We travelled up to the Lake District in Dave’s red Mini (I haven’t passed my test yet, and probably won’t be able to afford a car until the year 2116). She picked me up as agreed at half past six and we chatted animatedly all the way. Dave had booked us in at a pub in Troutbeck. The plan for Saturday, hill-walking day, was to dump our bags in our rooms and hit the road at once. Three miles of steep gradients away lay The Kirkstone Pass Inn, the third highest pub in all of England. We were going to leisurely dine there then foot it back down to base camp.
As then, Sunday (titchy mountains day), was a magical mystery tour as far as I was concerned. Dave was keeping the details under her hat. Still wondering what to expect in the shower, I didn’t press her.
Our pub was an old-looking, white painted building and it was massive. We made our way to the reception desk and Dave gave the young woman there our details. ‘Oh,’ she said after a bit of tapping on her keyboard. ‘There’s a problem.’
My heart sank. I didn’t need problems. I’d been looking forward to fresh air, good food and good company, not problems.
‘We’ve had a burst pipe in your room,’ the receptionist told Dave. ‘It won’t be habitable again until after the Bank Holiday.’
Suspicious me; I wondered if Dave had somehow engineered this. She looked gutted, though. Absolutely gutted.
‘We have two solutions,’ the receptionist went on. ‘We can refund half your money and you can share with your friend . . .’
That sounded reasonable to me but Dave wasn’t impressed. ‘Haven’t you any other vacant rooms?’ she said truculently.
‘Only one,’ said the woman behind the desk. ‘That’s our very best room. We can refund half your money and you can share that.’
‘Why can’t one of us just have the very best room?’
‘We’re expecting a regular visitor any moment. He hasn’t booked but he knows we’ve had a last minute cancelation. He just doesn’t know which room he’s getting. I’m giving you the choice before he gets here.’
I thought Dave was going to bicker so pulled her aside. ‘We’ll never find anywhere else this weekend,’ I said, ‘So it’s a full refund and back home, or half a refund and share a bedroom. And if we’re sharing, we might as well have the best.’
She asked me if I was sure. I assured her I was and, five minutes later we were staring in awe at a four-poster bed. The room itself was wonderful but that bed was sumptuous.
‘You made the right choice,’ the receptionist said on her way out. ‘I dream about sleeping in here myself, but it’s always taken. Enjoy your stay.’
*****
The Kirkstone Pass Inn was a welcome sight after our three mile climb. When Dave told me it was “uphill with steep gradients” she hadn’t been joking. The road had mountains either side of it, some of them capped with fluffy white clouds. Not that there were too many clouds in the sky. The sun was out with a vengeance and, although we’d brought bottled water with us, we were more than ready for beer.
‘How are we splitting it?’ I asked as we hiked towards the long, brilliantly white building. White seemed to be a popular colour for pubs in these parts, I thought. Not that I was knocking the décor. I’d rarely seen anything so welcoming.
‘You buy the food and drinks,’ Dave said. ‘I’ve already paid for the accommodation.’
No way was I having that. ‘You’ve paid for petrol as well,’ I protested. ‘I want to pay my fair share.’
She said she had a petrol card from work so that wasn’t an expense. And she’d got half her money back on accommodation. She’d laid out eighty pounds and we were in a room with a tariff of nearly twice that. ‘And I get to sleep with you,’ she added. ‘I feel like a lottery winner as it is, so let me relish it.’
I stopped arguing but secretly intended to make sure I spent at least eighty quid before we got home. In fact I hoped to fork out a hundred, to account for the flowers and wine.
There were plenty of people outside the inn but I spotted an empty table. ‘Bag it,’ I said, ‘while I get drinks and menus.’
When I came back outside Dave was sitting on a bench under a big red and white parasol, admiring the view. ‘That over there is Helvellyn,’ she said. ‘Fancy a race to the top and back?’
I passed her a pint of real Cumbrian ale and told her I’d mind the table while she was showing off.
‘You can trust me,’ she said as I sat beside her. ‘Tonight, I mean. I’ll ask them for a bolster, if you like.’
I had to ask what bolsters were. I’d heard the word in phrases such as “Leeds United need to bolster their defence”, but didn’t know where it came from. According to Dave, they are long, heavy pillows used to support invalids. They were used in olden day inns too, she said, so a double bed could be shared by two strangers.
‘Men and women strangers?’ I wondered incredulously.
‘Probably just men.’ She grinned. ‘When I say “olden days” I’m talking stagecoaches. Women didn’t overnight on their own. They had more sense.’
‘Hmmm,’ I went. ‘What will they think if you asked for one nowadays? That you’re apt to jump on me while I’m asleep, that’s what.’
‘There’s always a chance,’ said Dave. ‘In a sleepwalking sort of a way, I mean.’
‘Do you sleepwalk?’
‘No.’
‘Well in that case I’ll trust you without a bolster. Now pick your lunch.’
We both went for homemade steak and ale pie. As I returned from ordering, armed with more pints, I overheard two guys talking at our neighbouring table. Not noticing me, they were deep in a “yes it is, no it isn’t” exchange. They were obviously debating Dave’s gender and, as well as being angry with them, I was astounded by their stupidity. Okay, Dave’s hiking gear wasn’t catwalk material, but her shorts exposed plenty of smooth leg. And her face, enhanced by fresh air and sunshine, had never been lovelier.
Resisting the temptation to apply beer shampoos, I re-joined my friend. Sitting beside her once more I put my hand gently under her chin. And, as she turned to look at me, I kissed her. She reacted exactly as she had before, kissing back but leaving all the instigation to me.
There, I thought as we broke apart, chew on that, you homophobes!
The two guys were still debating when our meals arrived, casting regular glances our way. With an inward sigh, I realized my kiss had only stirred their coals. They remained undecided; now they were wondering if I was a hiking-whore or gay. Or so I assumed.
*****
Walking back to base camp was easier than walking up to the inn. The steep down gradient did, however, test out a completely different set of muscles. Chatting as we went, I discovered Dave was twenty-six (all those cosy conversations and I hadn’t previously thought to ask!) and had never had a boyfriend. Her last girlfriend had upped and gone travelling three months ago. And good riddance. She was tending towards lesbian bed death anyway, and they hadn’t been together long.
Needless to report, I had to ask what she meant. Laughing, she said bed death was probably a myth but her ex . . . who’d started out hot and horny . . . had been noticeably losing interest in sex.
For the last couple of downhill miles we discussed old lovers. I character-assassinated Giles and Joe but said Tommy had been a true gentleman. She never named names but seemed to have notched up a reasonable score, most of them far from indifferently skilled.
It was after four when we arrived back in our wonderful room. During the week we had agreed that we’d have a meal in Bowness, amid a minor pub crawl. Because Bowness wasn’t exactly on Troutbeck’s doorstep . . . and because I rejected Dave’s offer to drive . . . the service of a taxi was required. So too were showers; all that walking and sunshine had taken a toll.
‘Let’s save the “big” shower ‘til morning,’ said Dave, grinning at me. ‘After I’ve proved my self-restraint.’
I agreed and said she could go first. Then I just stood there, staring at the four-poster bed and thinking about nothing but her.
‘I’m Mikki,’ I murmured softly. ‘I am twenty-four and I am a lesbian.
‘And I’m in love with Dave.’
My feet made the decision for me. They turned me around and carried me to the door of the en suite. Then my hand took over, turning the knob.
Dave didn’t notice me at first. She was under the shower, lathering her lovely light brown hair. The shower cubicle was in the corner of the bathroom, two sides white tiled, two glass. The glass was steamed up a bit but not at all opaque. I could quite clearly see her.
‘Oh,’ she said, suddenly sensing my presence. ‘Are you joining me after all?’
‘No.’ I shook my head and moved a couple of steps closer. ‘I just need to see you.’ And that was the truth. I didn’t want to see her, I needed to see her.
‘Well go ahead,’ she invited, holding hands above her head like a posing starlet. ‘Feast your eyes.’
I did, starting with her legs. They were a little thicker than mine (mine are slim without being actually skinny), but womanly. Then her groin. Rude of me, I know, but I couldn’t help myself. Suds and running water made it hard to be certain, but she looked as if she’d never shaved there, ever.
Strange, I thought. I’d expected to see a clean-shaven pussy, like my own.
Dave has wide-ish hips and a surprisingly thin waist. While she is far from “hourglass”, she’s definitely shapely. Wondering how on earth she ever managed to seem man-like, I shifted my attention to her chest, via her fat-free tummy. She did, after all, have tits. They were tiny, but there nevertheless. Her nipples were tiny too, although, I noticed, they were getting bigger as they rapidly hardened.
Wow, I’m turning her on!
I stepped right up to the glass and stared into her eyes. That was the first time I’d seen her without her nerd convention specs on. Some people . . . in my opinion at least . . . look odd without their specs. Myopic or hyperopic or whatever. Dave just looked lovely. Her eyes may be hazel but, depending on the light, they can appear to be green, brown or even amber. Right then, staring back at me, they were amber.
Holding her gaze, speaking loudly enough to be heard over the jetting water and extractor fan, I said, ‘Davina, you are the most beautiful person I have ever met.’
She smiled at me. I’m sure she was pleased. I retreated a little but stayed in the bathroom, watching her finish her shower and towel herself dry.
‘You can watch me if you want,’ I offered. ‘Showering, I mean.’
‘I’d better not,’ she said after a hesitation. ‘Not if you want to sleep unmolested.’
She went back into the bedroom before I could comment on that. And, I’m sad to say, she didn’t sneak back to grab an eyeful.