‘No,’ he said tightly, looking away from her. She was at a loss, then suddenly he said, ‘I’d be a whole lot happier, though, if you paid me even one-tenth of the attention you pay to Andrew Jacks.’
Her mouth dropped open. ‘You’re jealous!’ With a moment’s warning she would have had the wit not to say this.
‘Well, what the hell do you expect?’
‘But why?’
‘Don’t be stupid.’
She blushed in indignation. ‘You’re the one who’s being stupid! He’s gay, for God’s sake. It’s nothing. You must know that!’ Her mind was rapidly replaying the scene on the lawn, Andrew’s fingers twined with hers, his hand twisting her curls. So that was what the bastard was playing at. It was all aimed at annoying Rupert. Mara felt a complete fool. ‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered. ‘It didn’t occur to me.’
‘I know. That’s what pisses me off the most.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Strong language for you.’
He took a step closer in the empty corridor. ‘Strong feelings for me, too.’ He pulled her into his arms and began to kiss her in a most ungentlemanly manner. She clutched at her wonderful hat to stop it from being knocked off. Dash it! Rupert was going to teach the girl a sharp lesson, all right! At last he released her.
‘Take that,’ she said, putting a wondering hand to her mouth.
‘Precisely.’
He adjusted her hat for her and with his slight bow, turned and walked off. She stared after him, and at the foot of the stairs he looked back with a smile. Oh, oh, oh, it would be so easy to give in! Maybe I could tolerate all those church services with that kind of servicing from the vicar. She ran off along the corridor laughing to herself, but as she rounded the corner she saw Johnny loitering in the doorway.
He had a wicked grin on his face. ‘All clear now?’ He’d seen! Her cheeks flamed. She pushed past him without a word and went out.
Mara was in the bath three-quarters drunk, but it was under her mother’s instructions, so that was all right. She raised her glass. The wine glowed like garnets. Look not upon the wine when it is red, she thought. At the last it biteth like a serpent, and stingeth like an adder. Yea, thou shalt be as he that lieth down in the midst of the sea, or as he that lieth upon the top of a mast. That’s what the Word of God has to say about being drunk, my friends. But Mother had sanctioned it. She had sent a birthday cheque with a note saying, Pamper yourself, darling. Buy some wonderful bubble bath and a really nice bottle of wine. She probably didn’t mean her to enjoy them simultaneously, but what can you do if all your friends are out or revising? Birthdays must and will be celebrated. You’re too much like your father, her mother had written in her letter. You think it’s a sin to treat yourself. True, thought Mara. But you don’t pamper yourself, either, mother. You only pamper everyone else. The front of the queue, the top of the milk. You spend your whole time plumping up this world’s cushions for other people. When did you last open a nice bottle of wine just for yourself? Mara drained her glass. Unlike Andrew. Now there was a model of high-minded dedication to self-indulgence. She pulled the plug and climbed dizzily out of the bath. Pity he had to be at this concert. She began to dry herself. She pulled on Aunt Judith’s black satin dressing-gown – Judith had evidently been a woman who could pamper herself – and floated back to her room.
It was dusk. She poured another glass of wine. Well, I’m not going to have to make conversation. She sat at the window and breathed in the warm air. A dozen spring smells. Blossom, warm grass. The bells chimed. She drank. Ah. The leaves fluttered. That’s a robin I can hear. The night had garlic on its breath. Ramsons deep down on the riverbank. Mara unpinned her hair and felt the long curls slide free. I’m letting my hair down and there’s no one to see. She finished her glass. Leave me alone, she said to her conscience. What’s wrong with a bit of hedonism? A pewful of Johns ancestors creaked forwards in the chapel to pray, not kneeling as Anglicans do, but bending over as if in pain, elbows on knees, heads in hands, despairing of the grace of God.
Mara stood up carefully. I’m an old campaigner. I know all about you, she said to her conscience. You’re easy enough to trick. She crossed to her bookcase. All she needed was a book in her hand, one she ought to read, but didn’t want to. She steadied herself. Never before had books looked so intensely book-like, so much themselves, platonic forms of books from which all other books derived their book-likeness. Tennyson. She took the volume down. In Memoriam. She grabbed the bottle of wine and slid down on to the rug. Not so far to fall. She leant back against the armchair and poured another glass. Now, then. Let’s get this bugger read. She pored over the tiny print. Where’s it got to? Aha.
I held it truth, with him who sings
To one clear harp in divers tones, [who was that?]
That men may rise on stepping-stones
Of their dead selves to higher things.
Her conscience went purring into its basket and curled up. She drank. The light of the table lamp glinted in the wine, red, red, red, rubies on a chalice. Look not thou upon the wine . . . , Yes, but then again, Use a little wine for thy stomach’s sake. You see? And for thy often infirmities, says the Good Book. Tennyson slid from her slack hand. She closed her eyes and laughed. Lying in a warm ocean, tide rising higher, higher, lapping at her neck, her chin, up to her ears. As he that lieth down in the midst of the sea. Footsteps. Andrew coming back. So what? She’d seen him in a worse state. Knocking at the door.
‘Come in.’
She opened her eyes. Johnny. Standing over her. Laughing. She sat up. The room wheeled round. Too far out, way out of her depth and drowning. Maybe if she kept her head still . . .
‘Any left?’ He’d got a glass from somewhere and was sitting down beside her. She tried to pour some for him, but he wasn’t holding the glass steady. He took the bottle from her and poured his own.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m a bit drunk.’
He laughed. ‘I’m not likely to cast the first stone.’ She laughed too. ‘I’m not above taking unfair advantage of you, mind.’
‘How?’
‘You see if you can work it out, sweetie.’
She waited. Her brain moved slowly, homing in on the thought. ‘Oh!’ She blushed. ‘That’s all you ever think about, Johnny Whitaker.’
But he only laughed again. She tried to sit up and pull her dressing-gown together. Her head was spinning.
‘You know, that’s the first time you’ve ever said my name.’
‘It’s not.’ But it was.
‘Say it again.’
‘Johnny.’
‘That’s reassuring. And again.’
She felt herself starting to giggle. ‘Johnny.’
‘Sure you’ve got that? I’d hate you to say Rupert by mistake.’ She made as if to push him away, but his hand caught her wrist. She felt it slide slowly up her arm inside the gaping sleeve. His fingers moved on her bare shoulder. He was watching her face. ‘This is OK, isn’t it, Mara?’
‘What is?’
He struck his forehead and laughed again. ‘You’re not concentrating.’ She looked at him. He took the glass from her and put it to one side. ‘Now – are you listening?’ She nodded. ‘I want you, Mara.’
She waited. He waited.
‘You mean . . . sex?’
‘I don’t believe this. Yes.’
‘You can’t!’
‘I can.’
‘You mustn’t, then.’
‘Mustn’t I? Just a kiss, then. Yes? No?’
‘Well . . .’
He bent his head down. Fool! Oh, God, let this go on for ever. His hands in her hair, his tongue hard in her mouth, thrusting again, again. The satin slipped from her shoulders. She was on her back. I don’t care. I don’t care. She clutched him, dragged out to sea on a fast tide. Useless to fight. Fight. Fight it, you fool. He’ll hate you for letting him do this. I don’t care. His teeth were at her throat, at her breasts, his hands laying her bare. She could hear his voice a
long way off laughing at her. ‘You like this? Is this good? Hmm? Say my name.’ She was shivering as his fingers parted and slid. I’m burning up. I’m going to die. She was crying. ‘Just let it happen, flower. Trust me. Let it happen.’ His fingers slid deeper and at last she came, weeping, shuddering, crying his name.
She was lying on the seabed. The ceiling billowed overhead, coming and going like silent waves. I’m lost. Not a sound, just the roaring silence of the sea.
Then another noise. The jingle of a buckle. A zip. It jolted her half-sober. He was tugging at his shirt.
‘Johnny, you can’t do this.’
‘Like to bet?’ He was lying beside her. She struggled to sit up, but he pulled her back down and kissed her.
‘But you said once you couldn’t lead a double life.’ The argument was slipping from her. He was kissing her words away.
‘I was lying.’
‘You weren’t.’ His hand slid down over her stomach.
‘Then I’ve changed my mind,’ he said. ‘Come on, sweetie, don’t do this to me.’
Well, I tried. His tongue was deep in her mouth. It’s his fault. I tried. He was nudging her knees apart and a sudden panic rippled through her. She pulled away.
‘You’ll hate me for this tomorrow.’
‘That’s nothing to what I’ll do if you throw me out now. Come on, don’t worry. You’ll enjoy it. It’s like smoking a cigarette, only it’s tax-free and better for you.’
Don’t giggle, you fool. But the laugh escaped, disastrously. He was on top of her, kissing her till her mouth and tongue felt raw, pinning her down, parting her legs. He doesn’t believe me. Terror washed cold over her. There’s nothing I can do. He’s too strong.
‘Don’t! Oh, please don’t make me!’ she cried. His hand went over her mouth. He was saying something, but she bit and clawed at him, past hearing, past reason. He pulled away and stood up.
‘Jesus Christ!’
She was lying at his feet. He towered over her, cursing and shaking his bitten hand. She cringed back. He tucked his shirt back in and did up his flies.
‘Get up.’
She lay there, weeping, slack and slippery with lust. He reached out and dragged her to her feet. She tried to clutch the dressing-gown round her. He was speaking softly, but his voice was cold with rage.
‘I’ve got two things to say to you. Firstly, a piece of advice. Another time, if you’re going to say no, try saying it a bit sooner. Before the man’s got his trousers down, if you can manage it. It’s so much better manners. Secondly, you just keep out of my fucking way from now on.’
The door slammed. He was gone. Oh, God. Oh, God. The floor was slithering under her. I’m going to be sick. She stumbled to the bathroom and threw up, trying miserably to hold her hair back as she retched. Down below on the street she heard the main door of college slam. I’ve lost him. She sat weeping on the cold floor in the dark.
CHAPTER 23
It had been a long night. Hour after hour of shivering, of seeing Johnny’s face looming up close in feverish half-dreams, then vanishing again. He was laughing at her, saying, ‘You like that? Say my name.’ Then his face darkened with rage. ‘Stay out of my fucking way from now on.’ She did not know when she had finally fallen asleep. It was all quiet now. Andrew must have gone out. Everyone else would be revising or sitting exams. All she could hear was the sound of distant traffic and the faint cries of the swifts and swallows circling in the sky. I must be strong.
She sat up. Her head throbbed so viciously that she began to cry. Aspirins. Water. Don’t be a fool. She stood up and pulled on her dressing-gown to cover up her horrible naked body. The satin felt slippery and cold like the memory of lust. I must have a shower. I feel filthy. Disgusting. It was like the first time. That horrible boy in the lay-by. Forcing himself on her. She found some aspirins and looked around for a glass. Two wine glasses stood on the hearth where Johnny had put them last night. Her own was still half full. Oh, how have I let all this happen? I should never have trusted him. But how was I to know he’d do something like that? She felt in her body the physical memory of being overpowered, the terror, the useless struggle, his hand clamped over her mouth. But he was my friend. Why do I always trust the wrong person? Tears began to roll down her face. And now I’ve driven him away. It always happens. Every time I love someone, I lose them. It’s like a curse. She took a mug and went to the bathroom. The smell of expensive bubble bath lingered sickeningly. Oh, mother, she sobbed. I want to go home. She caught sight of herself in the mirror as she filled the mug. There were ugly red marks on her neck. Love bites. Oh God. Everyone will see and know. I’m a slut. She gulped the aspirins down and sat on the edge of the bath. Her stomach felt as though barbed wire had been pulled through it. She showered and crept back to her room.
The sunlight hurt her eyes. Another scorching day. She opened the wardrobe, Aunt Judith’s light summery dresses hung in a row, pretty colours, sweetheart necklines. I can’t wear these. But she had nothing else cool enough. She pulled out one dress after another until she was sitting weeping in a pile of clothes. There was the white dress with the pink rose print which she had been looking forward to wearing. She held it up, then threw it aside. It was too pale. She would feel her shame seeping out and blotching it like sweat or menstrual blood. Oh, why am I so pathetic? It was nothing. We didn’t even do it. Everyone else is sleeping around the whole time. Why do I feel so defiled? She stood up. I must go and shower. Then she remembered she already had, and sat down again with a sob.
The bells chimed half-past ten. A year ago I was sitting my Finals. Hester was in the last week of her life. A year from now, ten years from now, twenty, I will be looking back on this morning. A thousand years in thy sight are but as yesterday when it is past, or as a watch in the night. Her mind groped despairingly towards the faith she had once known, and for a moment it seemed to snag on something. She thought she heard the echo of a fleeting chord, a tune she had once known but had forgotten. The long scar in her arm seemed to tighten. I’m too weary to go on with it any more. But even as she thought this, she felt a strange calm descending. She was still sitting among the discarded clothes. Her hand pulled a black and white gingham dress from the pile. It would have to do. She rubbed the tears away and began to get dressed. Maybe if she wore her hair down and pulled it forwards the marks wouldn’t show.
She filled the kettle and started to put the dresses back into the wardrobe. It will all pass, she thought. Somehow or other. But her resolution drained away at the thought of seeing Johnny. How could she ever face him after last night? She leant her throbbing head against the wardrobe door. I still can’t believe it. I was saying no. I truly was. He didn’t listen to me. Saying no? Like hell you were, sneered the fishwife. On your back with your legs apart. Let me forget it, she pleaded. But she could not banish the image of herself whimpering and writhing under Johnny’s expert fingers. He should have gone the moment he realized I was drunk. You weren’t so drunk you didn’t know better. But I told him. I said he mustn’t. Oh Johnny, oh Johnny! mimicked the fishwife.
As she stood trying to calm herself, she heard footsteps. She froze. The footsteps were at the door. They went past. It was only Andrew. She could have wept with relief as she heard him let himself into his room, walk to his desk, put some books down. The wall was so thin she could follow his every move. Thank God he’d been out last night! He’d have heard everything.
She listened. He was walking back towards his door again. Supposing he was coming to talk to her? He’d see the marks. He’d make me tell him. Her hand scratched at the wardrobe door as though she thought she could scramble in and hide. But the footsteps passed along the corridor and down the stairs. Weak tears slid down her cheeks.
She made some coffee and sat at her desk to work. The print swam before her eyes and she fought back a wave of sickness. Concentrate. There were footsteps on the stairs again. Johnny. Better to get it over with. There was a knock at the door. Her voice shook as sh
e answered.
It was Rupert. She half rose. He was coming towards her, his smile turning to concern.
‘Are you all right, Mara? You don’t look well.’ She steadied the chair as it tipped backwards, and made herself stand and face him.
‘Just a hangover. I’ll be OK.’
A look of exasperation crossed his face. ‘Oh, honestly, Mara.’ She flushed. It’s not as if I’ve never seen you drunk, she thought resentfully. The same idea obviously occurred to him, too. ‘Yes, well. Know thyself, Anderson,’ he said, smiling. She began to gather her hair back from her hot face to plait it. ‘Actually, I came to ask you whether –’ He stopped. His eyes were on her neck. Her hand flew up to cover the marks. He reddened and looked away. There was a dreadful silence. ‘Who’s the lucky man?’
‘No one. Nobody you know. I was drunk. It was an aberration. I didn’t intend –’
He broke into her babbling lies. ‘Sorry. I have no right to ask.’
There was another tight pause.
‘He wasn’t lucky. I threw him out. It was nothing.’
Shut up, shut up, you little fool. Oh, how can I not have thought what this would do to him? Johnny’s his closest friend. He was looking at the ground, then at the desk, unable to speak. She knew he was willing his eyes not to dart back to her neck and wonder who. She couldn’t endure the silence a moment longer.
‘What were you going to ask me?’
He ran his hand through his hair and half laughed. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Please.’
‘I was going to ask you to the June ball. I managed to get a ticket.’
But now he wouldn’t. Mara dragged at her hair. She had been intending to turn him down, but to have the invitation withdrawn like this was unbearable. She held her chin up, trying to prevent the tears of humiliation from brimming over.
He cleared his throat. ‘Would you like to come?’
Now she was caught. Caught by his magnanimity and by her cowardice. If she said no, he would begin to think that last night had not been ‘nothing’ after all. He stood waiting. I mustn’t say yes, she told herself. It’s not fair to let him hope I’m changing my mind.
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