The patterns on the ceiling were arranging themselves into all kinds of mystical shapes in the half-darkness of my bedroom. I lay awake, trying to work out what had happened that evening.
The answer should have been, nothing. Because nothing actually happened.
And yet.
It had just been a simple drinks party for grown-ups, a party put on by Mum’s friend, Brenda. I was there to serve, to be the waitress, complete with a black skirt, black shoes, and a school white shirt.
I was already sixteen, but since I wasn’t in the sixth form yet I wasn’t getting paid very much, but it all helped. A teenage girl needs to have some money.
All the guests were older, like Mum’s age or more, so I was the youngest by a lot, less than half the age of everyone else. I stood out. And not just because of my age. I was the only waitress, the only one in uniform, the only one in a thin cheap school shirt that didn’t really conceal the plain white bra beneath.
So yes, I stood out and was getting plenty of attention. Looks. Stares, even.
And I didn’t mind.
I liked it.
I’d had a bit of a crush on Brenda for a while. She was way too old to notice me, though she was still dark-haired and neat and tidy, and she had that headmistress type of strict bossiness that drew me.
And because she was so much older, and Mum’s friend, my thoughts were totally inappropriate.
My thoughts. They were whirling round in my head like the images on my ceiling were rearranging themselves.
A fantasy started to form, a kind of wishful thinking, allowing my imagination free rein. The naughty side of my imagination.
* * *
I knew that Brenda often had women her own age going round. I knew because she lived nearby and I’d seen them on Saturday afternoons. I imagined that they were a kind of secret lesbian group.
I imagined that I'd go round on Saturday afternoon when they were meeting and offer to waitress for her again like I needed some pocket money and she'd ask me what I was prepared to do, and I'd say whatever she wanted.
But I'd be in t-shirt and jeans, not in waitress gear, and she'd be all strict and say she couldn't have a waitress in jeans, this is in front of all the ladies.
So in front of them all, I'd have to take my jeans off, and I'd enjoy it; the attention, the wrongness, the embarrassment, and they’d all be able to tell because they were experienced women.
I’d have to serve them tea in just my t-shirt and underwear; no outdoor shoes on Brenda’s carpet. I’d find this very exciting, and they’d know, and Brenda would ask me why I'm breathing so fast, and I'd be embarrassed. But I’d find that I liked even that, too.