The cab ride was like a nightmare. Rachel had been torn from heaven, and forced to sit alone in the dark and the grime, with only the harsh red and white streaks of passing vehicle lights to gaze at.
And what was worse: it was an angel that had cast her out.
There had been no hiding her innocence from Susan, nor her shock at finding herself suddenly and excruciatingly desperate; for an intangible something that was only available right then, right there, for the first time in her life. Susan had known it; and Susan had denied it to her.
Rachel balled her hands into fists. They had kissed: oh, they had kissed, and Rachel’s fingers had brushed, explored; questioning, uncertain. But she hadn’t known what to do, how to consummate her terrible desire. As her timidity eased she had pressed forward, moaning; but Susan had just smiled and taken her hands. ‘There’s no rush,’ she said gently. Then, when Rachel’s face fell, ‘You’ll understand, I promise.’
But she didn’t understand. How could she. A tear welled in Rachel’s eye, glinting with reflections on the edge of her sight. She blinked, and it dropped. She had waited too long: a whole life of incomprehension and darkness; watching others explore their desires, like cruise ships passing away into the night, leaving her with only the vaguest notion of the world of laughter and joy on board. Tonight one had come so close that she had glimpsed burlesque splendour through a porthole; but then it had passed, like the others, leaving her alone again in the dark.
‘You’ve found yourself,’ Susan had said at the door, a final glimpse of glittering moonlit wake. ‘You need to know yourself. Come back tomorrow.’ What did that mean? How could she smile and let Rachel walk that long walk down the drive to the waiting taxi? She had even winked, her face half-hidden by the screen door, as Rachel dropped into that dark back seat. Now, Rachel whimpered a little as she felt her fingers touch that face, that neck, those shoulders.
Her hands had relaxed in her lap now, supplicating; and even in the flicker of street-lights she could not help but see the pale striation on each wrist. The scars that others rarely noticed — or chose not to.
‘The Mosaic, was that?’ grunted the driver. Rachel jumped and confirmed, but the sound was barely a rasp. ‘Mosaic?’ he bawled, enjoying his apathy. This time, her voice cracked. So a few minutes later, when she had escaped from his domain onto a Beverly Hills sidewalk, she turned a little so he could see her extended middle finger in his door mirror.
She looked at the unassuming entrance of the Mosaic and sighed. What was she supposed to do now? It was late, but she felt no possibility of sleep. The hotel had been an impulse selection, a treat after a long tour with the airline. But she could not find interest in its boutique elegance now; now that the whole world seemed like a scene bereft of foreground, an empty theatre.
The clerk on the desk smiled at her as she pushed through into the lobby, but he quickly detected the hesitation in her response and returned to his monitor. She looked towards the bar; perhaps she could find solace in a quiet drink: but no, there was a noisy group of women there, tarted up to the nines, laughing shrilly at the barman’s humour.
She paused, undecided, her eyes on them; and quickly, unexpectedly, something changed. At first the women had been just another group of her distant peers, sharing and enjoying the secret, incomprehensible reason for their sparkling jewellery, for their revealing, impractical clothes. But like a picture of a lamp-stand that suddenly becomes two faces in profile, she became acutely aware of what it was they were adorning, what it was they were allowing glimpses of. And though she knew it was not directed at the likes of her, with a flutter of her heart she understood that deep under their layers of social entanglement was something that she wanted. Something she had always wanted; but only now did she permit her mind to dwell on it, so that it took shape, gained reality.
A draft of night air made her turn, as though in a dream. Another girl was joining the group, long legs, open midriff, coat coming off to reveal bare shoulders, an elegant form which sung out like opera from a radio that had only produced garbled noise before.
The girl’s eyes caught Rachel staring, flicked down and up again; and her mouth tweaked on one side as she passed by. With a crash, Rachel returned to the present. She looked down at herself: trainers, black leggings, military parka over tie-dye T-shirt. The girl had reached the group, her head inclining ever so slightly towards Rachel; one of her friends glanced over and failed to hide a smirk.
Rachel fled, burning. She reached the lifts, but they were still in sight of the bar. Desperate, she barged the nearest door and launched herself up the stairs. She wanted to scream. Her world, which she had packed so neatly away into dusty boxes, had exploded. Women were not what she had thought them to be, not the girls in the bar, not Susan, not even herself.
By the time she reached the sanctuary of her room her exertions had taken away some of her manic energy, and she sat on the bed, again uncertain. The only constant in her writhing mind seemed to be Susan’s invitation, ‘come back tomorrow,’ and she clung to it. Maybe if she could force herself to sleep, she might bring it within her grasp.
So, mechanically but haphazardly, she began to prepare for bed. Unpack. Brush. Undress. She took out the hidden pin that directed her fringe back to its loose plait, and knotted her long hair on top of her head, then puzzled out the shower. In the moment it took to warm up she glanced at herself in the mirror, noting the ugly lines of underwear pressed into her skin around hips and breasts, and the tired look of her eyes. Green-grey eyes, too close together, above a sad button of a nose. She looked away as the steam began to rise, noticing with a start that another mirror was capturing a view of her back as she moved to the shower.
She stopped, her hand outstretched to the curtain. Something had called out to her. She retreated a little until her back was revealed again. Pale skin, strap-line, dotted moles, said her normal mind. But something behind it was rising, something that saw the same shape in a new way, unleashed from long-entrenched prejudice by the unusual viewpoint, and by the turmoil in her mind.
Softness draped over an elegant frame. She remembered looking at Susan’s incredible, toned body, so much more than the sum of its parts, and how she had felt watching it move. How different to her own ill-defined flesh. And yet: not so different. She reached up to her shoulder, twisting, seeing how there were muscles there, sliding over and around each other, bringing nuance to the shape.
An excitement was lifting, and old walls were crumbling. Here in this lonely room, so many miles from anything she knew, she was seeing herself for the first time. She followed her shoulder down, pulled her other elbow through, and traced her fingers down her side, her arm pushing past her hidden breasts. She felt them respond, just a fraction. She glanced away from the mirror and down at them.
The more familiar view gave strength to her old perspective, and the new had to fight. Pendulous, said the old. Beautiful, the new. Ill-defined. Enigmatic. Absurd. Fanciful.
She cupped them with her hands, feeling how they overflowed a little as always, so ungainly. She sighed. The steam had begun to hide her reflections. She clambered into the shower, one hand still uncertainly clutching. The water was too hot, but she cared too little to adjust it. The paper-wrapped soap annoyed her for a moment; then she worked up a lather and began to wash.
But the something that had been released was still there, prowling around her consciousness, looking for a way in, and gaining strength from her touch. The tendons of her neck as she leaned her head to one side. The curve of her shoulder. The soft trench under her arm. The springy nub of a nipple. The way the hardness of her ribs fell away into yielding abdomen. That something became more agitated, calling to her; and as her slippery fingers massaged soap into deeper places, she felt a tug of adrenalin.
She had tried masturbating before of course; but lacking any focus for her desire it had been purposeless, overwhelmingly mechanical, dirty. She had not even attempted it for years now. The feel of her own fingers reminded her of the loneliness and desperation, and for that moment the battle was over. She turned off the water and dried herself, then tugged on a bathrobe, let down her hair and picked up her hairbrush from the sink.
It was the mirrors on the wardrobes outside the bathroom that immobilised her this time. She had not tied the cord on her robe, and the sudden recognition of the sight was like a shot of pure energy. Susan. She stared, stunned. It was not the same: blonde hair, larger breasts, softer shapes. But no, screamed the new something, suddenly finding itself allied with the incredible desire that had overwhelmed her only a few hours before. It was a woman, a beautiful woman. She was biting her lip, giving her face a cute, coquettish look; and her smoothly flowing torso descended in waves to her legs, one knee visible, one foot upon the other.
For a moment she just stared, not daring to move lest the mirage were to waver. Then the realisation hit her: this woman was hers to control, hers alone. That small tempting mouth twisted a little. Testing, she lifted a hand and pulled on that side of the bathrobe’s opening, revealing the nipple of her breast. She gave a little gasp of pleasure, and her smile reached both sides of her mouth.
Heart pattering, she retrieved a pouffe from the sitting area and dragged it back to the mirror. She sat, her legs to one side, the bathrobe open just so, and drew the brush through her hair. She watched herself, fascinated, for a long time; and when the feeling was too much, she put down the brush and brought her fingers to her body. Every part of her seemed like she was discovering it for the first time, and although once again she did not know what to do, she knew now that she could find out for herself.
It was not long before she leaped for the bed. There she quickly found herself to be wet with desire. While the one hand continued to explore, to stroke, to push, the other worked at her ecstasy, and her mind was full of the two beautiful bodies she had made love to that day. And when it was over she rolled onto her side, exhausted and complete, and she whispered to herself, ‘I understand. Susan, I understand.’
Lovely and insightful. Thank you :)
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