Cleo

I felt suddenly hot and confused. Over the years I’d known lots of women, strong wonderful people like Ginny, who I’d trust with my life. We’d laughed and cried together, moaned about men and shared intimate details about our bodily functions. Those women had helped me grieve and give birth, let go of my marriage and laugh off life’s indignities. So far not one of them had invited me to have a bath. A bubble bath at that.

“Don’t worry,” soothed Emma. “It’s your special night.”

Oh, well. What was wrong with taking a bath? She might think me unsophisticated if I said no. I liked Emma a lot. She was obviously trying to help. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings or seem unappreciative.

The French obviously knew a thing or two about bubble bath. Giant rainbow domes rose from the water. A row of colored candles blazed on the window ledge. Surely a fire hazard. A robe was folded thoughtfully on the vanity. I instinctively raised a hand to lock the bathroom door. There was no lock.

Sinking into the bubbles, I examined the Women Can Do Anything poster on the wall. Had I sent unusual signals to Emma? I hoped not. She knew my tastes were straightforward. Perhaps I’d been naive to assume hers were, too. She certainly hadn’t gone out of her way to talk about previous love affairs. I’d respected Emma’s need for privacy. Maybe I should have been more curious. She’d mentioned a man once, and women friends. But I’d assumed “friends” was the operative word. Maybe I’d been loose in my use of language. When I’d told her I loved women I hadn’t felt it necessary to add “but not in that way.” Strange sounds warbled from under the door that I had closed firmly as possible.

“Whale song!” called Emma. “With subliminal messages.”

“Oh,” I replied nonchalantly. “What do you mean?”

“They recorded messages you can’t quite hear under the whale song,” she said. “To change your way of thinking.”

Suddenly on edge, I craned my neck out of the water to listen for whatever hidden message there was behind the yodeling whales. Some sort of mumbling was definitely going on. Maybe Emma was trying to brainwash me to join some religious sect.

“What does it say?” I asked, trying to conceal my anxiety.

“Oh, relax, let go, that sort of thing.”

If any whale, white, blue or sperm, tried to audition for a choir I was running I’d turn it down. Those things are tone deaf. I sank back into the bubbles and concentrated on relaxing.

“Is it warm enough for you?” asked Emma, bursting into the room and pressing her face so close to mine I could smell garlic on her breath.

“Yes, thanks,” I said, sinking into the bubbles as deep as possible without drowning. “It’s perfect. I think…”

“Yes?” said Emma, whose face rose like the sun over the edge of the bath.

“I’d like to get out now.”

“Oh, but you’ll miss the massage!” cried Emma, digging her large, practical fingers into my neck.

The massage?! Crouched unwillingly, I endured her attentions with the stoicism of a dog being forced to have its fur washed. Emma’s breaths were hot and increasingly loud in my ear. The masculine tang of her perfume (aftershave?) made me vaguely nauseous.

Images arose of a future sharing a rose-covered cottage with a well-built woman and her turquoise collection. There’d been two women teachers like that when I was at high school. They used to drive to school in separate cars to keep the gossip down, but everyone knew. People said they’d arranged to be buried together.

Technically, I supposed it was an option. A life with Emma would avoid some of the cruelties inflicted by men. Testosterone wouldn’t pose much of a problem, competition from blond dentists would be minimal and there’d be plenty of the affection women enjoy. Cuddles and hugs, not unlike the sort of stuff you get from a cat. I liked Emma. There was only one difficulty. I didn’t love her. Not in that way.

As Emma turned my face in her hands and planted her damp lips on mine I knew straightaway. I wasn’t that kind of girl.

Six months had passed since I’d seen Philip. I was over him, at least I pretended to be. I hardly needed a man when I was flat-out with the kids and work, where I was becoming a minor authority on “wimmin’s issues.” Emma had put me on to a local witch, who’d agreed to visit the office for an interview on women’s spirituality. Apparently witches needed publicity as much as anyone else. Apart from a few crystals dangling around her neck and sticking plasters wrapped around several gnarled toes protruding from her Birkenstocks, she resembled any mature woman I might clash supermarket trolleys with. I escorted her into the interview room. We exchanged smiles. I quietly wondered if she recognized my witch potential. She surprised me by asking if I had any pets. When I mentioned Cleo she hunched forwards, causing her crystals to clatter.

“A black cat is a perfect familiar for a witch,” she said. “A spirit will often manifest in a black cat’s body and attach itself to a witch to help her on psychic levels.”