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“Good night, Auntie Serena,” Jason poked his face around the kitchen door, “I’m going up to bed now”.
11:00 PM precisely.
Serena smiled weakly as she mustered up enough internal reserve to bid her nephew a friendly goodnight, her facial muscles twinging faintly with the effort of sustaining a friendly smile beneath the weight of the emotional turmoil that her aching head was fruitlessly trying to process.
“So, the documentary finished then?” she enquired.
Her nephew nodded enthusiastically before giving his long-suffering aunt a synopsis of his evening’s television viewing.
“…so, really, they were incorrect from the start to think that about MiG-23’s,” he finished brightly.
Bespectacled eyes viewed the large hands of the kitchen clock with slight concern.
“Anyway, I should go to bed now. Good night.” Jason paused slightly, hovering in the doorway. “Oh, and do try to leave some wine for tomorrow, Auntie Serena. Your average consumption has increased by 35% in the past month.” Jason’s mouth crinkled in a faintly disapproving manner as he observed the near-empty bottle of Shiraz which was occupying pride of place in the centre of the large oak table. A tell-tale burgundy hue clung steadfastly to the corner of Serena’s mouth, a ghost of lipstick faintly imprinted upon the crystal rim of a large glass which sat all-too familiarly in her hand.
“Although you won’t tell me the reason why. Is that the same reason why you seem to need more coffee in the mornings now as well?”
“I—” Indignance quickly faded to resignation as dark eyes clouded with hurt. Serena drew in a regulatory breath, using the modicum of time that this bought to fight for control. Pulling a weary hand through her cropped dark hair, she successfully regrouped her façade.
“Well, thank you very much for your concern Jason, I’ll be sure to bear it in mind…”
Evidently placated by her reaction, Jason smiled and nodded briefly before bidding Serena goodnight and disappearing upstairs.
The thin veneer of optimism swiftly cracked once more.
“God…” Serena set down her glass with a soft thud which echoed too loudly in the silence of the stone-floored room.
Cool fingers massaged weary temples. No matter how hard she tried, no matter what distractions her work provided, the weight of her problems always greeted her with the fanatical zeal of an over-excited dog once she closed her car door behind her at the end of a long shift. This particular black dog was loyal to a fault, suffocating in its intensity as it nipped constantly at her unsteady heels, never failing to remind her of its continual presence as it breathed uncomfortably down her neck.
Casting an eye across at the kitchen calendar, a familiar twinge of anxiety stirred in her chest. One particular entry seemed to stand out amongst the myriad of mundane appointments, meetings and commitments; possibly because it was written in scarlet lettering and circled. Twice.
‘Bernie due back from Ukraine.’
Bloody hell. She might have just as well drawn series of love hearts and arrows in homage to teenage doodling’s upon school exercise books of old; the last time that she had felt such an overriding sense of lovelorn gloom. A feeling somewhat reminiscent of the all-consuming crushes that she had felt before gaining the life-experience that had supposedly taught her to avoid falling for anyone until she was financially and emotionally independent. And yet, here she was. Utterly helpless, trapped in a cell of her own making.
Quirking an eyebrow in a faint attempt at her usual sarcastic tones, she drew in a deep breath and raised her glass in a mock toast as she enunciated her self-diagnosis to the non-existent audience of the empty kitchen.
“Serena Campbell, divorcee, wrong side of fifty, a washed-up, mid-life lesbian suffering from a complex onset of acute Sapphic-driven heartache. Patient reports symptoms including: intense guilt, emotional confusion, an on-going inability to communicate complex inner feelings to others, social withdrawal and increased dependency upon dwindling supplies of caffeine and Shiraz, only exacerbated by mention of any topic relating to one ‘Berenice-bloody-Wolfe’. Recommended course of treatment–”
Her half-hearted attempt at bravado quivered and died, her alto tones choked as a wave of raw, white-hot emotion expanded uncomfortably within her throat: clenching her tightly, silently suffocating her. A bitter sob escaped from between her lips, slender fingers clenched so tightly around the fragile stem of her rapidly-emptying glass that it would surely shatter beneath the pressure; leopard print-clad shoulders tensing as the tsunami finally broke. There was no need to pretend here, no sceptical audience to convince of her invulnerability, no requirement to maintain the usual steely brand of drive that had assisted in her ascent to the top of the medical field. Scalding tears swept in clean channels down her cheeks, a smudgy estuary of diluted kohl and mascara winding its way in a series of inky blemishes across her carefully made-up skin. Salty droplets easily dissolving and stripping away her cosmetic armour, revealing the tired skin and grey circles caused by several weeks of stress and fitful sleep.
‘I have been in love before, I do recognise the symptoms…’
Had she heck. The pain of watching her marriage collapse had nothing upon this state of emotional agony. Becoming a fully paid up member of the ‘Embittered Ex-Wives Club’ had only fuelled her determined desire to push herself (and others) to deliver her very best, to rise above the pettiness of Edward, his affair and the ensuring power-politics of their separation.
Love had never been particularly kind to Serena Campbell. Always the one to offer up her soul to be trampled upon in the name of helping others, reticent in acknowledging the need for her own support and wellbeing. Fully committed to the cause. But this, the very intensity of her feelings for Bernie had never ceased to surprise her: how strongly she desired her, and, in turn, how the extent of the pain of losing her was slowly inching into every area of her life, stifling and extinguishing any ounce of fight that she had left. So much for ‘good old British reserve’.
Was it inexperience? Certainly, it had taken the Ukraine ultimatum for her to strip away the layers of confusion (and mild terror) surrounding the fact that she desired a woman in terms of more than that of friendship (no, not a woman... the woman), but the jigsaw pieces had swiftly fallen into place, she had finally known what she wanted more than anything.
Bernie.
Hearing those fatal words fall from the blonde’s lips had been like a dagger to her heart, the stumbled confession that Bernie was leaving for Kiev. Finally, Serena had been brave enough to articulate what she wanted, summoning up the conviction to put her individual needs above those of others for once, but then only to have to face the stinging rejection.
The memory of their last encounter burned forever into her mind: those cool, capable hands being placed firmly upon her outstretched arms, steering her out of the personal space which she had become so accustomed to occupying, manoeuvring her with a detached, surgical precision.
Panic rising in her chest with the speed of mercury shooting up a thermometer as she listened to the unfamiliar, feeble stammered compromises flying out of her panicked mouth, spilling the darkest contents of her soul across AAU with a total disregard for anyone who may overhear.
Watching, helpless as Bernie turned upon her heel and walked out of her life without a backward glance; Serena’s world shattering around her with the slam of the metal-plated door.
Fool.
What a bloody fool she had been.
Breaking her one steadfast rule: no workplace romances. And then hearing the vicious gossip circulating like wildfire: experiencing the heart-dropping feeling of walking into a room full of people desperate to avoid making eye contact, stifling sniggers behind hands, verbally dissecting her with the sharp efficiency of a scalpel blade and then baying over her bloodied corpse like a band of hyenas– any excuse to depose the mighty Ms. Campbell, devoid of her usual icy stare and pithy comebacks.
And yet, no matter the excruciating agony that Bernie’s actions had caused her, Serena was loathed to indulge in her hobby of carrying life-long grudges. It was just so easy to forgive her for any misdemeanour, even lying–a trait which had never been tolerated by Serena before, regardless of the perpetrator. If that wasn’t love, she didn’t know what else it could be. Pride or no pride, Serena secretly knew that Bernie could have gone on a machete-wielding massacre through AAU and she would have still found some way to try to forgive her. It was the continued radio silence that had hurt and confused her the most– the one sticking point that she most desperately needed to hear some form of justification for.
And now, as swiftly as she had departed, Bernie Wolfe was walking back into her life. Serena exhaled slowly, collecting her resolve before tossing the final dregs of her glass into her mouth, relishing the spicy tang of alcohol against her tongue, welcoming the numbing inertia that was starting to creep over her. Clambering to her slightly unsteady feet, she retired for the night.
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The morning sunlight was creeping through a small gap in the heavy cream curtains, bathing the room in its weak autumnal spotlight. Little particles of dust eddied and danced in the still air, illuminating the faint lines and creases of Serena’s face as she slowly stirred; wincing slightly in the intrusive light and throwing up a bleary hand to attempt shade her face. A deep groan announced her consciousness to the rest of the room as her still-slumbering brain fought to wake.
God, her head was pounding. Definitely too much Shiraz last night. The stubborn, dull ache in her temples was actually pulsating in time with her heartbeat.
Prising herself slowly, reluctantly, out of the warm cocoon of six hundred thread cotton sheets, leaving the safety of sleepy oblivion behind and shedding the protective layer of linen like a butterfly emerging from its metamorphosis, Serena vowed to herself that no matter what, good or bad, today would be a new start. Anything had to be better than the angst-ridden stalemate which she had inhabited for the past few months. Even if did Bernie decide to run once more. Gritting her teeth, she rose with an air of confidence which did not truly represent the swirling mess of feelings and ‘what-ifs’ which were stumbling around within her psyche.
Sitting delicately at her dressing table, her first, carefully rehearsed action was to run her silver-backed hairbrush through unruly tousled locks, taming stray hairs into a neat resemblance of a bob. Smoothing faintly trembling fingers around the bare nape of her neck, desperately trying to blot out the memories that floated into her mind of a certain blonde’s cool fingers curling passionately, almost possessively, around that particular spot of skin upon her neck, faintly chapped lips engulfing hers in a kiss that had left Serena’s head spinning; drunk upon the simultaneous intensity and tenderness, gasping, open-mouthed against Bernie’s lips, soul rejoicing in the exquisite joy of being able to realise the actions that had plagued her thoughts and dreams since their first romantic encounter.
“Keep it together Campbell, for goodness sake…” she muttered a weak chastisement.
Wandering opaque eyes fell upon the elegant tortoiseshell photo frame, inhabited by an elegant black and white portrait of a mother and young daughter, slightly creased from the time it had spent in its old home; the wallet of Serena’s deceased mother.
“And what on earth would you have to say about this?” Serena consulted the faded portrait of Adrienne with a bemused sigh… “Apart from telling me to pull myself together, put my patients first and stop wallowing in a pool of self-loathing?”
“Stubborn old mare…” she chuckled wryly, reaching for her makeup bag. She pitied the boyfriends of years gone by who had been subjected to her mother’s traditional ‘dinner-served-with-a-portion-of-detailed-discussion-of-future-career-plans-and-a-healthy-side-serving-of-killer-putdowns’ routine. Poor bastards. At least Bernie had been spared that fate, whatever it was indeed that her status with Bernie, (was it even considerable as a relationship?) was describable as. Mind you, Serena thought dryly to herself, Bernie would have given as good as she got. Perhaps Adrienne would have liked to have met her match, both in terms of feistiness, work ethic and intellect?
She let out a long breath, briefly stroking the edge of the frame as she sought reassurance in her next steps. “But, much as I hate to admit it, you may have a point, mother dearest… I need to do something, whether it is continuing to attempt to drown myself in a vat of Shiraz on a nightly basis, trying to be brave enough make a go of things with Bernie, or letting go of what I should probably hadn’t been stupid enough to have pursued in the first place…something needs to change.”
Delicately swirling a creamy foundation across her bare cheeks, painting across the cracks, Serena began to construct her defences once more, donning her calico armour, a projected air of cosmetic confidence. Basecoat in place, she wrinkled her nose faintly at her reflection in the trifold mirror before decided that today was indeed very much a ‘two coat’ day.
“Better?” she consulted herself, tilting her head questioningly, daring her glassy doppelganger to contradict her. Kohl traced a shadowy outline around dark, almond-shaped eyes; a sweeping, clean motion that did nothing to betray the unsure hand which created it. Shadow next, a neat daub of smouldering black, promptly followed by a generous coating of inky mascara. If the eyes were truly the window to the soul, Serena was making doubly sure that hers was in no danger of being bared too easily today–the blackouts were well and truly in place.
“Protection, or flirtation, Ms. Campbell?” a slender eyebrow was raised as Serena deliberated over the choice of two lipsticks: a subdued coral, or distinctly more vamp-ish magenta. “Ah, but which one would Bernie like?” the devilish internal voice snidely persisted, “which one would you like to see stained all over her pretty lips?”
Rolling her eyes at the ubiquitously flirtatious inner monologue, Serena swiftly dropped the first, rejected option back into the makeup bag and applied the second. Consequences be damned, Berenice Griselda Wolfe was about to see exactly what she had been missing, even if nothing more were to come of it.
Makeup applied, Serena set about stepping into her carefully selected outfit. Normally, she was very much of the ‘select-something-appropriate-from-the- “work”-section-of-the-wardrobe-and-roll-with-it’ school of thinking about her attire, but today’s ensemble hung carefully from a hanger on the outside of her wardrobe; conspicuously premediated. Serena had pondered long and hard about the blouse, excusing its hefty price tag in exchange for the deliberate contrast that it made to her established palette of outfits, welcoming the expensive, luxurious texture against her skin. But, as she surveyed herself in the full-length mirror for an uncharacteristically long period of time, she couldn’t help but feel a nagging twinge of uncertainty. What exactly was she trying to achieve by all of this?
“Ah well,” she shrugged to herself, collecting her handbag and smoothing her hair nervously for one final time as she heard Jason’s door close behind him. “Here goes...”
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Had she known that her fastidiously selected shirt as well as some slightly more intimate items of clothing belonging to a particular ex-army medic would have been strewn in a frenzied maelstrom across her usually meticulous side of their office later that afternoon, Serena would not have felt the need to have ironed it quite so carefully.
Following the angst-ridden but ultimately successful discussion of feelings and motives, Bernie had certainly lived up to the lupine credentials of her surname, reducing their slight difference in height by bodily lifting Serena onto her desk–chiropractor’s advice be damned! – nipping possessively at the tempting space between Serena’s collarbone and neck and inciting a deep, guttural, needy groan which Serena only recognised as originating from her own throat long after the erotic sound had hung heavily in the densely charged air for several moments.
Unfortunately, whilst Fletch’s anxious warning knock on the window, indicating the imminent arrival of the security official had gone decidedly unnoticed, the metallic rattling of the master key in the lock had not, prompting Bernie (decidedly the least clothed of the two) to let out an uncharacteristically high-pitched squeak and promptly disappear from view beneath the shadowy confines offered by the double desk. Muffled swearing punctuated the air as two pairs of hands frantically scrabbled within the gloom of the room (still darkened by the hastily drawn blinds) to retrieve the more risqué items of apparel from obvious view.
Barely managing to suppress her triumphant smirk as she greeted her rescuer with faux gratitude–whilst inwardly cursing his uncharacteristic punctuality– Serena stood pointedly in the doorway in order to avoid revealing too much of the lust-related carnage that had taken place in the usually ordered domain.
“Awfully hot in here, isn’t it?”, she drawled, leaning against the doorframe with a calculated nonchalance, slender fingers combing errant hairs into a semblance of order as dark eyes glittered with a distinctly mischievous air that had been notable in its absence of late. “Anyway, lots of paperwork to finish, this report won’t write itself….”
Broken snippets of conversation continued to fall from her mouth until she managed to slide the door closed once more. The coast was clear.
“You can come out now…” she called teasingly over her shoulder.
A wind-swept head peeked out tentatively from beneath the desk: furtive, dusky eyes twinkling humorously from beneath a tousled blonde fringe, flashing a slightly sheepish grin as Bernie hastily scrambled back into her royal blue scrubs top and bundled her hair back into a loose ponytail. Smudgy, faint lipstick marks had punctuated the side of her neck and lips in a bruising magenta staccato. Serena had never seen her look quite so dishevelled before, and her pulse fluttered appreciatively in the knowledge that it had been her contribution to proceedings that had left Bernie looking quite so unruly. All she knew is that she wanted more of the same.
“Are you quite alright?” she questioned lightly, “because, I’m pretty certain that there is a rather nice bottle of some sort that Jason rescued on your behalf that I believe is somewhat dying to be opened by its intended recipient? And,” she took a step forward and extended an arm towards her sprawled lover, slightly emboldened by the affection that she saw reflected in Bernie’s eyes, “I would very much like to take said bottle, and said medic home with me, sooner rather than later.”
Bernie grinned, bracing herself against Serena’s proffered arm and hoisting herself up.
“I thought you’d never ask,” she smiled softly, winding her arms around the brunette’s waist with a quiet confidence, bolstered by a sense of growing self-purpose that had been missing before her absence. A peace was starting fall upon the inner war, a timely reprieve which granted her the chance to place a gentle, tender kiss of reassurance upon Serena’s awaiting lips. A solitary, wordless act which was enough to say: ‘I’m home, I’ve stopped running, I’m here to stay.’
Serena closed her eyes momentarily, cherishing the close warmth of Bernie through the thin cotton material as the emotional weight of the past few weeks began to slowly dissipate. Although far from religious, she found herself uttering a short note of gratitude to whichever mythical deity that had seen fit to grant her a second chance.
“Thank you,” she whispered, the two simple words all that she could muster before her extensive vocabulary abandoned her, heart flooding with simultaneous joy and relief as she opened her eyes and stared back at the beautiful vison before her.
Her Bernie.