Roses for Erin

“How long have you been carrying that fucking horror show?”

“Two years now.”

“And... you never told anyone?”

“You're... the first. Not even my mum knows. I'm... I was... too ashamed,” I said, staring down at the table.

“Ashamed! Why? You clearly loved him. You clearly trusted him at least somewhat. It's natural to... to try things with someone you trust like that.”

“I should have known better. I'd already done so much I... didn't really want to.”

“Hindsight is always perfect, Erin. And monsters are great at wearing disguises.”

“Yes.”

Our sympathetic waitress brought me a replacement wineglass and a refill of Sauvignon Blanc. I stared at it for a moment, then lifted the glass to my lips with my shaking left hand.

I took a long, slow, unsteady sip, then set it gently aside, gagging slightly.

“I was going to say something flippant about how you at least got to bat for the girl's team,” she said softly. “But... I don't think I want to. Not now.”

“Mm.”

“Sorry. I won't be glib about it.”

“It's okay. I don't mind. Thank you.”

“For what?” she said.

“For listening. For being here. For... for holding my hand.”

She reached out to gently touch said hand.

“It's what I'm here for,” she said. “Companionship, conversation and maybe some comfort. I'm sorry for digging. I won't do it again. But... Erin... thank you for trusting me with that. That can't have been easy.”

“I... shouldn't have done that to you. You barely know me. You don't need my... carnage... as well.”

“Maybe so and maybe not. But now we're bonded by blood. And you can't take that back. ”

She gave me a weird little smile.

“So I'm stuck with you now, am I?” I said.

“I'm afraid so.”

“Oh,” I said. “Good,” I added, shortly thereafter.

She flushed and glanced hurriedly away.

But she was smiling.

And that salved much of the remaining jaggedness of the memories I'd just trawled up to so unfairly inflict on her.

We finished what remained of our brunch. Hannah insisted on splitting the bill down the middle - I protested loudly but she'd hear nothing of it, she refused to let me pay my fair share.

“You can buy me coffee sometime,” she said.

“How about now, then?” I countered, still vexed with her over her stubbornness.

And she tucked her hair back behind an ear and smiled (almost shyly, I thought) before she graciously accepted.

She walked beside me in the bright sunlight as we made our way to Kennington park.

I felt weird - disjointed and still slightly daft from the pain of my throbbing hand, my mind still partly Elsewhere.

And - even stranger - I felt wonderfully warm and almost... breathless... whenever I caught her watching me.

Which seemed to be often, by my count.

I bought us both a takeaway coffee and we spent a slow, sunlit afternoon sitting on the grass, talking about little of importance as we watched our fellow Londoners around us. And at some point we ended up lying on our backs, side by side, staring upwards at the slow procession of fluffy white clouds that eased gently across the sky.

And at some slightly later point she took my uninjured hand in hers.

Her fingers were comfortable between mine.

I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt so at peace.

She was so easy to be with.

The sun swung down towards the south west.

She walked me to the tube station and gave me a long, tight, and really quite enjoyable hug goodbye.

I sent her a home safe when I got back to the house.

And she sent me a little x and a heart that night by way of goodnight.

And that left me awake into the early hours as I tried to winnow through the weirdness that had been the day.

.:.

The week began and then crawled by as I expected it to do. I'd get up, shower as soon as the bathroom was free, do something with my hair and then eat a small breakfast before heading into the city where I spent my days writing and rewriting PR and marketing content for our agency. It was slow and dull, but my co-workers made life bearable.

And now, I discovered, so did she.

Every morning became a slow trickle of messages back and forth - rants from both of us about our jobs, the commute, wishes that we were closer together so meeting up would be a possibility. As the days became weeks, we began picking cafes and each finding a table, then phoning one another so we could have “lunch” together. Hannah had this weird stream-of-consciousness mode that she'd lapse into and I loved to sit there, leaning back into the comforting confines of my chair, listening to the sound of her voice and, frequently, smiling or laughing at or with her.

We'd try to meet up in the evenings at least once a week, sometimes more. We'd default to her place because it was easy for her and I loved the quiet warm calm that her space brought upon me as opposed to the frequently manic quasi-prison I was forced to share with my dysfunctional housemates.

Hannah and I alternated cooking and cleaning and I started to dust off my atrophied taste for far-eastern cuisine.

She would sit there, watching me with those bright blue eyes, smiling at me and me alone as I cooked for... well, for her, really.

I loved it.

I loved having someone to look forward to seeing.

I loved that she so clearly looked forward to it too.

And I loved how she hoarded her little moments of free time so she could spend them on me.

We moved from friends to best friends with barely a pause for breath; both of us knowing in our hearts that each of us would drop everything for the other.

And I was as happy as I could ever remember being.

.:.

It was Wednesday evening, perhaps three months after we'd first met.

She seemed much more exuberant than normal, but she wouldn't tell me why until after I'd cleared away the dishes and come to sit by her on her small, intimate little couch - properly within snogging distance, as she'd once laughingly labelled it.

I watched her.

I could smell a plot a mile off.

She grinned a mischievous little grin as she turned in towards me.

“Spill it,” I said.

She adopted an expression of innocence.

“Spill what?”

I was not fooled for a moment.

“Whatever it is that has you smirking like that.”

“Alright. I will. So... Erin...”

“Uh huh,” I responded, voice drenched with suspicion.

“How do you feel about coming to a fancy dress do with me? This weekend? Before you say anything, I know it's very short notice. I only found out myself this afternoon...”

I stared at her for a moment.

“What's the occasion?”

“No occasion as such. Just my mates who organise that networking stuff have been asked to organise a private party for some bigwig's birthday.”

“Hmm.”

“It's at a five star hotel out near Leatherhead. Some huge old mansion from the dark ages. They're putting my mates up and apparently there's one room going spare after someone pulled out so they've offered me an invite as well. I'm allowed a plus one and... well, I'd like it to be you.”

“That sounds...”

“Fun? Thrilling?” she said, hopefully.

“I was going to go with... posh.”

“Oh, it will be. But it will also be enormously entertaining.”

“But Hannah... I've told you I have nothing to wear...”

“That lovely red dress of yours says otherwise.”

“I have no paraphernalia or anything...”

“I have an entire cupboard full of stuff. I'd... I'd really love for you to come. It would be really nice to have you there. Really special. I mean... um... only if you want to...”

I stared at her.

She fluttered her eyelashes.

I snorted.

It was a tempting little fantasy.

I'd never been to a really fancy party. I'd certainly never been to a posh fancy-dress party.

“There'll be food,” she continued, still clearly hopeful she'd convince me. “Really nice nosh, tables full of it. And tons of booze...”

She might as well be down on her knees, given the way she was begging me.

“Please? For me?” she wheedled in a last ditch attempt...

I surrendered.

“Okay, okay, I'll come,” I said. “But I'm going to hold you personally responsible for my hangover and any chaos I cause.”

She smiled. “I'll take that in spades,” she said softly. “Thank you. You have no idea how much it means to me...”

“Thank me afterwards,” I said sourly. “If you survive me, that is.”

“That's... not generally something I worry about,” she answered, almost in a whisper. She sighed, sat up straighter. “So. The theme is a Buccaneer grand ball - anything with a sort of Spanish Main flair will do just fine.”

“So... yes, I see why you say my dress would work. But... I don't have much else. I've literally never dressed as a pirate. Or anything like that.”

“Come with me. Let's go and assemble your ensemble. I can always beg and borrow anything else we need.”

She took my hand and dragged me up off the couch, and pretty soon we were arm deep in her trove of treasures.

She somehow possessed a battered Tricorne complete with shabby feather, and spent a few minutes untangling a necklace of replica coins that she'd (allegedly) bought for a Pirates of Penzance evening to go with it. She pulled her precious lace Bolero out and put it down on her bed. “For you,” she added.

“Hannah, no! I can't wear that, I might damage it!”

She ignored my protests as she dug out a length of black satin ribbon.

“Do you ever braid your hair at all?” she asked.

“Not... really, no. I generally just clip it. Or tie it up. It's... a mess.”

“Turn around; let me try something.”

Imperious little so-and-so, I thought.

But of course I did what she wanted.

She waited for me to spin, then gently lifted my hair up and over my shoulders. Little zings trailed down my back as I felt her fingers brush against my skin.

I held my breath to avoid making any stupid sounds.

She gathered my hair up into a tail and captured the tail in the ribbon. She tugged and fiddled for a minute or two, then made a small noise of satisfaction.

“There. Take a look and see if you like it.”

I glanced at her, noting her insufferable smile. Then, sighing, I stepped over to her dressing table and peered into the silver surface of her oval mirror.

And paused.

Because, for once, my usual dislike of my reflection somehow deserted me.

I gently pulled the ponytail over my shoulder and turned so I could see it properly.

She'd tied a beautiful double-lobed bow; it made me think of her butterfly wings.

I almost looked... pretty.

I squeaked as she dropped the Tricorne on my head.

And made a stupid little noise as she leaned in and gently deprived me of my glasses.

“There,” she said. “That's better. They're very nice frames but you won't need them.”

I stared at her slightly soft-focus face in the mirror; she was standing tucked in behind me, close enough for me to almost hear her heartbeat over my own.

She adjusted the hat slightly on my head, raking it roguishly down over towards the left.

“Gosh, you're a dish,” she said. “You look like some Pirate king's mistress.”

“Um... thanks...” I whispered.

She smiled and turned away. “I'll gladly be your Pirate king,” she added, laughing.

“You'd need a sword, wouldn't you?”

“Yes, I would,” she said. “Fortunately, I have one.”

“Oh, no, seriously? You're not seriously going to tell me you have pistols in that cupboard too?”

“Hah, no, I'll be borrowing them. I do have some nice stripey tights, though, and some black linen shorts that will double as breeches. And some shoes that will go with both. A linen shirt and my blue wool coat and some sewing and costume jewellery and I'm golden. I'll just need to source some silver buttons.”

“Wow. You... you really go all in for this.”

“I told you. I love dress up. And this time I've got an important added incentive.”

“Oh?” I said, as I turned back to stare at my reflection again.

“Yeah. I have to look at least half as gorgeous as you do, see. Otherwise we won't match.”

“Oh, Hannah,” I sighed. “You don't need to fib. You don't need to talk me up. I long ago made peace with not being pretty...”

“You're absolutely right, you're not pretty,” she snapped, running roughshod over my words, stopping me in my tracks. “You're easily one of the most beautiful girls I've ever met. There's a huge difference between plain old pretty and what you are.”

I felt like she'd just dashed me in the face with ice-cold water.

“I'm sorry. I just... I hate it when you put yourself down. You do it so often. I don't think you even realise you're doing it any more. Christ, woman! It makes me so very cross. You shouldn't...”

She paused.

“Erin?” she said. “Erin, babe... are you okay?”

“It's... is that... is that really what you think? About me?”

“Yeah,” she said softly, after a moment. “It is. You're gorgeous. You're stunningly lovely, Erin. Stunningly lovely.”

“You'd... be the first to think that, then,” I managed.

And then I had no choice but to turn away and try to just breathe.

“Oh... oh honey, no...”

Slowly, hesitantly, she came to me, and wrapped her arms around me, and simply leaned herself in quietly against my back, cheek pressed gently to the nape of my neck as I shivered and sniffed and, slowly, somehow got myself under control without going to pieces on her.

“Sorry,” I whispered, when I could speak past the ache in my throat. “I feel so stupid. Stupid fucking histrionics. Sorry.”

“No, sweetie. I'm sorry. I'm sorry you were with such an utter bastard,” she answered. I felt her harsh, shuddering breath. “I'm sorry he got to maim you the way he has. I'm sorry he left such scars. I'd never, ever have treated you that way.”

I squeezed my eyes tightly closed and spun round in her arms.

I clung to her; she rocked me slowly from side to side.

“Are you okay?” she breathed, after some time.

I shook my head, gulped down another sob.

She sighed and held me close for one lifetime more.

“I need a drink,” I managed, at last.

“Yeah. Likewise. I've only got red and white.”

“Yes, please.”

“Lets go open a bottle then.”

But I'd ruined the mood of the evening, and I didn't stay late. I think she was secretly relieved, too. She seemed distracted, almost... sad.

But her goodnight hug was tighter than it had ever previously been, and for some time she seemed disinclined to let me go.

And I was extremely unwilling to let her.

.:.

It was quarter to seven or so and I was just about done with my makeup.

She poked her head around the doorway and peered into the cramped but clean bathroom of our intimate little suite.

“Are you nearly ready?” she asked. “Oh. Oh gosh, Erin. You look nice. I love that eyeliner.”

I glanced at her reflection, then turned on my seat to properly admire her.

She'd tied a saffron bandanna to contain her hair and had put on some fine ornate silver chain earrings. The metal stood out brightly against the dark falls of her hair

She looked beautiful.

As always.

“You look lovely yourself,” I said as I turned back to the mirror. I smiled up at her reflection; she was pink-cheeked and happy. I approved.

I looked back at my own reflection and tried for a pout, then snorted at myself.

I couldn't do flirty and should have known by now not to try - facial expressions often just made me look like a constipated duck.

“I... think I'm done...”

“Shall I tie your hair up for you?”

“Yes. Please. In that... in that butterfly bow. I really liked that one.”

She sauntered in; I couldn't help but grin at her lovely red and white striped legs under her navy-blue coat with its bright silver buttons. The silver-buckled shoes were the perfect finishing touch.

She noticed my smile and cocked an eyebrow at me. “Piratical enough for you?” she said, saucily. She span on one foot and gave a bright little “Ta-dah.”

“You look set to do some moderate primary-colour pillaging. Captain Jackie Sparrow, is it?”

“Just wait till I strap the cutlass on, then you'll be sorry for your unwarranted sass. Turn around for me.”

I held myself still as she gathered the straggling bits of my hair together. She was quicker this time, but the bow was just as pretty as I remembered.

“Yeah. That's just the absolute cherry on the top,” she breathed. “Put the Bolero on and let me admire you.”

I carefully slipped into her gorgeous lace jacket and turned to face her; she reached out and fastened the button under my throat.

“I like the way those pieces of eight hang where they are,” she said with a candid grin. “It... draws the eye.”

I touched the necklace of coins.

“Pity I don't have much to draw the eye to...”

“You do absolutely fine in that regard, babe,” she said. “You've got a lovely rack; or at least I've always thought so.”

I mumbled something inarticulate.

She stepped back. “Gosh, you're as cute as a button. Alright. Party's started already so we should get a move on.”

She picked up her tricorne and placed it on my head for me, raking it forwards once more. Then she briefly rubbed my shoulders. “You're so tense,” she said. “Relax, Erin. It will be fun. You look stunning. I'm jealous.”

“I'm just... excited. I'm actually looking forward to it.”

“Mm. Good.”

She sauntered back into our bedroom and picked up her prop sword. She fastened the belt around her waist and then turned, posing with her hand on the hilt.

“You look great, you know,” I said, unprompted.

“Flatterer,” she answered.

But she really did; the belt added a little bit of additional curve to her coat that screamed “Woman” at the top of its voice.

She had such nice legs.

She was so dashing.

I sighed.

“Shall we go?” she said.

“I suppose we'd better...”

She hooked her arm through mine and dragged me out into the corridor. She locked our door and we made our way down two flights of dark wood, richly-carpeted stairs, following the sound of music and conversation to a large ballroom on the ground floor of the massive old mansion.

I remembered staring out of the windows of the minibus, struck dumb by the sheer size of the building and grounds as Hannah and her friends joked and screeched good-naturedly at one another beside me.

It was enormous.

They were clearly used to this sort of place.

I... was not.

Hannah's organiser friend had muttered something about the Beauforts when I'd asked how old the estate was, but I hadn't really paid attention. I'd been too busy gaping.

And now my partner simply swept down into the sea of people as if she belonged there, carrying me along with her like some captive girl she was about to ransom.

She snared us some gilt-rimmed glasses full of something pale that bubbled; I sipped mine suspiciously at first.

It was Champagne. Very expensive Champagne, no doubt. Almost but not completely entirely different to the cheap and cheerful Co-op Prosecco I made do with when my budget allowed...

God, it was nice.

It was all so nice.

“Wow,” I breathed.

“Welcome to the high life,” she said softly. “See why I come to these? A little bit of escapism...”

“Wow...”

“Don't be shy, babe, there's much more where that came from. It's here to be drunk. And we only need to be sober enough to crawl up two flights of stairs.”

People in costumes drifted and milled around us - many in cheap and cheerful novelty-grade Pirate gear, others in what looked to be actual period dress; I recognised the bright red coats of what I vaguely remembered was a prior Century's Army uniform on a group of middle-aged men. Some women wore gowns; some of them ornate enough for the court of the Sun King and others barely managing to attain the “Pirate wench” standard of so many fertile Hollywood imaginings.

Faint string orchestra music played what sounded like Age-of-piracy-appropriate pieces - or at least how I'd imagine they'd sound, anyway.

I sipped more booze and tried to pretend that I belonged here.