Nat
Once again, however, Matthew read my words rather differently. In the twelve hours between sending this email and leaving for Manhattan, I received twenty-four emails, comprising 4,452 words of vitriol. ‘I wash my hands of you, Natalie,’ he began, but that proved an empty promise. Seizing upon my phrase ‘ill-advised and immature’, he ping-ponged between incredulous anger and academic analysis. ‘Who is mature in your eyes?’ he asked. ‘A handful of writers, perhaps? Our dead poets?’ He told me I was digging myself into a ‘cesspool of atrocity’ and quoted Ted Hughes and Leonard Cohen at me. He attacked my mum and my brother, told me Greg probably wanted to rape me and that I’d never, ever be anything other than a lonely, stunted child. ‘Have you orgasmed, yet?’ he asked in parentheses. ‘Was I right that, once you were free from true feeling and the power of a real lover, your up-tight mind would allow you that?’
I clenched my fist and bit back the urge to scream. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t reply; I wouldn’t engage him. I’d let Matthew’s anger run its course, allow him to blow off steam and hope with all my might it wouldn’t be like this when I returned. I shouldn’t have continued reading them. I should have headed out for a final walk around the campus; I should have lain in the grass somewhere and read a book. But instead I sat in my packed-up room and clicked each email open the moment it arrived. It was strange to know Matthew was sitting at his desk this very moment, composing these sentences, feeling this much against me. His next emails listed all the things he’d done for me, told me without him I’d be some stuffy analyst with no concept of beauty. He told me about hooking up his new girlfriend with Rose’s manager, Damien, who’d got her a gig at Ealing Studios. Was I meant to be impressed, I wondered. ‘Remember Rose?’ he asked and I felt a stab of guilt. ‘Meg’s my breath of fresh air amid your cloud of volcanic ash,’ he continued. ‘So mature for eighteen! She’s applying to Durham. To study a Diploma in Nursing. I told her books are better than bedpans, but she just laughs. I’ll let her live in the house I buy there. Perhaps we’ll see you on campus.’
I breathed deeply and tried to remain calm. A few minutes later another arrived and this one spoke of love, of the two of us as ‘Uncles exiled to different corners of the earth’. It ended with ‘By the way, I’m a criminal now. No, not the silly offshore accounts and fake credit cards as I told you before. Worse. Much worse. So stay away. Seriously.’
These emails made me tremble. They blocked out the May sun tickling my window and thrust me into a pit of darkness. I was drowning in a vat of Matthew’s love and hatred, bumping into the corpses of dead poets and porn stars. But these were nothing compared to the final email. The final email silenced all metaphors and turned me cold.
From: Matthew Wright
To: Natalie Lucas
Sent: 13 May 2004, 06:20:01
Subject: I’ll wait for you
You need to explore, Natalie. I understand. And at the end of your exploring, you will arrive at where you started and know it for the first time. Or so the poem goes. I’ll tell you how I’ll know it for the first time – I’ve thought a lot about it, and this really is the only way I’ll be able to forgive you and welcome you back:
You can lay yourself down for me. That used to be your speciality, remember?
This is the one, non-negotiable condition of the ‘friendship’ you are asking me for.
You can walk through my unknown remembered door, go directly to my study and bend over the desk. Straightaway. I don’t want to hear you speak. I’ll have Annabelle let you in.
Get yourself across my desk like the slut you are. You’d better pull down your panties and hike up your skirt or I’ll do it for you and I won’t be gentle.
Grip your thighs on the wood and lift your arse for me.
You’ll have a choice between my belt and my cane (I refuse to spank you with my palm, you are no longer worthy of that). I’ll give you 57 strokes (one for each year of our relationship X 19, your age). If you require cold cream, you’ll have to ask Meg to apply it. I won’t touch you.
I refuse to fuck you, even if you beg (you’re still diseased from that mucky slag Nadiyya), but if you so desire, I’ll allow you to bring your own dildo and I’ll watch from a distance as Meg slams it into your wretched cunt.
Oh, and if by some miracle you return with a girlfriend, I’d suggest leaving her outside.
She can join the children in the apple-tree and watch through the window if that’s how you like it. But she best be not known and not looked for, not even half-heard in the stillness because I can’t be held responsible for what I might do.
While she’s waiting in the cold, you’ll receive even strikes. I’ll count aloud.
Whether this pleases you or not is not my concern. It will please me. And, once we are done, I will be able to conduct a perfectly good friendship with you. Of course, we may need to increase the dosage if I am forced to see you often and you start bitching in your usual way.
If you think this is a joke or an empty promise, try me.
Come knocking at my door and you’ll see the cane ready and waiting. My belt will slip easily from its loops and wrap around my knuckles. Would you like to be roped to keep you in position? How about a leg-spreader? That’s probably a good idea for a nice tight arse.
I won’t speak.
Then or now.
This is the last you will hear from me until you grant me this request.
22
Manhattan
This is my summer. Just me and a backpack. I ate lunch with Greg earlier and I’m now sat in a park near the Village. He said he would work with me again in a second and that I have a good eye and work hard … that people will see that.
Yesterday Amy and I went to this old speakeasy, Chumley’s, for brunch, then to some galleries in Chelsea. One artist had these huge canvases with layer upon layer of smaller images making a larger one. Another had an exhibition of letters and photos and junk from his life. Things that are not art except in context. Both pieces made me think about Matthew, about the layer he occupies in the jumble of my life, about where I’d be and what I’d be doing if I’d walked away from him when I was fifteen, about what my world would look like and how people would react if I stuck it, Matthew and all, to a gallery wall. Amy pulled me out of my thoughts pointing out a disclaimer questioning the authenticity of the letters and photos. Perhaps it was all a story anyway. Perhaps I can write my own, just the way I want it. Perhaps the world is just art and lies. No doubt Matthew would encourage these thoughts.
Even without such sickening echoes, I’m a little scared of the weeks ahead. I’m travelling alone, but mostly I’m nervous about visiting Becky. I hope she still wants to see me.
Philly
I arrived in Philly once again via Amtrak. I rang and told Becky the time of my train, but added, out of politeness, that it was fine if she couldn’t make it because I remembered the way. Still, I waited on the platform. She might have been running late. I looked up and down for the messy dark hair and smudged eyeliner I hadn’t seen since Christmas. I imagined her running up behind me and twirling me into a kiss. I imagined us holding hands all the way to her house and giggling uncontrollably as her mother explained I could have the blue room once more, then racing up the stairs to lock the door of Becky’s own bedroom.
It’s her graduation party, though. She has loads to do. I figured maybe she just didn’t have time to meet me. Whatever. I bought a ticket and located the right train. I still felt excited. I’m that pathetic. I reapplied my mascara in the carriage and bought flowers at the end of the line.
Then I heaved my bag onto my back and trudged up the hill towards Becky’s house. I thumbed the doorbell of 205 and stood straight, ready to smile.
‘Hi,’ a boy answered.
‘Hi.’ I couldn’t help but grin. ‘I’m Becky’s friend.’
Squealing, Becky emerged from a doorway inside.
‘Nat!’ She lifted me in a hug, a safety-pinned bandage on her arm catching on my jumper. ‘It’s so good to see you!’ There was a pause after I untangled myself, then Becky gushed: ‘Oh, sorry! This is Tom. You remember I told you about my ex? We got back together.’
Of course I remembered Tom, the infamous Texan from summertime stories over Corona.
I feel surrounded by insincerity and crave the company of the good people. Amy and Jess and Greg. I need Becky in my life as much as I need Matthew. A good realisation I suppose, but what am I supposed to do with it for the next three days?
At the party last night, I sat on the porch with the boys and girls I’d met at New Year’s. Inside, Becky danced with Tom. I could hear her through the windowpanes and I saw a circle of guests listening to her jokes about British commercials. Later, I saw her take Tom’s palm and lead him to the staircase.
Pretending not to have noticed, the motley crew on the porch took swigs from brown beer bottles and welcomed me graciously into their group. I grabbed a Bud Light from the cooler and realised it was me who had last banished them to this porch. I kissed a girl called Kate. She was pretty and brunette but I was drunk and depressed. Tegan – the ex who tried to pull my hair at New Year’s – and I became sort of friends. What else is there to do while Becky takes a guy to her bedroom than make friends with the other rejects?
Becky got more likeable after Tom left yesterday. She told me she’s started cutting herself again. Over the past twenty-four hours I’ve glimpsed a little of the intensity that captivated me at Christmas and found myself, after a few beers, wishing she would creep into my bed during the night. At first I was disappointed with myself, but I guess it doesn’t especially matter: it’s hardly my biggest shame.
I’ve been sleeping a lot. My dreams are violent and mostly about Matthew. During a mutual three-hour nap this afternoon Becky said she dreamt about being a devil and me cuddling her on the sofa while we tried to keep it a secret. What am I supposed to do with that information?
Finally, after wanting to scream for days, I’m sat on a plane headed for Portland, Oregon. Too busy applying for a job at a children’s theatre, Becky just gave me vague instructions on how to get to the airport by bus. She kissed me on the cheek, then waved as I stumbled down the hill. Had I expected it to be like New Year? Cramped into this window seat, I feel stupid and confused. I should have stayed in New York. Or gone to DC on my own. I feel stronger on my own. I could have kept that bittersweet desire burning and skipped this humiliation.
Fuck it! This is the beginning of my summer. I can’t let Becky ruin it. In three hours there will be eight states between us. And her boyfriend’s an idiot. He asked if England was in London. Did I really believe her all those months ago when she told me she loved me and suggested that, whatever happens, we could meet up for illicit holidays for the rest of our lives? I feel like a fool for thinking Becky might have understood me, might have swallowed my fucked-up life and said, hey, I’ve done some dumb things too, who cares? She cuts herself and sleeps with anyone who smiles at her, dances around rooms with no clue whose toes she’s treading on, but she’s the normal girl: the one with a dozen infatuated friends waiting on the porch, a gleeful extended family congratulating her on her achievements and a stable boyfriend probably about to propose. That’s never going to be me. And someone like that will never accept me. My graduation party will consist of friends and family whose relationships to me are tainted by the impossible secrets spun between us. Matthew will always be the cloud darkening my sunny days. He’ll always be the wall between me and the world.
Portland, Oregon
State number eight and a huge sense of relief when my plane landed. Becky’s house made me feel so socially inept that I was genuinely surprised to be able to hold a conversation and be a normal friend with Rihanna. All awkwardness between us seems to have passed, thank God! And my miseries about Matthew seem less and less pressing after gossiping and shopping my way around Portland and Oregon City. Rihanna and her friends took me to this huge mountain waterfall and showed me Hood River and its breathtaking scenery. They treated me like a normal nineteen-year-old and maybe I’ve started believing I am one.
I’m on the train heading to Oakland and I’m overwhelmed by the picturesque views from my upstairs seat. There have been farms that the sun made glow and shadows of mountains on the skyline with the odd snowy one standing out like a lost polar bear. Now it’s twilight and we’re hurtling through mountains, surrounded by enormous pine trees, cavernous drops and the odd stream trickling down into the lost below. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such enormous geography. I’m taken back to geography classes when I sat fascinated by grainy videos of Mt St Helen erupting. If I press my face to the window, my heart races and my tummy smiles giddily at the terrifying plummet. I feel tiny and insignificant. Vague desires to find my camera are lost to the moment and the joy of sharing my first twenty-four-hour train ride through a foreign land with Evelyn Waugh.
California
… is flatter. Miles and miles of what are apparently rice paddies with a few mountains on the skyline. The night was long. About midnight we stopped in somewhere called Dunsmuir. A woman got on and was directed to the seat beside me. She waved over me at a lady waiting on the lamplit platform, then settled down to sleep. Ten minutes along the track, though, she burst into tears, explaining that her sister had cancer and that might have been the last time she’ll see her. I comforted her a bit, then tried to read. Apparently cheered up, she interrupted me six times during my first page to tell me she was a people person and had a deck of cards. Sleep was impossible. The woman spilt over onto my seat and snored loudly. Whenever she woke up, her elbow found its way into my ribs and I’d lie there for another half-hour, feeling cruel but staring longingly at those who had double-seats to themselves.
We just passed over a beautiful river, though, and I’m sat in the lounge car now, where I can see miles and miles and somehow the awful night was worth it. We’re only an hour from Oakland and my body is tense with excitement. I like being free and alone. I can’t wait to see Kristin, take photos of enormous San Francisco hills and be in another city. And my cross-country trip in just a few days. Who knows what that will be like? Greg thinks I’m crazy to be getting on some hippy bus, but I’m excited.
Part of me wonders if it’s really me doing these things – the little child with itchy feet who detested growing up in a tiny country town and begged to be taken on family holidays. Now I’m glad to do it all alone, to ride this train with just my thoughts. For the first time, I’m realising I’m okay. All by myself, I’m okay.
Oakland, CA
When I arrived, I was suddenly excited to see the classic things: the Golden Gate and the steep steep hills. Kristin’s dad drove us around San Francisco, pointing out interesting buildings and explaining how sixteen years ago a road cut off the city from the water but an earthquake destroyed it and now there’s a wonderful street along the waterfront. We went to a couple of viewing points, one just under the Golden Gate, one way up high with the most fantastic views. It’s beautiful with the blue bay surrounded by towering mountains and the mist cutting off the horizon.
My second night, we drove to the top of some hills so we could see the lights from the whole Bay area. During the days, Kristin took me to Berkeley and for a picnic lunch at a man-made lake with a beach. Her family’s been really sweet too, saying I can come back any time, even if Kristin’s not there. They made me a parcel for my trip containing a torch, little pots of dried fruit and John Steinbeck’s Travels with Charley. I don’t know what to do with so much kindness.
Ruby Mountains, Nevada
I’m sat on a snowy mountain in a pair of shorts and sandals! We’re supposedly on our way to Lake Lamoille but we lost the path pretty early. Now, under the guidance of various adventurous males, the group finds itself eating lunch on rocks that required a vertical climb up a mountain face. No one is quite sure where to go next but it’s ridiculously p
retty.
We met in San Francisco where our strange, awkward introductions barely masked both excitement and nerves. There are more British people on the bus than Americans, which disappointed me somewhat. No more attention for my cute accent. The youngest person just finished her A-levels; the oldest is about to turn sixty.
The hike today was thrilling. My toes were so numb I thought they might fall off, but we kept going and eventually found Lake Lamoille. A couple of people even jumped in a hole in the ice. Coming back was easier once we found the correct path. Sitting on the bus again, it seems unbelievable that we were at the top of that mountain. Ironically my toes got a tan in their hypothermia.
Every night we have to transform the seats of the bus into beds. Our drivers Rob and Eddy did it the first night but I did it with Gill and Charlie tonight. There are eight bunks where bags are kept during the day. Then there are four sets of couples sleeping, two slightly below with no light at all and two above next to the windows. Plus, at the front and back of the bus, there are large padded rectangles for the rest to sleep sardine style. The first night I was a sardine and didn’t get a whole lot of sleep because the woman next to me snored. Last night I tried one of the bunks, which, after the initial difficulty of getting in, gave me a pretty good night’s sleep.
Idaho
We just arrived at the Salmon River where we’ll pull out four long plastic tables and set up the breakfast things while others have a ‘bag party’ to get at the things we have below. You’re only allowed a daypack on the bus and even that you must give up at night.
I went white water rafting along the Salmon River with force four rapids. To begin with it was pleasant but not much of an adrenalin rush. We went swimming in the quiet part and were given a tour of an old gold mine and factory. The boys named our boat The Scallywag Hunter. On the biggest rapid the wave went right over our heads and Charlie fell into me and I fell out. But before I knew it, I was being pulled back into the boat and I hadn’t even lost my sunglasses.
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