Across the Pond – Chapter 2

Of course, mom had undersold their social event by calling it a ‘get-together’, I realized a bit too late. I had expected two, maybe three more couples from the neighbourhood, all around my parents' age, to show up to what would amount effectively to a small dinner party. I guess in my head, the English were not the most social of people and I expected any social gathering with them to be a quiet, low-key affair. I wasn’t exactly right on the money, I realized, when the fourth car parked in front of my parents' house on the quiet suburban road, and more people kept pouring in.

My mom had thrown open the accordion glass doors into the backyard, as it was a rather pleasant early spring evening, and the guests filled the living room and spilt into the patio area, around the fire pit, lit more for ambience than for the need of heat. The side door into my mother’s barn was open as well, and she’d take small groups of guests to see her studio as she bragged about the renovations they had going underway. There was some music playing, unsurprisingly greatest hits from the 1960s British Invasion which, knowing my mom, was likely a deliberate nudge to her previous life in America and her return home. It was one of those parties where the number of seats didn’t seem to be enough for all the guests, and while most people were happy to walk around and circulate among themselves, chatting as they sipped wine and enjoyed the varied hors d'oeuvres, I was always on the hunt for the next place to sit down, waiting for some guest to get up to quickly claim their spot, and remain there until the next time my mother wanted to introduce me to someone and I had to get up out of politeness. At which point, invariably, someone would immediately take the seat I had just vacated and leave me to roam like the undead across the party, hoping that the fact I was moving would create the impression I was going somewhere and discourage most people from initiating conversation.

It was not that I was extremely antisocial, though I would be the first to admit I was awkward and shy; it was more the fact that considering the age, the geographical and cultural gap between me and most of the guests, I really didn’t have many subjects in common with most of my mother’s neighbours. I still tried but I found that Brexit was a minefield, and I better not even dream of bringing any sort of social issue if I didn’t want to face comments about what was the ‘issue’ with my ‘generation’. In the end, my dull uninteresting job ended up being the truest conversational safe haven. Both in the sense that nobody seemed to have many passionate opinions about a tax-law practice, and that it made them quickly disinterested, saving me the trouble of making an excuse to disengage, as they would find one themselves pretty quickly.

Not that the group of guests was entirely homogenous, as there were a small group that seemed to be ten or twenty years younger than my parents. Apparently, mom had a very active social life with community gardening, book clubs and other things not too unusual for older, retired women to fill their time with. My mother was always rather outgoing, which only made my own awkwardness stand out even more in contrast, and she had collected friends of different ages and social circles with that. To my initial shock, a couple of guests were even wearing hijabs, which I expected would be frowned upon by the baby boomer upper class of semi-rural England. But I was happy that my preconceptions were wrong in that particular regard.

As I tried my best to spend my time at my parents' party walking around, drinking wine and trying the appetizers without drawing much attention to myself, I found that when one’s mouth wasn’t busy talking, there was ample time to drink, and even though I was trying to slowly nurse my wine, I was soon on my third glass and I could feel my footing becoming a bit less sure. With how much I was walking, it was inevitable that I would eventually trip, and that happened just as I was crossing out back into the backyard. A misstep from my short heels caused my foot to tilt at an awkward angle and while I didn’t feel it, I performed a very unflattering dance of trying to recover my balance at the same time as I struggled not to drop the wine.

Eventually, I felt a stabilizing touch on my arm and that aided me to return to proper footing quickly. As I recovered myself, I put on an apologetic smile even before I turned to see who the kind soul who had aided me was. She was somewhere between my parents' age and mine, perhaps at the end of her forties, tucked into a wine dress that was really toeing the line between a cocktail dress and something fancier with how the fabric seemed to have a shine to it. Sleeveless but with cleavage, closing high at the neck. The exposed arms were surprisingly firm, with a hint of tone in the way they filled up, and they ended in delicate hands with long fingers, and nails painted the same colour as the dress. Her chest was almost levelled with my face and her breasts filled the dress nicely, which wasn’t something I usually noticed when looking at women, but given the proximity and the height difference, it was hard to miss. She stroked my arm softly as she released the aiding grasp as if apologizing in case she had gripped too firmly. She had, but I did not mind it.

I looked up finally to find that large wavy copper hair framing sharp stern features. A line of freckles dotted her cheeks and went over the bridge of her nose, much more pronounced than mine, all framing those jewel-bright green eyes.

“Sorry… And thank you,” I said as I recovered from the initial shock and realized I had been staring at her quietly for a couple of seconds, which was way too long in casual conversation.

“Don’t mention it, lass. You must be Aimee.”

She had an accent that wasn’t quite the same as the other people from Luton. Her vowels came out more open, and her ‘you’ almost sounded like ‘ye’.

“That’s… Yes, I am.”

“Your mother was really excited about your visit, barely talked about anything else during book club.”

I chuckled taking another sip of my wine as I blushed slightly, and I wasn’t sure why my cheeks felt so warm. And then it dawned on me that the main reason I had been able to not spill wine with my inelegant tripping was that the glass was riding dangerously low in the first place.

“Yes, she can be like that sometimes,” I offered, trying not to look too shocked with the realization I would need yet another refill. “Very enthusiastic.”

The woman laughed heartedly at that, knowing my mother enough to recognize what I said for the understatement that it was. I was about to ask her name, but she got ahead of me on that:

“Seems I got you at a disadvantage, though, do I not? I’m Laura Fraiser. I know Meredith from painting classes. And occasionally from the book club.”

“Oh… It’s nice to meet you. I guess I don’t need to introduce myself but in either case, I’m Aimee, and I know her from being her daughter.”

It was, I thought, a rather mild joke if it even deserved to be called that. A humorous way to put things, perhaps. But Laura seemed to find it rather amusing, chuckling vibrantly from it and nodding.

“You have your mother’s sense of humour.”

“I do?”

“Aye, certainly. And I am to understand you are visiting us from across the pond, hm?”

“Yes, that’s true. First time coming to England, have not seen my parents since they moved in.”

“I’ve known your parents probably since their first month in England. You wouldn’t be able to recognize this house from then to now.”

“I can imagine. They seem to be hard at work.”

“It’s the only thing Meredith talks about… Well, that and her little ducky.”

I felt my cheeks blushing fervently at seeing that sophisticated smooth woman using my childhood pet name. Laura seemed amused enough at my reaction but didn’t laugh that time, giving me a second before adding:

“Pardon me the jest, it was irresistible.”

I was quick to offer my best disarming smile to put her at ease.

“That’s… Fine. It’s a little embarrassing nickname but I know mother says it with love every time. I just wish she would use my actual name when talking to people.”

“Oh, she does. It only comes out when she’s excited, or talking about your early years. Would it make it better if I shared mine? Granted no one living now uses it anymore, but we may find solace in each other’s ordeals.”

“It can’t be worse than ducky.”

“Want to bet?”

“Try me.”

She paused, dramatically, and she knew exactly what she was doing, the perfect timing of silence before delivering it:

“Ladybug.”

It was her timing, more than the word, that earned a laugh out of me. And the wine amplified it to a louder laugh than the nickname probably deserved. I felt immediately guilty as if Laura would assume I was mocking her in a way she didn’t do with my own. But instead, she smiled at my reaction.

“I told you.”

“Sorry… It’s not actually that bad, just… Unexpected.”

“I believe I had an obsession with the little crawlies when I was a wee lass, and having an L at the start of my name helped seal that fate.”

It was the first guest at the whole party with which I found conversation flowing without needing to put effort into it, and our conversation transitioned smoothly from our childhood pet names into childhood friends. It was easy to forget I was talking to someone a little more than a decade older than me as we walked together so I could top up my wine once again. And just as we reached the kitchen to fetch me another drink, she passed seamlessly from talking about growing up in a small Scottish catholic town and going to one of those old-timey schools with mandatory uniforms, to commenting on the night’s choice of wine using words that I could barely keep up with. My understanding was that there was some friendly disagreement between her and my parents about the supremacy of either Southern French or Iberian wines, and she was a strong advocate for the latter.

The whole thing went a bit over my head as she poured me another glass, and while I would never admit it to a woman as refined as Laura, I still got my wine from a box back home, and if someone asked me my favourite type, I was more likely to say ‘red’ than ‘Spanish’. I found myself wondering why I felt that lingering impulse to try and impress her, and also unsure why she was hanging out with me at a party full of older, more sophisticated and likely far more interesting people. But as another full glass of wine found its way into my hands, those musings quickly fizzled out into mist. Alcohol did wonderful things for one’s confidence. It also mangled my sense of time, as I was surprised when I noticed how empty the party was in what felt like just a moment later.

I didn’t check my phone, but Laura commented on it being the ‘wee hours of the morning’ when we heard an owl. My parents were inside, sitting on the couch and talking to the last few stragglers. Mom had briefly joined me and Laura and shared some stories about how they met at some point before and, I couldn’t quite remember how or why, she quickly vanished to join other conversation circles, briefly commenting on how we both seemed to be getting along so well. Now we were the only two sitting on the patio couch overlooking the fire pit, with the dangling string lights above us, hung specifically for this event on the afternoon before. We could hear distant laughter coming from the living room but there was no direct line of sight. It strangely felt like being alone with her, at the same time as it didn’t.

My memory and my attention were hazy and I don’t recall exactly how I ended up with my legs over her lap, my back against the armrest of the seat as she had her hands folded over my shins. My shoes were off, and I felt a sense of relief on my feet, which I reckoned must’ve been part of it.

“I’m still a little surprised that you are single,” I found myself saying, and it was a bit like waking up in the middle of sleepwalking, as I didn’t know why I was bringing that up then, only that it felt natural to do so.

Fortunately, Laura didn’t seem to take any issue with my comment, chuckling lightly as she drank another sip from her own glass of wine.

“Well, I could ask you the same. You seem to be a fun girl who has her life together.”

“Well, yes… But men don’t really like that do they?” I offered, playfully but also a little bitter.

The truth was it wasn’t really men’s fault, I simply didn’t put myself out there. You can’t feel rejected if you are not even trying, and while I was perfectly aware of that, an irrational part of me still expected the perfect mate to just knock on my door one day and say ‘hey, you’re great, let’s go on a date’, and then low-key resenting life when that impossible thing didn’t happen.

“Most do not,” Laura seemed to agree, “but they aren’t the only choice.”

I knew what she meant, but it wasn’t something I would actively ponder on. I never thought about myself dating a woman, or kissing a woman. The idea wasn’t appalling by any measure, it was simply not something that would cross my mind. Yet as she said it, I briefly imagined what that would be like, and blushed at the realization that the woman I was imagining was Laura herself.

“I… Haven’t had a lot of experiences, so that’s still one for the bucket list.” I tried to be playful about it but it probably came out a little flirtier than I intended.

Or was it exactly what I intended? I couldn’t tell if I was flirting with this woman or not. It seemed incredibly inappropriate, but then again I had my legs on her lap and she didn’t seem to mind. Was it because she was also attracted to me? Or did she simply see me as a child and that proximity wasn’t as intimate in her mind? Even the wine in my system was having trouble fighting off that self-doubt as I started spiralling, so I was happy when she spoke again, bringing my attention back to the moment and out of my own head:

“I’m a little surprised. Meredith seems to have been quite adventurous in her youth.”

“Oh, yeah, the hippie thing… I think that’s how she met my father, even. But I suppose you’re right, she probably had a few boyfriends before him.”

“And girlfriends.”

“What?”

At first, I thought I hadn’t heard Laura well or that she was just guessing, but the way she looked at me after was the look of someone who was sure. Had my mother told her something? Could that be true?

“No! Shut up! That’s bull,” I said without thinking as I realized the implication.

“Oh, it is definitely not,” Laura chuckled. “She really didn’t say anything?”

“No!” I was indignant but just for a moment before I remembered some of my interactions with my mom. “I guess I didn’t give her much room to talk to me about those things. Ouch... Have I been keeping my mom in the closet?”

Laura just smiled and shook her head slowly, waving the big head of hair before she caressed my chin casually, almost in a motherly way.

“I doubt it was just you but she probably didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. It’s not too late to talk to your parents though.”

“Yeah… But it’s weird to bring it up, isn’t it?”

“Aye, a wee bit. But the weirdness doesn’t last long and then everyone feels better.”

“Gosh… You’re clever,” I said before trying and botching an impression with a British accent. “Proper smart.”

Laura laughed loudly again, and that laugh made me all fuzzy and warm inside. I don’t know what moved me to be so bold but I pushed myself up from the rest and reached out to try and pull myself closer to her, for a kiss on her lips. Yet, just as I was coming closer, she placed a hand on my chest and stopped me, letting my mouth hover a couple of inches from hers. She was gentle but firm and assertive as she guided me to lay back. The sting of rejection was immediate, and I couldn’t even speak in shame, but her face was still lit with a smile as she spoke again:

“You’re a bit too much on the tipsy side,” she said, “I wouldn’t feel good about it, lass.”

“I…”

She tapped my legs, and I understood the sign to take them off her lap, as she got up. I left my sentence unfinished as I watched her flatten her dress.

“Phone,” she requested, extending her hand to me.

I stared blankly for a moment and then reached out to grab my phone from the seat next to me and pass it along to her. She took it, typed for a moment and handed it back.

“It’s late and I should be going. But you have my number in there. If you still feel like this when you’re sober, I’d love to take you out.”

I couldn’t really think of anything else to say but nod and agree while I received my phone back. She had rejected me… But also asked me out? Was I being asked out by a friend of my mom? She left me in that wine fog of confusion and she walked out, with a brief wave of good night before presumably going back inside to say goodbye to my parents and leave.

“What the fuck…” I heard myself whisper as I allowed my body to go limp and sink into the couch; confusion, shame and a sense of infatuation all washed over me at once.