They would often go and see Zoe together, and Mariana had fond memories of those visits: she remembered the day they moved Zoe into St. Christopher’s College, and helped her unpack and settle in. It was one of the happiest times they spent together, feeling like the proud parents of their little surrogate daughter, whom they loved so much.
Zoe had seemed so small and vulnerable as they prepared to leave her that day, and as they said their goodbyes, Mariana saw Sebastian looking at Zoe with such fondness, such love, mingled with trepidation; as if he were gazing at his own child, which, in a way, he was. Once they left Zoe’s room, they couldn’t quite bring themselves to leave Cambridge, so they walked along the river together, arm in arm, like they used to when they were young. For they had both been students here—and Cambridge University, like the city itself, was intricately bound up in their romance.
It was where they met, when Mariana was just nineteen.
That meeting happened quite by chance. There was no reason for it—they were at different colleges at the university and doing different subjects: Sebastian was studying economics; Mariana was an English student. It frightened her how easily they might never have encountered each other. What then? What would her life have been like? Better—or worse?
Mariana was forever searching her memory these days—looking for the past, trying to see it clearly; trying to understand and contextualize the journey they had been on together. She would try to remember little things they did, re-create forgotten conversations in her mind, imagine what Sebastian might have said or done at each moment. But she was unsure how much that she recalled was real; the more remembering she did, the more it seemed Sebastian was turning into myth. He was all spirit now—all story.
Mariana was eighteen years old when she moved to England. It was a country she had romanticized since childhood. Perhaps this was inevitable, given that her English mother had left so much of it behind in that house in Athens: bookcases and shelves in every room, a small library, crammed with English books—novels, plays, poetry—all mysteriously transported there before Mariana was born.
She fondly imagined her mother’s arrival in Athens—armed with trunks and suitcases full of books instead of clothes. And in her absence, the lonely girl would turn to her mother’s books for solace and companionship. During the long summer afternoons, Mariana grew to love the feel of a book in her hands, the smell of paper, the sensation of turning a page. She would sit on the rusty swing in the shade, bite into a crisp green apple, or an overripe peach, and lose herself in a story.
Through these stories, Mariana fell in love with a vision of England and Englishness—an England that had quite possibly never existed beyond the pages of these books: an England of warm summer rain, and wet greenery, and apple blossom; winding rivers and willow trees, and country pubs with roaring fires. The England of the Famous Five, and Peter Pan and Wendy; King Arthur and Camelot; Wuthering Heights and Jane Austen, Shakespeare—and Tennyson.
And it was here that Sebastian first entered Mariana’s story, when she was just a little girl. Like all good heroes, he made his presence felt long before his appearance. Mariana didn’t know what he looked like yet, this romantic hero in her head, but she was sure he was real.
He was out there—and one day, she’d find him.
And then, years later, when she first arrived in Cambridge as a student, it was so beautiful, so dreamlike, she felt as if she had stepped into a fairy tale—into an enchanted city from a poem by Tennyson. And Mariana felt sure she would find him here, in this magical place. She would find love.
But the sad reality, of course, was that Cambridge wasn’t a fairy tale; it was just a place, like any other. And the problem with Mariana’s flight of fancy—as she discovered years later in therapy—was that she had brought herself with her. As a child at school, struggling to fit in, she had wandered the corridors during the break times, lonely and restless as a ghost—gravitating toward the library, where she felt comfortable, finding refuge. And now, as a student at St. Christopher’s College, the same pattern repeated itself: Mariana spent most of her time in the library, making only a few friends with other similarly shy, bookish students. She received no interest from any of the boys in her year, and no one asked her out.
Perhaps she wasn’t attractive enough? She looked less like her mother than like her father, with his dark hair and striking dark eyes. Years later, Sebastian would often tell Mariana how beautiful she was, but the problem was she never really felt it, inside. And she suspected, if she was beautiful, it was solely because of Sebastian: basking in the warmth of his sunlight, she blossomed like a flower. But that came later—initially, as a teenager, Mariana had little confidence in her appearance, which wasn’t helped by the fact she had such bad eyesight, forcing her to wear ugly, thick glasses from the age of ten. At fifteen, she started wearing contact lenses, and wondered if that might make her look and feel different about herself. She’d stand in front of the mirror, peering at her reflection—trying but failing to see herself clearly, and never quite happy with what she saw. Even at that age, Mariana was dimly aware that attractiveness had something to do with the internal world: an inner confidence that she lacked.
Nonetheless, like the fictional characters she adored, Mariana believed in love. Despite an inauspicious first two terms at university, she refused to give up hope.
Like Cinderella, she held out for the ball.
St. Christopher’s College ball was held on the Backs—large stretches of grass leading down to the water’s edge. Marquees were erected, filled with food and drink, music and dancing. Mariana had arranged to meet some friends but couldn’t find them in the crowd. It had taken all her courage to come alone to the ball, and she was regretting it. She stood by the river, feeling horribly out of place among these beautiful girls in ball gowns and young men in evening dress—all of whom brimmed with boundless sophistication and confidence. Her own feelings, Mariana realized, her sadness and shyness, were totally incongruous with the merriment of her surroundings. Standing here on the sidelines—looking at life from the fringes—was clearly Mariana’s proper place; it had been a mistake for her ever to have imagined otherwise. She decided to give up, and return to her room.
And at that moment, she heard a loud splash.
She looked around. There were further splashes, and sounds of laughter and shouting. Nearby, on the river, some boys were messing about on rowing boats and punts—and one of the boys had lost his balance and toppled in.
Mariana watched the young man splashing around, and then surfacing in the river. He swam to the bank and pulled himself out, emerging like some strange mythical creature, a demigod born in water. He was only nineteen then, but he looked like a man, not a boy. He was tall, muscular, and soaking wet; his shirt and trousers were sticking to him, his blond hair plastered across his face, blinding him. He reached up, parted his hair, peered out—and saw Mariana.
It was a strange, timeless moment—that first moment they saw each other. Time seemed to slow down, flatten, and stretch. Mariana was transfixed, held in his gaze, unable to look away. It was an odd feeling, a bit like recognizing someone—someone she had once known intimately, and couldn’t quite place where or when they had lost touch.
The young man ignored the jeering calls of his friends. And with a curious, widening smile, he made his way over to her.
“Hello,” he said. “I’m Sebastian.”
And that was it.
“It was written” is the Greek expression. Meaning, quite simply, from that moment on, their destinies were sealed. Looking back, Mariana would often try to recall the details of that fateful first night—what they spoke about, how long they danced, when they had their first kiss. But try as she might, the specifics slipped through her fingers like grains of sand. She could only remember they were kissing as the sun came up—and from that moment on, they were inseparable.
They spent their first summer together in Cambridge—three months cocooned in ea
ch other’s arms, untroubled by the outside world. Time stood still in this timeless place; it was always sunny, and they spent their days making love, or having long drunken picnics on the Backs, or on the river, sailing under stone bridges and past willow trees and cows grazing in open fields. Sebastian would punt, standing on the back of the boat and plunging the pole down into the riverbed to propel them along, while Mariana, tingling with alcohol, trailed her fingers in the water, gazing at the swans gliding past. Although she didn’t know it at the time, she was already so deeply in love, there was no way out again.
On some level, they became each other—they joined, like mercury.
That’s not to say they didn’t have their differences. In contrast to Mariana’s privileged upbringing, Sebastian was brought up with no money. His parents were divorced and he wasn’t close to either of them. He felt they hadn’t given him a good start in life; and that he had to make his own way, right from the beginning. In many ways, Sebastian said he related to Mariana’s father, and the old man’s drive to succeed. Money mattered to Sebastian too, because, unlike Mariana, he grew up without it, so he respected it, and was determined to make a good living in the city, “so we can build something secure for us and the future—and for our kids.”
That’s how he spoke at just twenty: so ridiculously grown-up. And so naive to assume they would spend the rest of their lives together. They lived in the future in those days, endlessly planning it—and never speaking of the past, and of the unhappy years leading up to their meeting. In many ways, Mariana’s and Sebastian’s lives began when they found each other—in that instant they first saw each other by the river. Mariana believed their love would go on forever. That it would never end—
Looking back, was there something sacrilegious in that assumption? A kind of hubris?
Perhaps.
For here she was, alone on this train, on this journey they had made together countless times, at various stages in their lives and in different moods—mostly happy, sometimes not—talking, reading, or sleeping, Mariana’s head resting on his shoulder. These were the uneventful mundane moments she would give anything to have back again.
She could almost imagine him here—in the carriage, sitting next to her—and if she glanced at the window, she half expected to see Sebastian’s face reflected there, next to hers, superimposed on the passing landscape.
But instead, Mariana saw a different face.
A man’s face, staring at her.
She blinked, unnerved. She turned from the window to glance at him. The man was sitting opposite her, eating an apple. He smiled.
9
The man continued staring at Mariana—although to call him a man was, she decided, rather generous.
He looked as if he were barely in his twenties: he had a boyish face and curly brown hair, and a sprinkling of freckles on his hairless cheeks that made him seem even younger.
He was tall and thin as a rake, dressed in a dark corduroy jacket, creased white shirt, and a college scarf in blue and red and yellow. His brown eyes, partly disguised by his old-fashioned steel-rimmed glasses, brimmed with intelligence and curiosity, and contemplated Mariana with obvious interest.
“How’s it going?” he said.
Mariana peered at him, a little confused. “Do we—know each other?”
He grinned. “Not yet. But hopefully.”
Mariana didn’t reply. She turned away. There was a pause. Then he tried again.
“Would you like one?”
He held out a large brown paper bag, bulging with fruit—grapes, bananas, and apples. “Take one,” he said, offering it to Mariana. “Have a banana.”
Mariana smiled politely. He had a nice voice, she thought. She shook her head.
“No, thanks.”
“You’re absolutely sure?”
“Positive.”
Mariana turned and looked outside, hoping that would end the interaction. She could see his reflection in the window, and watched him shrug, disappointed. He was, apparently, not quite in control of his long limbs—and ended up knocking over his cup and spilling it. Some of his tea went on the table, but most landed in his lap.
“Bloody hell.”
He jumped up, pulling a tissue from his pocket. He mopped up the pool of tea on the table, and dabbed at the stain on his trousers. He gave her an apologetic look. “Sorry about that. Didn’t splash you, did I?”
“No.”
“Good.”
He sat down again. She could feel his eyes on her. After a moment, he said, “You’re … a student?”
Mariana shook her head. “No.”
“Ah. You work in Cambridge?”
Mariana shook her head. “No.”
“Then you’re … a tourist?”
“No.”
“Hmm.” He frowned, evidently perplexed.
There was a pause. Mariana gave in, and said, “I’m visiting someone … My niece.”
“Oh, you’re an aunt.”
He looked relieved to have placed Mariana in a category. He smiled.
“I’m doing a Ph.D.,” he said, volunteering the information, as Mariana didn’t seem about to ask. “I’m a mathematician—well, theoretical physics, really.”
He paused, taking off his glasses to wipe them with a tissue. He looked quite naked without them. And Mariana saw, for the first time, that he was handsome; or would be, when his face grew up a bit.
He put his glasses back on, and peered at her.
“I’m Frederick, by the way. Or Fred. What’s your name?”
Mariana didn’t want to tell Fred her name. Probably because she had the feeling—flattering but also unnerving—that he was trying to flirt with her. Apart from the obvious fact he was too young for her, she wasn’t ready, never would be ready—even thinking about it felt like a sickening betrayal. She answered with strained politeness.
“My name … is Mariana.”
“Ah, that’s a beautiful name.”
Fred went on talking, attempting to engage her in conversation. But Mariana’s responses became increasingly monosyllabic. She silently counted the minutes until she could make her escape.
* * *
When they arrived in Cambridge, Mariana tried to slip away and disappear in the crowd. But Fred caught up with her outside the railway station.
“Can I accompany you to town? On the bus, perhaps?”
“I’d rather walk.”
“Great—I have my bike here—I can walk with you. Or you can ride it if you prefer?”
He looked at her hopefully. Mariana felt sorry for him, despite herself. But she spoke more firmly this time.
“I—prefer to be alone. If that’s okay.”
“Of course … I see. I understand. Perhaps—a coffee, later? Or a drink? Tonight?”
Mariana shook her head and pretended to check her watch. “I won’t be here that long.”
“Well, perhaps I can have your number?” He blushed a little, and the freckles on his cheeks burned red. “Would that be—?”
Mariana shook her head. “I don’t think—”
“No?”
“No.” Mariana looked away, embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I—”
“Don’t be sorry. I’m not discouraged. We’ll meet again soon.”
Something about his tone made her feel a little irritated. “I don’t think so.”
“Oh, we will. I foresee it. I have a gift for that sort of thing, you know—runs in my family—foresight, premonitions. I see things others do not.”
Fred smiled and stepped onto the road. A cyclist swerved to avoid him.
“Watch out,” said Mariana, touching his arm. The cyclist swore at Fred as he rode past.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’m a little clumsy, I’m afraid.”
“Only a little.” Mariana smiled. “Goodbye, Fred.”
“Until we meet again, Mariana.”
He went over to the row of bicycles. Mariana watched as he got on his bike and cycled past, waving at her. The
n Fred turned the corner and vanished.
Mariana breathed a sigh of relief. And she began walking into town.
10
As she made her way to St. Christopher’s, Mariana’s anxiety grew about what she might find there.
She had no idea what to expect—there might be police or press, which seemed hard to believe, looking around the Cambridge streets: there was no sign that anything untoward had happened, no indication a murder had even taken place.
It seemed remarkably peaceful after London. Barely any traffic, the only sound was birdsong, punctuated by a chorus of chirruping bicycle bells as students cycled past in black academic gowns, like flocks of birds.
Mariana had the feeling, a couple of times, as she walked, that she was being watched—or followed—and she wondered if perhaps it was Fred, having doubled back on his bicycle to tail her, but she dismissed the thought as paranoid.
All the same, she glanced over her shoulder a few times, to make sure—and of course no one was there.
As she neared the college, her surroundings grew more and more beautiful with each step: there were spires and turrets above her head, and beech trees lining the streets, shedding golden leaves that collected in piles along the pavement. Long rows of black bicycles were chained against the wrought iron railings. And above the railings, boxes of geraniums enlivened the redbrick college walls with splashes of pink and white.
Mariana glanced at a group of students, presumably first-years, intently studying the posters attached to railings that were advertising events for Freshers’ Week.
They looked so young, these students, these freshers—like babies. Did she and Sebastian ever look that young? It seemed impossible, somehow. It was harder still to imagine anything bad ever happening to those innocent, unblemished faces. And yet she wondered how many of them had tragedy waiting in their future.
Mariana’s mind went back to that poor girl, murdered by the marsh—whoever she was. Even if she wasn’t Zoe’s friend Tara, she was someone’s friend, someone’s daughter. That was the horror of it. We all secretly hope that tragedy will only ever happen to other people. But Mariana knew, sooner or later, it happens to you.
The Maidens Page 3