn't that what kids do, all the time? Changing and growing up: babies into toddlers then children; children turning into teenagers and then adults?"

"It's hard," she sighs.

I lean over and put my hand over the back of hers. "Two, three months ago, I doubt I would have understood that. I still don't, not fully, but Ali has helped me understand caring about someone, and their life and their future, in a way I didn't before. From what I know of you, what you've achieved, the lovely girl Nessa is — well, for what it's worth, I think you can get through this."

"Thanks, Tina," she says, pulling her hand away a little awkwardly to pick up her cup and drink, draining the cup. "Another?" she asks and I nod. "Okay, but can we talk about something else, please?"

"Like what?"

"I don't know — anything... Like, what do you do at work or what you're giving Ali for Christmas — anything."

"Oh shit!" I curse softly. "I still haven't bought her anything! I'm struggling with what to get her, so I just keep putting it off."

"What? Tina, you've got to get her something! Come on," she says, suddenly all brisk efficiency, "Let's walk down to the High Street and I'll help you."

We haven't unlimited time, so Heather's experience of the things that Nessa likes is useful, especially as Ali seems to share Nessa's tastes and style, as Heather points out. Still, even with Heather's help, I find the pressure to get it right makes it impossible to choose. Finally, possibly in desperation, Heather suggests jewellery of some sort, as Tanwen did a week ago. We're outside a jeweller's shop at the far end of the High Street, and we ought to head back soon, so I agree, though without much hope.

"I don't think she'd wear a necklace," I tell Heather as we enter.

"So what then? Earrings? A bracelet?"

Earrings seem too small so I start looking at bracelets and there is one that catches my eye; it's made of dozens, possibly hundreds, of little rings in subtle, metallic colours: dark pink, green, yellow, blue, purple, silver. "I like that," I say. "It's like that stuff they made armour out of, er..."

"Chainmaille, madam, is what your thinking of, I believe." The lone sales assistant — a slim, dapper young man in a waistcoat — startles me a little as he seems to suddenly materialize beside me.

"Yeah, that's it. I like it; I like the colours and it's not too girly, you know? It looks strong." I don't mention that it also makes me think of the gay pride flag.

"It's made of niobium, whatever that is," Heather says, reading the description on the little card beside it, which also has the price: £74.99. it's a hefty price, but I've many years of missed birthdays and Christmases to make up for.

"Isn't that the stuff they make those super-strong magnets from?" I ask the assistant.

"No madam; I believe you'll find that is neodymium, an entirely different material, I assure you," he replies in a way that suggests that I'm not the first to ask that question.

"Makes sense," I acknowledge.

"For sure. You wouldn't want a bracelet that tried to glue you to every bit of metal you walked past," Heather adds with a smile.

"What do you think?" I ask her.

"It will look very good on the dance floor," the assistant suggests and I look sharply at him. "I've seen you at Quixotes haven't I?" he adds, a little more uncertainty.

"Oh, er, yes, you may have done." I keep my voice and my look formal, trying to discourage any further comments or questions.

"Or is it perhaps for someone else, someone..." he begins.

"Yes, it's for my dau... my stepdaughter," I interrupt sharply. "What do you think, Heather?" I ask, turning to her, and her curious expression indicates that I'm going to have some explaining to do later, I can tell.

"I can see Ali wearing it, alright," she says. "If you don't think it's too expensive, you should hurry up and buy it — we do need to get a move on."

So I tell the now somewhat subdued assistant that I'll take it. He offers to gift wrap it, which I accept readily.

A few minutes later — and seventy-five pounds poorer — I follow Heather back out onto the street. "So... what is Quixotes?" she immediately asks.

"It's a nightclub — a mostly gay nightclub — that I go to from time to time," I explain.

"You sure seemed a bit uncomfortable in there."

"Well, I was kind of afraid that he was going to ask me about someone — some ex or other he'd seen me with."

"Do you have many exes?" she asks. Is she teasing me? Her tone and expression are ambivalent.

"A few. Like I told you, this last year hasn't exactly been a roaring success on the relationship front." That came out harsher than I intended and puts a damper on the conversation. I cast around for something to say and I notice the road leading to the sport's centre. "I still haven't managed to go swimming," I muse. "Do you swim?"

"Well, I can swim, for sure, but it's not something I do regularly."

"Just your Pilates, right. You'd look good in a swimming costume, though," I add. "You've got a good body."

"And this is something you've noticed?" she asks. She sounds almost shocked.

"Well, yes. Heather, you wear skin-tight Lycra and, hello: gay woman here," I tell her, gesturing up and down towards myself.

"I guess I never thought of that, you know... I feel a bit self-conscious now, for sure."

"Hey, it's no different to you looking at a guy and thinking he's fit. It's not that much different to simply recognising beauty in another woman."

"Really?"

"Well, if you were at Quixotes it would be quite a lot different, but this is me just complimenting a friend on having a good figure, yes?"

"Okay." She sounds a little less worried. "And... um, you have a very good figure too."

"Thank you, although being squeezed into your ridiculously tight top and leggings probably helped; I do need to get back to regular exercise."

We turn onto the road with the cinema, walking up the gentle gradient. It feels surprisingly comfortable, the two of us together, given the events of the past twenty-four hours. "So, what are you and Nessa going to do for the rest of the day? We could go and get something to eat, the four of us," I suggest. The girls would like that and maybe it might help Heather. However, her expression makes me regret my suggestion.

"Thanks but... I think I need to sit down and talk to Vanessa. Sorry, I know Vanessa and Ali would like that, for sure, but... we need to talk."

"No, you're absolutely right. Sorry."

"No, don't be sorry. Thank you for, you know, talking and telling me... things."

"No problem. Um, have a good Christmas, in case I don't speak to you before then."

"Oh, yes, you too. I am going to try with Vanessa; try to understand and... everything."

"I know, and I'm sure you will." As we push through the cinema doors, I can see Ali and Nessa together, smiling and laughing and I hope that Heather won't get in the way of that.

"What did Heather say?" Ali asks impatiently as the two of us leave the cinema.

"She said she needed to go home and talk to Nessa."

"Shit. Tina, I thought you were gonna, like, talk her round."

"Hey, it's not bad news, not necessarily. I did my best, Ali, but it was never about 'talking her round'."

"What did you say to her?"

"Lots of things, but mainly I told her about what happened when I told my parents. Ali, I... look, I can't promise anything, but I think she wants to accept it. Just..."

"Give her time, I know," she says resignedly. I put my arm around her shoulders and give her a brief, gentle hug.

Tuesday 22 December

I pick up my phone, mulling the latest mad idea in my head. I open the first of Heather's texts:

My daughter is a lesbian.

That was it. Perhaps she hadn't meant to press sent at that point or maybe it was a difficult admission she had to make, rather like a newcomer at an AA meeting: 'Hello, my name is so-and-so and I'm an alcoholic...'

The next text was a couple of minutes later, followed quickly by a third:

I know I have to accept that fact, if I love her, which I do. Dear God, but it's hard. I know what you said — that's she is still who she was — but it feels like I've lost the little girl I knew.

Part of me still fears for her and wishes it was different, but I cannot change Vanessa to be other than who she is. I crossed the Atlantic to escape, and I don't want her doing that, not because of me.

The final text brings a tightness to my throat:

Thank you, Tina, I'm glad you were there. This is hard, but I don't know how I would have coped without your wisdom and encouragement. Ali is lucky to have you. X

Heather sent the texts very late on Sunday evening — so late that I hadn't seen them until yesterday morning. However, I'd known there was no disaster looming after Ali had bounced into the room on Sunday evening, grinning from ear to ear. "Heather's cool about it, about Ness and me being gay!" she'd exclaimed. However, Heather's texts suggest that there's still a way to go before she's cool with it, not that I've told Ali that.

My mad idea — the reason I'm re-reading the texts — is to go over to Heather's Pilates class again. It seems that she's made the right decision but isn't finding it easy. I want to support her... okay, that is true, but also I was very touched by her last text and I want to say thank you. I tried to write a reply but nothing seemed right, so maybe I can do it in person. However, I'm not sure if this is the right thing to do. A troubling thought occurs: am I just looking for an excuse to see her in her Lycra again, hoping for another repeat of that dream last week? It was a very arousing dream...

Okay, here's the answer. I can't turn up expecting to borrow Heather's stuff again, so I'll need to buy some of my own. I'll go to the sports shop during lunch break, and if there's stuff there that I like then that will mean I should go: synchronicity.

I push my way into the ladies' toilets at the Community Centre. I'm already wearing the sports bra and leggings that I bought under my outer clothes — the rub of cloth against Lycra giving pleasant, tingle-like sensations. I shed my clothes, quickly and roughly folding them before cramming them into the carrier bag from the sports shop.

I look down at myself: the leggings, with their random pattern of blue, teal, grey and yellow triangles, wasn't my first choice but it was the right size; the sports bra is in teal, to tone with the leggings, and leaves my midriff bare. Yes, for an impulse buy, it looks pretty darn good.

I pick up my bag and shoes. The floor is very cold and I wonder if putting my socks on might be a good idea. No, it'll spoil the look, and I know the mats are warm enough.

As I enter Room C, I look to the left, towards Heather. She's bending over, taking out the larger balls from their bag. She straightens up, turning as she does so, an expression of suspicious surprise appearing as she sees me.

"Hi Heather," I say brightly, "I thought I'd give Pilates another go."

"Hmm, you did, did you?" There's a moment's pause then she seems to relax a little. "Come in. Grab a mat and one of each of the balls." I do as instructed and take my place.

The class runs much as last week -- mostly the same exercises with a couple of new ones. To my surprise, they feel a little easier. It seems unlikely that my muscle tone improved that much in one class, so I suspect that it's because this time I know the exercises, a bit, anyway.