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get you comfortable in a roomful of strangers. And you could always see if Lynn needs a sympathetic shoulder.”
    “Absolutely, definitely not. That would be so wrong – and so potentially humiliating!” She had no intention of sharing the strange experience of last week with Rosemary.
    “OK, just pulling your leg! Your first toe in the water would need to be as risk-free as possible. Why don’t you try an ad in the Harford paper to start with, then at least most respondents would be local enough to meet in town, rather than hundreds of miles away. You could put one on an internet site later.”
    “Hmm,” said Fiona, “That sounds like a plan. I’ll have to mention that I prefer not to run uphill if possible, haven’t got the patience to watch birds and don’t own a dog.”
    “And indoor pursuits are far more your thing!”
    “I hope. Anyway, Rosie, I guess I have to thank you, you rotten bitch. You’ve turned my world upside down, and I’m terrified. But still grateful.”
    “That’s good. But now it’s time I was off home. You’ll keep me up to speed every step of the way? I’ll need to know everything.”
    “Erm, everything ?”
    “Oh yes. Every single detail. After all, I am your sexuality supervisor, and will require full reports in the furtherance of your own best interests.”
    “Not in any sense a prurient closet bisexual who wants to relive old thrills by proxy?”
    “Of course not, Fiona.”
    “Of course not, Rosemary. Didn’t think so for a second.”

CHAPTER 4
     
    When big things happen, your first waking moment gives you a hint; no hard information, just a subliminal flash across the mental retina, an emotion, a feeling. It can be your first day as a parent, a prisoner, a prizewinner, an orphan. Or like when you wake up and in a second or two remember that it’s your tenth birthday, and that from now on it’s double figures all the way.
    Fiona woke. Then the moment.
    “I’m gay,” she thought. “A lesbian .”
    “So how do you feel about it?” she asked herself aloud, sitting up so as to be able to pay better attention to the question.
    “Actually, pretty good,” she replied, “if it’s true. It explains a lot.”
    “And do you think it’s true?” she demanded, adopting what she imagined to be the smile of Jeremy Paxman with the scent of blood in his nostrils.
    “I shouldn’t be in the least bit surprised!” she declared, throwing the covers wide, and leaping to her feet on the bed. She began trampolining on it, slapping the ceiling with every bounce.
    “Gay, gay, Fiona’s gay,” she chanted, landing on her bottom on the last word.
    Over breakfast she searched gay, lesbian and bisexual dating websites, feeling embarrassed and furtive, and was astonished at their number. She was hoping that she could look at some of the entries, but all required an email address and a sign-up process. Never mind; she could always try them later, if the Harford option blew out.
    In her lunch hour she studied the shelves of WH Smith, and was surprised to see Diva, a very obviously lesbian magazine, on sale. She had never noticed it before. She picked one up, and it felt sticky, though that was probably just her hands.   She added the Harford Evening Times and some popular women’s magazines to sandwich it, and affected nonchalance as she queued at the till. The checkout woman’s eyes flicked up to meet hers for a millisecond, as the magazine’s cover, featuring the androgynous charms of a highly-tattooed brunette, emerged in turn for scanning. Eyes down, tense, and hoping the woman wasn’t a customer at her own shop, Fiona hugged the pile to her and hurried back to work. But there was a thrill in it too, a thrill in the feeling of difference, that she hadn’t expected.
    The magazine’s dating ads were fascinating. Advertisers were nineteen and fifty-nine, slim and curvy, hard-working and easygoing. They were black and blonde, sporty and disabled, student and professional. A