In at the Deep End. Kate Davies
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set (very bad for the performer’s morale). But I hadn’t needed to make an effort with Jane. Now that I had something to compare it to, sex with a man seemed like a dodgy imitation of the real thing, like instant coffee, or frozen yoghurt, or the Miley Cyrus cover of ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’. Since I’d realized I was probably a lesbian, I had started seeing attractive women everywhere, a bit like the way you see a word everywhere as soon as you’ve learned what it means.
Alice picked up a pair of gold clip-on earrings and said, ‘I promise I won’t make fun of you if you start dating men again.’
‘I’m not going to,’ I said.
‘Did you know an ex-lesbian is called a “hasbian”?’
‘Stop it.’
I turned up to my next session with Nicky with an uncharacteristic smile on my face. Nicky had dyed her hair black since I’d last seen her. She was wearing bright-red lipstick, too – essentially, she was one bowler hat away from being Liza Minnelli in Cabaret.
‘So you’re officially a dyke,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I prefer the word lesbian, though.’
‘You have problems with the word dyke.’
‘It just sounds a bit weird, hearing you say it.’
‘How do you feel about homosexual?’
‘It’s fine.’
‘Or queer?’
‘That’s fine too.’
‘Gay?’
‘Any of those words are completely fine,’ I said.
‘But not dyke,’ she said. ‘Does the word dyke have bad connotations for you?’
‘It’s not the sort of word you expect your therapist to use. It’s pretty pejorative.’
‘Ooh,’ she said. ‘Pejorative. Nice big word.’ She wrote it down. ‘You’re wrong, though. Dyke isn’t a pejorative word any more. It’s been reappropriated.’
‘It’s been reappropriated by lesbians. So only lesbians can use it, surely.’
‘You’re making assumptions about me,’ said Nicky, wagging her pen at me.
‘What,’ I said, ‘are you gay?’
Nicky shook her head. ‘I keep telling you, Julia. These sessions are about you, not me. So. Why the need to label yourself?’
‘Because I’ve figured out who I am, and I’m not ashamed about it.’
‘Are you seeing Jane again, then?’ she said.
‘No.’
‘Are you seeing anyone else?’
‘Not right now.’
‘OK, so, off the record? Just go on Tinder, or whatever. The Internet. That’s where all the dykes meet each other now. Even the cool ones.’
‘Right.’
‘That’s what I’ve heard.’
‘OK.’ I shifted in my seat. ‘I’ve been wondering about telling my parents,’ I said. ‘I’m going to see them for my dad’s birthday on Wednesday.’
‘I feel as though you’re rushing things a bit,’ said Nicky. ‘Are you coming out so soon to stop yourself chickening out of dating women?’
‘No …’
She tilted her head on one side.
‘… maybe.’
‘Would you like to role-play coming out to your parents?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Come on. I’ll be your mother.’
‘It’s OK, I’ll be fine.’
But Nicky was already saying, ‘Hello, Julia!’ in a snooty accent.
‘She’s not that posh,’ I said.
‘Just go with it,’ Nicky said.
‘OK.’ I tried to get comfortable in the chair. ‘Mum,’ I said, ‘I have something to tell you.’
‘Can’t you think of a more original opener?’
‘I don’t want to be original – I want her to know what’s coming,’ I said. ‘It’s like saying, “We need to talk” to your boyfriend.’
‘Or girlfriend,’ said Nicky.
‘Or girlfriend,’ I agreed.
‘OK,’ said Nicky. ‘Give me your line again.’
‘Mum, I have something to tell you,’ I said.
‘Oh God, darling!’ said Nicky, in the snooty voice. ‘What is it? Are you dying?’
‘I really don’t think she’s going to say that.’
Nicky shrugged. ‘We’ll have to see, won’t we?’
So far, being a lesbian was pretty much the same as not being a lesbian. My alarm clock went off at 7.30 a.m. just like it always did. I snoozed it till 8 a.m., as usual. I put on the same tights with the holes in the toe, spooned down a bowl of Alpen and felt out of breath running for the bus just as I had before. I’d have thought I’d imagined the whole thing if I didn’t still feel bruised and sore between my legs.
I called Cat to tell her my big news, but she didn’t seem particularly surprised. ‘You made me go and see Les Misérables three times because that girl Louise was in it,’ she pointed out. ‘By the third time I couldn’t wait for her to get shot.’
‘She wasn’t exactly a triple threat, was she?’
‘She was shit,’ said Cat. And then: ‘Hey! This means we’re both minorities! You’re a bit less privileged now!’
‘You’re right!’ I said. I looked forward to being a lot more self-righteous on social media, now that I was a lesbian.
I felt a secret sense of achievement that helped me stand a little taller as I walked into the Department of Health and Social Care building and swiped my pass on the security gate. I felt like I belonged, at last, in the world of the sexually fulfilled. Now I had a sense of purpose. I was going to find someone to be a lesbian with – a girlfriend, someone I respected and who respected me, someone I could fall completely in love with. She’d be funny and creative; she’d have a better job than me, probably, and she’d inspire me to figure out what I really wanted to do with my life. She’d identify as a feminist and drink at least as much as me and we would go on dates to immersive theatre shows and classical concerts. She would be my best friend. We would have a truly equal relationship. I wasn’t going to be lonely any more. I couldn’t wait.
Tom, Smriti and the other managers were out at an all-day meeting, so I took the opportunity to look for lesbians on the Internet. I couldn’t bring myself to go back on Tinder; I knew there was a much lower chance of dick pics, now that I was dating women, but I hated the idea of swiping past thousands of nameless people, knowing they were doing the same to me. I thought it might be nice to meet someone in real life. I found gay vegan meet-ups and a lesbian volleyball team and a stressful-sounding lesbian architecture appreciation society, none of which really appealed to me. And then I saw an ad for something called Stepping Out:
QUEER SWING DANCE CLASSES Fun, friendly, suitable for beginners and more experienced dancers. All LGBTQ+ people welcome. Sundays, Upstairs at the Kings, £7 a class.
I felt Owen walk up behind me. I minimized the screen.
‘Are you going to go to that?’ he asked.
‘Might do,’ I said, glancing back at