Sweet Sorrow

by David Nicholls

  ‘What I really want,’ she said, ‘is a bed.’

  ‘A bed is a good idea.’

  ‘Because a tent or a haystack or a bench, frankly …’

  ‘No good.’

  ‘With a door you can close and no one around.’

  But where would we find such a thing? ‘My dad’s always home.’ Impossible to conceive of having sex with Dad downstairs, and there was the issue of the bunk bed, which still embarrassed me.

  ‘And my room, whenever I’ve had a boy there – the very few times I’ve had a boy there – they just walk up and down on the landing, coughing and making the floorboards creak.’

  ‘And I ought to meet them first.’

  ‘Meet them properly, rather than meet them then immediately have sex with their daughter.’

  We went into our act. ‘You have a lovely home, Mrs Fisher,’ I said.

  ‘Call me Claire.’

  ‘You have a lovely home, Claire, Graham, now if you’ll excuse us …’

  ‘And Graham, mate – stay off the landing.’

  ‘But if they go out?’

  ‘That could be ages,’ she said. ‘Anyway, mine’s a single. A double’s better and my parents’ bed, it’s not ideal. That’s a lifetime of therapy, right there.’

  ‘A double would be good.’

  ‘Like a wrestling ring. Room to roam.’ She turned her head. ‘You all right?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  She leant over me, her face close. ‘You look quite flushed.’

  ‘No. I’m okay. We’re being practical, it’s good.’

  ‘And you’re sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you don’t think I’m some sort of … wench?’

  ‘Temptress.’

  ‘Seductress, for suggesting it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you’re not nervous.’

  ‘No. A bit. I mean I want to get it right.’

  ‘Yeah, I want you to get it right too.’ She laughed. ‘And me.’ A moment passed, and she flipped to her side. ‘Okay, there is one possibility.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Can you tell your dad you’re staying at Harper’s?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Friday.’

  ‘I never really stay over there.’

  ‘But you could this weekend, you could stay until Sunday night.’

  ‘Until Sunday?’

  ‘Or say you’ve gone camping or something. Can you?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Okay. Then I’ve got a plan.’

  Starry Starry Night

  I knew that Fran was not a virgin. She’d told me her history and we’d laughed at the word, like it was a GCSE: ‘We’re doing that, and the Tudors.’ I knew about her boyfriends and had worked up a mental image and conventional hatred for each of them. In turn, I’d told her about my near miss with Sharon Findlay down the back of the sofa. ‘It’s just as well you didn’t have sex,’ she said. ‘Otherwise you’d have to tell everyone that you lost it down the back of the sofa.’

  ‘Literally.’

  ‘Literally.’ ‘Literally’ was one of our private jokes. You see, I told you.

  This conversation had taken place a few nights earlier, in a sloping field with a view of the town. Fran and I had a tendency to seek out these beauty spots, scouting locations for our own scenes.

  ‘I don’t know why people talk about “losing it” anyway,’ she said. ‘You lose a sock or your umbrella; it’s sort of passive or accidental. Much better to, I don’t know, throw your virginity. Something active. Not “lost it with” but “hurled it at”.’

  ‘Or maybe “given”.’

  ‘“Given”. Like a precious gift. Is that what you’re going to do with your virginity, Charlie?’

  ‘Yeah, but with the receipt.’

  ‘In case they don’t like it?’

  ‘Tried it on, sorry, not for me.’

  ‘Wrong size.’

  ‘Not my colour.’

  ‘Can I have the cash instead?’

  ‘Actually,’ I said, ‘I think it’s only a gift if it comes from a girl. Boys have to take it.’ She frowned at me, and I quickly clarified. ‘Usually, I mean, that’s what people say.’

  ‘Bit sexist.’

  ‘It is. Really sexist.’

  ‘Well, I think you should give yours, Charlie. Gift it. Bestow it, like frankincense, or a nice fountain pen.’

  ‘When I meet the right girl.’

  ‘When you meet the right girl.’

  We were silent for a while.

  ‘Did you lose yours or give it?’ I said.

  ‘No, I sort of … fumbled it. Oh, God.’ She clapped both hands to her face and exhaled, took them away, opened her eyes wide. ‘We were rehearsing Romeo and Juliet’s morning-after scene the other day, and Ivor had Miles and me all sort of tangled up in each other’s arms, like we’d had this magical mutual experience and woken up transformed with lovely hair and clean sheets. I said to Ivor, I wonder if it was really bad, the first time Romeo and Juliet did it – really awkward, clumsy sex. Maybe there was blood and Juliet saying it’s uncomfortable and maybe it only lasted ten seconds, Romeo apologising, and maybe the Nurse kept walking about outside the door, putting them off. I think I sort of went off on one about it, this idea, Romeo and Juliet having bad sex, how they could still be in love and it be awkward. Maybe it was better, more real, if it was awkward because they’d be working it out together like you’re meant to.’

  ‘Workshopping it.’

  She laughed. ‘Exactly! Workshopping it. Anyway, Ivor was looking at me like I was mad. ‘It’s not that sort of play, Fran,’ he said, and I said I disagreed – if Shakespeare’s right about what first love is, why wouldn’t he be right about first sex too? Of course Miles just flatly refused to accept the existence of sex that wasn’t transcendent and life-changing because, you know, he’s Miles, and I was so near, so near to telling them.’

  ‘About?’

  ‘The first time.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The first time – you really want to know this? The first time was with this guy a couple of years above me.’

  ‘How old were you?’

  ‘Fifteen. It was Christmas time, the one before last. Anyway, we used to have this thing called Battle of the Bands at Chatsborne – yeah, I know – and when I’d been in the first year, this fifth-year – Patrick Durrell, his name was – had gone up and sung “Roxanne”, you know, “unplugged”, just a boy and his acoustic guitar and we thought it was really daring because red lights and all, in front of the teachers too. So cheesy but at the time there was this amazing hush, like we were in the presence of this teller of tales. About prostitutes. So. Three years later, we’re doing Battle of the Bands ourselves, playing our covers no one recognises, everyone shrugging away in time with the beat, and word gets out that he’s in the audience. So we finish our three songs – “Goodnight, Chatsborne Secondary, you’ve been amazing!” – and at the party afterwards, there he is, chatting away with the headmaster over a glass of mulled wine, because he’s one of those weirdos who’s always coming back to school at holidays, a success story, Chatsborne at its best. Anyway, he sort of tracks me down. “Nice gig,” he says. “Shame it was all covers, you should really write your own songs,” and a little bit of me thinks, piss off, you didn’t write “Roxanne”, but even so, I’ve been fantasising about this boy for years and he looks at me and says, “I think you’d write great songs,” so I say, “What makes you think I’d write great songs?” and he says, “You just look like you’ve got something to say.” And of course I should have just barged out the fire exit right away, but I was younger then and he’s telling me all about university – Manchester of course – and how amazing it is, and how wild and mad, and how he’ll have to watch himself next term, what with all the clubbing and ecstasy he’s been doing, and he does look a bit ragged to be honest, a bit spotty, but still, it’s Patrick Durrell! I’ve written his name on
my exercise books! In three dimensions! So the party ends at nine thirty, which it just so happens is when Patrick Durrell comes alive. He’s got a hip flask – a hip flask at a school concert, God, what a dick – and he makes a big deal of pouring vodka into my orange Sanpellegrino. “Now it’s called a screwdriver,” he says, and I know that’s not strictly accurate but I let it go. “D’you want to come home? My parents are in but we’ve got a granny annexe.” Well, I’m only human. “Can I bring the rest of the band?” I say. “No, I can’t bring too many people back.” “You don’t want to wake Granny?” I say. “She just died,” he says, “that’s why I’ve got access to the annexe.” “So it’s swings and roundabouts,” I say, and he looks all offended but he says, “Are you coming or not?” Anyway, I find my mum and dad and say I’m going to stay at Sarah’s, and we meet in the car park and go to the granny annexe, self-contained, very nice and … that’s where I lost my virginity. Seventeenth of December 1995.’

  ‘And how was it?’

  ‘The granny annexe?’

  ‘The experience.’

  ‘Well, it was … an experience. There was this little living area, which was really floral and frumpy and it still had her knick-knacks on the TV and he’d tried to sort of club it up with candles, like a chill-out lounge but, you know, with doilies and little figurines of clowns and photos of Granny Durrell, staring me out. And we had more screwdrivers and he yammered on about his mates in Manchester, people I’d never met and never would meet, all in this slightly nasal mad-for-it accent, which annoyed me because I knew for a fact that he was born in Billingshurst. His guitar was in the corner and without stopping talking, he reached for it and just started picking out little melodies, like he was accompanying his own monologue, and then he started singing.’

  ‘Oh, God.’

  ‘That cheesy Van Gogh song, “Starry, Starry Night” or “Vincent” or whatever. And I thought, well, this is a bit weird, because he was really going for it, eyes screwed up tight. And you can’t do anything, can’t get up and have a wee or anything, you’ve just got to sit there, and it suddenly seemed like a very, very long song. I thought, at the end, do I clap? What if he does “American Pie”? So I clapped but just a little, and he said, “Did you know that song is about Vincent Van Gogh?” And I said, “Really? Is that why he cut his ear off?”

  ‘And he laughed but he was a bit offended. He still kissed me though, and I reminded myself, it’s Patrick Durrell! So we kissed for a while and I kept telling myself he’s still that boy, isn’t he? That one I used to really, really love, so I just sort of – went for it, and then our tops were off and then the rest and then we were on his dead granny’s bed. He asked me, “How old are you?”, which, generally speaking, should never be a part of foreplay – you know, establish that way beforehand – and I said fifteen and I’m not sure what he thought about that because we still did it. So.’

  ‘And … how was it?’

  ‘Oh, you know. Painful. In every sense. At least it was short.’

  ‘Did he know you were …?’

  ‘A virgin? Yeah, I told him, and he said, I’ll never forget, “That’s okay, I’ll put a towel down,” which, again, wasn’t the ideal response, but still.’

  She went quiet for a moment. ‘Anyway. Everyone tells you it’s disappointing, but he went very thoughtful afterwards and I thought, maybe this is that melancholy thing men are supposed to get, so I said, “What’s up?” and he said – it was quite beautiful, really – he said, “You do realise that, technically, that was statutory rape?” And – idiot – I told him that I wasn’t going to go to the police, don’t let it spoil your Christmas, and can you drive me home, or at least put me in a taxi, and he looked really put out by that but he called the cab and offered me five quid and I said, “How dare you, I’m not your Roxanne,” and he looked confused and said, “No, for the mini-cab,” and I said, “Yes, I know, I was joking – never mind, I’ve got money,” and I waited outside ’til it came and I thought, why am I making all these jokes? Why am I making him feel better? Anyway, I cried all the way home and I never saw him again.’

  She shuddered and flexed her fingers. ‘Sometimes I wish I had gone to the police, not ’cause I was fifteen but just to report him for being a selfish shit or his singing or something. I mean he’s ruined Van Gogh for me now. Not to mention Don McLean.’

  We were quiet for a while, the hurt radiating off her, a kind of vibration. I’d had no conversations of this kind and wanted very much to be a certain kind of boy – ‘man’ would be the term – who knew what to say, a living antidote to the boy in the story. I was still in the grip of my resolution, to be exemplary at all times in her company, but the practical demands of this often escaped me, the right thing to say only occurring to me on the journey home. Certainly, I felt a desire to track this boy down and seek vengeance that was almost Tybalt-like in its fury. I wanted, too, to comfort her, but a hug, an embrace, felt wrong and all I could think to do was take her hand. She lifted our interlaced fingers and examined them, curiously, as if she’d not seen them before.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘No need to get all sombre, it just wasn’t ideal. I don’t think it ever is, but I just wish it had been with someone – stupid word – kind. I don’t mean soppy and scared and all sensitive, that’s the worst. Just … careful of your feelings. Anyway. Thankfully, soon after there was this Swiss boy on a ski trip, Pascal, we had a much better time. I mean, that was more like it. It wasn’t a meeting of souls but it was very … slick and professional.’

  ‘That’s your review.’

  ‘“Highly recommended. Would come here again.” But you don’t want to hear about that one, do you?’

  ‘Not really. But maybe you could count that as your first time.’

  ‘I don’t think it works like that. But you, my virgin friend, you need to wait for someone special, someone you can work it out with and have a laugh.’

  ‘Workshop it.’

  ‘Exactly. Workshop it.’

  ‘If only there was someone like that.’

  ‘I know,’ she said, and laughed. ‘If only.’

  Press and Publicity

  But now we had a plan. I returned from the river, dizzy with it, head full of preparations. It was a good plan, a great plan, and the thought of it carried me home in darkness, grinning all the way.

  More often than not my father would be in bed when I returned and I’d check the glass in the sink, sniffing to see if it was whisky or water. The words ‘do not combine with alcohol’ haunted me, and I’d rehearsed a conversation in my head, matter-of-fact, non-preachy, in which I’d point them out. We’d yet to even acknowledge the existence of the medication, but when the time was right, we’d have that conversation in real life too. Now I was with Fran, surely there was nothing I couldn’t say.

  But on this particular night, the night we made the plan, the music was loud enough to hear from the lawn, John Coltrane’s Giant Steps, every second of it known to me. When I entered, he was standing at the turntable, the album’s sleeve in his hand, his head bopping at tremendous speed as if bouncing over cobbles.

  ‘You having a party?’ I shouted, to let him know I was there.

  He turned, his shirt unbuttoned, his hair crazed. On the lid of the turntable, a garage tumbler of Scotch. ‘There you are! You just missed them.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your friends. Whatshisname …’

  ‘Harper?’

  My father didn’t like Harper, thought him glib and shallow. ‘And the others.’ He liked the others even less and in turn Dad was a source of curiosity and, I suspected, derision for my friends. It still caused me physical discomfort to recall his attempt at hospitality, as he played them the whole second side of Bird and Diz, the beers warming in the boys’ hands, desperate glances shooting between them like passengers about to disarm a hijacker. They even had a nickname for him. He was The Jazzer, and the thought of them together, unsupervised, made my heart race.
/>   ‘Did you tell them where I was?’

  ‘I said you were out rehearsing.’

  ‘Rehearsing?’

  ‘They seemed to know all about it.’

  ‘Because you told them!’

  ‘No. Look …’

  On the phone table where we kept the takeaway menus was a large, glossy piece of paper folded into quarters, a dot of Blu Tack in the corner. In Harper’s handwriting: ‘We missed you, stranger! So many secrets!’ Without unfolding the paper, I knew what it would be.

  We’d taken the photographs the week before, Alina summoning us one at a time to pose in front of a white sheet. In the quest for relevance, the intention was to pastiche the Trainspotting poster, with the same font and colour scheme, individual black-and-white character portraits lined up like a police ID parade. ‘I need some charisma,’ Alina had demanded, ‘some bravado, like a movie star.’ The result had all the dead-eyed awkwardness of my school photos but with the added unhappiness of a sword pointing at the lens. Still, no one will ever see it, I’d thought, misunderstanding the purpose of publicity.

  ‘I think you look very cool,’ said Dad, ‘with your sword and everything.’

  I’d already told him about the play, in the high-minded elation that had followed the all-night party. We’d been standing at the sink, me washing, Dad drying; it was always easier to communicate when we couldn’t see each other’s faces, which made me wonder if ideally we’d be in different rooms, shouting through the door.