A very nice girl, p.12
A Very Nice Girl, page 12
I know more about this than you – I said. – They’re not just a bunch of wasters, those singers, they are focused. But tonight was important. Hanging out with them like that – it was important. Successful singers need to be liked. They need to have contacts.
Yeah, but those people aren’t going to help you. They’re your competition. And come on, you want me to believe they’re serious people? Those singers? Or people like Laurie? What is it she even does? Has she ever actually written anything? She’s not a serious person, Anna. And you’re different when you’re with her, you try to be like her. Please, whatever you do, don’t see her as a model for success. Someone who’s too busy getting drunk and complaining about how unfair everything is to play the game. Her need, that unhappiness she has with herself, it radiates off everything she says and does. Can you not see that? It’s exhausting. I’m exhausted. It depresses me to think of you here with her.
You don’t know anything about it – I said. – How dare you think you can tell me what to do, who to be friends with, when you won’t even be with me properly. What’s wrong with you?
He looked at me. He didn’t say anything. There was a pause, and I thought he might get up and leave, but then he said – right, so that’s what this is about.
It has nothing to do with that – I said.
Anna. Look, I thought we’d – I mean, we’ve talked about this, haven’t we? I thought you understood that—
Fuck you – I said.
But the words sounded empty and stupid, and he looked at me with sad, tired eyes, like I’d disappointed him.
He said – come here – and then he said – please.
I went and sat next to him, feeling like a child in the aftermath of a tantrum that’s fuelled itself, exceeded the bounds of its own logic. That same sense of incoherent shame. I let him put his arms round me and pull me to him and kiss me.
Let’s go to sleep – he said.
I woke to the shape of him dressing in the grey of the room. I hadn’t heard his alarm. I was about to ask him – what time is it? – but I stopped myself. I wanted to see how he’d wake me. If he’d kiss me, say my name, shake my arm. I could measure from that how angry he was. I shut my eyes.
I must have fallen asleep, because when I opened them again, he was gone. It was light outside. He’d left a box on the bedside table, with a note on top. It said that he hoped I’d slept well and that I felt better this morning. This was my present, he said, to open at Christmas. He’d let me know when he was back.
I looked at the box, and all the rage I’d felt the night before came back. What exactly was it he expected? That I’d put it under the tree, open it on Christmas Day in front of my parents? They’d say – oh, that’s lovely, who’s that from? – and I’d say – what? – I’d say – oh, just a friend? – I’d say – or – some man I’m fucking? Or did he think I’d open it alone on Christmas morning? Alone in my childhood bedroom, I’d open it and think of him? Feel grateful to him? Miss him? Was that it? Was that what he wanted? Fuck him – I thought – fuck him with his I’ll-let-you-know-when-I’m-back. Fuck him with his opinions.
I opened it. It was a bracelet, fine gold chain, a charm hanging off it – a little disc with the letter A engraved. I rubbed the roughness of it between finger and thumb. It was the same bracelet you see dangling off every other girl’s wrist on the train. I imagined him giving instructions to his secretary, very discreet, I’m sure she always was. The initial, an attempt to make it personal, which somehow made it more generic. The boxes of bracelets in the department store, and the woman in her pencil skirt and blouse, thumbing through them, the different letters, at the end of her lunchbreak. How many of them would she have bought, over the years, I wondered. Different letter, same product. It said nothing about me.
I leant over the side of the bed. The floorboards had a little gap between the slats. I dangled the bracelet between finger and thumb, and fed it through.
Laurie wasn’t in her room, so I went downstairs. I heard her voice in the kitchen. The Ps were both there, standing, and Laurie was sitting at the table. Her face was grey.
What’s going on? – I asked.
We’ve been telling her – Mrs P said. – Mr P and myself. We’ve been telling her that we’ve had enough, haa. We’re not going to take it anymore. We shouldn’t have to take it. Not in our house.
We want you girls to leave – Mr P said. – Enough’s enough.
Take what? – I said.
All that getting in late – Mr P said. – All that waking us up. All that going to the toilet in the night. The cooking. The long baths. All that singing.
We’re very sorry – I said. – We’ll be better, we promise. Won’t we, Laurie? We won’t disturb you anymore.
And last night – Mrs P said, ignoring me. – Last night, that was the end, wasn’t it? That man. In our house. What do you think this is, haa?
She must have seen him on his way out. Peered at him as he passed her bedroom door. Poked her head through the gaps in the bannisters as he was creeping down the stairs.
I’m sorry – I said. – I didn’t know we couldn’t have guests.
Guests! – Mrs P said. – You think I don’t know what sort of girl entertains a man like that? With a suit like that, haa? Now, I might be old-fashioned, but there’s a word we used to use for girls like you, and I’m not having any of that in my house.
But—
I took you girls in out of the goodness of my heart—
Well, I mean, we are paying rent – I said.
And it just goes to show what I always say – and I always want to be proved wrong, but I always say it – that you can’t trust people, can you? You can’t trust people.
We’ll let you stay until the New Year – Mr P said. – Because it’s Christmas.
They stood looking at us until we left.
Laurie came up to my room with me.
Well, I hope you’re happy – she said.
Whose fault do you think it was we had to come back here?
She answered with icy silence.
Let’s not argue – I said. – Please.
We got into my bed, and then she cheered up.
You know – she said. – Mrs P said appearances were deceptive and you’re no better than a common hussy.
She didn’t.
You know she did. But we’ll find somewhere better, I promise. And so that was the grand man, was it? The great romance of the century? I mean, my memories of last night are a little blurry, but seriously? He’s such a cliché, isn’t he, Anna? Things didn’t work out with his wife, so he’s fucking a child. Original.
I’m not a child – I said.
You know what I mean.
Well, no, I don’t actually.
He seems so desperate to prove himself, doesn’t he? – she said. – It’s tedious.
Wanting to show Laurie that my understanding of him was better, more nuanced than hers, I said – there was this one night, a couple of weeks ago. He knew I had an early start, a rehearsal in the morning, and it was late already, but we had sex anyway. And then afterwards, he made me come again. And then even after that, he went down on me again. And then, yeah, I think another time, I kind of lost track. It was so late at night, and it didn’t even feel good by the end. It actually hurt. I mean, talk about proving yourself. That had nothing to do with me, did it? My pleasure. That was all about him.
I thought Laurie would laugh, but she didn’t.
But why didn’t you say something? – she said.
I don’t know. I didn’t want to offend him, I guess.
Jesus – she said. – That’s so fucked up. Are you ok?
It really wasn’t like that – I said quickly, regretting I’d told her. – Anyway, I take your point. I’ve had it. Enough.
Well, good for you. I’m proud. Personal growth, and all that.
She looked like she was about to say something else, but then she saw the box and reached for it.
Ooh. What’s in here?
Nothing – I said.
EIGHT
I spent the week before I left for Christmas trying to distract myself.
I distracted myself with packing, or thinking about it. Throwing things away. Laurie had convinced me to get rid of half my stuff. She didn’t identify as a consumer, she said, she identified as a human. The less she bought into consumer culture, the more human she felt, the more free, and I would too, she said – though I suspected that, really, she just wanted me to take up less space when we moved. Anyway, getting rid of stuff hadn’t made me feel free. I’d barely even noticed. Just sometimes, I’d open a drawer and be surprised to find it empty.
I distracted myself by ushering for Conservatory auditions, next year’s intake. Meeting the singers at reception, showing them to the warm-up room, standing outside the door and hearing them sing. A million sopranos who looked just like me.
And then the ultimate distraction. The day before I left, Marieke called me into her office. They were casting me as Musetta in La Bohème.
Of course, we don’t normally use first years for the big roles – she said. – Not for our main productions. You’ll have a cover who’ll be properly rehearsed, and if we don’t think you’re up to it by March, she’ll step in. But the Director saw your Manon, and he’s keen to have you.
The fog of purposelessness lifting, the cycle of creation starting again. Getting the score out of the library, seeing the notes on the page and thinking what I’d build.
Back home, though, it was harder to distract myself. The nights were so dark there and so quiet, no traffic, the birds only singing at the right time of day. Mum’s hands were cracked, her knuckles raw with washing, and Dad moved round her, silent and obedient, always careful not to get in her way, like a good but dull child. Everything I did, she observed – you’re not going to cut that with that knife, are you? You’re not going to use that towel, are you? You’re not going to put that cup on the table, are you? – until I grew uncertain, became worried instinctively about things I knew didn’t matter. It was hard not to let Max fill my head then, a favourite song I’d play over and over and over. I tried to stop myself. I went for long walks. Watched TV with them in the evenings. Practised at the upright in the hall, trying to find a way into Musetta, that carefree woman who wants everyone to look at her. She seemed unimaginably different from me – but not really – not really – because that super-sexy aria is a front, isn’t it? He doesn’t notice her anymore. That’s what it’s about. She’s in pain. I used images of Max to make her come alive, and tried to frame them in my head as memory, not hope.
On my first night back, we sat at our places for dinner and Dad poured us some wine. A treat because I was home. They didn’t normally drink.
Cheers – he said. – Nice to have her back, isn’t it?
Mum nodded.
Thanks – I said.
After that, they made conversation as though I’d never left and had nothing new to tell them. We talked about the Christmas films we’d watch, the end of term panto at the school where Dad taught geography, who Mum had bumped into in the street earlier, when we should decorate the tree. I’d drunk the best part of the bottle by myself before Dad said – so how are you liking it in London then? Changed your mind yet?
I hadn’t been gone twenty-four hours, and already I missed the rhythms of the city, its beat and its breath – the smell of Tooting market, spice and meat – the night bus with Laurie, being swung through the streets, like we were on a fairground ride, too quick round the corners, and all the bright lights outside – the Polish supermarket I went to sometimes, odd comfort in unfamiliar products, in the sound of a language I knew nothing about.
It’s always new – I said. – You could walk all day and never get to the edge.
Why would you want to do that? – Mum asked.
Never mind. No, is the answer. I haven’t changed my mind.
You’re getting by ok? – Dad asked. – With money?
Fine, yeah.
How much is it you’re earning?
My parents didn’t see money as private, I suppose because they’d never had much of it. Growing up, I always knew exactly what things cost. School trips, cake and hot chocolate after swimming, new shoes. The shopping list for the week was always stuck on the fridge, the price next to each item, and they’d total it up before the big shop, go to the supermarket with the right amount of cash. Dad still got paper copies of the phone bill. He’d highlight the calls he considered excessive, pin it to the corkboard in the kitchen.
Well, it varies – I said. – Not the same each month. Enough, though. You don’t need to worry.
Mum was looking out into the garden, face carefully neutral, like she thought any engagement with my life in London might be mistaken for approval.
So, do you not want to hear about my course then? – I asked. I still entertained a vague hope, I suppose, that if I expressed what I did in the right way, it might inspire enthusiasm.
Dad said, well, yes, of course, and I started telling them about Manon. The scale of it, the prestige. I wanted to show her something she’d have to look at.
It was in the Conservatory’s theatre – I said. – And we had a proper orchestra, not just a piano, even though it was only scenes. The biggest audience I’ve ever sung for, too, and I thought I’d be really scared, but actually there wasn’t time to get nervous. I only found out I’d be performing on the day. And Marieke – she’s the Head of Department – she was really impressed. They’ve given me a main role in the next full opera, which is a big deal for a first year. The director they’ve got in is pretty well known. He often works with Conservatory students again once they’ve graduated, so it’s really good for him to know me, and—
But why didn’t you tell us? – Mum said. – About the show. We would have come.
Well, I only found out on the day. You wouldn’t have made it down on time.
Your dad could have driven us.
It’s quite far.
Even so.
The truth was, I hated my parents coming to hear me. They always focused insistently on the wrong things – how long it would take to drive there, how much the tickets cost, whether there’d be an interval to go to the loo – and the whole experience was diminished, became mundane and ordinary, and then I’d feel guilty for thinking that, which made it even worse. Mum would always get upset, and we’d have an argument about something stupid – whether I’d been short with her when I left dinner to warm up, or whether I’d put my dirty shoes in the same bag as my clean clothes when I’d changed into concert dress. I wasn’t ever convinced they enjoyed the music either. They never said much afterwards, and their compliments were always things like – that was much better than that last one you did – and I’d petulantly say – why, what was wrong with the last one? – and Mum would tell me to stop being such a diva, and we’d drive home in silence.
Well, I’m sorry – I said. – Next time.
There was a little pause.
It’s so quiet here – I said.
I noticed Mum was looking at me in a funny way.
What?
You talk differently, that’s all.
What does that even mean? – I said, but she’d already stood up to clear the plates. I realised – a habit with her watching me, automatic – I’d spent so much time cutting my food up small, I’d barely touched it.
*
Mum must have spoon-fed me until I was at primary school, because I remember it. My chair turned to face her, the clink of metal on teeth. Even when I was older, she still cut all my food up into bite-sized pieces before she gave me the plate. The same in my lunchbox. Sandwiches with crusts removed, sliced into fingers. Grapes peeled and cut in half. Cereal bars taken out of their packets, divided into squares and wrapped in clingfilm. Food had to be made safe, she said, and so I should never eat at a friend’s house. A few times – when their dinner was too tempting, or I was too embarrassed to say I wasn’t allowed – I did anyway and, back home, I’d have to force down another full meal so she wouldn’t know. Why aren’t you eating? – she’d say anxiously, when I could only pick. – What’s wrong? Are you ill?
She had worked as a nurse before I was born, and everything was a potential symptom. My body was an object of constant scrutiny. Every morning before school, she made me sit on the bottom step so she could take my temperature. She combed my hair several times a day to look for lice, plucked out bits of fluff and examined them. She weighed me on Saturday mornings, increased or reduced my food intake if the number didn’t please her. She sat with me when I was in the bath and checked my skin for marks.
To keep my body safe, there were many rules. I wasn’t allowed to turn on the TV by myself. I wasn’t allowed to climb onto a chair to reach a high shelf or to use any knife, not even a blunt one. I wasn’t allowed to boil the kettle or touch my face or eat fruit with my hands. I wasn’t allowed to climb trees. I begged for a bike, but she said no. I wasn’t allowed to use toilets outside our house – not even the school ones – unless I promised to hover without touching the seat, and I wasn’t allowed to wear my uniform at home. She made me take it off in the hall as soon as I got back, so she could put it straight in the wash. I wasn’t allowed to sleep over with friends or to go to birthday parties with activities she considered unsafe – paintballing or rollerblading or Laser Quest. When we took trips – which wasn’t often – she didn’t let me talk on public transport. She forbid me from touching poles on trains or from pressing the bell on buses. Sometimes she wouldn’t press it either, and so if no one else wanted to get off, we’d miss our stop and have to walk back.
The routine examinations of my body were connected to the rules, I knew that. If I didn’t follow them, my body would be damaged, and my mum would be able to see that the moment she looked at it – though it wasn’t always clear to me how. Sometimes the connection between an activity and the potential harm it might cause was obvious. Other times, I wasn’t so sure, and she never provided much explanation, not even when I asked, she’d just say – it’s not safe, Anna. Those rules were the most frightening – the ones I didn’t understand. They meant I couldn’t trust myself to read the world properly. I didn’t seem to know instinctively what was dangerous, what could cause me harm, make me ill. I needed her to tell me.
