by Sally Rooney
She wipes the window with her sleeve and goes to get cups from the press. She has work from ten until two today and then a seminar on modern France. At work she answers emails telling people that her boss is unavailable for meetings. It’s unclear to her what he really does. He’s never available to meet any of the people who want to meet him, so she concludes that he’s either very busy or just permanently idle. When he appears in the office he often provocatively lights a cigarette, as if to test Marianne. But what is the nature of the test? She sits there at her desk breathing in her usual way. He likes to talk about how intelligent he is. It’s boring to listen to him but not strenuous. At the end of the week he hands her an envelope full of cash. Joanna was shocked when she heard about that. What is he doing paying you in cash? she said. Is he like a drug dealer or something? Marianne said she thought he was some kind of property developer. Oh, said Joanna. Wow, that’s much worse.
Marianne presses the coffee and fills two cups. In one cup: a quarter-spoon of sugar, a splash of milk. The other cup just black, no sugar. She puts them on the tray as usual, pads up the hallway and knocks the corner of the tray on the door. No response. She hefts the tray against her hip with her left hand and opens the door with her right. The room smells dense, like sweat and stale alcohol, and the yellow curtains over the sash window are still shut. She clears a space on the desk to put the tray down, and then sits on the wheelie chair to drink her coffee. It tastes slightly sour, not unlike the air around her. This is a pleasant time of day for Marianne, before work begins. When her cup is empty she reaches a hand out and lifts a corner of the curtain with her fingers. White light floods the desk.
Presently, from the bed, Connell says: I am awake actually.
How are you feeling?
Alright, yeah.
She brings him the cup of black unsweetened coffee. He rolls over in bed and addresses her with small squinting eyes. She sits down on the mattress.
Sorry about last night, he says.
Sadie has a thing for you, you know.
Do you think?
He pulls his pillow up against the headboard and takes the cup from her hands. After one large mouthful he swallows and looks at Marianne again, still squinting so that his left eye is screwed shut.
Wouldn’t be remotely my type, he adds.
I never know with you.
He shakes his head, drinks another mouthful of coffee, swallows.
Yes you do, he says. You like to think of people as mysterious, but I’m really not a mysterious person.
She considers this while he finishes his cup of coffee.
I guess everyone is a mystery in a way, she says. I mean, you can never really know another person, and so on.
Yeah. Do you actually think that, though?
It’s what people say.
What do I not know about you? he says.
Marianne smiles, yawns, lifts her hands in a shrug.
People are a lot more knowable than they think they are, he adds.
Can I get in the shower first or do you want to?
No, you go. Can I use your laptop to check some emails and stuff?
Yeah, go ahead, she says.
In the bathroom the light is blue and clinical. She opens the shower door and turns the handle, waits for the water to get warm. In the meantime she brushes her teeth quickly, spits white lather neatly down the drain, and takes her hair down from the knot at the back of her neck. Then she strips off her dressing gown and hangs it on the back of the bathroom door.
*
Back in November, when the new editor of the college literary magazine resigned, Connell offered to step in until they could find someone else. Months later no one else has come forward and Connell is still editing the magazine himself. Last night was the launch party for the new issue, and Sadie Darcy-O’Shea brought a bowl of bright-pink vodka punch with little pieces of fruit floating in it. Sadie likes to show up at these events to squeeze Connell’s arm and have private discussions with him about his ‘career’. Last night he drank so much punch that he fell over when attempting to stand up. Marianne felt this was in some sense Sadie’s fault, although, on the other hand, it was undeniably Connell’s. Later, when Marianne got him back home and into bed, he asked her for a glass of water, which he spilled all over himself and on the duvet before passing out.
Last summer she read one of Connell’s stories for the first time. It gave her such a peculiar sense of him as a person to sit there with the printed pages, folded over in the top-left corner because he had no staples. In a way she felt very close to him while reading, as if she was witnessing his most private thoughts, but she also felt him turned away from her, focused on some complex task of his own, one she could never be part of. Of course, Sadie can never be part of that task either, not really, but at least she’s a writer, with a hidden imaginary life of her own. Marianne’s life happens strictly in the real world, populated by real individuals. She thinks of Connell saying: People are a lot more knowable than they think they are. But still he has something she lacks, an inner life that does not include the other person.
She used to wonder if he really loved her. In bed he would say lovingly: You’re going to do exactly what I say now, aren’t you? He knew how to give her what she wanted, to leave her open, weak, powerless, sometimes crying. He understood that it wasn’t necessary to hurt her: he could let her submit willingly, without violence. This all seemed to happen on the deepest possible level of her personality. But on what level did it happen to him? Was it just a game, or a favour he was doing her? Did he feel it, the way she did? Every day, in the ordinary activity of their lives, he showed patience and consideration for her feelings. He took care of her when she was sick, he read drafts of her college essays, he sat and listened while she talked about her ideas, disagreeing with herself out loud and changing her mind. But did he love her? Sometimes she felt like saying: Would you miss me, if you didn’t have me anymore? She had asked him that once on the ghost estate, when they were just kids. He had said yes then, but she’d been the only thing in his life at that time, the only thing he had to himself, and it would never be that way again.
By the start of December their friends were asking about Christmas plans. Marianne still hadn’t seen her family since the summer. Her mother had never tried to contact her at all. Alan had sent some text messages saying things like: Mum is not speaking to you, she says you are a disgrace. Marianne hadn’t replied. She’d rehearsed in her head what kind of conversation it would be when her mother did finally get in touch, what accusations would be made, which truths she would insist on. But it never happened. Her birthday came and went without a word from home. Then it was December and she was planning to stay in college alone for Christmas and get some work done on the dissertation she was writing on Irish carceral institutions after independence. Connell wanted her to come back to Carricklea with him. Lorraine would love to have you, he said. I’ll call her, you should talk to her about it. In the end Lorraine called Marianne herself and personally invited her to stay for Christmas. Marianne, trusting that Lorraine knew what was right, accepted.
On the way home from Dublin in the car, she and Connell talked without stopping, joking and putting on funny voices to make each other laugh. Looking back now, Marianne wonders if they were nervous. When they got to Foxfield it was dark and the windows were full of coloured lights. Connell carried their bags in from the boot. In the living room Marianne sat by the fire while Lorraine made tea. The tree, packed between the television and couch, was blinking light in repetitive patterns. Connell came in carrying a cup of tea and put it on the arm of her chair. Before sitting down he stopped to rearrange a piece of tinsel. It did look much better where he put it. Marianne’s face and hands were very hot by the fire. Lorraine came in and started telling Connell about which relatives had visited already, and which were visiting tomorrow, and so on. Marianne felt so relaxed then that she almost wanted to close her eyes and sleep.
The house in Fo
xfield was busy over Christmas. Late into the night people would be arriving and leaving, brandishing wrapped biscuit tins or bottles of whiskey. Children ran past at knee height yelling unintelligibly. Someone brought a Play-Station over one night and Connell stayed up until two in the morning playing FIFA with one of his younger cousins, their bodies greenish in the screen light, a look of almost religious intensity on Connell’s face. Marianne and Lorraine were in the kitchen mostly, rinsing dirty glasses in the sink, opening chocolate boxes, endlessly refilling the kettle. Once they heard a voice exclaim from the front room: Connell has a girlfriend? And another voice replied: Yeah, she’s in the kitchen. Lorraine and Marianne exchanged a look. They heard a brief thunder of footsteps, and then a teenage boy appeared in the doorway wearing a United jersey. Immediately on seeing Marianne, who was standing at the sink, the boy became shy and stared at his feet. Hi there, she said. He flicked her a nod without making eye contact, and then trudged a retreat to the living room. Lorraine thought that was really funny.
On New Year’s Eve they saw Marianne’s mother in the supermarket. She was wearing a dark suit with a yellow silk blouse. She always looked so ‘put together’. Lorraine said hello politely and Denise just walked past, not speaking, eyes ahead. No one knew what she believed her grievance was. In the car after the supermarket Lorraine reached back from the passenger seat to squeeze Marianne’s hand. Connell started the car. What do people in town think of her? Marianne said.
Who, your mother? said Lorraine.
I mean, how do people see her?
With a sympathetic expression Lorraine said gently: I suppose she’d be considered a bit odd.
It was the first time Marianne had heard that, or even thought about it. Connell didn’t engage in the conversation. That night he wanted to go out to Kelleher’s for New Year’s. He said everyone from school was going. Marianne suggested she might just stay in and he appeared to consider this for a moment before saying: No, you should come out. She lay face down on the bed while he changed out of one shirt into another one. Far be it from me to disobey an order, she said. He looked in the mirror and caught her eye. Yeah, exactly, he said.
Kelleher’s was packed that night and damp with heat. Connell was right, everyone from school was there. They kept having to wave at people from a distance and mouth greetings. Karen saw them at the bar and threw her arms around Marianne, smelling of some faint but very pleasant perfume. I’m so glad to see you, Marianne said. Come and dance with us, said Karen. Connell carried their drinks down the steps to the dance floor, where Rachel and Eric were standing, and Lisa and Jack, and Ciara Heffernan who had been in the year below. Eric gave them a mock-bow for some reason. Probably he was drunk. It was too loud to have an ordinary conversation. Connell held Marianne’s drink while she took her coat off and stowed it under a table. No one was really dancing, just standing around shouting in each other’s ears. Karen occasionally made a cute boxing motion, as if punching the air. Other people joined them, including some people Marianne had never seen before, and everyone embraced and yelled things.
At midnight when they all cheered Happy New Year, Connell took Marianne into his arms and kissed her. She could feel, like a physical pressure on her skin, that the others were watching them. Maybe people hadn’t really believed it until then, or else a morbid fascination still lingered over something that had once been scandalous. Maybe they were just curious to observe the chemistry between two people who, over the course of several years, apparently could not leave one another alone. Marianne had to admit that she, also, probably would have glanced. When they drew apart Connell looked her in the eyes and said: I love you. She was laughing then, and her face was red. She was in his power, he had chosen to redeem her, she was redeemed. It was so unlike him to behave that way in public that he must have been doing it on purpose, to please her. How strange to feel herself so completely under the control of another person, but also how ordinary. No one can be independent of other people completely, so why not give up the attempt, she thought, go running in the other direction, depend on people for everything, allow them to depend on you, why not. She knows he loves her, she doesn’t wonder about that anymore.
*
She climbs out of the shower now and wraps herself in the blue bath towel. The mirror is steamed over. She opens the door and from the bed Connell looks back at her. Hello, she says. The stale air in the room feels cool on her skin. He’s sitting up in bed with her laptop on his lap. She goes to her chest of drawers, finds some clean underwear, starts to get dressed. He’s watching her. She hangs the towel on the wardrobe door and puts her arms through the sleeves of a shirt.
Is something up? she says.
I just got this email.
Oh? From who?
He looks dumbly at the laptop and then back at her. His eyes look red and sleepy. She’s doing the shirt buttons. He’s sitting with his knees propped up under the duvet, the laptop glowing into his face.
Connell, from who? she says.
From this university in New York. It looks like they’re offering me a place on the MFA. You know, the creative writing programme.
She stands there. Her hair is still wet, soaking slowly through the cloth of her blouse.
You didn’t tell me you applied for that, she says.
He just looks at her.
I mean, congratulations, she says. I’m not surprised they would accept you, I’m just surprised you didn’t mention it.
He nods, his face inexpressive, and then looks back at the laptop.
I don’t know, he says. I should have told you but I honestly thought it was such a long shot.
Well, that’s no reason not to tell me.
It doesn’t matter, he adds. It’s not like I’m going to go. I don’t even know why I applied.
Marianne lifts the towel off the wardrobe door and starts using it to massage the ends of her hair slowly. She sits down at the desk chair.
Did Sadie know you were applying? she says.
What? Why do you ask that?
Did she?
Well, yeah, he says. I don’t see the relevance, though.
Why did you tell her and not me?
He sighs, rubbing his eyes with his fingertips, and then shrugs.
I don’t know, he says. She’s the one who told me to apply. I thought it was a stupid idea honestly, hence why I didn’t tell you.
Are you in love with her?
Connell stares across the room at Marianne, not moving or breaking eye contact for several seconds. It’s hard to tell what his face is expressing. Eventually she looks away to rearrange the towel.
Are you joking? he says.
Why don’t you answer the question?
You’re getting a lot of stuff messed up here, Marianne. I don’t even like Sadie as a friend, okay, frankly I find her annoying. I don’t know how many times I have to say that to you. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the application thing but like, how does that make you jump to the conclusion that I’m in love with someone else?
Marianne keeps rubbing the towel into the ends of her hair.
I don’t know, she says eventually. Sometimes I feel like you want to be around people who understand you.
Yeah, which is you. If I had to make a list of people who severely don’t understand me, Sadie would be right up there.
Marianne goes quiet again. Connell has closed the laptop now.
I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, okay? he says. Sometimes I feel embarrassed telling you stuff like that because it just seems stupid. To be honest, I still look up to you a lot, I don’t want you to think of me as, I don’t know. Deluded.
She squeezes her hair through the towel, feeling the coarse, grainy texture of the individual strands.
You should go, she says. To New York, I mean. You should accept the offer, you should go.
He says nothing. She looks up. The wall behind him is yellow like a slab of butter.
No, he says.
I’m sure you could
get funding.
Why are you saying this? I thought you wanted to stay here next year.
I can stay, and you can go, she says. It’s just a year. I think you should do it.
He makes a strange, confused noise, almost like a laugh. He touches his neck. She puts the towel down and starts brushing the knots out of her hair slowly.
That’s ridiculous, he says. I’m not going to New York without you. I wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for you.
It’s true, she thinks, he wouldn’t be. He would be somewhere else entirely, living a different kind of life. He would be different with women even, and his aspirations for love would be different. And Marianne herself, she would be another person completely. Would she ever have been happy? And what kind of happiness might it have been? All these years they’ve been like two little plants sharing the same plot of soil, growing around one another, contorting to make room, taking certain unlikely positions. But in the end she has done something for him, she’s made a new life possible, and she can always feel good about that.
I’d miss you too much, he says. I’d be sick, honestly.
At first. But it would get better.
They sit in silence now, Marianne moving the brush methodically through her hair, feeling for knots and slowly, patiently untangling them. There’s no point in being impatient anymore.
You know I love you, says Connell. I’m never going to feel the same way for someone else.
She nods, okay. He’s telling the truth.
To be honest, I don’t know what to do, he says. Say you want me to stay and I will.
She closes her eyes. He probably won’t come back, she thinks. Or he will, differently. What they have now they can never have back again. But for her the pain of loneliness will be nothing to the pain that she used to feel, of being unworthy. He brought her goodness like a gift and now it belongs to her. Meanwhile his life opens out before him in all directions at once. They’ve done a lot of good for each other. Really, she thinks, really. People can really change one another.