by Lynn Barber
And then my parents threw me into bed with him. One day, on one of his drop-in visits, Simon said he was going to Wales next weekend to visit some friends and could I go with him? I confidently expected my parents to say no – to go away, overnight, with a man I barely knew? – but instead they said yes, though my father added jocularly, ‘Separate rooms of course.’ ‘Of course,’ said Simon. So off we went for the first of many dirty weekends. I hated Wales, hated the grim hotel, the sour looks when Simon signed us in. We shared a room, of course, and shared a bed, but Simon only kissed me and said, ‘Save it till you're seventeen.’ After that, there were many more weekends – Paris, Amsterdam, Bruges, and often Sark in the Channel Islands, because Simon liked the hotel there, and I liked stocking up on duty-free Je Reviens and my exciting new discovery, Sobranie Black Russian cigarettes. They brought my sophistication on by leaps and bounds.
As my seventeenth birthday approached, I knew that my debt of dinners and weekends could only be erased by ‘giving’ Simon my virginity. He talked for weeks beforehand about when, where, how it should be achieved. He thought Rome, or maybe Venice; I thought as near as possible to Twickenham, in case I bled. In the end, it was a new trendy circular hotel – the Ariel? – by Heathrow airport, where we spent the night before an early-morning flight to somewhere or other, I forget. He wanted to do a practice run with a banana – he had brought a banana specially. I said ‘Oh for heaven's sake!’ and told him to do it properly. He talked a lot about how he hoped Minn would do Bubl the honour of welcoming him into her home. Somewhere in the middle of the talking, he was inside me, and it was over. I thought, ‘Oh well, that was easy. Perhaps now I can get a proper boyfriend.’
(I think the word that best describes my entire sex life with Simon is negligible. I never experienced even a glimmer of an orgasm while I was with him. He was a far from ardent lover – he seemed to enjoy waffling about Minn and Bubl more than actually doing anything. And whereas my games mistress was always bellowing across the changing room ‘But you said it was your period last week!’, Simon always took my word for it when I said that Minn was ‘indisposed’. So although I spent many nights in bed with Simon, often in foreign hotel rooms, very little ever happened.)
The affair – if it was an affair – drifted on, partly because no proper boyfriends showed up, partly because I had become used to my strange double life of schoolgirl swot during the week, restaurant-going, foreign-travelling sophisticate at weekends. And this life had alienated me from my schoolfriends – if they said ‘Are you coming to Eel Pie Jazz Club on Saturday?’ I would say ‘No, I'm going to Paris with Simon.’ Of course my friends all clamoured to meet Simon but I never let them. I was afraid of something – afraid perhaps that they would ‘see through him’, see, not the James Bond figure I had described, but this rather short, rather ugly, long-faced, splay-footed man who talked in different accents and lied about his age, whose stories didn't add up.
Because by now – a year into the relationship – I realised that there was a lot I didn't know about Simon. I knew his cars (he had several Bristols), and the restaurants and clubs he frequented, but I still didn't know where he lived. He took me to a succession of flats which he said were his, but often they were full of gonks and women's clothes and he didn't know where the light switches were. So these were other people's flats, or sometimes empty flats, in Bayswater, South Kensington, Gloucester Road. He seemed to have a limitless supply of them.
Where did I imagine he lived? Incredible as it seems now – but this is a reminder of how young I was – I imagined that he lived with his parents but was ashamed to tell me. I pictured this ancient couple in some East End slum performing strange rituals in Yiddish. The fact that he told me his parents were well off and lived in Cricklewood was neither here nor there: I preferred my version. I suspect this is always the way with conmen: they don't even have to construct a whole story, their victims fill in the gaps, reconcile the irreconcilables – their victims do most of the work. Simon hardly had to con me at all, because I was so busy conning myself.
But by now there was a compelling reason for staying with Simon – I was in love. Not with Simon, obviously, but with his business partner Danny and his girlfriend Helen. I loved them both equally. I loved their beauty, I loved their airy flat in Bedford Square where there were Pre-Raphaelites on the walls and harpsichord music on the hi-fi. At that time, few people in Britain admired the Pre-Raphaelites but Danny was one of the first, and I eagerly followed. He lent me books on Rossetti and Burne-Jones and Millais, and sometimes flattered me by showing me illustrations in auction catalogues and saying ‘What do you think? Should I make a bid?’ I found it easy to talk to Danny; I could chatter away to him, whereas with Simon I only sulked.
Helen was a different matter. She drifted around silently, exquisitely, a soulful Burne-Jones damsel half-hidden in her cloud of red-gold hair. At first, I was so much in awe of her beauty I could barely speak to her. But gradually I came to realise that her silence was often a cover for not knowing what to say and that actually – I hardly liked to use the word about my goddess – she was thick. I was terrified that one day Danny would find out. And there were sometimes hints from Simon that Danny's interest in Helen might be waning, that there could be other girlfriends. Knowing this, keeping this secret, made me feel that it was crucial for me to go on seeing Helen, to protect her, because one day, when I was just a little older and more sophisticated, we could be best friends.
Simon always refused to talk about business to me (‘Oh, you don't want to know about that, Minn’) but Danny had no such inhibitions. He loved telling me funny stories about the seething world of dodgy property dealers – the scams, the auction rings, the way the auctioneers sometimes tried to keep out the ‘Stamford Hill cowboys’ by holding auctions on Yom Kippur or other holy days, and then the sight of all these Hasidic Jews in mufflers and dark glasses trying to bid without being seen. Or the great scam whereby they sold Judah Binstock a quarter acre of Ealing Common, without him realising that the quarter acre was only two yards wide. Through Danny, I learned how Perec Rachman had seemingly solved the problem of ‘stats’ – statutory or sitting tenants – who were the bane of Sixties property developers. The law gave them the right to stay in their flats at a fixed rent for life if they wanted – and they had a habit of living an awfully long time. But Rachman had certain robust methods, such as carrying out building works all round them, or taking the roof off, or ‘putting in the schwartzes’ (West Indians) or filling the rest of the house with prostitutes, that made stats eager to move.
So I gathered from Danny that the property business in which Simon was involved was not entirely honest. But my first hint of other forms of dishonesty came about fifteen months into the relationship when I went to a bookshop on Richmond Green. Simon had taken me there several times to buy me books on Jewish history and the works of Isaac Bashevis Singer – I accepted them gratefully, though I never read them. But on this occasion, I went alone and the bookdealer, who was normally so friendly, said ‘Where's your friend?’
‘What friend?’
‘Simon Prewalski.’
‘I don't know anyone of that name,’ I said truthfully.
‘Well, whatever he calls himself. Tell him I'm fed up with his bouncing cheques – I've reported him to the police.’
That evening I said to Simon, ‘Do you know anyone called Prewalski?’
‘Yes – my mother, my grandparents. Why?’
I told him what the book dealer had said.
Simon said, ‘Well, don't go in there again. Or if you do, don't tell him you've seen me. Say we've broken up.’
‘But what did he mean about the bouncing cheques?’
‘How should I know? Don't worry about it.’
So that was a hint, or more than a hint. But then in Cambridge there was unmistakable proof. He and Danny had gone into Cambridge in a big way and were buying up a street called Bateman Street, so we often stayed there. One weeken
d I was moaning – I was always moaning – ‘I'm bored with Bateman Street’ and Danny said, ‘So am I – let's drive to the country’, so we drove out towards Newmarket. At a place called Six Mile Bottom, I saw a thatched cottage with a For Sale sign outside. ‘Look, how pretty,’ I said. ‘Why can't you two buy nice places like that instead of horrible old slums?’ ‘Perhaps we can,’ said Simon, sliding the Bristol to a stop – ‘Fancy it, Danny?’ ‘Why not?’ So Simon parked the car and we all marched up to the door. An old lady answered it: ‘The agent didn't tell me you were coming.’ ‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ said Danny, ‘how very remiss of him.’ She must have liked his posh accent, which was so much more convincing than Simon's, because she said, ‘Well, come in anyway – I'll show you round.’
The cottage was full, over-full, of antique furniture: I found it gloomy and was bored within minutes. But Simon and Danny both seemed enchanted and kept admiring the beams, the polished floorboards, the pictures, the furniture. Having been rather crabby, the owner blossomed into friendliness and invited us to stay for coffee. While she was making it, Simon asked if he could go upstairs to the bathroom. A few minutes later I saw him going out to the car carrying something. Then he joined us for coffee and, after half an hour chatting, we left. In the car, Danny said, ‘Got it?’
Simon nodded.
‘Speed?’
‘Pretty sure.’
‘Got what?’ I said.
‘So was that your dream cottage?’ said Danny. ‘Will you and Simon live there happily ever after?’
‘No.’ I said. ‘I found it gloomy.’
They both laughed. ‘You're so difficult to please.’
Danny said he must get back to Bateman Street. I was still furious with him and Simon for laughing at me, so I said, ‘You promised me a day in the country – I'm not going back.’ Danny said we could drop him in Newmarket so we took him to the station, then went to a hotel for lunch. We were having a rather lugubrious meal when two men came into the dining room and one pointed the other towards our table. The man introduced himself as a detective. He said, ‘We've had a complaint from a Mrs so-and-so of Six Mile Bottom. She says two men and a girl visited her cottage this morning and afterwards she noticed that a valuable antique map by Speed was missing from one of the bedrooms.’ ‘Oh, Simon!’ I said. He shot me a look. ‘Perhaps we could have this conversation outside,’ he suggested. He went outside with the policeman. I waited a few minutes and then went to the Ladies, and from the Ladies walked out the back door and away down the street. I had just enough money for a bus to Cambridge, and ran panting to find Danny in Bateman Street. ‘Simon's been arrested!’ I told him. ‘He stole a map from that old lady!’
‘I'm sure there was a misunderstanding,’ he said smoothly. ‘I'll sort it out. Why don't you take the train back to London?’
‘I don't have any money!’ I wailed.
He handed me a £10note. ‘Don't worry about Simon,’ he told me. I didn't intend to: I hoped he was in prison.
He wasn't, of course; he bounced round to Clifden Road a few days later and took me out to dinner. ‘How could you steal from an old lady?’
‘I didn't steal. She asked me to have the map valued.’
‘No she didn't, I was with you.’
‘All right, she didn't ask me. But I recognised that the map was by Speed and thought if I got it valued for her, it would be a nice surprise.’
I knew he was lying, but I let it go. I said: ‘If you ever really stole something, I would leave you.’
He said, ‘I know you would, Minn.’
But actually I knew he had stolen something and I didn't leave him, so we were both lying.
Soon afterwards, I did try to leave him. I was bored. I was bored with Minn and Bubl, with the endless driving round, the waiting while he ran his mysterious errands, the long heavy meals in restaurants, the tussles in strange bedrooms, the fact that we never met anyone except Danny and Helen. I loved the evenings in Bedford Square when Danny played the harpsichord and Helen showed me her new clothes, but now they spent most of their time in Cambridge and Simon was never going to Cambridge again. I told Simon, ‘We're finished – I've got to concentrate on my A-levels.’ He said, ‘We're not finished. I'll come for you when you've done your A-levels.’
On the evening I finished sitting my A-levels, Simon took me out to dinner and proposed. I had wanted him to propose, as proof of my power, but I had absolutely no intention of accepting because of course I was going to Oxford. Eighteen years of my life had been dedicated to this end, so it was quite impertinent of him to suggest my giving it up. I relayed the news to my parents the next morning as a great joke – ‘Guess what? Simon proposed! He wants me to marry him this summer!’ To my complete disbelief, my father said ‘Why not?’ Why not? Had he suddenly gone demented? ‘Because then I couldn't go to Oxford.’ My father said, ‘Well, is that the end of the world? Look,’ he went on, ‘You've been going out with him for two years; he's obviously serious, he's a good man; don't mess him around.’ I turned to my mother incredulously but she shook her head. ‘You don't need to go to university if you've got a good husband.’
This was 1962, well before the advent of feminism. But even so, I felt a sense of utter betrayal, as if I'd spent eighteen years in a convent and then the Mother Superior had said, ‘Of course, you know, God doesn't exist.’ I couldn't believe my parents could abandon the idea of Oxford. But apparently they could and over the next few days they argued it every mealtime – good husbands don't grow on trees, you're lucky to get this one (‘And you not even in the family way!’), why go to university if you don't need to? Simon meanwhile was taking me to see houses, asking where I wanted to live when we were married. I couldn't resist telling my schoolfriends, ‘I'm engaged!’ And they were all wildly excited and thrilled for me and said, ‘You'll never have to do Latin again!’ Even so, I was queasy – I'd always liked the sound of Oxford, I even liked writing essays, I wasn't so keen to give up the idea. But my parents, especially my father, put great pressure on me. Why go to Oxford if I could marry Simon? And, they reminded me, I'd been saying all along that I couldn't face another term at school.
This was true. In those days, if you were aiming for Oxford or Cambridge, you had to stay at school an extra term after A-levels to prepare for the entrance exams. I was dreading it because Miss R. Garwood Scott, the headmistress, had flatly refused to make me a prefect and, while all the other Oxbridge candidates could spend their time in the prefects' room, I would be left roaming the corridors or slouching round the playing field on my own, without any gang to protect me. But Miss R. Garwood Scott was adamant that I would never be a prefect even if I stayed at school a hundred years – I was a troublemaker, a bad influence, guilty of dumb insolence and making pupils laugh at teachers. I put a brave face on it, but I knew the next term was going to be the loneliest three months of my life. But then there was the glittering prize of Oxford at the end of it – I never doubted I would get in – and I had resolved it was a price I was willing to pay.
Events overtook me in the last few days of term. Miss R. Garwood Scott somehow got wind of my engagement and summoned me to see her. Was it true I was engaged? Yes, I said, but I would still like to take the Oxford exams. She was ruthless. I could either be engaged or take the exams but not both. When was the wedding and which church would it be in? Not in church, I said, because my fiancé was Jewish. Jewish! She looked aghast – ‘Don't you realise that the Jews killed Our Lord?’ I stared at her. ‘So I won't take the Oxford exams,’ I said. My little gang was waiting for me outside her study. ‘I told her I was leaving,’ I announced. ‘She tried to persuade me to stay but I refused.’ They all congratulated me and begged to be bridesmaids. Then I went to the bogs and cried my eyes out.
I told my parents: ‘I'm not going to Oxford, I'm marrying Simon.’ ‘Oh good!’ they said. ‘Wonderful.’ When Simon came that evening, they made lots of happy jokes about not losing a daughter but gaining a son. Simon chuckled and wa
ved his hands about, poured drinks and proposed toasts – but I caught the flash of panic in his eyes. A few days later, probably no more than a week, we were in the Bristol on our way to dinner when he said he just needed to pop into one of his flats to have a word with a tenant. Fine, I said, I'll wait in the car. As soon as he went inside the house, I opened the glove compartment and started going through the letters and bills he kept in there. It was something I could have done on any one of a hundred occasions before – I knew he kept correspondence in the glove compartment, I knew the glove compartment was unlocked, I was often waiting in the car alone and had no scruples about reading other people's letters. So why had I never done it before? And why did it seem the most obvious thing in the world to do now? Anyway, the result was instantaneous. There were a dozen or more letters addressed to Simon Goldman, with a Twickenham address. And two addressed to Mr and Mrs Simon Goldman with the same address.
I behaved quite normally that evening though at the end, when he asked if Minn would welcome a visit from Bubl, I replied smoothly that she was indisposed. By that stage, I was at least as good a liar as Simon. As soon as I got home, I looked in the phone book – and why had I never thought of doing that before? – and sure enough found an S. Goldman with a Popes Grove (Twickenham) number, and the address I'd seen on the letters. It was only about half a mile from my house, I actually passed it every day on the bus to school. I spent the night plotting and rehearsing what I would say, working out scripts for all eventualities. When I finally rang the number the next morning, it was all over in seconds. A woman answered. ‘Mrs Goldman?’ I said. ‘Yes.’ ‘I'm ringing about the Bristol your husband advertised for sale.’ ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘is he selling it? He's not here now but he's usually back about six.’ That was enough, or more than enough – I could hear a child crying in the background.