Page 49 of The Late Bloomer’s Playlist

In the harsh light of day, though, the worry that it hadn’t been good was already nagging in the back of my mind. Alongside the worry that my stomach really was too wobbly, as were my boobs; my moves were horrendously out of trend and– At one point while in between Sheila’s legs I had a momentary freeze where I wondered whether they’d changed sex entirely in the months – years – when I hadn’t been paying attention. It was only the guttural moan that had tumbled out of Sheila seconds later that had convinced me otherwise.

‘You’re worrying,’ she said and I turned to her. ‘I can hear it.’

I laughed. ‘I worry that I’m out of shape.’

‘Pah!’ She sipped her tea. ‘Patti, I… This…’ Sheila shook her head and forced out a slow breath as though to steady herself. I was still looking at her, but I noticed that she couldn’t manage to face me. ‘This is something special. I wish there were a bigger word for it, something that said special and sexual and sensual and… loving. Something that said all of that without my spelling it out so clumsily. But still, this is a special thing.’

I leaned over and kissed her bare shoulder. Then we both quietly sipped our teas.

Another two hours had passed when I finally admitted defeat and told Sheila I needed to go home. I was already hours late opening the shop, and I’d need to go back to the apartment and shower first.

‘You can shower here,’ she offered.

I narrowed my eyes to inspect the comment. ‘Can I?’

‘No, you’re right, probably not. Go home, shower. Have a bath later if you can.’ She tapped my backside. ‘It’ll be good for your hips.’

With some discomfort – that was somehow a very satisfying type of pain, too – I tugged on my clothes and said goodbye to Sheila at the front door. She’d called ahead for a taxi that was waiting for me already at the end of her drive, and I wondered what the old male driver must make of the two women kissing goodbye to each other on the doorstep. I wondered, but I realised that was something quite different to caring…

By car it took only ten minutes to get back to the comfort of my own building. I messaged Sheila as I climbed the stairs – Home in one piece. Thank you for a fantastic everything xxx – and then fumbled to get my key in the door. It occurred to me then that even my fingers ached, my hands harbouring a ghost of cramp, and a small but satisfied laugh tumbled out of me as I pushed through the front door. I threw my keys in the bowl on the hallway table and took a long stretch, my arms out wide until my shoulders clicked. David must be in by this time of the morning, I decided, but whether he’d be up – or dare I suggest it, working on his Great British Novel – was another matter altogether. I trod through the flat quietly, having slipped my shoes off at the door, and my first pitstop was the kitchen. I snatched at two breakfast bars, ate one in two bites, and then took my time with the second. There was an apple in the kitchen fruit bowl that I pocketed, too. I was partway through shining it on the wool of my cardigan when I wandered into the living room and came to an abrupt stop, as though having suddenly walked into a frighteningly clean windowpane rather than an open space.

‘David, what on earth’s the matter?’

He was sitting in the armchair that lived opposite mine, though it was seldom used. His feet were on the table, his knees bent up towards him, and he was smoking; the plume angled towards the open window so as not to fog up the apartment. But David hadn’t smoked in years.

‘Martie Crouch has died.’

I sank down in the seat opposite him and leaned forward to take his cigarette.

David smiled at me. ‘It doesn’t count, in times of crisis.’

‘No,’ I agreed. ‘No, perhaps it doesn’t.’