Page 47 of The Late Bloomer’s Playlist

‘I’m counting on that.’ She squeezed my hand. ‘I just think you’re… not out.’

‘I’m holding hands with a woman, Sheila, how much more–’

‘Would the man who serves you your morning tea be surprised to see you holding hands with a woman?’

Yes, I thought with a vice-like grip around my stomach, because he knows I’m married to a man.

‘Anyway,’ she said when I didn’t answer fast enough, ‘it doesn’t matter. I suppose if you haven’t had many out and out relationships, then you’re not going to be as… open? I don’t know whether that’s the word I mean.’

I’d told Sheila that my relationships with women had been limited in scope. Not through lack of trying, I insisted. But because of… well, something else. Lack of out-ness? I wondered then whether if I’d been out with my mother, with more of my friends, with myself, whether life might have looked different up to now. There was a rumble of something in the background that caused the thoughts to stop before they could take root, though, and I was thankful of that.

‘Christ, was that thunder?’

‘I suppose we’ve been lucky to make it this far without the weather turning.’

‘Oh, actually, let’s not become people who talk about the…’

Sheila’s plea petered out as the first spots of rain started. The first droplets were a misleading prelude to what soon became a thunderous shower. The rain hit the pavement around us with such force that it felt for a second like there might have been hail, or at the very least sleet mixed with the downpour. Sheila’s deliberately messy bun collapsed around her face in a way that made her look like a character from a film. Though I was only too aware that the slab of hair now sticking to my forehead likely wasn’t doing any such favours for me. She was smiling, though, and soon laughing and tugging my hand, and I thought that must mean she had shelter in mind.

‘Come on, my house is only a couple of streets away,’ she shouted over the thrash of the waterfall, in the very same instant that a car drove past us, hitting the beginnings of a puddle as it went. The water leapt from its bed on the roadside and caught both of us by the trousers, but it only prompted more laughter.

‘I put so much thought into this outfit, too,’ I joked as Sheila still pulled me along.

Two minutes and another puddle later we were huddled in the porchway of what turned out to be Sheila’s home. She fumbled her keys free from the pocket of her skirt and rushed to get the right one in the lock. During which time our sodden bodies fought for shelter in the small doorway, packed tightly with my front pressed against her back, and like the chorus from a catchy song I found myself quietly thinking, I’m seeing Sheila’s home for the first time, I’m seeing Sheila’s home for the first time, I’m seeing–

‘Get yourself inside,’ she said as she hurried into the hallway.

I followed close behind her, feeling the instant warmth of the place hit me with a force after the thrash of cold rain that it took to get us there. Sheila was wringing her hair out in chunks, forcing out water so that it leaked onto the tile flooring. Meanwhile, I fought myself free of my cardigan that had taken on water like a wet rag might; every fibre of wool having gobbled up all the moisture it could. I dropped it onto the floor, not knowing where else to throw the thing, and it landed with a thud that made me laugh. When I looked at Sheila, though, her expression was a serious one.

‘Gosh, are you okay?’

Her mouth broke into a smile as she reached across to push wet hair away from my face. ‘It’s so silly, but this is like living out a fantasy in real-time.’ Sheila closed the distance between us, just slightly. ‘I don’t mean that I’ve imagined us getting soaked to the core by a rainstorm on a sunny day. I just mean I’ve imagined…’

She didn’t finish the sentence, but somehow I knew its ending. Perhaps because from the first time I’d met her, I’d been imagining it, too.