Alice and I were shopping for vintage clothes in Stoke Newington. She was looking for a fake-fur coat. I was hoping to find some tweed trousers that didn’t smell of funerals. I wanted to wear more tweed, now that I was gay.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘You’d understand if you’d been there during the sex.’
‘I’m very glad I wasn’t.’
‘So am I.’
‘Maybe Jane was just really good at sex, though,’ said Alice. ‘That doesn’t mean you should rule men out altogether.’
‘I think it does,’ I said. Since my night with Jane, I had thought back to every sexual experience I’d had with a man – to the grunting, and the chest hair, and the noises I’d feigned. I used to think I just wasn’t very expressive during sex, and I’d always made a conscious effort to look like I was having fun, because staying silent when someone’s fucking you is a bit like not laughing during a stand-up 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
