Anatomy of a Scandal

by Sarah Vaughan

  She skulked into the shadows, away from the faux windows that framed an impossibly pretty view; and leaned against the pale Headington stone. In the shadows, she could exist: observing without being noticed. Not quite part of it but still present, on the edge. She tiptoed, hugging the shade of the walls, enjoying the calm, feeling herself sober up as the cool night air forced her to think. She had been rather stupid. Perhaps she should turn back, pretend she had got lost while looking for the loo, find Dan again – perhaps let him make another pass at her, for her virginity was becoming more of an embarrassment than her background; and must be just as obvious, something she feared everyone could guess.

  Could she do it? With him? She thought of her unthreatening friend: silky-haired, skinny, slight, with a smattering of acne still around his jawline. Good with words – or with the written word at least. She liked that about him: the way in which he could sculpt a sentence, his unerring ability to capture a story with a few choice words. He was clever, and she valued cleverness, even if he had been clumsy this evening. Perhaps he was just nervous and this was his way of trying to show he wanted to sleep with her; or at least that he didn’t find her physically repulsive? Perhaps it would be better to do it with a friend? Someone with whom it needn’t mean anything: with whom she had invested nothing; and who would allow her to hold on to her romantic ideals – for she knew the first time was meant to be painful and messy and an anticlimax, and she wouldn’t want to experience that with someone for whom she actually cared. She reached inside her denim shirt and rearranged her breasts, exposing a cleavage created with the help of her new Wonderbra, something that undermined all her feminist principles and yet marshalled her puppy fat and sculpted it into something that suggested perhaps she wasn’t really so virginal. Glancing down at the two soft pillows, she felt guilt and an unfamiliar pride. This is me. These are part of me – perhaps as much me as all the thinking, all the literature. She undid another button and, with her pale orbs leading the way, turned back towards the junior common room, apprehension brewing; a broiling mass of anticipation, that eddied and swirled as she retraced her steps.

  A figure ran from the far side of the cloisters. She heard the footsteps before she saw him: the hurried jog of someone fit, feet bouncing off the flagstones, and then his breath: curiously intimate in the silence as he came hurtling round the corner and almost crashed straight into her.

  She stopped, her body as rigid as one of the does in the deer park the other side of the walled garden. Though she could hear him coming she hadn’t anticipated him bounding up to her so fast; filling her space with his bulk and his energy so that there seemed no room for anyone else.

  ‘Christ – sorry, sorry!’ He was equally shocked, the darks of his eyes swelling above his high cheekbones as he grabbed her upper arms to steady them. Her heart thudded hard against her chest, fear and adrenalin mixed with a sharp pang of lust. He gave a quick smile, his charm automatic, though his breath was thick with whisky and he swayed, unsteady on his feet. What must it be like to know that, however you err, you will always be forgiven? For your charm to be so intrinsic, so overwhelming, that you know you can rely on it entirely, even when drunk? Sophie had told her about the Libs pouring bottles of Bolly down the sink – but even now, she couldn’t believe he – a disciplined rowing blue – had taken part. He wasn’t boorish, she thought, drinking in his smooth skin; and she became suffused with tenderness. Perhaps he didn’t want to be part of the club? Perhaps, like her, he wasn’t a party animal – though he was dressed in the ridiculous kit of the Libertines? He was wired, she realised now: a palpable nerviness pulsing through his body and she wanted to hug him, to reassure him everything would be OK. She thinks all this, aware of the warmth, the grip of his hands on her upper arms, just inches from her breasts.

  ‘It’s all right.’ She looked down, afraid that he might detect her reaction.

  His pupils seemed to focus. ‘Do I know you? . . . Molly? Polly?’

  ‘Polly,’ she agreed. Of course he wouldn’t know her name. He wouldn’t know her.

  ‘Pretty Polly.’

  She laughed, embarrassed at the compliment and at his painful attempt at wit.

  ‘I do know you – or at least I should.’ James’s voice was liquid as he leaned closer, scrutinising her features. ‘Pretty, pretty Polly.’

  ‘Not really.’ She could feel her cheeks burning and tried to look down but his eyes drew hers back.

  ‘Yes, really,’ he said, and smiled.

  Almost imperceptibly, they were moving closer. One hand snaked to the back of her neck. Shivers shot from his fingers as he stroked the short down on her nape: a part of her that never felt feminine, for the crop she had hoped would look gamine was anything but. ‘The baby dyke look?’ Sophie had once asked, with the casual thoughtlessness at which she excelled. ‘Are you?’ ‘No. No I’m not.’ Holly had shaken her head, embarrassed at not wanting to be thought gay, for that was fine, really, that was fine; relieved that her friend hadn’t detected her feelings for him.

  She closed her eyes briefly and for a moment imagined that she was someone else observing them: two students caught in slow motion, moments before their first kiss. For that was what was about to happen now. Mad though it seemed, there was that peculiar tension in the air – a friction that could be broken, just, but was far more likely to stretch into a kiss. Every love story demanded it: that ineluctable coming together; that falling into one another’s arms, mouths and limbs meeting and melding; eyes closing in delicious expectation; a slight smile playing on parted lips.

  Her eyes flicked open. He was still staring at her and his eyes had deepened: an unmistakable desire hijacking any brief speculation about her identity. Did he know her? She doubted it. She was just another tipsy student ill met by moonlight, he a randy rower. His fingers stroked her cheek before he leaned towards her again.

  His lips were soft – and that first kiss surpassed all expectations. It was wondrous. She looked up, searching for his warm green eyes and he opened his and smiled back at her, then leaned down again, his arms circling her back and waist, pulling her close. His breath was warm against her mouth and she breathed him in as he kissed her again, tongue darting against her lips so that flickers of pleasure fired in unexpected parts of her body: a private firework display.

  This is magical, she thought, still the observer looking in even as she was held in the moment. His passion was infectious and her heart quickened, growing in excitement, as his lips hardened and became more determined, tongue probing her mouth. He was like a wave now, a force that had caught her up and was pushing her along, irrespective of whether she could handle the drama or pace.

  ‘Perhaps I should go,’ she began, though she did not know where she would go; or if she even wanted to; she just wanted to take things a bit slower; wanted to take stock of where his hands were now going – one creeping up the bottom of her shirt, his broad thumb stroking the nipple, the other somehow riding beneath her pelmet of a skirt.

  ‘Really?’ His eyes widened into a little-boy-lost gaze; and she saw gold flecks in the green and incomprehension. Had anyone ever said that to him before?

  ‘Really,’ she repeated – and smiled to placate him.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ he said, a growl in his voice: a sound that spoke of unbridled confidence. ‘I don’t think you really want that at all.’ And he kissed her more savagely this time so that her lip felt grazed. Lust, she told herself and felt a jolt of surprise – and perhaps pride – that she could have this effect on him even as she felt a lurch of fear, a sense that things were tipping out of her control.

  ‘No – really.’ She gave a little laugh now and pulled back. For how could he be so arrogant as to guess what she wanted? It riled her. Or perhaps it was the game of seduction. His eyes softened: and she longed for a repeat of their first kiss: something teasing and yielding. Could he kiss her like that again?

  He bent down, kissed the tip of her nose. ‘That better?’ he add
ed.

  ‘Much better.’ So he understood her. Her relief was immense. She kissed him back, her lips lingering; enjoying the moment: the moonlight on their upturned faces; the quiet chill of the cloisters; the combination of excitement and apprehension that was surging in her, urging her to be bolder than she had ever been before; to ignore any thought – loyalty to Sophie; fear of being discovered; anxiety as to what he might think of her – and just give herself up to the sensations pulsing through her, and which threatened to overwhelm.

  His fingers played with her hair, and his mouth snaked up her throat to her ear, light kisses dusting their way up. And then he pulled her tight in a bear hug so that her ribs felt crushed and her breath was forced from her like air wheezing from an accordion. And he whispered something in her ear. She froze; chilled by the quiet menace of the words for his voice was still quietly caressing. Did he really say that? She tried to hope that she had been mistaken.

  But yes, she realised, he had.

  And then everything changed. She managed to endure it by resorting to her stock role of observer. By imagining herself watching another girl experiencing it – a Tess Durbeyfield, perhaps – and observing her pain. She focused on a gargoyle, a mocking grotesque with hands half-covering his eyes; his mouth downturned and gaping at the horror, carved high up in the corner of the wall. See it from that figurine’s eyes, she told herself, as her back was thrust against the cold stone. Just another event in the history of the university – something that must have gone on for centuries, the gentlemen of the university taking their pleasure from serving wenches or boys. Nothing personal – and perhaps she had encouraged it, parading her ridiculous breasts; looking at him, frankly, with blatant desire. Her fault, or partially her fault; for though she initially struggled and told him no – her mouth slipping from his as she tried to get the words out – he mustn’t have heard her and she was quickly silenced: his mouth overwhelming hers; the size of his body muffling her sounds. Because he wouldn’t be behaving like this otherwise, would he? If he had known that she really hadn’t wanted it? She stared at the gargoyle, tears blurring his horrified leer and bulbous nose, though she could still see his hands on his eyes, his thumbs pressed hard in his ears. Hear no evil. See no evil.

  She managed it. She almost managed it – except it was impossible to remain disconnected, to spin some story, when the most intimate part of her was ripped and her body seared with pain. She couldn’t help crying then, the tears sliding down her cheeks, though she didn’t cry out – she was too overwhelmed by this point; too appalled at the entire submersion of herself; the sense of being so impotent.

  When he was done, he pulled away and apologised. Not for the act but for the fact she was a virgin.

  ‘First time? My God – I’m sorry.’ He looked at the blood trickling down her legs and blotching him. ‘You should have said.’

  He tucked himself away, the evidence of her deflowering and shame hidden in his dark trousers. ‘I’d have taken more time.’ He looked flushed and unsettled; evidently didn’t come across many virgins. ‘Fuck,’ he concluded.

  She didn’t say anything to help him out and so he ran a hand through his hair before looking up beneath that fringe and giving a winsome grin. ‘Fuck,’ he repeated – then dropped a kiss on her forehead, pulling her towards him so that she could feel his heart thudding against hers, strong and vigorous. He tried for friendly. ‘Still – no hard feelings, hey?’

  Her throat seemed to have closed over and she stood, unmoving and barely breathing in his arms, just wanting to be released; to get away so that she could scrub herself clean of all taint of him.

  ‘No hard feelings,’ she managed.

  It was Alison who found her the next morning. She had scurried back to college, keeping to the shadows, avoiding eye contact with any swaying, loving couples, and had slipped through the college’s ancient gates when another student let her in with a late key. Had hidden herself away.

  She ran a bath, deep and hot, not caring that it was antisocial to do so this late, the pipes creaking and moaning as they disgorged themselves and the sound of the rushing water reverberating behind the wooden panelling. Her skin flushed a porcine pink as she scalded herself: thighs smarting with the heat and her insides stinging as she pushed the soap inside her. Sinking deep underneath the water, she clawed at her neck, her breasts and collarbone – anywhere he had touched – and scrubbed her hair; fingers digging into her scalp through the crop he had stroked and clutched, like a mother combing her head for nits. In her fingers dug in an obsessive, itching motion, until she felt a sticky wetness and saw that her scalp was bleeding.

  Later, she lay curled in her bed, smothered in a sweatshirt and jogging bottoms: infantilising clothes that hid those troublesome breasts, that troublesome body, away.

  She felt numb. Though her insides stung, her heart was a hard, heavy pebble. She was spent with crying. Guilt and rage would come later. Would surface at the least expected times. But for now, she was too exhausted.

  She didn’t move for breakfast. Down in the quad she could hear the chatter of fellow first-years returning from the dining hall; full of toast and porridge, or a plate of fried eggs and bacon swilled down with tea and filter coffee; paid with a slip of pink paper worth 50p. There was a Nightline meeting she had planned to go to at ten but she didn’t move; nor did she meet Alison for lunch, as arranged. The thought of bumping into anyone – not least Sophie, lovely, blameless Sophie – made her want to heave.

  At half past one, there was a sharp banging on her door. She gripped the duvet, her ears pricked, as it continued: an insistent rapping, the sound of someone who wouldn’t go away.

  ‘Who is it?’ Her voice was unlike her own, quiet and with a noticeable quiver, as she left the safety of her bed and crept towards it.

  ‘Alison. Are you ill or something? Or are you in there with Dan? If so, I’ll bugger off.’

  She wrestled with the key and pulled the door open, the effort of opening the door – and of opening herself up to someone else; of revealing her secret – almost more than she could bear.

  Her friend’s mouth dropped, betraying her shock as she took in Holly’s face: swollen, she knew, and tear-stained; her eyes bloodshot; features scrubbed of any make-up; childlike and bare.

  ‘What happened to you?’ The words came out as a whisper as if by saying them quietly, they could disbelieve the answer. She put out her arms to hold her but Holly shrank away.

  HOLLY

  19 June 1993

  Twenty

  She returned home soon after that. Slunk back. Her body language, when her mother, Lynda, met her at the station, spoke of dejection and failure, for that was exactly what she felt. That she was a failure for being unable to negotiate her way sexually and socially; and for being unable to communicate something so crucial – the fact she did not want her body to be invaded by another – adequately.

  ‘Too snobby,’ she explained whenever anyone asked why she wouldn’t be returning in October. Manda, who could barely disguise her glee that the sister who had dared to overreach herself had had her wings melted by the sun, kept pushing. ‘Leave it, will you,’ Holly answered. ‘It just wasn’t for me.’

  ‘I think she was just homesick,’ her mother had elaborated when her friends probed. ‘She found it a bit different down south.’ Far better to do a course at Liverpool University where she could return home whenever she wanted, for something had shaken her up, Lynda wasn’t stupid; she could see that. A boy. Or a man, more likely.

  And so she had started again. September 1993. Liverpool University. The reports from her Oxford tutors had been exemplary, though she hadn’t done as well in her exams as expected. She had a full grant and there was no question of this being withheld now that she was changing direction and studying law.

  ‘Far better to do something vocational,’ she told Manda, who had nodded before pointing out that she had said this all along.

  ‘No point namby-pambying around with
novels. I wasn’t going to achieve anything like that.’

  ‘Whatcha want to achieve?’ Manda had chewed on a piece of gum and affected a nonchalance belied by her interest in this newly career-minded sister.

  ‘Oh, you know,’ she said, affecting a flippancy she did not feel, for to speak from the heart would be to expose herself. ‘Bringing down the bad guys. Getting justice.’ And for the first time since she had arrived home, she gave a proper smile: one that reached her eyes and lit them so that her severity, her seriousness, briefly disappeared.

  When she enrolled for her degree, it was under a different name: Kate Mawhinney. Kate, a harder, sharper form of her softer middle name, Catherine; Mawhinney, her mother’s maiden name, which Lynda had recently reverted to after discovering that Pete and his 28-year-old girlfriend were going to have a child.

  Holly Berry – a joke of an individual with a joke of a name – was shed entirely; like a skin shorn from a bedraggled, raddled sheep to reveal a clean, brutally cropped one.

  Her metamorphosis continued. The hair she had cut just before going down to Oxford grew back and, over the years, grew lighter, the Sun-In that Manda had liberally applied that first summer being replaced by highlights that were so convincing only her mother and sister ever remembered that she wasn’t a natural blonde. She shrank: those problematic breasts and the stomach that bulged beneath it melted away and her body was honed, contained, controlled by weights and running. The war with her body was constant: her soft yieldingness, her unnecessary sexiness fought until she became almost androgynous; her look, slight and fierce. Her heavy, near monobrow was pruned and plucked and, as she grew increasingly willowy, her cheekbones emerged: high, sharp and distinctive while her once-plump cheeks were pared down, her face becoming a heart.

  ‘She’s a looker,’ Lynda remarked, at her daughter’s graduation, as she photographed her outside the city’s Art Deco Philharmonic Hall, her mortar board perched jauntily on her head but her smile still a little severe. ‘If only she’d realise and let someone take her out.’