Page 73 of Gwen and Art Are Not in Love

‘Now hang on,’ said Arthur. ‘I’m a man, and my crotch isn’t a burden.’

‘Maybe not to you,’ said Gwen. ‘But it’s a burden on the rest of humanity.’

‘I made you a false moustache!’ Arthur said, outraged. ‘I didcraftsfor you! The least you can do is act grateful.’

‘Thank you for my cat-hair moustache,’ Gwen said, rolling her eyes. ‘It’s truly disgusting. I hope you washed it first.’

Arthur winked at her in a way he probably imagined was roguish and charming. ‘I can guarantee you that I did not.’

At that precise moment they emerged from a questionable alleyway and into a square full of sound and colour. A dilapidated inn that seemed to be half sinking into the ground was the source of the revels; a band had set up their instruments just outside the door, and people had gathered to drink and dance in the warm evening air.

‘This is morelikeit,’ Arthur said triumphantly, as the fiddler struck up a new tune and the crowd cheered in drunken approval. ‘Come on, Sid. Drinks.’ He and Sidney shouldered through the crowd, leaving Gwen and Agnes hovering at the edge of the merriment. Gwen was sure that at any moment somebody would ask her why she had lint stuck to her upper lip, or arrest her for wearing breeches, but nobody noticed them at all.

A slightly awkward silence descended between the two women as they watched the dancers.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier,’ Gwen said suddenly. ‘About Arthur and me. I mean, you knew, but I should have told you. I didn’t trust you with it, because … well, I felt like I didn’t really knowyou.’

Agnes looked at her, biting her bottom lip. ‘Can I be honest?’ Gwen shrugged. ‘Youstilldon’t know me at all, and we’ve spent every day together for years. I think you just wrote me off as some silly gigglingwoman, off gossiping about you, and – I never did any of that. Well, the giggling and the being-a-woman part, yes. But there’s nothing wrong with that.’

Gwen tried to grapple with this – her instinct was to be rankled, to try to deny what Agnes had just said, or at least reprimand her for her tone if she couldn’t disprove her logic – but she realised that, on the whole, Agnes was right. ‘Fair enough,’ she said eventually. ‘My judgement hasn’t always been … Well, I’m sorry. For being so rude to you. And … I’d like to know you better.’

Agnes gave her a wry smile. ‘Would you like to dance?’

‘Not really,’ Gwen said bracingly, ‘but in the interest of getting to know you—’

Agnes had already taken her by the arm and pulled her towards the dancers; Gwen laughed, stumbling and almost losing her hat, buoyed by the freedom of dancing without skirts or her mother or leering men to put a damper on her enjoyment. There were no formal lines, no set dances; people were simply throwing themselves about to the music however they saw fit, and Gwen did her best to imitate them.

‘You’re being too delicate!’ Agnes called over the pipes. ‘Men don’t dance like that!’

‘Mouse in your trousers, is there?’ Arthur enquired, appearing at Gwen’s shoulder and handing her a cup of sage water. ‘Come on, then. I’ll show you how a real man dances. I’ll teach you the hurdle-girdle. The dirty dog. The polyphonic rhapsody.’

‘None of those are real dances,’ Gwen said, clumsily sipping at her drink without pausing.

‘Of course they are,’ said Arthur. ‘This is the – whatever it was I just said,’ and he proceeded to do something so vulgar with his hips that Gwen sent up a quick prayer for her soul.

‘I’m not doing that,’ she said, and Arthur laughed and grabbed her free hand, waving it about in the air like she was so much seaweed.

It was wildly different from any birthday Gwen had ever had before – so different from what she had everwantedbefore – and yet somehow, it was perfect. Everybody was laughing. Sidney kept trying to impress Agnes with misguided attempts to spin her around. When Arthur approached Gwen as if he might be about to do the same, and was rebuffed, he said, ‘All right then,youspinme,’ and she actually did. The crowd seemed to be growing every minute, morphing and changing and opening up to make room for them whenever they needed it. When Arthur let go of her hands and started craning his neck to look across the tops of many laughing and shouting heads, Gwen tried to follow his gaze.

‘What is it?’she shouted, and Arthur turned back to her looking frighteningly pleased with himself.

‘Your birthday present,’ he said, grabbing her by the shoulders and turning her towards the inn, ‘has arrived.’

‘OhGod,’ said Gwen, dreading to think what Arthur might consider a suitable gift for an eighteenth birthday – but when the crowd parted slightly, she caught a glimpse of a dark fringe, broad shoulders and a carefully neutral expression. She was off immediately, ignoring Arthur’s laugh of surprise when she rocketed out of his grip, pushing her way through the crowd until she could properly see Bridget, who was wearing a simple, silken jacket and holding on to her drink like it was keeping her anchored as she stared suspiciously into the crowd. Her friends were standing with her, talking; Adah said something to make Elaine laugh and Elaine briefly put an arm around Adah’s waist and squeezed, her hand safely back on her tankard only a second or two later.

‘Bridget,’ Gwen called, half laughing; she had the immense satisfaction of seeing Bridget turn towards her, her expression clearing, one side of her mouth quirking up in a smile that threatened to buckle Gwen’s knees. Elaine and Adah excused themselves, Adah raising her eyebrows at Gwen and grinning in greeting as they crossed paths.

‘Happy birthday,’ Elaine whispered, before they were swallowed up by the crowd.

‘Nice moustache,’ Bridget said when Gwen reached her, touching it very gently so as not to dislodge it. ‘Very convincing.’

‘Really?’ Gwen said, feeling excitable and giddy and more than a little stupid.

‘No, Gwendoline,’ Bridget said, her thumb still resting on Gwen’s jaw. ‘Not really. It’s horrible. But everybody here is far too plastered to notice.’

‘So in that case, do you think they’d mind terribly,’ Gwen said, fingering the trailing end of her sleeve as she glanced back at the crowd, ‘if we …?’

Instead of answering, Bridget used the hand curled under Gwen’s chin to gently turn her head so that she could kiss her. Having kissed Bridget before, all the terrifying newness was gone, and in its place was something better; a slow, familiar ache instead of heady, breathless panic. She liked the way that Bridget seemed to smile into her mouth as she kissed, as if she were pleased to have discovered something; she liked the feeling of strong arms and sure hands pulling her closer; sheespeciallyliked the small, frustrated noise Bridget made in her throat when she reached for Gwen’s hair, which was carefully plaited away under her hat.