Passing by the Porter’s Lodge, I stepped into the mail room to check my pigeonhole. There had been no communications from Daddy since the row when he had dropped me off, though I still spoke to Mummy weekly on the phone.
I felt torn and guilty about this. I should call him, I knew, and offer him the grovelling apologies he wanted. On the other hand, my tiny inward rebel thought there was something about not hearing from either of them that I could grow to love.
Looking back now, I can see that I was ripe for a change in regime.
There was nobody in the mail room, and I scooped up the small pile of correspondence in my pigeonhole – mostly flyers for college events, a message from my Modern Poetry supervisor asking to move our meeting on Monday, and then a folded piece of expensive blue paper:
Nina,
It’s me, Lucy. We met in Grantchester last week. Aaron wants to see you again. We’re having a party at a friend’s house tonight – we’ll send a car to college for you at nine.
Bring your friends. If you want.
Lucy XXX
I read this extraordinary note three times, attempting to make sense of it. Each time raised more questions than answers. No, there was no doubt about it – I was being summoned, not invited. They’d send a car? What did that mean?
I lingered in the mail room, conscious that I was running late. I crushed the letter into my bag, wondering what Rosie would say about it when I saw her tonight, and hurried on to the bike sheds.
There was no question of going, of course. The icy handlebars nipped my fingers as I gripped them, straddled the bike. I didn’t know these people, or the house, or indeed anything else. Rosie obviously thought they were dodgy. Even if they weren’t actively dangerous, they were abominably rude – after all, I could have plans for tonight. In fact I did have plans. My essay on political language in the works of Anthony Trollope was due tomorrow.
They were presumptuous, as Mummy would say.
Absolutely no question of going. Of course not.
But it was desperately intriguing – and, of course, extremely flattering.
In this brave new world of St Edith’s, I knew I was a follower, someone who tagged along with others. This consideration did not trouble me, as following was easier, and more social, than swimming against the tide. It also made my introverted nerves jangle less in public. The circle of people I had joined was gentle and undemanding, and it made me feel safe. It sheltered me while I found my feet in this milieu that was so decidedly different from the ordered autocracy at home.
And I was grateful.
But still, there was something intoxicating in being singled out, in being the main event rather than the warm-up act. A little part of myself kneeled and warmed its frozen hands on the individual interest the letter conveyed.
And the crushed velvet purple dress I had sneaked into my suitcase from home was hanging in my wardrobe, after all. Just in case I changed my mind.
* * *
‘Hello, Mummy.’
I sat on the staircase in St Edith’s, my fingers curling compulsively around the cord on the public telephone. All about me was genial busyness, as the other girls on the staircase stepped around me on their way up to dump their books in their rooms, or tripped back down on their way to dinner or meetings.
‘Ah, hello, stranger! The prodigal returns. I thought you might have become too grand for us now.’
My mother sounded amused and faintly drunk, as she often was at this time of night, particularly if she was going to be entertaining guests.
‘No, Mummy, sorry, I’ve just been very busy.’ I swallowed, wound the curling line of the phone tighter around my fingers. ‘With work.’
‘Oh, if you say so. I can’t speak for long, darling, the Sallisses are coming round for dinner. I told you last week. I haven’t time to chat.’
‘Sorry, Mummy, I forgot.’ This was a lie. ‘How is everyone?’
‘They’re fine, they’re fine. Teddy’s taking Martina to Bali for Christmas.’
‘Oh, how lovely,’ I said automatically. I had long ago learned that this was the only response to give to news about my cousin and her husband. These stories about Martina’s glamorous life were intended as a rebuke. If I had been a proper girl, they seemed to say, and valued my looks and charm over the inexplicable draw of academia, I, too, could be on my way to Bali.
‘He’s about to get a big bonus, he thinks, from the bank, and they’re talking about buying a summer house in Wales.’
‘That sounds nice.’
‘Yes, he works very hard. And even though you didn’t ask, Daddy and I are fine. I saw you hadn’t sent Daddy an apology present yet for your behaviour when he drove you up there, so I’ve bought him some glasses and added it to what you owe me.’
‘Thanks, Mummy. I meant to, I just haven’t had time. I’ll pay you back when my grant finally comes in.’
‘So, are you all right, then? Not calling to ask for money, I hope.’
‘No, Mummy, I’m fine. Actually, I … I was invited out tonight …’
‘Oh, of course you were, drinking and dancing all hours, I’m sure. Listen, darling, I can’t stand here all night listening to you talk about yourself, the Sallisses will be here in half an hour and Daddy still hasn’t changed. Ring me next week – but not Saturday. You know Mummy and Daddy are busy on Saturdays.’
‘Yes, Mummy. I love you.’
‘I love you too, darling. Goodnight.’
There was a brisk click before the dial tone purred in my ear.
* * *
‘You’re not going to go, are you?’ asked Rosie over our sausage and mash (or, in Rosie’s case, just mash), raising her voice over the chatter and clatter of the hall. Around us, the college founders gazed down from the portraits on the walls, with serious eyes, elaborate hats and dark, voluminous clothing. They disapproved of me, I’m sure. I don’t entirely blame them.
‘What? Go? On my own?’ Even the thought of this horrified me. This was the Eighties, after all. Back then, the prevailing public opinion was that girls who went out alone were ‘asking for it’. These opinions were practically legal canon at the time. ‘No. Absolutely not.’
Piers sniggered. ‘I’ll go with you if you want, Nina. I’ll chaperone.’
‘I don’t think you should,’ said Rosie. Her tone was sharp. ‘Either of you.’
‘Why not?’ asked Piers.
‘Well,’ said Rosie, as though explaining something to an idiot, ‘firstly, because it’s mad. And secondly, it’s mad.’
‘I don’t think it’s ridiculous that this guy would invite Nina to a party,’ said Piers.
‘I didn’t mean it that way. You know I didn’t mean it that way. Stop trying to twist my words …’
‘So,’ said Piers, ignoring her and turning to me, ‘do you want to go to the ball, Cinderella?’
‘I … well, I mean, I hadn’t …’ I began.
‘Brilliant! I’ll see the pair of you in the bar at ten to nine.’
Rosie regarded Piers and bit her lip as he sprang to his feet and span away with his tray.
I cast my eyes down at my plate. Already this unorthodox invitation was playing havoc with my relationships.
‘You know, Rosie …’
‘No, it’s fine. He’s right. I’m being paranoid. We should go. It’ll be fun.’ I could hear the way Rosie was trying to inject some enthusiasm into her voice, like someone squeezing the very ends out of an empty toothpaste tube. Piers was going, so she was going. That was the end of the matter. ‘It’ll be an adventure.’
In spite of everything, I was getting my way.
So why did I feel so frightened all of a sudden?
* * *
‘Ah!’ said Lucy. ‘You came!’
The promised car had appeared at precisely five to nine, a gleaming black Bentley, driven by a chauffeur with a suit and cap, who had got out to open the doors for us. The trip had been short – a mere ten minutes – before we were rambling slowly past
the elaborate houses of Newton Road out near the Botanical Gardens.
Lucy greeted us at the door before we even had a chance to knock. She wore a floor-length black dress, gathered at the hips, and her dark red hair was loose again.
She seemed delighted but not surprised to see us, and came forward to kiss me lingeringly, her breath sweet and hot, kissing Piers and Rosie with brisk efficiency. Her scarlet lipstick left a red mark on Rosie’s cheek, but I was too paralysed by self-consciousness to tell Rosie to rub it off.
Lucy took my hand, as though we had been friends for years, and led me through the hall, past a variety of stylishly dressed people chatting in a vast open-plan kitchen, surrounded by glasses and bottles and smouldering ashtrays.
‘This is a lovely house,’ I said, for want of anything else to contribute.
‘Yes,’ said Lucy, but it was as though I was boring her. ‘It’s Penelope’s aunt’s house. We’re just borrowing it.’
‘Who’s Penelope?’
A catch, a beat of hesitation, as though she’d been about to say something offhand and dismissive, before she remembered herself.
‘One of us. You’ll meet her yourself.’
I had nothing to add to that.
Lucy drew me after her, past the staircase and into a conservatory paved in beautiful painted tiles. A long leather couch was at the far end of the room, a man and a woman seated on it; both turned to look at her.
I could feel it, a kind of electric excitement, transmitting from Lucy to me as I was drawn out of her wake by hand and deftly presented, like a gift or a rabbit out of a hat.
I blinked, overwhelmed, unbearably nervous and excited. Sat on the low couch in white shirt and black jeans was Aaron Kessler, his arms spread wide along the armrests, looking every inch the jaded artist, with high cheekbones and unreadable eyes. His skin was perfect and smooth, unlike that of most of the other men in my life, who were either spotty, elderly or razor-burned, and I was filled with a forbidden, unaccountable desire to touch it, to see if it was real.
He nodded at me, took my hand and kissed it. His lips were warm. ‘Hello again, Nina.’ He had a slight brogue, Irish, but it must have been a childhood thing, so long ago it had nearly vanished, only its ghost remaining. ‘I’m delighted you could make it.’
‘Oh,’ I said, trying not to stammer. ‘Thanks for inviting me. I mean, us,’ I supplied, remembering myself. I glanced over my shoulder, looking for Piers and Rosie, but they seemed to have vanished on the short journey from the front door.
Panic gripped me. ‘Oh …’
Aaron politely followed my gaze, as though humouring a child talking about her imaginary friends.
‘Would you like a drink?’ On his left was a willowy girl holding a tall glass full of ice. Her voice was cool, cultured. She was almost shockingly beautiful, her blonde hair piled upon her head in an artful mess of crystal-headed pins, her lips painted the purest pale rose. She rested a hand on Aaron’s arm.
Looking at her, I felt a disappointment I hardly dared articulate to myself. Of course he had beautiful girls surrounding him. That’s what rock stars did. There was no way he was interested in me. What did I think was going on here?
‘She would love a drink, I’m sure,’ said Lucy. ‘What will it be, Nina? Champagne?’
‘I … oh, yes, thanks …’
‘Excellent choice,’ said Aaron, making a careless gesture at the blonde girl, who immediately rose to fetch a glass while I wondered what on earth to talk about.
And where were Piers and Rosie?
‘It’s a beautiful house,’ I said again, for lack of anything else to offer.
‘Thank you,’ said the blonde girl, returning with two glasses, one for Aaron and one for me. ‘It’s my aunt’s. She’s based in South Africa.’
‘Oh,’ I said, like an idiot. ‘I see.’
‘This is Penelope,’ said Aaron, waving at her. ‘But don’t just stand there. Sit down.’ He patted the seat right next to him, practically in the shade of his arm as it stretched out across the back of the sofa.
Tentatively, I took my place, aware that this was closer than I usually got to any man, including Daddy. I was immediately conscious of the masculine smell of him (even now I cannot smell sandalwood or cinnamon without being transported back to that moment, in a kind of fever dream). Moreover, I felt the heat of him, burning through the side of my purple velvet dress, my exposed right arm with its cheap plastic bangles, my powdered cheek. He blazed like the sun, and strands of my fringe glued themselves to my forehead with nervous sweat.
But slowly, as he turned and spoke to the others about various matters of no apparent importance, such as a forthcoming trip to London, or the shooting they would do when they got home to Kent, I began to relax. In fact, with the champagne everything took on a lovely golden glow; the candlelight, the elaborate make-up and dresses of the girls, Aaron’s profile, like that of a sculptured Greek hero. I ceased to miss the others or wonder where they were.
Lucy smiled broadly at me and passed me a spliff, carefully placing it between my fingers. Though my own glass kept being refilled, I had noticed, almost in passing, that Aaron’s stayed at the same level throughout.
‘I was watching you, Nina,’ he said suddenly, his eyes lighting upon me. ‘That night on the meadows. Or maybe’ – he seemed lost in thought for a moment – ‘I was looking for you.’
‘Me?’ I squeaked. I was conscious of Lucy and Penelope turning towards me, as though on some signal.
He laughed then. ‘Yes, you. You listen, you don’t speak; not unless you have something to say. Everyone else is talking, talking all the time. They’ve got something to prove. But you – you’re a thinker, a dreamer. You’re a seeker – not one of these dilettantes and fakes,’ he gestured expansively all around him, taking in the other guests, ‘but a real seeker, someone not satisfied with surfaces. That’s why I wanted you to come here, Nina. I think we have something in common.’
I didn’t know what to reply, astonished by this assessment, unable to frame how I should respond. I was also, and I was not so drunk or naive that I was incapable of realizing this, very flattered to be told how discerning and authentic and admirable I was by a famous and handsome man.
There had been very little of this in my life.
So I was stunned as Aaron reached out and gently took my chin in his warm fingers. ‘You’re so beautiful, aren’t you? Inside and out.’
And though I wouldn’t realize it until much later – indeed too late – such attention is deeply addictive, more so than the weed, or the champagne.
‘I … thank you … but I don’t think …’
‘You are,’ he said flatly, in a tone that brooked no contradiction. ‘It was fated that you came here to us. You’re a gift, Nina. Together we’ll do great things.’
He released me then, and Penelope and Lucy shared a glance, smiled, as though a much-loved project was coming to fruition.
‘Tell me about yourself,’ he said quietly, holding me with his eyes. ‘Tell me about your family.’
It was the sort of question that most people would have asked at the beginning of a conversation, and in reply, when sober, I might have said that my parents lived in a village in the Cotswolds, and that my father owned a successful double-glazing company. We would have left it at that. It was, after all, much too dull to discuss any further.
But I felt golden and emboldened, light-headed and suffused with a vague euphoria. The heat from Aaron’s fingers still lingered on my chin.
I am beautiful and a gift.
‘My family?’ I shrugged, still self-conscious, but it was a medicated twinge that felt very far away, a mere tic. ‘Daddy makes money. Well, really he makes double-glazing, but hates to look outside his own little world. All windows, no vision. At the factory, everyone has to jump to his every twitch. At home, too.’ I took another sip of champagne. ‘And my mother is about peace at any price. She’s the female equivalent of Neville Chamberlain.’
‘I probably shouldn’t talk about them that way …’
‘Oh, I’m sure they deserve all of that, and worse. I doubt they appreciate the tiniest part of your worth,’ Aaron said. He gestured at Penelope with his champagne glass, and this appeared to be another signal, as she took it from him. ‘But you seem distracted, dear Nina. Is something the matter?’
‘Oh no, not at all, I just … I wonder where my friends have gone.’
He nodded. ‘They won’t be far away. You two, go find Nina’s friends,’ he said to the girls. ‘I’ll show her the house.’
The other two smiled swiftly and, rising to their feet, kissed me, their soft hands alighting on my arms with an almost caress, their lips lingering against my cheek, and then Aaron’s. And as they did so, I saw that his hands moved over their waists with an easy familiarity as he embraced them.
They tripped lightly out into the hall, and I was alone with him. The couch suddenly seemed very small.
‘Is something wrong?’
‘I … I dunno.’ I giggled, blushed again. My heart was fluttering against the too-tight bodice of the purple dress. ‘I just can’t tell which one’s your girlfriend.’
He cocked his head at me, offering me a crooked smile. ‘Maybe both. Maybe neither.’ He took my hand and drew me to my feet. ‘Come.’
* * *
Aaron didn’t speak as he led me past rooms of antique furniture, past a knot of men and women gossiping within their own self-generated cloud of cigarette smoke and tea lights. They fell silent as we passed by.
My hand was hot and damp in his. I was trembling, and he must have felt it. He was leading me up the stairs – of course he was; this was what happened now, what the plan had always been from the moment that blue invitation had been written and posted into my college pigeonhole, and it occurred to me that I needed to say something, to stick a wrench in this slowly ascending rollercoaster of expectation and desire before we reached the top; before the fall began and my momentum became unstoppable.
Everything Is Lies Page 9