Kitabı oku: «A Version of the Truth», sayfa 4

Although I had been afraid of awkward silences, conversation came quite naturally, with Ally conducting everyone like an orchestra, asking me questions about my course in a way that enabled me to have a part in whatever they wanted to discuss. It turned out that, as with me, literature was their primary topic of conversation, as Peter had suggested. And I could see why he’d recommended I join in with them more after our discussion on To the Lighthouse; the group were apparently going through a bit of a Woolf phase. Mrs Dalloway seemed to be the focus today, with Ally declaring it ‘utter, pretentious claptrap’, while James and Ernest objected to her criticisms and said she ‘just didn’t get it’.

‘There’s no need to denigrate one of the greatest authors of the twentieth century simply because you have a short attention span.’ Ernest had a wicked smile on his face, knowing full well what would wind his sister up.

Ally almost spat her milkshake out of her nostrils. ‘I do not have a short attention span.’ She shifted in her seat irritably. ‘Where’s the food? They don’t usually take this long.’

‘I think you’ve just proved my point.’

‘Hunger has nothing to do with attention spans.’

‘And yet you used it to change the subject.’

Ally glared at him. ‘Peter’s still not here.’

‘Well spotted,’ said Ernest, peering over James’s shoulder at the rain-soaked night outside. ‘Perhaps he took one look at the weather and decided we weren’t worth it. Or he’s crying in one of the stacks of the library, having a little private funeral for the remnants of his essay.’

I took in Ernest’s fluid movements, his laughter, his playful barbs aimed at his sister. Some girls would like that type of thing, I thought as I watched him. But turning my attention to James, I felt a deep swell inside me, like a force rebelling against any attempts to tame it, and knew I wasn’t one of those girls. The quiet, serious type was my thing – a ‘thing’ I’d never really known I had until I met him for the first time. My lack of experience with boys was probably plain to see for people like Ally and Ernest who, by all accounts, enjoyed their respective sex lives in an unfussy, matter-of-fact kind of way. And when the topic of conversation turned, as it was always going to do, to the subject of sex, I found myself wanting to crawl under a rock somewhere. Or a table.

‘The problem is, she’s just never had it done to her,’ Ernest said, describing a girl he had gone home with a few nights before. ‘When I told her the name of it, she made this shrieking noise, as if she was repulsed.’

‘It does sound like some kind of infection, doesn’t it?’ said Ally, grimacing. ‘Cunnilingus. Cunn-i-ling-gus.’

‘It does if you say it like that.’ James grinned. Like me, he’d barely spoken throughout the whole dinner, just silently consumed his burger and chips, though leaving the two halves of the bun neatly on the side of his plate, having eaten the contents with a knife and fork. Ally rounded on him.

‘Ahh, so you have an opinion on this, do you?’

‘Not necessarily.’

‘Practise it much?’

James didn’t answer, instead picking up one of the fries that had fallen off Ernest’s plate and starting to move it around his own, mopping up a minuscule amount of tomato sauce from the edges.

‘His silence speaks volumes,’ said Ernest and winked at me.

‘Oh yes, sorry, I forgot. My brother doesn’t have a vagina, so of course James would have no interest in going down on one. A cock, on the other hand …’

‘Here we go.’ Ernest rolled his eyes. ‘I knew the Mrs Dalloway talks wouldn’t last long. Come on, let’s hear it, sis.’ He turned to me. ‘In case you haven’t already noticed, my sister likes nothing better than to imply James and I are sodomising the night away together. Just jealousy, I’d say. Plain and simple. She can’t bear the thought that I converse with and laugh with and breathe the same air as another individual other than herself.’

I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or not, so I glanced at Ally, who had a look of triumph in her eye.

‘Sodomising the night away? Interesting turn of phrase, dearest brother. I don’t remember anyone saying anything about sodomy. Interesting that your mind should jump so quickly to penetrative sex. I was merely implying oral, but if you want to plunge straight in at the deep end, be my guest.’ She shot me a wicked smile, raising her eyebrows, enjoying the game. Her references to gay sex startled me somewhat. I wasn’t naïve – I knew some men did such things – but throughout my teens my parents had always implied men who had sex with men were disease-ridden AIDS sufferers who would soon perish as a result of their aberrant desires. This bothered me throughout the rest of our meal and, after Ally had got bored and all the fries had been eaten, the quick trudge in the drizzle back to our respective dorms. Ally seemed to be treating it all as a bit of a laugh, though I wasn’t entirely sure if her comments were manifestations of her own prejudices towards gay men, or if they were actually based on a glimmer of truth, and she just enjoyed torturing the two boys with this knowledge. Presumably the boys had slept together last night, if James had been in Ernest’s bed for most of the day. Perhaps their friendship wasn’t purely platonic. But Ally had also implied Ernest was a prolific ‘shagger’ of ladies, and that I was (or at least appeared to be, on the outside) just his type. I’d heard some people liked both genders, but to me this seemed even farther removed from my everyday life than homosexuals pure and simple. The idea of not being restricted by gender frightened me slightly, though I didn’t quite know why. It had a rather thrilling, anarchic quality to it, as if the constraints on gender that dominated the lives of the many didn’t apply to them. They were free.

Ally and I got back to our halls first and she waved goodbye to the two boys without properly looking at them. I was surprised at the abrupt ending to the evening. It was still only 7.15. Hardly a wild night out for a bunch of students. Maybe they were all going to congregate later on when I was safely back in my room. They might swap notes on how well they thought I’d done. I was cross I hadn’t had more time to really assert myself or make my presence seem worthwhile. Instead of an active participant, I’d become a passive spectator, watching Ally trade quips with her brother about his sexual preferences. My mind was dwelling on this in such detail that I didn’t realise, as we were walking towards our rooms, that Ally was in the full flow of conversation.

‘… I just thought it would be nice for you to see us all together. We’re not exactly a frightening bunch. I know Ern can be a bit, well, spikey occasionally, but that’s just his insecurities showing through. He collects them, don’t you know? Like some people collect stamps or rare novels, he collects insecurities. Intellect is the main one. It’s like he’s absolutely terrified one day everyone – teachers, professors, friends, the world – will discover he’s actually just ‘rather bright’ rather than ‘insanely brilliant’. There’s a big difference between the two, of course, and Ernest is traumatised by the knowledge that if anyone dug too deeply they’d probably place him in the former category.’

She unlocked her door and walked in still talking, presuming I would follow.

‘Anyway, I don’t know why he’s worried. He’ll get what he’s always wanted – a seat in the Commons. Daddy’s practically got it all sorted for him. He’ll have no trouble winning a place.’

I made a vague sound, somewhere between affirmation and ‘do go on’.

‘Yes, well, he’ll just need to get a first, of course. Daddy’s rather firm about that. And it’s not a question of how clever he is; it’s more about whether he actually does what he’s told. Studies the things he’s supposed to study, not the nonsense he’s more interested in.’

‘Surely he should focus on his interests?’ I said, unsure why I was standing up for him.

‘Hmm, you sound like my mother.’ Ally rolled her eyes and collapsed onto her bed, causing the springs in the mattress to twang noisily.

Being likened to someone so close, at least biologically, to Ally must, I decided, be a positive thing, so I smiled and peered around awkwardly at the untidy room.

‘Oh, please, Holly, sit down. You’re making me tense just standing there.’ She gave one of her bark-like laughs.

I started to think about what it would be like to lie down next to Ally in the same way Ernest and James did. Our bodies touching, the strands of our hair intermingling. The thought didn’t repulse me, but at the same time I felt there were other people I’d rather do that with. Wondering whether this might be the harbinger of a lesbian experimentation phase – a rather candid art teacher at my school had once implied all girls went through something of this nature at university – I opted to sit in a restrained fashion at the edge of Ally’s bed, careful not to let my body touch hers.

‘Let’s talk about sex, Holly.’

Ally’s words sent a jolt of concern through me. I didn’t believe in mind-reading, but it was amazing how sometimes people could hit the mark. I must have jumped, because she laid a hand on my arm and said, ‘Don’t flinch. Oh goodness, anyone would think I’d offered you heroin.’ She was smiling and looked relaxed, so I nodded.

‘Holly, you seem, well, I hate to say this, but … quite innocent.’

‘I am innocent,’ I said. Then, worried this might sound a little strange, I added, ‘I mean, I’ve had limited experience.’

Another laugh. ‘That’s not so unusual. You’re only eighteen.’

‘Nineteen in five months,’ I murmured.

‘Does it bother you, being a virgin?’

Though she was clearly trying to be kind, it sounded as if she was actually asking, Do you mind being disabled?

‘I … I don’t really know.’ I tried to choose my words carefully, but I felt my heart beating a loud, relentless chant in my chest and was keen to drown out the noise of it. ‘I’ve done some stuff. But not everything. There was a party once. And then another time at a picnic. But I had hayfever and needed an antihistamine.’ I doubted this added detail was necessary, but it seemed like a legitimate mitigating factor. Who’d want to have sex while being plagued by three-minute-long sneezing fits and streaming eyes?

‘Oh, poor you. That must have been awkward. Did you not have any male friends you could, you know, experiment with? A few of Ernest’s school chums came in handy for me. So to speak.’ She winked.

‘I did have friends who were boys. I was very close to one of them: George. We did everything together, for a bit.’ Ally’s eyes widened, and I rushed to clarify. ‘Everything school-wise. Nothing like that. That would have been weird.’

‘Would it? Sometimes friends can be good. Stops it getting too romantic. It’s like a barrier, a prearranged stop sign that helps you both stay on the same page. Although my first time – well, first sexual experience – was a sort of date, at the opera of all places. Tosca. I was fifteen. We were in a box watching the performance and my mother was keen for me to sit next to this boy called Archibald. Well, he liked to be called Archie but his parents thought that common. So, anyway, Archibald is an aristrocrat, which explains my mother’s reason for wanting us to be close. We were just getting to the torture scene when I felt his hand creeping up my thigh. We were slightly to the side, hidden – or at least I hope we were – from the view of my parents and his parents. I didn’t stop him. He kept on and I felt my knickers getting wet. He slid in so easily. God, it felt good. I came incredibly quickly, much faster than I had ever done by myself. I had to keep silent, though. To this day I’ve been rather proud of how I did that. A little concentration and the odd well-placed yawn go a long way.’

I felt slightly dazed by this level of oversharing, completely at a loss as to how to respond. If that had been me (which was unlikely, since my parents were always commenting on how pricey tickets to the local am-dram performances were), I think I’d probably have been too shocked and embarrassed to ever tell anyone. But Ally said it so coolly, in her no-nonsense, matter-of-fact way. I was quietly in awe of her.

‘James would probably fuck you, you know. If I asked him to. Do you want me to mention it?’

I gasped. ‘What?’

Ally laughed again, and this time I felt a prickle of annoyance. Was she playing with me? Trying to make me feel uncomfortable?

‘Oh, come on, Holly. You’ve got to lose the big V at some point. It might as well be to a man you clearly have the major hots for. So many girls fancy James. Many would kill – literally kill – for the chance. I swear some have got close to murder in the past. He’s left a trail of broken hearts in his wake. And broken hearts can be a dangerous thing. I’m sure you’ve read enough tragic love stories to know that.’

I was feeling very awkward now. ‘I think … I think I should go back to my room now.’ I made no immediate move to go, but Ally looked alarmed.

‘Oh goodness, I’ve upset you.’

‘You haven’t. I’m just not used to talking about this stuff.’

Ally surveyed me, as if thinking deeply about something. ‘Yes, I can see that.’

We sat in silence for a few seconds, her looking at me while twisting one of her locks of blonde hair around an index finger.

‘Bedtime,’ I said, and gave Ally a smile in case she thought I was offended. ‘I know it’s early but …’

‘It’s time.’ She nodded, returned the smile, and sat up on her bed. She gave me a hug at the door. There was something strange about the hug that I couldn’t quite work out. A mixture of comfort and acceptance. I felt I had passed a test in some way. Proved I was interesting enough to warrant her attention, perhaps? Or maybe the opposite. That I was innocuous and plain and wouldn’t change their equilibrium too much, so hey, they might as well have this boring poor girl as a friend. Or maybe I was just overthinking it. I said goodnight to Ally and went next door to my room.

Chapter 7
Julianne
Knightsbridge, 2019

Dinner isn’t going well. If I were being honest with myself, I would admit I’d made a pasta bake partly to piss my mother off a little, as I knew she’d regard it as unsophisticated. But as I carved a chunk of the slightly overcooked congealed mass out of the bowl and a flap of solid cheese flopped onto her plate, I wished I’d gone with oysters.

‘My, you’ve certainly been busy,’ Diane says, moving a few tough bits of pasta to the side with her fork. ‘Every room looks as festive as could be. Must have taken you a lot of time and energy.’

‘A bit,’ I say, then turn round as I hear a noise behind me.

‘Ah, it’s my favourite grandson.’ She stands up to embrace Stephen as he walks into the room.

‘We started because we didn’t know if you were coming,’ James says in a voice that makes it clear he doesn’t approve.

‘I explained you were busy finishing up some work,’ I cut in quickly.

‘I’m sorry, yes, French coursework.’

‘They work you too hard,’ Mom says, pinching Stephen’s cheek. ‘Both the teachers and your parents.’ As she sits back down and Stephen goes to take the chair next to his father, a ripple of sadness runs through me. She never thought I was being worked too hard when I was up until one in the morning writing essay after essay, doing more than all my friends, desperately trying to get into one of the world’s most prestigious universities in a country I didn’t know. She didn’t tell me to have a break or suggest I should take Christmas off. No matter what I did, it was never enough. If I so much as watched a single episode of a soap opera or read a magazine, I was made to feel like I was shirking. Little comments would be made at the dinner table, suggesting television ‘was all I cared about these days’ or that she should donate some of my schoolbooks to Goodwill ‘because I hardly ever opened them any more’. I’d sit there with the tears close behind my eyes, trying to ignore her. Some things never change.

‘Stephen needs to work hard,’ James says. ‘He’s aiming for the best. Of course, if he’d gone to Eton like we originally planned, things might be more certain.’

When I married him, I’d been quietly confident we wouldn’t turn into one of those couples who make digs at each other across the dinner table – bring up old disagreements to wound the other. My parents did that throughout my childhood. And now, here’s James, making a little jibe about my problem with Eton. It’s deliberate. And it hurts.

‘Oh, I couldn’t agree more,’ Diane says. ‘There’s a reason it’s world-famous. But it’s amazing what he’s done to pull himself above the rest at that new-fangled place he’s at.’

I almost choke on my food. ‘Westminster is older than Eton, Mom. As if that matters. Especially to you.’

She looks affronted. ‘Of course my grandson’s education matters to me. And I did think the decision was made a little rashly. After all, James does know about these things.’

‘Well, it was all years ago now,’ James says. ‘And nobody doubts Westminster is a great school.’ He gives me one of his warm smiles, probably worried he’s upset me. I automatically send one back his way without thinking. Usually he’s pretty good at presenting a united front when my mother’s here. I just wish he was doing better today.

‘You do realise you’re all talking about me like I’m not here.’ Stephen’s looking sullenly into his food.

James lets out a laugh. ‘I’m sorry, you’re right. You must excuse us. It must be tiresome to have your old folks wittering on about you.’

‘Less of the old!’ I say, trying to sound more cheerful than I feel. James gives me a chuckle in response but Stephen and his grandmother remain stonily silent. I even see Diane raise one of her perfectly plucked eyebrows a little, as if to say, Well, you’re not exactly young. She then turns to talk to Stephen and asks, ‘What are you planning to do with your Christmas holiday?’

He looks disconcerted by the question, as if it’s a trap he might fall into. Taking a fleeting look at his father, he proceeds to give a mumbled list of his homework assignments, social arrangements with his school friends, and how he plans to stay at his boyfriend’s house in the gap between Boxing Day and New Year.

‘How is William?’ James asks. ‘We haven’t seen him for weeks. Busy revising, is he? He’s determined to get into Oxford, Diane. Such a hard worker.’

‘Just like Stephen is,’ I say, coming to his defence before his father’s digs become too blatant.

‘Well, I imagine Stephen’s a dead cert for Oxford, too. First my daughter, then my grandson, both off to the best university in the world. I’m so proud just at the thought of it.’

That niggle in my head is back again. The sense of resentment that only now, decades later, can my mother suggest she is ‘proud’ I got in to Oxford. On the day I found out I’d won a place, she’d acted like it was merely another big task she could tick off her to-do list. Daughter into Oxford: check.

‘I think,’ I say, choosing my words carefully, ‘that Stephen is keen to go to the college that suits his skills the best and offers the course he most likes. He won’t be going anywhere just because Will is.’

My mother looks so horrified it’s almost comical. ‘Julianne, are you telling me you’re actively trying to dissuade the boy from attending the greatest—’

‘Oh, spare me the greatest university in the world talk, Mom. There are plenty of other great universities.’

I can see James moving food around his plate with sharp stabs of his fork. I’ve pissed him off now.

Stephen looks around at us. ‘You’re all doing it again. I’m still here you know.’

Nobody laughs this time. My mom is looking around her as if trying to suss out where in the argument she could fit in. ‘I’m sensing some tension,’ she says eventually.

‘How observant of you,’ I reply, not looking at her.

‘I’m sorry, Diane,’ James says. ‘We can’t be much fun tonight. Julianne is clearly stressed with Christmas and everything …’

‘Am I?’ I say, looking at him. ‘You’ve decided that, have you?’

‘… and Stephen,’ he says, ignoring me. ‘I think he must be getting worried about his mountains of coursework.’

Stephen shakes his head. ‘I’m not that worried.’

‘Then why, may I ask, have you been sitting at this table like a grumpy teenager all evening?’

James is doing his strict-parent voice now. I’ve never understood why Stephen takes it so seriously and rarely answers back when his father gets angry. To me, it sounds like someone in a play, just pretending, speaking the lines they think they should say without being totally sure how they should be saying them. He’s never been the loud, forthright one – that’s partly the reason I fell for him, back when I was just nineteen. He was more the quiet, brooding type, exerting a quiet confidence rather than a forceful one. The more show-offy bursts of emotion he’d left to his friends, Ally and Ernest.

Stephen doesn’t immediately respond to his father, but carries on staring at his food. I’m growing steadily more worried about him. While I’m desperate to talk to James about what I’ve just seen on his computer, I would very much prefer Stephen not to be present and, if possible, minimise his part in the whole thing. The thought of my mother being within hearing distance is mortifying.

‘I’ve … I’ve just got a lot to think about,’ Stephen says, and then carries on eating his food.

Silence resumes for the rest of the meal.

After dinner, my mother is keen to gravitate towards the lounge pretty quickly, and it becomes clear, as she locates the Christmas bumper issue of the Radio Times, that there’s a showing of The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel she’s keen to see. She often stays to watch something with us on TV after dinner, but it’s rarely longer than an hour and a full-length feature film is certainly not the norm. ‘It’s rather long,’ I say, looking at the listing in the magazine, noticing that, with commercials, it will run for two and a half hours.

‘Oh, it’s a glorious film,’ James says, settling down in his usual spot on the one-seater. Back when we first bought the house, he and I used to snuggle together on the sofa, sometimes with toddler Stephen between us. As the years had gone by, however, it’d become just Stephen and I sitting together at each end of the long sofa, and James on his own at the other side of the room. Thinking about it now, I wonder when that happened. When did he first make the move to sit alone? I can’t place the moment in my head. The change just seems to have slipped into my life without my noticing it.

‘I’ve been wanting to see it for ages, ever since Susana at the swimming club told me how much she and her husband love it. It’s become one of their favourites, apparently. I was worried I was going to miss it when you invited me round to dinner; then I thought it might be nice for us to watch it together.’

A flash of panic courses through me. I’m not sure I have the energy to watch something right now. I need to clear my head. Get things sorted. Talk to my husband. As I turn towards the television screen, my mind flicks back once again to that clinically cold list of details about those young women, their haunting faces, their lack of family or friends or proper employment. I know people live like that. I know not everyone is as lucky as I am. But who would want to collect all that information and pool it into one horrible document?

‘You don’t mind, do you, Julianne? I’d hate to miss it.’

My mother’s voice snaps me back to the present. She’s brandishing the TV remote at me. I’m tempted to remind her of the state-of-the-art Sky Q facilities she has at home and how, if she was so desperate to see this particular film, she could have easily recorded it. Instead, I resign myself to another few hours of her company and try to get myself in the frame of mind to watch Judi Dench and Bill Nighy smile and joke their way across India, knowing it’s the last thing I want to do.