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I potter about mindlessly while talking to Nick on the phone, never able to sit still. But I guess it’s good for my step counter to multitask.
“That will be wonderful, darling! I’m sure you and Charlie will love it there,” I coo in response to hearing that Nick and his partner are planning a mini-break in Barcelona. They work so hard and need a rest once in a while.
Nick has always worn his emotions front and centre, so I can hear the grin in his voice immediately. “Yes, we can’t wait, Mum. I’ve been googling, and it looks so beautiful and has cool architecture and lovely beaches and amazing food. Have you ever been?”
I clutch the back of the kitchen chair for support, suddenly feeling slightly off-balance. “Yes, but not since I was a student. Remember I told you that was where I got my tattoo done?”
Glancing down at the black floral design on my inner wrist, a wave of sensation washes over me, instantly pulling me three decades back in time.
💮💮💮💮💮
There is a sparkle of magic tonight. A light mist rises off the calm sea – enough to keep us cool in the otherwise muggy evening air. Faint music floats over the beach, providing a backdrop to our picnic, but leaving plenty of space for companionable silences.
Mesmerised, I watch as Dee trails her delicate feet through the soft sand, creating patterns that she smooths out and repeats, over and over. I don’t normally notice feet, but with the pillarbox red varnish on her toes and leather anklet framing what is already an objectively pretty foot, hers catches my eye.
She passes me the bottle of cava to take another swig and I relish the fizzing of bubbles all the way down to my belly, both cooling and warming me at once. I’m not sure if I’m starting to get tipsy or just affected by the beauty of this idyllic moment, but my nerve endings tingle and my mind feels clear of stressors.
It’s been the most perfect few days. Dee and I left Lyon together as casual friends, part of a big group of English people supported to study in France through the Erasmus Programme, but not particularly close. It had been a pairing of convenience because we both happened to have a few days without any lectures and were keen to visit Barcelona, so off we hopped on the train together.
Quickly though, our acquaintance deepened into something more. She is so different from my friends back home, and the girls around campus in Lyon. Somehow I feel more myself around her. Or maybe it’s a version of myself I would prefer to be.
There’s a wildness about Dee that exhilarates me. She doesn’t give a shit what people think about her, and feels her feelings so proudly and loudly, right out there, ‘take me or leave me, I don’t fucking care’.
Her spontaneity makes the atmosphere hum with possibility, and I find myself following her into any idea she suggests, powerless against her luminescent draw.
We’ve spent our days here as tourists on a shoestring budget, staying in a pretty grotty, but adequate, youth hostel at night, and wandering the streets during the day to admire the beautiful architecture. The tapas culture and cheap beer and wine here allowed us to have full bellies and a steady buzz as we’ve made our way to the beach for a couple of hours each afternoon.
Sometimes when we walk, Dee holds my hand and swings our arms between us, and it’s freeing in a way I’ve not felt since I was a little kid. She chatters continuously, jumping between topics and moods, like a bright bumblebee flitting between flowers – striking, sweet and with an air of danger that keeps me completely captivated.
I’m not sure what she sees in me, if I’m honest. People have always said to me things like, ‘you’ve an old soul’, ‘you’re wise beyond your years’, or ‘you’re the responsible one’. All euphemisms for sensible and boring, really.
They’re probably right. I’ve always been a worrier, maybe too caring for my own good and find it hard to be selfish and do things just for me.
The way Dee looks at me though, makes me feel special. Her face breaks with life like a firework sky whenever I laugh at her silly jokes, and when we’re holding hands, she rubs her thumb across mine and I feel her eyes on me in my peripheral vision.
It’s our last night here, and we’ve taken a spread down to the water’s edge to share our last glimpse of this beautiful place in relative peace.
“So what about this bloke of yours then? Is he a keeper or just good for the year?” I’ve learned by now that Dee launches into the deep end conversationally. Still, the intermittent nibbling of olives, nuts and rustic bread between topics keeps the atmosphere light, breeding openness I’d find reckless usually.
I laugh. “You think I’ve bagged myself a French fancy for my gap year, before returning to good ole English boys?”
Shrugging, she answers with typical nonchalance, “Well, yeah. You can never blame someone for wanting to try something different, to see if they like it, y’know?”
I pause, letting that thought percolate before replying, “I dunno, really. I didn’t expect to jump straight into a relationship when I came to Lyon, but Stéphane is really attractive and charming, and pretty determined!” I huff out a forced laugh, hoping she’ll let that one drop.
Dee scooches closer to me on the sand and places her hand alongside mine, barely touching, but enough that gooseflesh specks over my arm. Turning to me, she asks, “And is he, y’know, good to you? Like, does he treat you nicely?”
I’m not sure what she’s implying but my heart rate picks up and I stammer to defend my boyfriend, “Y-yes, he treats me wonderfully! Taking me out on romantic dates, wining and dining me. And he buys me presents all the time. Boys back home have never been like that!”
She lays her hand over mine, melding our warmth and giving grounding support. “I know, Sarah. I’m glad. It's just been lovely to spend time with you on this trip, because you haven’t been out and about much with the Erasmus crowd since you met Stéphane, and I’ve wanted to get to know you better.”
Despite the open sea and deserted beach, this conversation feels stifling, squeezing my chest and addling my brain. Dee’s only touching my hand but I feel held down and I can’t decide if I want it.
After a deep inhale, I reply quickly before my nerve leaves me. “Look, Stéphane is passionate and when he wants something he goes and gets it. So, it’s been a whirlwind since I moved to France, sure. And yes, his passion for me can maybe make him a little possessive, but it’s only because he wants to spend as much time with me as he can this year. He says he loves me, and he treats me like a princess, so you can stop worrying now!”
I didn’t know I was going to spill that much, and truthfully, I’m startled, but Dee looks unfazed. She wraps her arm ‘round my shoulder and pulls my body closer to hers. “Sssssh, Sarah, it’s okay. If you’re happy, I’m happy!” After pausing for a second, she continues more teasingly, the tension broken at least, “Passionate, eh? I bet the sex is fucking amazing. No wonder you want to spend every night with him!”
My cheeks flame hot. Sex with Stéphane is stupidly good. I regret every sexual experience with every fumbling, bumbling boy before him in fact, because he has taught me to do and feel things I never knew were possible.
I don’t tell Dee this though. I don’t want to talk to Dee about my sex life with Stéphane. I don’t want Dee to think, or even joke, about me having sex with my boyfriend. Inexplicably, I wonder if Dee has had fucking amazing sex with someone before. I bet she’s amazing at sex. Uninhibited and energetic.
I chuckle noncommittally.
Dee finishes the cava, turning the bottle upside down to be sure we’re not missing a valuable last drop. She tugs at my hand firmly and tries to pull me up to standing. “Come on, Sarah! No being sad on our holidays!”
The breeze blows errant wisps of her brunette hair off her neck while her eyes reflect the aquamarine of the water here in the daytime, and she looks so ethereal it catches my breath for a second. I allow myself to be pulled up and into her for a hug. Of course I do.
I’ve acclimatised to her CK One perfume mostly, but this closeness offers a fresh blast and the gooseflesh meanders its way along with her fingertips across my exposed lower back. I allow myself a few seconds of multi-sensory feeling before pressing away from the embrace. Now standing, the cava and handful of day-beers hit me, and my head feels light.
“What do you fancy doing then?” I ask, as ever, ready to follow Dee.
She quirks a thick dark eyebrow, her mischievous smirk mirroring the angle. “Duh, Sarah. Obviously now we do karaoke!”
Sure enough, 45 minutes, some manic running through the streets, and a rum and coke later, I’m sitting in a hole-in-the-wall bar with a small stage area for karaoke.
Our conversation and cuddle on the beach seems to have upped the intimacy between us, and after sprinting here, Dee dragging me by the hand the whole way, we’ve kept holding hands any time we can. Neither of us has mentioned it, but her softness and warmth and the rhythmic smoothing of her thumb over mine, feel so nice I don’t want to spoil it.
The emcee calls for Dee to take her turn, and she pats my leg above my knee before launching herself towards the stage and grabbing the mic like it was hers all along.
The opening bars to You Oughta Know by Alanis Morrissette play and I know I am grinning like a lunatic. One of our first chats on the train down was a giddy babble about our mutual love for Alanis’s new album, and my stomach swoops when Dee sticks her tongue out at me over the mic.
The lyrics kick in, and Dee takes every person in this grimy little bar and sets them down in the palm of her hand.
I want you to know that I'm happy for you. I wish nothing but the best for you both.
Her voice is low and throaty, faintly threatening in a way that makes me want to poke the bear. Tipping her head down she barely graces the audience with her gaze, thick eyeliner and mascara blocking her usual glimmer.
Bitterness drips from her punctuated diction, and she oozes sexuality, a discarded vamp vengeful towards another unworthy man.
And every time I scratch my nails down someone else's back, I hope you feel it.
Now can you feel it?
By the time she reaches the crescendo, Dee and Alanis are indistinguishable. She’s uninhibited, righteous fury exploding from every facial expression, hand gesture and syllable of her perfect song delivery. The crowd is silent, no one sipping drinks or chatting, instead utterly mesmerised by this exceptional young woman.
My jaw’s slack, I’m holding my breath and my fingertips tingle with the phantom sensations of touching Dee everywhere. A fantasy of her destroying my body like she wants to destroy whoever this motherfucker was that hurt her plays in luminous technicolour in my brain, and I couldn’t deny it if I wanted to. My erect nipples and the heat between my legs would give me away to her if I even tried.
The song ends and rapturous applause breaks out from the 30 or so people here. Dee’s persona changes so quickly I get whiplash, her tongue poking out from a toothy grin. She takes an exaggerated bow and laughs modestly.
“I hope you don’t mind me doing another Alanis song, but I’m obsessed with her.” Dee courts her audience through the mic, everyone fully bought into this as a concert by now. “Sarah, get your sweet ass up here and join me!”
If this was literally anyone else, I’d have my hands over my face, hiding and refusing to take a spotlight. But it isn’t. It’s Dee. So I follow the invisible thread leading me to her in a daze and accept the second mic.
The little TV screen says ‘Head over Feet, Alanis Morrissette’ on it. The white font glaring against a royal blue background. I know this song. I can do this.
I needn’t worry, because Dee interrupts my spiralling thoughts by interlocking our fingers and encouraging us to turn towards each other so I can block out the room and focus on her face. Those eyes are back to shining blue, her full lips meeting in a Cupid’s bow I couldn’t recreate even with an hour applying lip liner.
Dee and I sing in unison. Her delivery is different, not performative now, we’re just two people sharing a song, to each other, for each other. There’s no lead singer, even though she clearly has the better voice.
I think of Stéphane and our earlier discussion when we sing the lyric, ‘You treat me like a princess’, and I briefly wonder if this song is a coded message from Dee about him.
You're my best friend, best friend with benefits
What took me so long?
Any wondering about the code floats away by the middle of the song. Dee is looking at me so fondly, so intentionally, that I feel exposed. There’s no one here but us and we’re telling each other over and over that we’ve fallen head over feet. I know it and she knows it and we keep singing anyway.
You've already won me over in spite of me
And don't be alarmed if I fall head over feet
And don't be surprised if I love you for all that you are
I couldn't help it, it's all your fault
The song fades out, and it takes us a few seconds to shake back into the reality of the room and acknowledge the audience. Something has been breached between us that we can’t go back from.
I don’t understand it. Why would someone straight feel this heady mix of love and lust for a friend who’s a girl? It’s overwhelming, and I’m stupefied.
Thankfully, Dee takes charge. She waves to the crowd, hands back the microphones and leads us out of the bar, correctly asserting that we are done here.
Stepping out into the cool night is a relief, clearing some fog from my brain. The air between us is crackling and I hear myself ask, “This is crazy isn’t it?” without knowing I was going to.
Dee giggles and she seems nervous. “Yeah. It is.”
Her unusual shyness and insecurity emboldens me, for once, to be the leader, to let her be taken care of. “I’ve an idea,” I offer brightly. “This is our last night here and who knows if we’ll ever be here again, or ever have another night like this.” Neither of us needs to clarify what kind of night it is, but we never drop our joined hands. “Why don’t we each suggest something we’ve never done, but always wanted to, and we have to do it so we’ll always remember tonight?”
Her face glowing with promise, Dee teases, “Look at you, sassy Sarah! Well, I never! Okay, you’re on! You go first.”
Dee has a tattoo on her hip, which I’ve found myself staring at as she splashes in the sea in her red bikini, or as she strips for bed. I’ve never thought of getting one before, but maybe if I’d a tattoo I’d feel sexy like Dee.
“I want to get a tattoo.”
Her eyebrows jump towards her hairline. “Wow! Are you sure? I love that! You would look so fucking hot with a tattoo!”
Well, that’s decided then.
💮💮💮💮💮
“Fucking hell! Shit fuck bollocks!” My mouth has taken the steering wheel as this tattoo artist assaults me with a needle.
Of course, Dee is sitting one bed over unflinching as she’s subjected to the same torture, except for her shoulders shaking as she laughs. “Hello? Who are you and what have you done with Sarah? I don’t know this tattooed, potty-mouthed bitch, but I really like her!”
Flushing warm with the unexpected praise, I try to sit still. As we pay, we compare our matching tattoos, black Panot floral designs on our inner wrists, symbols of the Barcelona streets and this magical trip.
Now the pain is over, I feel high as a kite, giddy with the realisation that I, good girl Sarah Nelson, have a tattoo.
We stumble out onto the street once again; it’s quieter now, the hoards having flocked home or into bars and restaurants. There’s a slight crispness in the air, all warmth dissipated into a cloudless sky illuminated with a shining moon.
Dee and I don’t discuss where we’re going, but we amble in the direction of our hostel, our bodies closer than necessary, certainly closer than is friendly.
Stopping suddenly under a street light, I pivot so I’m standing face to face with her. “Wait!” I exclaim. “We didn’t do yours yet!”
Dee’s face blushes, a rosy hue across her high cheekbones, accentuated in the street light’s amber glow.
“What’s the thing you’ve always wanted to do but have never done? The night’s almost over.” I find myself grappling to hold onto these precious seconds, a vague dread itching me that we’ll wake up soon and the sheen of promise will have vanished.
Taking my second hand, Dee gently eases my body closer to hers. “Sarah. I’ve never kissed a girl.”
We don’t say anything more. I think I knew without her saying it, anyway. Like always, I follow Dee and lean forward.
Kissing Dee isn’t like any kiss I’ve had before. It’s soft and tender, grazing of plump lips, skimming of nimble fingers, teasing of tipped tongues. I don’t know how long we kiss for, certainly minutes, but time feels irrelevant anyway. There’s just two girls and a Barcelona night – a moment that is too fragile for something as trifling as time.
I indulge myself in doing the things I’ve dreamed about at night and fantasised as I’ve stolen glimpses towards her in museums and churches. Cupping her jawline and burying my hand into her thick hair. Pressing my breasts against hers and joining our foreheads for a beat before diving back in to capture her lips with mine. Sometimes she whimpers and hums, other times I hear air escape her nostrils. I catalogue everything to memory.
A rowdy crowd tumbles out of a bar behind us laughing and shouting, and the cacophony shatters the moment. We pull back, both seeming conscious of being seen, and create space between our bodies.
“Well!” Dee speaks and I’m pleased she seems as affected as I feel, her face flushed, eyes still partly hooded and voice roughened. “That was… Yeah, that was great.”
I giggle. We’re awkward, but in a really good way and it still feels like there’s a silver thread between us, across the distance we’ve built.
“Yeah, who’d have thought two straight girls would enjoy kissing each other so much!” My joke falls flat with Dee rewarding me with only a limp half-chuckle. The butterflies gliding in my tummy thud to the floor.
Suddenly Dee seems to rally, a wide smile breaking across her face, but her eyes miss some of the glitter I’ve grown used to, and the little dimple to the right of one isn’t on show. “I know! Maybe I should kiss more straight girls!”
She turns abruptly and we walk towards our accommodation, mostly quiet. I think I’ve fucked up but I don’t understand how. Still, I feel nauseous about it and know I’m going to have to go straight to the bathroom in the hostel to have a big cry.
It’s only once I’m in there, sobbing into scratchy toilet tissue trying to keep the noise down, that I realise that for the whole walk home, Dee didn’t hold my hand.
💮💮💮💮💮
I shake my mind free to concentrate on Nick again.
“What ever happened to the girl you got the tattoo with anyway?” he asks.
Pressing down the torrent of ‘what-ifs’, I force myself to respond breezily. “Oh, you know how it is, sweetheart. We were uni friends, nothing too deep. A few weeks after that trip I found out I was pregnant with David, and Stéphane and I decided to try and make our relationship work together in England. Dee and I lost touch soon after.”
“That’s a shame when that happens,” Nick answers, sounding distracted. He makes dinner for Charlie and himself around this time each day, so he’s probably busy.
“I’ll let you go, darling. But lovely to chat, and I’ll see you both on the weekend.”
I hang up the call and feel lost for what to do. Aimlessly, wandering over to my laptop, my fingers access Dee’s Facebook profile of their own accord. Admittedly it isn’t difficult, the search history readily predicting what I want after hundreds of repetitions of my muscle memory.
Those eyes. Her eyes are the same in this photo as they were under a starry Catalonian sky. The wrinkles that round the edges only draw my gaze more deeply into the sparkling irises.
I rub my index finger across my wrist, my pulse thudding underneath faded black ink, daring me to be brave.
New message.