Page 48 of So Thrilled For You

I dodged a group of younger women, shivering outside a club in the smoking area, singing an Adele song to distract them from the cold. Phoebe continued to chase me through Shoreditch. ‘Stop walking away. Please. Come on, Nicki. Be a grown-up.’

I halted and let her catch me up. Mainly, I was drunk and lost – I only ever ventured into East London with Phoebe to guide me through the graffiti and pop-ups and groups of youths inhaling laughing gas. I slowly turned around and her outline was neon against the glow of a nightclub sign.

‘You’ve been lying to me,’ I told her. ‘You’ve been pretending to be my friend.’

‘Nicki, come on, that’s not true.’

‘You’ve been making me vulnerable, getting me to open up about my life and marriage so you can . . . seduce me.’

Phoebe, to my surprise, burst out laughing. ‘Seduce you? Nicki. Come on.’ She took a delicate step forward. ‘You know that’s not it. You know we’ve been falling in love with each other.’

‘What?’

‘It’s been as much as a surprise to me as it has been for you. But, please. Think about it. We’ve not been friends in ages. We’ve been so much more than friends.’

‘Stop it.’

‘We’ve been sharing a bed at least one night a week. We talk all the time. Go out alone all the time. Tell each other our secrets. Nicki, I think about you literally all the time. You feel the same, I know it.’

‘No.’

‘I love you, Nicki.’ She looked so beautiful, stencilled by the city lights.

‘Stop. I’m married.’

‘And you’re unhappy.’

‘I’m not. And I’m not . . . g—’

‘Gay? Is that why you’re freaking out?’ She tilted her head to one side, her eyes wet and wide with empathy.

Was it that? I held my head to stem the spinning. The thump of the nearby club matched my raging heartbeat. Everything I thought I knew about myself was spilling up onto the pavement. I’d just kissed a woman and I’d enjoyed it. A woman had just told me she loved me and I wanted to say it back. A woman! With a vagina! What do you even do together? I had no idea really. Did I want to do things to Phoebe’s body? I felt vomit bubble up my throat as I thought through the reality of it, and within seconds, I couldn’t acknowledge this evening. I put my hand up to hail a passing black cab and walked off.

‘You can’t honestly be leaving right now,’ she called after me.

‘Leave me the fuck alone,’ I shouted back. The cabbie juddered to a halt and I jumped in while Phoebe patted the window. ‘Clapham North please,’ I told him. ‘Ignore her.’

Nobody but millionaires get black cabs in London. Everyone knows it’s about ten grand a mile, and the journey from north to south takes as long as a transatlantic flight. But it was my only escape route so I slumped against the seat, wiping tears away, and listening to the driver’s low, bored whistle as he steered me through the smeared lights of the city. She kept calling but I turned off my phone, willing the driver to go faster. When I eventually got back to our flat, parting with £72, I ran to the bedroom and climbed into bed with Matt, spooning him from behind, sodden with guilt.

‘Nicki?’ he murmured, waking in the darkness, sleep heavy in his voice. ‘What are you doing back? I thought you were staying at Phoebe’s?’

‘I missed you,’ I told him, wrapping my arms around him, stroking his body. It was so dark I couldn’t really see him and had to trace his outline with my shaking hands. The bulk of his muscles, the thickness of his thighs. I was instantly horny, and started stroking up his thigh, skimming over his groin through his pyjama bottoms.

‘You’re drunk,’ he announced, catching my hand and stopping me. I leant in to kiss him. ‘Definitely drunk,’ he declared at the taste of my mouth but I felt him smile in the blackness.

‘Not that drunk,’ I told him, giving him permission.

I thought he would push me off. It was 2.30am. Work tomorrow. We’d not had sex under such circumstances in years. Obligation overruled any stirrings. We would save our sex for amore appropriate time with fewer consequences the following day, and then, of course, never get around to it. But maybe Matt could sense me slipping away. The end of us hovering in a mist over our bed. Because, when I reached for him again, he was hard. Hard with a thing I understood what to do with. When we’d finished, he fell asleep almost instantly, like maybe it was a dream he’ll forget. Now accustomed to the darkness, I watched his face – innocent and unknowing in its unconsciousness.

As a woman, I had no such luxury to drift off to sleep beside him. I got up, bending over to keep as much of his cum inside me as I could, before running to our en-suite and cleaning myself up on the toilet, peeing to ensure I didn’t get a UTI. I spent many moments with my head between my legs, sobering up, replaying the night, the kiss, the argument, the sex – scarcely able to believe this dramatic mess had found itself in my dull and orderly life. Impossible questions swarming around as I blinked at the bathmat hanging over the side of the shower.

Was I gay?

Bisexual?

These words. These labels. So definite. With such a storyline.

I always knew from when I was very young . . .

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