Delia stared at her own reflection in the bus window, street lights streamed across her face. "What are you talking about Barbara?" she asked. The words came soft and half-heartedly, unsure she wanted to know.

Barbara addressed Delia's reflection; thankful that she hadn't turned to her. "I'm awfully sorry Deils, I had tried to stop it. But you know what Trixie's like when she has a cause."

Delia turned to her.

Barbara looked to her lap, uncomfortable with Delia's searching eyes. "We saw you on the street, all dressed up. You looked lovely. Still do." Barbara picked once more at her woollen stockings. "It was clear that you weren't going to dinner with Mrs Bu... with your mum, that you were having a night out. And Trixie felt slighted I guess. So did I if I'm honest. I know that's no excuse"

"So you were spying on us?" asked Delia, her anger just barely controlled.

Barbara scratched at a loose thread on her thigh. "No." She looked to Delia, eyes full of guilt. "Not at first."

Delia turned rapidly to the window once more.

For how long? She thought, in realisation of the possibilities.

Was it possible that Barbara was playing her for a fool? Possible that she actually saw when Patsy had kissed her on the street? Or when Patsy had wrapped her arms around her? Possible that Barbara was simply waiting for a guilty admission? Possible even that Barbara had thought it best to mark it unseen, to never be spoken of. Such was the sin of her love.

"What did you see?" Delia asked, solemnly.

Barbara shifted once more, but she was now too far over the edge. She stumbled from the seat but gathered herself quickly. "I'm sorry..." she said, then sat in the adjacent seat.

"Barbara?" Delia looked to her. Barbara was sorry, had moved from her. As if she was someone to be pitied. As if she were contagious. Her chest ached.

"The gentlemen" Barbara explained.

The gentlemen. Of course. She had been irrational in her panic. Barbara's excited, oblivious greeting in the club, despite the clientele, despite an interest from a pretty blonde, despite – or perhaps because of – the unconvincing 'gentlemen,' proved she didn't know a thing.

Delia breathed a sigh of relief.

"It was nothing really," reassured Barbara, mistaking Delia's long exhale as anxiety. "Just the two of you laughing with them, sharing a cigarette. You seemed close."

Delia realised now who she had meant. The handsome women from Gateways, who politely offered a match and traded stories of their night. They were funny, charming even. Gentlemen. The misconception caused Delia to smile, slightly. The women would be chuffed if they knew.

Barbara paused, her mouth curling at the edges.

"You seemed really happy Delia."

And just as quickly as it came, Delia's smile gave way to a frown. You seemed really happy.

Barbara tried to read Delia's face. It appeared to hold conflicting emotions. Fleeting and transient.

"I am happy." Delia said, at last.

"Then why do you look so sad?" asked Barbara, leaning over and placing a hand on Delia's knee.

How could she tell Barbara that she was sad for the lie she had to tell? For the magnitude the falsehood had taken?

It was no longer a simple denial, but a story concocted. A story that omitted the love she held for Patsy.

Not since her College days had Delia engaged in speculation that there was some unseen man in her life. Even then it had only occurred once. This mysterious male suitor. The reason had been innocent enough, romantic even. Delia so wanted to tell the world about her exciting, new romance. Had wanted to share in the stories amongst her fellow nurses of all the kind, and not so kind, things their partners had done. Her Pat was a dashing, tall-red head with dreamy blue eyes. From good stock, their courtship had been conventional. Starting out as friends, they found a growing attraction to each other that couldn't be ignored. It had been Pat who made the first move, Delia had giggled to her friends. One night, over a friendly game of cards and a little liquid courage, it finally happened. Delia had been cheating; sitting on extra cards. Pat, laughing, had attempted to lift her legs to uncover the evidence. Pat had fumbled and landed on Delia, pinning her down. The look they had shared – of wanting, yearning, had been enough. Pat kissed her, nervous and brief at first and then... Delia's friends had given each other knowing looks. That was how it started, they said. Brief nervous fumbling. And then, just when you think you've managed to catch a sensitive guy who wants to wait too, is prepared to because you're different to all the other girls... Well, you rent a cheap motel, move to the back seat of his parent's car, let yourself be pressed against the wall of a dance hall. And that's that.

Delia had protested that Pat wasn't like that. Her Pat was sweet, stoic, had always put her first. But they had simply laughed and thought her naive, felt sorry for her even. And so, when the lie had got out of hand, when there were too many questions, too many demands to meet this unbelievable man, too many excuses as to why this couldn't be, Delia had declared that they were right. That Pat had been the same as all the other boys they had warned her about. Her friends were not surprised when it ended; it had made her one of the girls. Delia had enjoyed the solidarity. But felt all the more guilty, sneaking Patsy into her room at night, whispering to her that she loved her. But only when the coast was clear.

Patsy, had been, is, as perfect as she had described, thought Delia. But a secret. Then. And now.

Delia closed her eyes. Poor, brave, beautiful Patsy had to face their lie. Alone. And here she was, on the verge of another lie. Of a mysterious gentleman that made her happy, when it was Patsy who was her everything.

Delia's mind raced. She could tell Barbara that she was mistaken - that there was no gentleman. If there was to be no Patsy in her story, then there would be no story at all. No tale of being saved from a life of unhappiness by the love of a good man.

But even so, she thought, there would still be questions.

Delia's hands turned to fists beside her. She was sick to death of being afraid. Of being terrified of inevitable prying questions. Sick of only answering by omission. It had steered her away from any real, tangible friendship. That's what friends did. They asked about each others lives, helped each other get ready for dates, whispered about romantic gestures. She had never had that – only an illusionary version.

So, thought Delia, she could tell Barbara a half-truth, that there were no gentlemen. Or she could tell the whole truth and damn the consequences. Risk the imitation of friendship for an authentic one. Risk her livelihood for a life.

Delia's eyelids clenched. She left out a slow, measured breath.

"Delia, are you alright?" asked Barbara.

Delia opened her eyes to find that Barbara was sharing the seat with her once more. Her gaze steady and concerned. "You don't look well," said Barbara.

"No." said Delia, calmly, eyes on her lap.

"No? You're not well?" asked Barbara, concerned.

Delia shook her head. "No." She matched Barbara's gaze, "I'm not going to lie any more."