Читать книгу Sixteen, Sixty-One - Natalie Lucas - Страница 10

My mum stopped eating when my dad left her. She told me later that a couple of times she went to bed with a carving knife. I was eleven at the time and we were close. We went swimming most days, and, driving along the dual carriageway with our costumes in the back and tears staining our cheeks, she’d tell me about the separation. She explained my father had found another girlfriend before he’d even told her he wanted out; described his shock that she’d changed the locks one morning when he returned from Katie’s to collect clean socks before work; and told me he wanted to keep the house, meaning we would have to move. She recounted the names he’d called her, sobbed about promises he’d broken and raged at how much she’d sacrificed for the relationship.

Some would say I was too young to hear this and my mother must have contributed to the lousy relationship I had with my father through my teens, but I adored being told these things. Her confidence in me assured me I was her best friend and provided me my first taste of the contradictory pleasure of intense pain.

When she told me my dad had suggested I live with her and he take James, I threw myself into hating the father who loved me less than my brother. When forced to spend the weekend with him, I would scream an explicit response to his, ‘Would you like to cut my lawn?’ and stomp back down the road into my mother’s arms.

That kind of intense closeness with a parent is exhilarating, but exhausting. My mum’s friends would comment that I seemed insecure because I insisted on telling her I loved her a dozen times an hour. And when I was old enough to stay at other people’s houses, I’d feel guilty for breaking up our family unit for an evening.

By the time my second life began, my mum and I were already clashing like any teen cliché. So, when, half a dozen months after my first Bunbury at Swindon, she screeched up the stairs, ‘WHY DON’T YOU GO AND LIVE WITH YOUR FATHER IF YOU FEEL LIKE THAT?’ I did. While she sobbed that she hadn’t meant it and couldn’t understand why I was doing this, I dragged suitcases across town and moved in with the man I’d hated for the past five years.

Living with my dad proved convenient. He was out a lot and didn’t ask where I was going. Over months of microwaved rice and washing-up stand-offs, my dad and I began to rebuild the relationship I’d treasured as a little girl. However, my basic lack of respect for him as a parent meant conducting an affair under his nose was purely mathematical; uncomplicated by the guilt I’d felt when lying to my mother. My biggest shame, even now, out of everything I did and everyone I deceived, was allowing my mum to think I left because of her. My brother would update me on how many times a week he found her crying and how, for years afterwards, she would periodically tell him she still didn’t understand why I’d gone. After our initial anger had worn off, we tentatively made up, but our closeness was lost. We never spoke of me moving out and she told me she would be my friend from now on, but no longer my mother.

At sixteen, I’d achieved what I’d set out to do and what most teenagers long for: I’d shed parental guidance and found autonomy. But it felt awful.

I turned to Matthew and Annabelle. Matthew was not only my lover, but my father and mother too. And eating roast dinners around their table or helping them do the crossword on a Saturday morning let me pretend I had a functioning family.

However, when my dad took his campervan to raves or visited one of his girlfriends for the night, my functioning family became less Brady, more Bovary.

I’d wait in the hall, peering through the glass front door. The transparency of my father’s bay-windowed house freaked me out when I was alone at night and I’d imagine faceless strangers standing on the lawns, watching as I climbed the stairs and walked in and out of uncurtained rooms. On nights like this I’d worry the couple in the manor house across the road could see everything I did. I’d turn off the lights.

From the dark, I’d watch the curved front path bathed in orange streetlight. I’d jump at every shadow and tap my foot nervously when an old lady pulled her Fiat Punto to the other side of the street to stuff an envelope into the post-box.

I’d be wearing the knee-length suede coat my dad had bought me as a reward for getting straight As in my GCSEs. I’d have on the one pair of heels I owned, purchased for a tenner from New Look, and, underneath the coat, an intricately detailed lace thong or a complicatedly clasped suspenders set.

A black-coated figure would make his way up the path. He’d climb the porch steps and trigger the sensored light. We’d both panic. I’d let him in and shoo him away from the window. We’d go directly to my bedroom.

The walls were a deep red that my grandmother had warned would look like the lining of a womb. With candles flickering shadows to the ceiling and Norah Jones lilting softly, I felt it had the appropriateness of a theatrical set. The bed flaunted itself in the middle of the room, not beside a wall or tucked into an alcove, but centre stage. Around it were no stuffed toys, stacks of board games or cheesy ‘Best Buds’ photo frames, as featured in my friends’ bedrooms, but instead: white canvas furniture; bookshelves divided into novels, poetry, reference and erotica; a leather armchair with Steppenwolf resting upon it; six or seven kohl pencils beside the mirror; and a bottle of baby oil on the bedside table.

My silver-haired guest would unlace his shoes and place them together before neatly removing his clothes and folding them in a pile upon the chair. I’d keep my coat buttoned and he’d come to me. He’d coyly ask what I was hiding and I’d giggle.

At some point, the coat would fall to the floor and he’d push me, still in my heels, onto the bed. It had posts, to which I was sometimes delicately laced with silk scarves or violently chained by handcuffs. Other nights, however much I gripped the bars and moaned that I wanted him to take control, he wouldn’t be in the mood.

He’d direct his attentions beneath the lingerie, glancing at my face regularly to gauge his success, before methodically wetting himself with oil and spilling two drops on the beige carpet but not apologising. He’d manoeuvre my limbs as he wanted them, concentrating on his angle as he entered. He’d look at me briefly, searchingly, angrily, perhaps even accusingly, but eventually say, ‘I love you.’ I’d reply and the hardness in his eyes would return.

‘Do you?’ he’d demand as he twisted me over and pressed me to the sheets. I’d feel the weight of his wrinkled hand upon my back, but my crotch would respond and he’d split my thighs further with each thrust. I’d reach underneath to touch myself and, seeing me, he’d quicken his pace, clutching my hips to guide his strokes. I’d utter low, gravelly responses to his questions: did I like that? Could I feel him? Was he deep inside me? Was I bad? Did I need to be punished? Did I want to be fucked? He’d continue talking not looking for a response; my stifled cries enough. He was fucking me, he’d tell me, and he wasn’t going to stop, he was going to fuck me until I came, until my cunt was sore and I begged him to stop. I was a naughty little girl who needed to be taught a lesson, he’d growl. He had my legs split and was fucking me with his thick cock, he’d say, he was filling my hole, was right up inside me and wasn’t going to stop however much I wanted him to, was going to give me the best fucking of my life, was going to ruin me, was …

The deep thrusts would melt into frantic and sloppy jerks as I felt a hot liquid smear between my legs and begin to trickle. For a moment, I’d stay in the same position, still locked to the bed though his hand had gone. I’d become aware of my arse waving in the air and shyly roll over, reaching for a tissue. He’d be lying down already, drifting into sleep. He’d reach out his arm for me and we’d lie stiffly, avoiding the wet patch, until he roused himself and said it was late, he should leave.

My sixth-form life was thus divided between sordid trysts and a desire to fit in. I’d ruined a relationship with my mum, my dad was out four nights a week and my friends at school were so alienated by my jumble of lies that there was a rumour going around that I’d made up an imaginary boyfriend that I actually believed in, meaning I was probably certifiably crazy. Instead of spotty boys and impossible algebra, my head was filled with poetry, Uncles and how I could next see the man who told me I was special.

Every day after school, most weekends and all holidays I’d snake down the garden path and fall onto the street. I’d pace across town, and, hurrying past my mum’s house, I’d worry vaguely about the Grays and the Roberts as I darted through Matthew’s wrought-iron gate, noting whether Annabelle’s car rested beside his. I’d press the doorbell, plus bang the knocker if the chipped red door failed to open immediately, and my foot would tap anxiously before a face peeked from behind the draught-excluding curtain, checking over my shoulder for witnesses and whispering hurriedly about Annabelle’s mood or how long we had alone. Once inside, those familiar smells of incense and coffee, cat and perfume. The hallway full of Indian patterns, net curtains and antique lamps, stairs leading upwards and doors to my left and one to my right. If Annabelle was home, a quick shuffle to the right and softly close the study door. A kiss and an embrace between the solid fire-proof door and the light blue curtains, drawn above the leather chaise longue, banishing the street outside, separating Uncles from others; us from them. I’d lean back on the dark wood of the ancient desk, absently fingering the knob of the locked drawer where my diaries were kept. I’d smell the familiar scent of the books on the shelf, twisting with too much Jovan Musk in the air. My ancient lover would be clean-shaven, wearing a soft pink shirt, or stubbly and sick-looking, padding about in a dressing gown and repulsing me with his weakness. The whiteboard would be scrawled with names like Southern Star, Kieren Fallon, Monty’s Pass and John Velazquez, and a picture of me from the previous summer was taped discreetly to the back of the door, along with a calendar dotted with the word ‘Baba’.

Following prudent ‘hellos’, we’d venture back into the hall and seek out Annabelle. Though she rarely sat in there except to watch television in the evenings, I’d poke my head in the living room and survey the formal couches, the locked bookcase of first editions, the china cats guarding the wedding photograph on the faux-marble mantelpiece and the real feline, Juno, gazing at me from a cushion on the rocking chair in the bay window. I’d follow Matthew along the hall into the extended kitchen and wait for my eyes to adjust to the light pouring from the south-facing veranda windows. Through them I could see their long, overgrown garden, and the tips of the trees in the wood beyond.

Annabelle would be sat at the chunky table twirling a pencil above a shopping list, or standing by the counter pouring water into the teapot, or kneeling by the boarded-up fireplace painting a mural. Or the kitchen would be empty and I’d wander to ‘my seat’ and grab a pack of cards from the bookshelf, begin shuffling while Matthew filled the kettle, glanced in the fridge and stepped onto the patio to check Annabelle was safely engrossed pulling weeds. He’d kiss me and we’d giggle naughtily about ‘doppelgänger’ and ‘kitten’ as we played cribbage and Matthew let me win. After a while, Annabelle would amble slowly up the garden path and we’d shuffle our chairs apart. We’d all discuss Mrs Roberts’s new decking, Lydia’s latest DIY dream or Hannah’s new boyfriend.

After a cup of tea, Annabelle would say they needed bread for the morning and something to eat for dinner, so perhaps she’d drive down to Sainsbury’s. It’d be another half hour of desperate anticipatory glances between Matthew and me before she’d actually leave. We’d act nonchalant as she finished her list, hunted for a lost glove and telephoned her mother to see if she wanted anything picking up, but as soon as we heard the Yale click into place, we’d spring from our seats. Matthew would lead me back along the hall and up the staircase lined with laminated collages of cats and fairies. We’d sweep past the first landing, which always had two closed doors. As I always did when I passed through this floor, I’d try to imagine Annabelle’s bedroom, picturing a mass of ancient teddy bears piled on cotton sheets and books like Jane Eyre beneath a lamp. I never saw inside, though. The other door led to Annabelle’s equally mysterious office. For all that she welcomed me into their unit and was ‘kind’ to us by finding excuses to leave us alone, there was a tacit understanding that this floor was sacred; that I belonged in the attic. So I’d follow Matthew up another, steeper flight of stairs with nothing adorning the walls.

The room in the attic was sparse, an old B&B offering with an en-suite shower room and two twin beds under the eaves. One was always unmade, a chiropractic pillow resting beside striped pyjamas and thick reading glasses. The other had just a navy fleece blanket and one pillow. This one was for me. At the foot of the second bed sat a desk piled with hardbacks overflowing from the two bookcases: evidence, should anyone ask, that I belonged up here ‘sorting books’. Matthew would drape a piece of gauzy fabric from two nails either side of the window as a makeshift curtain, then unlace his shoes and remove his socks. We were usually in a hurry, I suppose, but I’d still hesitate until Matthew asked if I was being coy, then I’d remove my jeans to reveal an expensive thong he’d bought me or Primark hold-ups or nothing at all. He’d make love to me on his side, always looking for the ‘love-light’. He’d try to make me come and tell me what his friend in the ‘industry’ had said about the percentage of women who can’t reach orgasm, but we’d inevitably end with a stickiness between my thighs and his penis shrivelled contentedly back into place. He’d disappear into the bathroom and return smelling of baby powder, then I’d go to pee and clean myself. We’d lie together for a few minutes, speaking of love and poetry, but soon grow restless and pull on our clothes, anxious to be back playing cards before Annabelle returned. Sometimes we’d hear her key before our underwear was in place and he’d hurry down in his dressing gown to tell her he’d suddenly ‘felt funny’ and I’d gone home, before ushering me silently out the door while she put the shopping away downstairs.

Back on the street, I’d breathe the daylight air or skulk into the starry shadows and wonder if my cheeks were flushed. I’d miss him instantly and suddenly want to cry. Sneaking back past my mother’s house, I’d take a detour via the empty park, sit on a swing and reach in my bag for my diary. I’d scrawl about how life was unfair and the bitter irony of true beauty. Eventually, I’d return home and begin boiling pasta, chat to my dad if he was home and absently make up a lie about doing homework with Claire. He’d only half listen while watching Stargate anyway, and I’d lock myself in my room with Tori Amos and the latest book Matthew had instructed me to read.