Bella Summer Takes a Chance (13 page)

Much as I didn’t want to be the bearer of bad news… ‘Well, Lola, I’m sorry but he did. Twice.’

‘No, I mean I’m sure you did sleep together, but he didn’t cheat on me.’

‘Are you saying you’re not going out?’

‘We are very much going out.’

That explained why he wasn’t in touch. It would have been awkward to chat me up with Lola sitting beside him. ‘That’s why you didn’t call.’

‘Uh, no, not really,’ The Musician said. ‘We don’t date other people until the other has met them.’

‘B.,’ Lola continued. ‘We’ve got a flexible relationship. Sometimes we see other people. That probably sounds unusual, and it’s not for everyone, but it works for us. And sometimes we like to include other people. He likes you, B., and he thought that you might be interested in spending time with both of us. He should have told you before. Naughty man.’ They took a moment to explore one another’s tonsils.

Faith scrambled back into her chair so as not to miss another word. I, less gracefully, sat back down with a thud. ‘You want to… date me? Both of you?’ This was not how I imagined the evening unfolding. I figured maybe there’d be a kiss or two, a little banter, some hand-holding. Possibly a proposition at the end of a bottle of wine. Oh wait. Kiss? Check. Banter? Yep. Hand-holding, certainly. Proposition? Couldn’t deny it. So why was I freaking out? Because the proposition just came from someone with first-hand experience of period cramps. ‘Well, er, thanks for the offer. I’m flattered.’

‘Well, you’re gorgeous,’ Lola growled. Possibly she didn’t really growl. My view of her was painted over with the patina of a predator because she’d just offered to show me her nipples.

‘Thanks, and like I said, I’m flattered. But I’m, um, pretty solidly straight.’

‘Come on, B.,’ said Faith. ‘Nobody is one hundred per cent straight. I was with a woman once.’

That was my friend’s idea of helpful. ‘Well, I am,’ I said. Suddenly I felt like a prude. Apparently I was the only one at the table who wasn’t into lesbians. ‘’Scuse me, I need to run to the…’

‘I’ll come too,’ Faith said.

‘This is the weirdest night of my life!’ I said, leaning against the sink.

‘I don’t know why you wouldn’t at least consider it,’ Faith said between puckered lips as she reapplied her lipstick. As if she was propositioned by swingers in the normal course of an evening.

‘Because I’m straight, Faith. I don’t like women.’

‘You don’t really know that until you’ve tried it.’

‘Well, I’ve never been sky-diving either but I’m pretty sure I won’t like it.’

She shrugged. ‘Sky-diving, muff-div–’

‘Stop it! And anyway, I never thought
you’d
try it. You don’t seem the type.’ I imagined a stocky, shorn-headed brute with her wallet chained to her overalls. ‘You seem to really like men.’

‘I love men. It was only once. And it was very sexy. If the idea grosses you out, then fine, of course don’t do it. But don’t dismiss it just because you don’t think you should. You’re an adult. You’re single. You’ve got the chance to be with a man you already know you like, and a pretty, seemingly very nice girl. Double the pleasure, double the fun. Why not at least think about trying it? This opportunity has an expiration date, you know. You might not attract a couple like that when you’re fifty. I wouldn’t pass up the chance if I were you.’

I couldn’t believe I was even entertaining the proposition. I was straight. Wasn’t I? It wasn’t a label that I’d actively contemplated before. Like being a Brussels sprouts-hater, it was a given. So why was I questioning this status? Because Faith was right. My chances of having a hot couple want to see me naked were going to diminish as fast as my muscle tone. If I
did
some day want to try it, I might have missed the opportunity. Or I’d get the chance, then spend the whole time holding in my tummy and trying not to let them see the backs of my arms. It was one of those now-or-never decisions. I needed another glass of wine.

‘Do you sleep with a lot of other women?’ I asked them when we got back to the table.

‘No,’ they answered in unison, making me wonder what else they could do simultaneously.

‘It’s rare to find someone we both like,’ The Musician said. ‘It’s not about the sex as much as the connection. We don’t just jump into bed with anyone. Why, are you thinking about it?’ He glanced at Lola, smiling.

Gulp. I was. I was more than thinking about it. I was going to do it.

We were on The Musician’s bed, and we weren’t there to listen to CDs. He kissed me. Someone stroked his (her?) fingers along my leg. I’d have made a definitive call on the owner of the fingers but my eyes were screwed tightly shut like I was afraid of seeing monsters under the bed. The Musician broke off his kiss, gazed into my eyes (when I opened them) and smiled. Then my field of vision was filled with Lola. The time had come. I was about to be kissed by a girl. Our lips met. Soft. And there was a distinct lack of guidance. When I kissed a man he had a definite hand in the way events unfolded. I responded to him. I didn’t realise that before. When he went slowly, softly, so did I. When he was passionate, so was I. Faster, slower, softer, harder, my cues came from him. Lola wasn’t calling any shots. Was I meant to? Did that make me the man? Shouldn’t we have discussed it first?

I had to do something because it was getting a bit boring and I did not want that to be the adjective with which I described my only threesome. So, threading my fingers into her hair, I kissed her harder. Two things happened. The Musician took the opportunity to start narrating, and Lola opened her mouth wide and thrust out her tongue. Ugh. Bad kissers were disappointing enough when they had anatomy that I was interested in.

The Musician started demonstrating his directing skills, telling Lola exactly what she should be doing. She took direction well, it had to be said. He wanted a bit of a show first (he told us), and Lola definitely gave him one. And while her kissing technique was rather unpleasant on the lips, it was decidedly nicer on the body. I admit it, I wasn’t thinking of her as a woman. With my eyes closed there was really no telling the difference. I wasn’t touching her. In fact, I had my hands on The Musician. It was a bit like fooling around with a man who seemed to be in two places at once. He guided my hands, telling me where he wanted them, and I was enjoying my rather passive role. Maybe threesome courtesy demanded it. After all, when a couple invited you to their house for dinner, they didn’t put you in the kitchen to wash the dishes or peel potatoes. As the guest, you were there to be made a fuss over.

The Musician continued to guide my hands. Oh lord. That didn’t feel like a potato. I recognised it, of course. After all, I had one too. My participation suddenly became active. I didn’t really know what to do with it. Or to be specific, I didn’t know what to do with
hers
. Like trying to cook in someone else’s oven, it was likely to be a hit or miss operation.

The Musician began demanding my attention. He had those perfectly soft yet firm lips that made kissing such a pleasure. He stroked my back with one hand, all the way up and all the way down, while the other massaged my scalp. Massage, massage, massage, gentle push, massage, gentle push, massage, less gentle push. At least that was a battle of wills that I’d fought before. I knew I’d surrender. I usually did once advantageous terms for me become apparent. Though Lola appeared to be his foot soldier on that front. Once more unto the breach. The Musician’s insistence on getting into the mix was distracting me from Lola’s attentions. I wasn’t a great multitasker. I needed all my concentration and there were too many balls in the air. So to speak.

A logistical question naturally presented itself. Who had sex first with The Musician? Lola, as his girlfriend, was the obvious choice. What was I supposed to do, then? I dreaded the idea of kissing her again. Maybe I was supposed to get us some drinks. On the other hand, as the guest, surely I should be served first. It was only common courtesy. But that would leave Lola with nothing to do. So either way I feared I was in for some more face flannelling.

God bless the English! Courtesy won out. I should have known. The Musician continued narrating, but at least he didn’t ask for requests like he had the other night. And Lola wasn’t giving me a spit bath. I could see her there, behind him. What was she doing? Whatever it was it threw him off his rhythm. Oh she wasn’t. Was she? There was no way I was going to kiss her after that. Talk about going above and beyond the call of duty. Surely she’d be recommended for a promotion.

True to form, The Musician came in about a minute and a half. Sure, it was all right for him. Was there a second act?

Apparently not. Lola got the short end of that stick, but she didn’t seem to mind. ‘I loved that,’ she said. ‘B.? What did you think? Did you enjoy it?’

‘Yesss.’

‘You don’t sound too sure.’

‘Well, I think I’m more of a one-on-one kind of girl.’

‘One-on-one, with girls?’ She sounded hopeful.

‘No, with boys. But thank you!’ My mother would have been so proud to hear me remembering my manners.

‘Thank you,’ said The Musician. ‘I guess we’ll stick to just us two then, eh?’

Lola was stroking my stomach. Her fingers didn’t stop, but there was a slight change in pattern at her boyfriend’s comment.

‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t think so. Thanks, and I like you, but you two are good together. I think you should keep it that way.’

Lola sat up, smiled and said quietly, ‘Thank you.’

Chapter 10

A threesome was not what I’d wished for when I blew out the candles on my last birthday cake. I think I was after a new pair of shoes. Faith was right, though, I was glad I did it. I knew The Musician wasn’t someone I’d want to have a relationship with (too many applicants for the position), but I was completely chuffed to have spent the night with him and Lola. It was a momentous event, and a mental turning point, because I realised that the only constraints I had were those that I put on myself. I could do whatever I wanted. I could eat chocolate-chip cookies for breakfast. I could spend the day in my pyjamas, or paint my bedroom purple or fritter away the weekend watching every episode of
Sex and the City
even though I’d seen them all and should have been cleaning the flat. I could do these things because, at that moment, I had only myself to consider. I lived in a world of ‘cans’ instead of ‘shoulds’. It was immensely liberating.

Though I didn’t envision any more threesomes in my future, I couldn’t wait to shock Clare with the escapade at lunch. Keeping the secret all week was killing me, but the idea of telling her on April Fool’s Day, and then admitting that it was no joke, was too good to pass up. We were getting our kicks where we could by then, since there was very little joy left at work. Everyone was ticking down the days until the project finished and even Fiona wasn’t getting her usual pleasure at our abuse.

I was just about to settle into the titillating tale when someone across the restaurant caught my eye. I squinted at him, not believing what I was seeing. The confession would have to wait. ‘Will you excuse me just a minute?’ I asked Clare. ‘While I’m gone, please see if you can get the waiter to give us some menus.’

I had to be mistaken. It wasn’t him. Or it was him, but there was a perfectly reasonable explanation that didn’t involve him cheating on Kat.

The woman looked about twenty-five. She looked like a secretary from Croydon. Maybe it was Secretary’s Day. ‘Hello, James.’

He couldn’t have looked guiltier if I’d caught him with
Hustler
in one hand and his trousers in the other. ‘B., hi! What are you doing here?’

‘I’m having lunch with Clare. You?’ I looked pointedly at Miss Lap Dance. She had bad skin and bad roots.

‘Having lunch,’ he murmured.

I waited. He waited. He had no intention of introducing me. Jury, have you reached a verdict? We have, your Honour. ‘Well, enjoy your lunch,’ I said. ‘I guess I’ll see you around.’

‘Okay, you too.’

If he wasn’t having an affair, why didn’t he introduce me to Pockface? She looked like she was expecting an introduction. Which meant she didn’t realise she was the other woman. How embarrassing for her. The two-timing bastard. Poor Kat. I didn’t want to think about the consequences of that discovery.

‘Is everything okay, petal?’ Clare asked when I reeled back to the table. ‘Menus are on the way. Seriously, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

‘Thanks. No, I’m not okay. Worse than a ghost. You’ll never guess who I’ve just seen– No, don’t turn around. It’s James.’

‘Kat’s James? Why are we whispering?’

‘Because he may not be only Kat’s James. He’s with another woman. Something is definitely going on.’

‘How do you know?’

I recounted our sparse conversation.

‘I can’t believe that. Not James. Are you going to tell Kat?’

Good question. Would it be selfish to even think about not doing so? Yes, of course it would. We were friends. I had to tell her, even though she might shoot the messenger. Kat definitely viewed infidelity as a felony punishable by the kind of torture prohibited by the Geneva Convention. Which was why she was going to kill him. She might actually puncture an organ.

‘I’ll have to tell her, if there’s something going on. Ugh, this is a nightmare. Did you order wine?’ She shook her head. ‘Why not? You’re not detoxing are you? Because you remember how awful I was when I tried it, right? Don’t do it to yourself. Or us.’ Life was too short to eat like a panda.

‘It’s just for a little while,’ she said, twirling her hair.

‘Clare. Are you ill? Is it your stomach? Did the doctor find something?’ I didn’t like the look on her face. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘I’m not sure you can handle two shocks in one day. I planned to tell you today but now, well. All right, yes. I’m just on the wagon for a few months. Nine, to be precise. Well, six and a bit to go.’

‘You’re pregnant?’ I whispered. ‘That’s why you’ve been sick these last few months? We thought it was a parasite. How long have you known?’