Page 28 of The Late Bloomer’s Playlist

Helen Reddy

I AM WOMAN

I bounced on the balls of my feet outside the art gallery. From the people I’d watched go in ahead of us, I’d determined two distinct details about the evening already. Firstly, that this was a woman-washed event if ever there was one. Secondly, there was a chance I was over-dressed for it. After precisely zero pieces of constructive criticism from David or Janet, I’d gone it alone and based my outfit on the only style icon I had truly been able to rely on over the years: Jane Fonda. I was wearing loose-fit black trousers with low-heeled black pointed-toe shoes; on top, a crisp white shirt that was strategically both tucked into my trousers and not, in a way that I hoped looked effortless even though it took thirty minutes for me to do. I was wearing a cluster of long necklaces that framed the button down of my shirt, and soft tones in my make-up. The latter was the only area where Janet had been helpful. She’d smuggled me a blush toned lipstick on her way out of the apartment on the blessed Madonna Day, as I’d come to think of it. I’d gratefully accepted the gift, even though I hadn’t been able to look the woman in the eye for much of that afternoon.

I checked my watch for the third time in less than two minutes, and then wrestled my phone free from my bag to check whether there was a message from Sheila. There wasn’t. But there was a beaming, brilliant white reminder in the clock of my home screen that even though I’d been waiting for ten minutes already, I was still five minutes early.

‘For goodness’ sake, Patricia,’ I said quietly to myself, and my voice was worryingly like my mother’s. I popped my phone away and wandered, up two paces, back two paces, up two paces– Until enough time had passed and Sheila, as wonderfully over-dressed as I was, rounded the corner.

She saw me and, like a knee-jerk response, her lips – painted a brilliant red – widened. The smile reached all the way up to her eyes that were decorated with mascara and– My God in heaven, is she wearing liquid eyeliner? Sheila was wearing black, pin-striped dungarees: the least professional, professional suit-style piece of clothing I’d ever seen. She’d paired it with heels and a white T-shirt, with her hair pinned in a deliberately messy bun that counter-balanced the effort gone to with the rest of her attire. She looked so unfathomably good that I felt my stomach dip, and my heart knock against my ribs, and all manner of other famous clichés in response to the lessening distance between the two of us.

‘Am I late?’ she asked, still smiling, but she leaned forward and kissed my cheek, too, giving me no chance to answer on account of no longer being able to breathe. ‘You look gorgeous. I love these’ – she pulled softly on one of my necklaces as she spoke – ‘they really suit you.’

‘I love this,’ I said and gestured to her entire outfit. ‘You look…’ I let out a breathy sigh. ‘I’m not even sure how to finish that sentence.’

‘Well, whatever the end is, I hope it’s good,’ she answered, and though I felt the smallest flicker of panic, from her expression it was clear she was being playful. ‘Shall we?’ She gestured for the door and when I nodded, she looped her arm through mine and guided me to the entryway. Again, I felt excitement snatch at my insides in a way that would have embarrassed me to admit out loud. But I loved this immediate closeness, this easy familiarity, this authentic confidence that Sheila had about her. It was only too apparent that the woman felt comfortable in her own skin. And by the time we’d ticked ourselves off the entry list – Sheila had bought tickets in advance – and bought drinks – my treat, as Sheila bought the tickets – I found that I was loosening into my own skin as well.

Of course, it was a red herring of comfort.

Because when we turned the corner into the main gallery space where the artworks were being displayed, what I was actually greeted with was– Vulvas, vulvas everywhere. Every canvas boasted a vulva of some description: there were some works that were brushstroke; some that were photography and some, though I couldn’t altogether decide how feasible this thought was but still, there were some that actually looked like they may have been painted by a vulva. A well-controlled vulva, but a vulva nevertheless, I thought as I narrowed my eyes in the direction of the one canvas that had prompted the idea.

From next to me there came a bubble of girlish laughter, and I turned to face Sheila with one hand pressed to her mouth. Her other was on the base of my back, and it gave me the comfort of a microwave heat pad.

‘I’m so sorry, your expression might be my favourite thing in the room at the moment.’

I managed a laugh. I was holding our drinks still, so I couldn’t even raise a hand to hide behind. Though I did consider necking a mouthful or two to buy myself time. ‘Do I look shell-shocked?’

‘For a lesbian, surprisingly so.’

‘I’ve never seen this many at once before,’ I answered, trying to sound teasing.

Sheila moved her hand away from my back and linked arms with me again. ‘You don’t know what you’ve missed…’

Shocked over and again by her comment, I let Sheila lead me around the space with the confidence of someone who– Has previously seen this many vulvas at once? I tried to shake the autocorrect out of my head before nerves could grip at my stomach again. By the time you reached our ages, you were – or as far as I was concerned, you definitely should be – past the point of having airs and graces about certain things; the number of sexual partners someone had had being one of them. Besides which, I went home to David every night…

‘How do you feel, now the shock has settled?’

‘Have you really seen this many at once before?’ I shook my head with immediate embarrassment. It felt much like someone else entirely had hijacked my mouth for a moment, but now the question was out there, and there was no sucking it back in. Sheila, who had been slow walking alongside me, paused. But when I turned to check on her – please don’t look too outraged… – I saw to my absolute relief that she was laughing.

‘Patti.’ She wrapped an arm around my waist and squeezed me to her. ‘I’m really quite fond of you already, you know?’

My smile was coat-hanger wide. ‘You are?’

‘I am. Now’ – she started to steer me towards a pale pink watercolour – ‘let’s look at some vulvas and stand awkwardly next to each other like we’re teenagers, shall we?’

I nodded in agreement, and said nothing of the fact that she still hadn’t answered my question. To my surprise and delight, though, in the hour and a half that followed we hardly spoke a word while we looked from canvas to canvas, and far from awkward, I found that it was the most enjoyable silence I’d ever shared with someone.

‘I like this,’ she announced, bumping her arm softly against mine. We’d come to a stop in front of the most abstract painting in the place. It was red and black lines with clumsy curvature and, while I could see how it fitted with the rest of the exhibition, I couldn’t altogether work out why. Sheila leaned forward to study the small square pinned alongside the canvas and let out a quiet, ‘Well I’ll be damned.’

‘What?’

‘The woman’ – she straightened up and stood next to me again – ‘the artist, that is, she painted this with her vulva.’

A-ha! A strange vindication washed over me. ‘Clutching a paintbrush, do you think?’

A short, sharp laugh erupted out of Sheila; it was an unconscious sound that caught the attention of a few fellow onlookers. And I felt a swell of pride. Yes, I wanted to broadcast to them all, yes, I made her laugh like that.

‘I don’t know,’ she answered, ‘but I like to think so.’