‘No.’
‘My inability to make a bed properly?’
‘No, although now you come to mention it, how is it that you find that so hard?’
‘Natural ineptitude,’ Madeleine said with a grin. ‘So, what is it? This strange thing?’
‘I’ve been skiing with Tania, and Clara, for longer than I can remember, and I know you’ve only been here for five days, but it honestly feels like you’ve always been part of these trips.’ She frowned, unsure if she’d vocalised her thoughts correctly.
Meeting Madeleine had been one of those random, chance encounters on– of all places– the steps outside Brockborough library, when the bottom fell out of the plastic bag Madeleine was using to transport her latest haul of thrillers and Rose stopped to help her pick them up. That chance meeting led to a coffee in the Brockborough Bean, the town’s most artisan of cafés, where they discussed Baldacci versus Patterson. At the time, there was nothing more to it than that. They arranged to meet up again the following week, to continue the discussion. The discussion turned into a good-natured argument when Madeleine tried to insert King into the mix, but Rose would have none of it, determined that Stephen King would forever remain in the category of horror, not thriller. Before Rose knew it, she was looking forward to the weekly coffee; soon it was as if they’d been friends for years.
Seated at their favourite table in ‘The Bean’ as they’d nicknamed it, only a few months previously, talk turned to their choice of most fanciable classic fictional character. ‘Let me guess,’ Rose had said. ‘I’m betting you’re on Team Darcy. Am I right?’
Madeleine shook her head, the expression on her face still firmly embedded in Rose’s memory when she said, ‘No. I’m more into Elizabeth Bennet …’
The way the bottom of Rose’s stomach twisted as Madeleine continued to hold her gaze, and she realised that she’d always far preferred the quiet strength and determination of Lizzie Bennet too– had always imagined her with the most amazing cheekbones– was without doubt a pivotal moment. And once she’d thought it, it was as if there had never been room for any alternative.
And the same thing had happened this week. Rose couldn’t imagine skiing without her, couldn’t seem to remember what it had been like, before.
‘I know I’m hard work,’ Madeleine said, ‘but I didn’t realise I’d been that much of a wormhole.’ She grinned, then gathered up her skis, ready to head over to the others.
‘Maddy? Wait a minute, would you?’
The tone of her voice must have given her inner turmoil away. Madeleine set her skis down again. ‘What’s the matter? You’ve been out of sorts all day.’
‘I don’t want to hide it any longer.’
‘Hide what?’
‘Us.’
‘So, don’t.’
‘Yes, but …’
Madeleine had managed a casual-sounding set of replies and had applied one of her stock smiles to give herself time to assimilate what Rose was saying. It was what she had been desperate for, without question. But the expression on Rose’s face was still guarded. As if she wanted to tell the others, but only if she could be sure it would all work out perfectly. Without any drama, or discomfort.
‘But they’re my friends,’ Rose said. ‘What they think matters.’
‘What do you think they’re going to think?’ Madeleine crossed her arms. Which was no mean feat, with an armful of skis and poles. ‘I’m fairly sure they’re not going to turn us out into the snow and lock the door behind us. Or insist we pretend we’re sisters. It’s not the fifties any longer.’
It had been a while since Madeleine had come out. How she hated that expression. And why it was deemed necessary in the first place was beyond her. After all, straight people didn’t have to confess their predilections, did they? They just got on with it. Like Tania and Gull, who’d known one another for little more than five minutes, but were stood in such proximity it must seem obvious to every passer-by that they couldn’t wait to be closer to one another than jam and peanut butter in a sandwich.
To be fair to Rose, though, Madeleine knew how she was feeling.
In the end, the first outsider Madeleine had confided in– other than the girl she’d begun seeing, obviously– was a stranger, on a bus ride from Handleigh Parvill back into Brockborough.
To this day, Madeleine wasn’t sure the old woman had heard her correctly; she’d seemed very enthusiastic about the news. Although Madeleine liked to think that she’d heard perfectly and that it was a sisterhood thing– perhaps the old lady was gay, too, and was celebrating Madeleine’s seeming lack of inhibition, the progress of modern youth, the supposed openness of twenty-first century life. The old lady wished her luck, told her she felt sure it would all be ‘marvellous’. All Madeleine felt was nausea. Once she’d told a complete stranger, there was no reason for her to stall any longer from telling her family. Her friends. And that proved immeasurably more difficult. But that was in the past, that was– as they say– ancient history. Her brother might still be ignoring her calls five years later, resolutely unable to accept his sister being gay, but she’d long since managed to convince herself that it was his loss.
‘Why don’t you kiss me?’ she said, catching Rose unawares.
‘What?’
‘Kiss me, here and now. They’ll see. Problem solved.’
Rose’s features flexed into a frown. She shook her head.
‘Why not?’
