The Truth About Julia: A Chillingly Timely Psychological Novel

by Schaffner Anna

But Amanda remained silent, ignoring all my further attempts to change her mind. Eventually I gave up and left the room, and we went to the party without her. Somehow, her refusal to attend the party felt like a watershed moment. It was from that day on that we understood that what we had thought was a phase went deeper, but we couldn’t really grasp what it was. Worse, we had no idea how to help her.

  What is more – and I am not proud of this, George – at some point Amanda’s causeless sadness and her passivity began to infuriate me. I wasn’t sympathetic to her state of mind – the self-pity and the dull darkness of it all. Somehow, it smelled bad, like a forgotten sock rotting in the washing machine. I wanted the old Amanda back, but I didn’t know where to find her. Most of the time I just wanted to shake her and to tell her to snap out of it. Once I really did shake her, and she was flapping to and fro, like a sack of flour, with no tension or resistance. Yet there was also something about her weakness that must quite simply have terrified me – I can see that now.

  In any case, I left home and then so did she, and at university she slowly got better, discovered her ersatz religion, and found men who – for a while at least – managed to make her happy, before they abandoned her and tore open her old wounds and she had to start all over again. What really helped her permanently was Laura – even though the two of them don’t always have an easy relationship.

  Sometimes I suspect that deep down Amanda blames me for what has happened, that it is somehow payback for my life choices. Sometimes I even wonder whether she doesn’t secretly feel just a little bit vindicated, behind all her caring and worrying. Think about it: I rejected everything that has shaped her own life and that she values: motherhood, marriage, career sacrifice. For a long time it looked as though everything I did was blessed somehow. I was always the more successful one of the two of us. Until it all dissolved into thin air. But, of course, Amanda’s own happiness-plan has not worked out quite so well, either – just like me, she is alone now, but after having dedicated the best years of her life to two worthless exploiter types, after two cripplingly expensive and time-consuming divorces, and after so much heartache. And I still think she is wasting her talents on all those people with too much time and money on their hands, who lie on her couch day after day (sometimes for years), complaining about the fact that their mothers were cold and their fathers absent. But then again, who am I to cast judgement, on anyone? After all, I am the one who’s in prison now, and whose life is in ruins.

  I’m digressing. But I have been thinking about my relationship with Amanda a lot, lately. I’m sad about all those barriers between us, and I don’t mean the literal one. I miss her, I feel more than ever the distance between us, which, in some strange way, started to emerge on the day of Myrtle’s garden party, and my inability to coax her out of her dark hole and to properly understand and connect with her pain.

  What I couldn’t help thinking after my encounter with Amy was that Julia’s abrupt abandonment of her sister seemed caused not only by the refusal to be made to feel guilty and the subliminal fear of contagion that witnessing weakness can provoke – we sometimes turn to anger in order better to defend ourselves against it. In Julia’s case, the decision to turn her back on her sister seemed driven by a moral judgement: it almost sounded as though she considered Amy’s illness an insult, a slap in the face of those who were struggling with ‘real’ problems – poverty, illness, political disenfranchisement. But is it legitimate to privilege one form of suffering over another, and to arrange it into neat hierarchies in such a simplistic manner? Is mental anguish really less worthy or serious than socio-political or physical forms of distress? What of the sufferings of the soul? After all, they can be fatal, too.

  V

  Nothing much is happening here; time hangs heavily and the minutes crawl past. The other day, after lunch, someone else entered the small library, which I had discovered on my second day and have had all to myself so far. It was the black woman with the expressionless face. She nodded briskly, but then ignored me. I watched her while pretending to continue reading the paper. I would love to speak to her – I’m so starved of decent conversation – but I didn’t dare say anything.

  I have consented to taking sleeping pills – I just can’t cope with the images that haunt me so, especially at night. I had a medical check-up the other day and the doctor wasn’t happy with my weight, which continues to hover on the low side. Neither did he like my drawn, tired look, nor my low blood pressure. He asked whether I felt depressed. I didn’t even know how to begin to answer that question. Who doesn’t feel depressed here? And how could one not, all things considered? I have no idea yet if and how I will be able to live with what I’ve done. Amanda and Laura try very hard to keep up my spirits – they send me books and clothes, and pictures and plants and other such things from the world I have lost. To fill the silences during their visits and phone calls, they tell me droll little stories, about trying patients and impertinent customers and mad food critics and so on. But I just don’t have much to say to them right now. What I really want to talk about I can’t, not yet.

  Jonathan White, Julia’s older brother, neither responded to my first letter nor agreed to take any of my follow-up phone calls. But I am used to people refusing to speak to me when I first approach them. My next strategy was to confront him directly. Once I get a chance to speak to people face to face, I usually succeed in convincing them to open up to me.

  Jonathan works as a Senior Asset Manager at J.P. Morgan. I called his PA under a false pretext and managed to find out that he usually leaves his office around 7.30 in the evening. I had, after all, done research in the City before (although I sincerely wish I’d never set a foot in that world). At 7.15 p.m. on 15 August, an airless, oppressive Wednesday, I took up my position next to the revolving doors of the high-rise glass and steel building on Canary Wharf that houses the J.P. Morgan offices, and carefully observed every man in his early thirties who passed through them. I had been able to find an old picture of Jonathan online, and hoped I would be able to identify him on that basis. At 7.32 p.m., a strongly built, pale-looking man in an expensively tailored suit exited the building. He wore his light-brown hair slicked back. His hairline was receding – but methodically, as though following a plan, like a well-trained army retreating in perfect synchrony, leaving two sharp triangular recesses on each side of his forehead. He looked nothing like Julia, but I knew he was my man.

  ‘Jonathan White?’ I asked him. He flinched when he heard his name, and quickened his pace. He was heading towards the Tube station entry on the other side of the square.

  ‘I don’t talk to journalists,’ he barked at me. His tone was an odd combination of hectic and fierce, as though he was undecided whether to suffer a nervous breakdown or to erupt into violence. ‘Make an appointment with my PA if your query concerns Morgan business, and get lost if it doesn’t.’

  ‘My name is Clare Hardenberg,’ I said, trying to keep up with him. ‘I sent you a letter. I’m writing a book about your sister. I’ve already spoken to Amy and... ’

  ‘Get lost,’ Jonathan shouted, ‘I won’t talk to you. And leave my family alone! Don’t you people have any respect? Can’t you imagine how traumatic this is for us? What on earth makes you think we’d want to discuss this tragedy with a random stranger who has come to spread lies and gossip about us?’ Red patches had appeared on his neck and began to spread across his cheeks and forehead. I noticed this with interest. Anger can provide a way in. If one plays one’s cards right.

  ‘You’re wrong. It’s precisely out of respect for your family that I’m trying to speak to you,’ I responded. I, too, had raised my voice. I’d expected him to use that argument. ‘I want to hear your side of the story. And for your information, I’m not writing the kind of sensationalist, gossip-mongering book that you imagine. But believe me, these books will be written, and not just one of them – very soon, there’ll be a flood of unauthorized biographies of your sister in every bookshop in th
e country, and you and your family will feature prominently in every one of them, whether you like it or not. That’s the reality of the situation. You’re a clever man – you know that there are thousands of people out there who’ll want to cash in on the drama. That is going to happen – it’s beyond your control to stop it.’

  Jonathan glanced at me and narrowed his eyes.

  ‘What you can control,’ I continued, ‘is the narrative in the very first study of Julia that will come out – mine. I’m fast, I’m good, and I’ll win the race. The first book that’ll come out will determine what comes after it. That’s how it works. I’m offering you and your family the opportunity to shape your own story with me. Otherwise, the public perception of you and your parents will be shaped for you, by whatever comes after my book, and trust me, you don’t want that to happen.’

  Jonathan was still marching along in fast, long strides, and we’d already crossed about two-thirds of the square. He didn’t respond to my speech. I could see that he was clenching his jaw. Then, by chance, while I was desperately trying to keep up with him, I caught a glimpse of his wedding ring on the hand that was carrying his briefcase. It was wider and shinier than your average ring – a purposeful statement. I decided to try another approach. I didn’t have much time. Once he reached the Tube station entrance, I would lose him for good.

  ‘Jonathan, do you know what the public’s gut response to people like your sister is? It’s to blame their parents. You can thank Freud for that, but it’s a statistical fact that 98 per cent of the British public believes that those who commit violent crimes come from broken homes and must have been subjected to severe physical or psychological abuse themselves.’ (I confess I made up that statistic on the spur of the moment. I have no idea what the actual numbers are.) ‘Most people believe that violence is bred by violence. Do you want the public to think that about your family? I’ve spoken to Amy at length, and it wasn’t at all my impression that you were brought up in an atmosphere of abuse and neglect. But that’s what everyone – and I’m telling you, everyone – will think.’

  Jonathan still didn’t respond, and I had to deliver my final lines fast.

  ‘And let me tell you something else: the vast majority of Julia’s biographers will pursue precisely this line of enquiry. Cod-psychologizing is the oldest and cheapest trick in the biographer’s handbook, and some of my colleagues are unimaginative and ruthless bastards. They’ll mercilessly shine the light on your family; they’ll exaggerate small details and blow things completely out of proportion; they’ll twist the facts or make them up; they’ll speak to “friends of the family” who’ll be more than happy to report all kinds of fantasy horror stories, particularly about your mother. Mothers tend to attract most of the hostility. It’s sad but true. Society nowadays likes to blame the mother. That’s why I need you to play an active part in my investigation. We need to pre-empt this default response. I think we can do it if you decide to work with me. If you care just a tiny little bit for your parents, you’ll help me to prevent this from happening. I don’t know how your parents are doing right now, but things will get so much worse for them if you don’t act.’

  I decided to take a risk and to stop walking at that point. Besides, I was completely out of breath. My heart was pounding hard. I also had to be careful not to seem too desperate; I needed to make it clear that if we were to collaborate I was doing him a favour just as much as he was doing me one. I had to signal that I could easily write my book without him. And I had just played my last and most powerful card. Would he press on or would he turn around? I was standing at the edge of Reuter Square, trying to steady my breathing. Out of the corner of my eye, on the big outdoor screen towering above the plaza, I could see the stock market information flashing past in red numerals, like a column of frenzied fire ants. We were perilously close to the escalators that led down into the crowded belly of the Tube station. If he reached them, that would be it. But after a moment that seemed like an eternity, Jonathan did slow down, and then he stopped, and then he turned around. I’d guessed right – he was a family man. He was standing about ten metres away from me, and he looked at me properly for the first time. I’d dressed up for the occasion, and was wearing a sharp white satin shirt, a black leather pencil skirt and mauve suede heels. After having looked me up and down, he rubbed his eyes with his fists, like a tired child unwilling to wake up. For a moment, he looked terribly vulnerable. But then he pulled his shoulders back, pushed his chin forward, and walked towards me.

  ‘What are your credentials,’ he barked when he was standing right in front of me. ‘Who are you working for and what else have you written.’ He was one of those people who didn’t change the intonation at the end of their sentences when they asked questions.

  I told him.

  He hesitated for another few seconds, but then he pulled a card from his wallet and handed it to me. ‘Call my secretary and make an appointment.’ And then he turned round and disappeared down the escalator.

  I arranged a meeting with him three days later, on Saturday morning at his home. Unlike Amy, he didn’t want to speak to me in a public place. Jonathan lives in a neat white Georgian townhouse in Chelsea, on a neat white little square not far from the King’s Road. Inside, the house was stylish in a fashion-catalogue kind of way, with polished hardwood floors, numerous orchids in white ceramic pots, an assembly of modern vases, and decorative artworks on the walls, the colours of which matched carefully selected items of designer furniture. The only signs of life were a few kids’ toys scattered in the hallway and the living room. Jonathan asked me to sit on a black leather chaise longue in the drawing room, and offered coffee. He seemed nervous, much less confident than on the square. His wife and two kids were in Surrey for the weekend, he told me, to visit family.

  ‘How old are your kids?’ I asked him when he returned with an expertly brewed espresso that had no doubt come from a shiny Italian designer coffee machine.

  That got him talking a little. I learned that he had two girls, Eleanor and Elsa, who were five and two, and whom he clearly loved to bits. His wife, Susanna, designed vases. She had a little pottery workshop in the backyard, and sold some of her designs to boutiques in Islington and at craft markets in the Cotswolds.

  Then Jonathan asked a number of legal questions concerning the book (he had done his research), and demanded the right to see and edit his interview before it was printed. I was happy to grant him this request, and, having settled these formalities, he started to tell me his side of the story.

  Below I include the version Jonathan finally approved. As in Amy’s case, I slightly reordered and shaped his account, while trying to remain faithful to his voice. I should also mention that Jonathan did make use of the editorial rights he negotiated – he sent back the original transcript of our conversation heavily marked up; there were various things on which he decided to elaborate further in writing and quite a few he decided to cut (including most of the expletives, of which he used surprisingly many during our meeting, particularly towards the end). We had to exchange numerous drafts until he was fully happy with the result. The following text is based on an interview conducted on 18 August 2014, and was revised and amended six times between 21 August and 6 September 2014.

  VI

  We are decent people. My childhood was a happy one. I love my parents and I care deeply for Amy. Contrary to what the media have insinuated, we used to be a perfectly normal and, all things considered, a happy family. I always hoped for nothing more than to live life just like my parents did. Timothy White, my father, is a highly successful corporate lawyer who specializes in international mergers and acquisitions. He is one of the very best in the country. He became a partner at his firm when he was just twenty-six. He was a genuine hot-shot, and his career has gone from strength to strength ever since. My mother, Rose, is a senior cardiologist at the Wellington Hospital. She saves lives on a daily basis. She, too, has thrived in her profession, and is highly respected in her f
ield. They are decent, hard-working people. I am very proud of both of them. My father is a truly inspirational figure. I still look up to him, in spite of the difficulties we have faced as a result of my sister. My parents didn’t deserve this. None of it.

  Both love their professions, but they also very much love their children. All of them, even my sister. Especially my sister, I should say. Until the bombing, of course. But even now they probably still love her. They sent all of us to the best schools money could buy, even when they had temporarily fallen on hard times because of an unfortunate stock-market deal. It was the only imprudent financial decision Dad ever made. Usually, his instincts are spot-on. In fact, it is from him that I have learned my own humble investment skills.

  Although both my parents worked in very demanding professions, they always made a point of being home in time for supper with us. No matter how busy they were. Our family suppers were sacred. You could only be excused in exceptional circumstances. Every evening, we would sit together for hours, even long after the meal had finished. There was a lot of talk and laughter. Dad is a fantastic storyteller. He always made us giggle. At weekends, he would do the cooking. On top of all his other talents, he is also fantastic in the kitchen. He cooked all our favourite dishes: pizza, lasagne, and sausages and mash. Often, my sister and I would help him in the kitchen. He happily delegated even complicated tasks to us. He strongly believed that children should be challenged. I agree with him. It is vital for character formation and confidence building. I am trying to pass these values on to my own children, too.

  At the age of eleven, Julia decided to become a vegetarian. She had watched a documentary on TV about the plight of chickens and other farm animals, and declared it unethical to torture and kill sentient creatures for our culinary pleasures. As far as I know, she never touched a piece of meat thereafter. She could be very determined that way. Or fanatical. However you want to describe it. My parents still cooked meat for the rest of us, but always prepared her a little extra vegetarian option. Mushroom pizza, aubergine-tomato lasagne, that kind of thing. Dad used to stick a little green paper flag in my sister’s dishes, to highlight their meat-free status. She loved that, of course. It made her feel special. And righteous. She has always had an I-am-holier-than-thou attitude, a moral superiority complex. Even as a child. Unfortunately, my parents always took my sister’s whims seriously. No matter how absurd they were.