Everyone tried to instil optimism back into Garv and me, but I didn’t buy it. Hope was utterly absent and I was in the grip of a burgeoning belief that this was all my fault. I’m not given to fanciful nonsense, talk of hexes and jinxes and the like (that’d be Anna you’re thinking of), but I couldn’t chase away the conviction that I’d brought all of this on myself.

33

I opened the front door. Emily was on the day bed bent over her laptop, working hard.

‘Hi,’ I said cautiously.

‘Hi,’ she replied, equally cautiously. ‘Good night?’

‘Yes. You?’

‘Yes.’

‘How were Troy and Shay?’

‘Fine. Helpful. They both say hey.’

I nodded at the computer. ‘So, ah, how’s Chip the Dog going?’

‘Nightmare. I’m getting cramps in my stomach from writing this stuff. Did you get off with her?’

A pause. ‘Yes. Sorry’

‘Not at all, whatever floats your boat. So what was it like?’

‘It was… different.’

‘Like licking a mackerel?’

‘It was only the first date,’ I said. ‘What kind of girl do you think I am?’

‘Jesus Christ,’ she said faintly. ‘And what did you do?’ Then she hit her forehead. ‘Doh! Not like that!’

‘We went to a movie. Look, I’m going to have a shower and get some rest.’

‘Sure, you must be exhausted. I mean, I’m not saying… Oh Christ,’ she clicked, ‘see you later.’

I went into my bedroom, closed the door, then sat at Emily’s desk and wearily flicked through some of her unsold scripts, looking to be distracted.

I wasn’t exhausted; I was terrified. I was way, way, WAY out of my depth here. This business with Lara – what had I been thinking of?

I wasn’t a lesbian. I suspected I wasn’t even bisexual.

The whole night had been a disaster, starting with Lara turning up looking radiant; her hair was swingy and shiny and she wore a clingy jersey dress. Nothing wrong there – until I suddenly understood that she’d made a special effort She’d made a special effort for me. Momentarily I was flattered and seconds later I was freaked out.

We went to Santa Monica to a movie where neither of us understood the plot, and when we got outside into the sweltering night it transpired that each of us hoped that the other would be able to explain it. That didn’t bode at all well, and I had a powerful compulsion to ask Lara what she knew about exchange rates, except I was afraid of discovering that she was as clueless as me.

‘What now?’ I asked. ‘Will we go for a drink?’ There were hundreds of very attractive-looking bars and restaurants all around us. But Lara firmly shook her head and said, with a message-laden smile, ‘Nuh-uh. My place.’

It was as though a full cage of butterflies had been released into my stomach. Nerves, I told myself. Not terror. Nerves. On account of my shyness and inexperience, of course. But Lara would be masterful enough to take control and make it easy for me.

So back to her place we went, where she opened a bottle of wine, put some soft jazzy-type music on the stereo and lit scented candles. It was the scented candles that brought home to me the full extent of my mistake. It was so romantic. She definitely meant business. A lead ball displaced the butterflies and there was no longer any ambivalence about how I felt. I wanted to go home, I wanted to run away as fast as I could –but instead I had to curl up on the sofa, sip Chardonnay and exchange mischievous glances in the flickering light.

Valiantly, I tried. I managed to dredge up a sickly smile each time Lara warmed her eyes at me, but as she moved closer along the sofa, my panic built.

Desperately, I tried to keep talking but I was so uptight I sounded like I was interviewing her for a job. ‘How many screens will Doves be opening in? Is it fun organizing the launch party for it? Oh, a nightmare, is it? Oh dear.’

I longed to leave, but couldn’t see how I could possibly extricate myself; the words that might release me wanted to be uttered yet remained locked in my throat. What was stopping me was that I’d gone into this with my eyes open. As soon as it had been offered, I could have told Lara to get lost, but instead I’d given every appearance of fancying her – because at the time I had. Now, though, was a different story, but I felt I’d no right to tell her I’d changed my mind.

A glass and a half of Chardonnay in and Lara suddenly leant right over to me, almost on top of me. Here we go. Automatically, I shrank away from her and the relief was intense when I realized she was just refilling my glass. With a shaky hand I picked it up and gratefully gulped back most of it.

‘Hey, don’t get too drunk on me,’ Lara chided sweetly.

‘Er, no.’ And my anxiety started anew.

I actually prayed, offering to do a deal with God: if he’d get me out of this, I’d never do anything risky again. But God must have been on the other line, because next thing Lara had moved doser and was stroking my hair away from my face. Then she’d kissed me, which hadn’t been too bad, and put her hands under my top and caressed my breasts, which hadn’t been too bad either. At that juncture I felt it was my turn to do something, so I kind of pulled at her shoulder strap to show willing. But I wasn’t expecting her to shrug her dress off her shoulders, down to her waist, then whip off her bra and weigh her breasts in her hands. As soon as she touched herself, her nipples sprang at me and it would have been sexy in other circumstances, but I was paralysed by the inappropriateness of it all. ‘Don’t be chicken,’ she said, so I took a deep breath and gingerly started caressing her breasts, partly to return the favour and partly because I was curious about what implants felt like – but as I’d never felt anyone else’s breasts except my own, I’d nothing really to compare them to.

A bit more caressing and clothing removal ensued; Lara was beautiful, there was no doubt about it, and she was soft and downy and sweetly fragrant. And yet, when we were pressed crotch to crotch, it felt all wrong – we were both too flat. I realized how much I liked men’s bodies.

Whatever bravado or curiosity or neediness had propelled my initial response to Lara had all drained away and I was keenly aware that I’d bitten off more than I could chew. Not that I was chewing anything – God, no! No power on earth could have persuaded me to do any mackerel licking.