The Couple’s Secret

I found myself in a strange, scratchy mood, as if I wasn’t quite sure what was going on. There was something about the randomness of the invite to the Wimpy that unnerved me slightly and I kept flicking between deciding not to go and feeling quietly excited they’d decided to let me into their little gang. When I found myself thinking this latter thought I mentally kicked myself. We weren’t back in school. The idea of having cliques and gangs was supposed to go away when you were past the age of seventeen, surely?

Apparently not, it seemed, as we set out on the short walk to the boys’ dorms. I could see other little packs making their way across the courtyard; small huddles of friends who had decided they belonged together. Whether through sports, studies, societies or just common interests, these people had decided they worked better as a team. We’re sociable animals by nature, of course, but the politics of friendship seemed to be emphasised here to a disproportionate degree; worse, perhaps, than when I was at school. The horrendous weather, which, combined with the spires and churches on the skyline, made it seem as if we’d slipped into a Hammer horror movie, meant Ally and I had to hold our coats hard to our chests for fear of them blowing open. The rain hadn’t started, but we both knew it wouldn’t be long, dreading the moment we would have to open our umbrellas and fight to keep them from being turned inside out with every gust that came our way.

When we reached the boys’ halls, I felt my stomach drop inside me, a feeling that only got worse as Ally marched down the corridor that led to their rooms. The thought of being in such close proximity to where they lived, where they slept, where they undressed – where James undressed – made me squirm slightly. Ally didn’t bother to knock, just barged into what I gathered was Ernest’s room. The place was shockingly messy, even messier than Ally’s. Clothes littered the floor – white shirts, mostly, which seemed to be Ernest’s trademark apparel, along with jumpers, underwear and stacks of books, many of which seemed to be written by obscure European philosophers and various other authors I had never heard of. On the desk was an extensive array of orange Penguin paperbacks and on the shelves were hardbacks from the Everyman’s Library series. It seemed that when he’d moved in there had been some effort to establish order, though these foundations had been tested over time.

‘See anything you like?’ said Ernest, who’d noticed me looking at the books. His face hadn’t quite spread out into a full sneer, but I was suspicious of the smile dancing around his lips.

‘Maybe,’ I said, then turned to Ally. ‘Is James’s room close? Are we meeting him and Peter at the restaurant?’

Ally was about to speak, but Ernest’s laughter cut her off. ‘Three things. First, I don’t think “restaurant” is usually a term employed in relation to the Wimpy, unless one is using it very loosely. Second, Peter has lost some book he desperately needs and is having a strop in the way only Peter knows how. He will indeed be meeting us there, if he finds his missing tome. And third, you might want to take a look at Sleeping Beauty in the bed over there. Better still, maybe you could give him a nudge for me. I’ve been trying to get him up for the past hour.’

I looked over at the bed and there was indeed, amidst an excessive amount of pillows, a human-size mass under the sheets, with the duvet pulled up so high that only a glimpse of brown hair could be seen nestled among the folds. I felt a jolt of something uncomfortable in my spine as I realised it was James, sleeping silently. I could see the rise and fall of his breathing, ever so slightly, in the shape of his shoulders.

‘Oh, for God’s sake, I thought you guys would be ready. I’m fucking starving.’ Ally stomped across to the bed and tore back the duvet. For one mortifying moment I found myself partly dreading, partly hoping, that he would be unclothed – perhaps even naked – under the covers, but he wasn’t. He was wearing pyjama bottoms and a navy-blue Oxford hoody.

‘Wake up.’ He recoiled from her harsh bark, moving closer to the wall, burrowing his head deeper into the mound of pillows. She got on the bed and began poking his back. ‘I want a bloody burger, and your idle behaviour isn’t going to stop me from getting it.’

Ernest was grinning, with his hands on his hips, watching his sister drag his friend from his bed. ‘We had a bit of a wild night last night,’ he said. ‘It takes poor James a little longer than most to recover. Delicate creature, he is.’

James was now sitting on the bed, rubbing his eyes. ‘I should go have a shower.’

‘No time for that. Didn’t you hear me? Me. Food. Want. Now. You look fine, anyway.’

‘Probably better than most of their clientele,’ Ernest drawled, rolling his eyes and smirking, though I kept my face neutral, refusing to be complicit in his casual snobbery.

‘Your trousers are around the floor somewhere, if you can find them,’ he said, but James shook his head and murmured something about jeans before wandering off out of Ernest’s room, presumably to his own to get some fresh attire.

It took about fifteen minutes for James to get ready. I spent most of it awkwardly perched on Ernest’s bed while Ally made complaints about her stomach and how she could feel the muscles contracting in protest due to extreme hunger. Ernest showed no sympathy and made a crude comment about James having a wank in the shower. Ally tutted at this and accused him of being vulgar. ‘Oh, he likes to knock one out in the mornings. Does it like clockwork.’ Ally reminded him that it was 5.30 p.m., which didn’t count as ‘the morning’, regardless of what time one woke up.

When he finally arrived, James did look a little more kempt, with his hair in a less-ruffled state and wearing a pair of dark-blue jeans. He’d swapped the hoody for a chunky burgundy jumper, which made him look like one of those dreamy-looking boys I’d seen once in a Ralph Lauren advertisement – boys who, I’d told myself at the time, weren’t real and had been crafted in an evil man-lab somewhere to make girls feel lightheaded and other boys feel jealous, resentful or sexually confused.

‘At bloody last,’ Ally huffed, and we all left Ernest’s room.

Conversation was attempted and then aborted as we walked around the corner to the fringes of the city centre. It was impossible to hear one’s own words, let alone those of anyone else, when the wind was screeching like a tortured farm animal and battering us from either side. The much-feared rain eventually arrived just as the warm, welcoming glow of the Wimpy came within sight, causing us to dash madly down the street and in through its little door before we got soaked to the skin.

The restaurant was almost empty, save for a woman and little boy in a dark corner at the end of the restaurant. She glanced around at me as we arrived, then turned back to the child, apparently trying to coax him into finishing the last of his chips.

‘Could we get a table for four, please? I’m afraid we haven’t booked. Is that a problem?’ This ridiculous question came from Ernest, who could barely contain his mirth at his own joke as he spoke to the bored-looking Asian lady behind the counter.

‘No,’ she said flatly. ‘Please sit where you like.’

‘You can be a bit of a dickhead, Ern,’ said James, though Ernest just beamed in response to this as if he considered it a compliment.

Peter was still nowhere to be seen, so we settled at the table nearest the window, away from the woman and child, and Ally began dishing out menus, grabbing extra ones from the tables nearby. I took the slightly sticky laminated sheet in my hand and looked through the options. Though I hadn’t been in a Wimpy for years, I wasn’t surprised to see only minimal changes had been made to the array of burgers, strangely plastic-looking sausages and other fried food. When the waitress came to take our order, I was slightly disconcerted when everyone ordered exactly the same thing: a cheeseburger and fries with a strawberry milkshake, as if it was some kind of set menu I wasn’t aware of. I almost changed my own choice so as not to be the odd one out, but stuck to my guns and ordered a burger with no cheese but tomato sauce, fries and a Coke.

Although I had been afraid of awkward silences, conversation came quite naturally, with Ally conducting everyone like an orchestra, asking me questions about my course in a way that enabled me to have a part in whatever they wanted to discuss. It turned out that, as with me, literature was their primary topic of conversation, as Peter had suggested. And I could see why he’d recommended I join in with them more after our discussion on To the Lighthouse; the group were apparently going through a bit of a Woolf phase. Mrs Dalloway seemed to be the focus today, with Ally declaring it ‘utter, pretentious claptrap’, while James and Ernest objected to her criticisms and said she ‘just didn’t get it’.

‘There’s no need to denigrate one of the greatest authors of the twentieth century simply because you have a short attention span.’ Ernest had a wicked smile on his face, knowing full well what would wind his sister up.

Ally almost spat her milkshake out of her nostrils. ‘I do not have a short attention span.’ She shifted in her seat irritably. ‘Where’s the food? They don’t usually take this long.’

‘I think you’ve just proved my point.’

‘Hunger has nothing to do with attention spans.’

‘And yet you used it to change the subject.’

Ally glared at him. ‘Peter’s still not here.’

‘Well spotted,’ said Ernest, peering over James’s shoulder at the rain-soaked night outside. ‘Perhaps he took one look at the weather and decided we weren’t worth it. Or he’s crying in one of the stacks of the library, having a little private funeral for the remnants of his essay.’

I took in Ernest’s fluid movements, his laughter, his playful barbs aimed at his sister. Some girls would like that type of thing, I thought as I watched him. But turning my attention to James, I felt a deep swell inside me, like a force rebelling against any attempts to tame it, and knew I wasn’t one of those girls. The quiet, serious type was my thing – a ‘thing’ I’d never really known I had until I met him for the first time. My lack of experience with boys was probably plain to see for people like Ally and Ernest who, by all accounts, enjoyed their respective sex lives in an unfussy, matter-of-fact kind of way. And when the topic of conversation turned, as it was always going to do, to the subject of sex, I found myself wanting to crawl under a rock somewhere. Or a table.

‘The problem is, she’s just never had it done to her,’ Ernest said, describing a girl he had gone home with a few nights before. ‘When I told her the name of it, she made this shrieking noise, as if she was repulsed.’

‘It does sound like some kind of infection, doesn’t it?’ said Ally, grimacing. ‘Cunnilingus. Cunn-i-ling-gus.’

‘It does if you say it like that.’ James grinned. Like me, he’d barely spoken throughout the whole dinner, just silently consumed his burger and chips, though leaving the two halves of the bun neatly on the side of his plate, having eaten the contents with a knife and fork. Ally rounded on him.

‘Ahh, so you have an opinion on this, do you?’

‘Not necessarily.’

‘Practise it much?’

James didn’t answer, instead picking up one of the fries that had fallen off Ernest’s plate and starting to move it around his own, mopping up a minuscule amount of tomato sauce from the edges.

‘His silence speaks volumes,’ said Ernest and winked at me.

‘Oh yes, sorry, I forgot. My brother doesn’t have a vagina, so of course James would have no interest in going down on one. A cock, on the other hand …’

‘Here we go.’ Ernest rolled his eyes. ‘I knew the Mrs Dalloway talks wouldn’t last long. Come on, let’s hear it, sis.’ He turned to me. ‘In case you haven’t already noticed, my sister likes nothing better than to imply James and I are sodomising the night away together. Just jealousy, I’d say. Plain and simple. She can’t bear the thought that I converse with and laugh with and breathe the same air as another individual other than herself.’

I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or not, so I glanced at Ally, who had a look of triumph in her eye.

‘Sodomising the night away? Interesting turn of phrase, dearest brother. I don’t remember anyone saying anything about sodomy. Interesting that your mind should jump so quickly to penetrative sex. I was merely implying oral, but if you want to plunge straight in at the deep end, be my guest.’ She shot me a wicked smile, raising her eyebrows, enjoying the game. Her references to gay sex startled me somewhat. I wasn’t naïve – I knew some men did such things – but throughout my teens my parents had always implied men who had sex with men were disease-ridden AIDS sufferers who would soon perish as a result of their aberrant desires. This bothered me throughout the rest of our meal and, after Ally had got bored and all the fries had been eaten, the quick trudge in the drizzle back to our respective dorms. Ally seemed to be treating it all as a bit of a laugh, though I wasn’t entirely sure if her comments were manifestations of her own prejudices towards gay men, or if they were actually based on a glimmer of truth, and she just enjoyed torturing the two boys with this knowledge. Presumably the boys had slept together last night, if James had been in Ernest’s bed for most of the day. Perhaps their friendship wasn’t purely platonic. But Ally had also implied Ernest was a prolific ‘shagger’ of ladies, and that I was (or at least appeared to be, on the outside) just his type. I’d heard some people liked both genders, but to me this seemed even farther removed from my everyday life than homosexuals pure and simple. The idea of not being restricted by gender frightened me slightly, though I didn’t quite know why. It had a rather thrilling, anarchic quality to it, as if the constraints on gender that dominated the lives of the many didn’t apply to them. They were free.

Ally and I got back to our halls first and she waved goodbye to the two boys without properly looking at them. I was surprised at the abrupt ending to the evening. It was still only 7.15. Hardly a wild night out for a bunch of students. Maybe they were all going to congregate later on when I was safely back in my room. They might swap notes on how well they thought I’d done. I was cross I hadn’t had more time to really assert myself or make my presence seem worthwhile. Instead of an active participant, I’d become a passive spectator, watching Ally trade quips with her brother about his sexual preferences. My mind was dwelling on this in such detail that I didn’t realise, as we were walking towards our rooms, that Ally was in the full flow of conversation.

‘… I just thought it would be nice for you to see us all together. We’re not exactly a frightening bunch. I know Ern can be a bit, well, spikey occasionally, but that’s just his insecurities showing through. He collects them, don’t you know? Like some people collect stamps or rare novels, he collects insecurities. Intellect is the main one. It’s like he’s absolutely terrified one day everyone – teachers, professors, friends, the world – will discover he’s actually just ‘rather bright’ rather than ‘insanely brilliant’. There’s a big difference between the two, of course, and Ernest is traumatised by the knowledge that if anyone dug too deeply they’d probably place him in the former category.’

She unlocked her door and walked in still talking, presuming I would follow.

‘Anyway, I don’t know why he’s worried. He’ll get what he’s always wanted – a seat in the Commons. Daddy’s practically got it all sorted for him. He’ll have no trouble winning a place.’

I made a vague sound, somewhere between affirmation and ‘do go on’.

‘Yes, well, he’ll just need to get a first, of course. Daddy’s rather firm about that. And it’s not a question of how clever he is; it’s more about whether he actually does what he’s told. Studies the things he’s supposed to study, not the nonsense he’s more interested in.’

‘Surely he should focus on his interests?’ I said, unsure why I was standing up for him.

‘Hmm, you sound like my mother.’ Ally rolled her eyes and collapsed onto her bed, causing the springs in the mattress to twang noisily.

Being likened to someone so close, at least biologically, to Ally must, I decided, be a positive thing, so I smiled and peered around awkwardly at the untidy room.

‘Oh, please, Holly, sit down. You’re making me tense just standing there.’ She gave one of her bark-like laughs.

I started to think about what it would be like to lie down next to Ally in the same way Ernest and James did. Our bodies touching, the strands of our hair intermingling. The thought didn’t repulse me, but at the same time I felt there were other people I’d rather do that with. Wondering whether this might be the harbinger of a lesbian experimentation phase – a rather candid art teacher at my school had once implied all girls went through something of this nature at university – I opted to sit in a restrained fashion at the edge of Ally’s bed, careful not to let my body touch hers.

‘Let’s talk about sex, Holly.’

Ally’s words sent a jolt of concern through me. I didn’t believe in mind-reading, but it was amazing how sometimes people could hit the mark. I must have jumped, because she laid a hand on my arm and said, ‘Don’t flinch. Oh goodness, anyone would think I’d offered you heroin.’ She was smiling and looked relaxed, so I nodded.

‘Holly, you seem, well, I hate to say this, but … quite innocent.’

‘I am innocent,’ I said. Then, worried this might sound a little strange, I added, ‘I mean, I’ve had limited experience.’

Another laugh. ‘That’s not so unusual. You’re only eighteen.’

‘Nineteen in five months,’ I murmured.

‘Does it bother you, being a virgin?’

Though she was clearly trying to be kind, it sounded as if she was actually asking, Do you mind being disabled?

‘I … I don’t really know.’ I tried to choose my words carefully, but I felt my heart beating a loud, relentless chant in my chest and was keen to drown out the noise of it. ‘I’ve done some stuff. But not everything. There was a party once. And then another time at a picnic. But I had hayfever and needed an antihistamine.’ I doubted this added detail was necessary, but it seemed like a legitimate mitigating factor. Who’d want to have sex while being plagued by three-minute-long sneezing fits and streaming eyes?

‘Oh, poor you. That must have been awkward. Did you not have any male friends you could, you know, experiment with? A few of Ernest’s school chums came in handy for me. So to speak.’ She winked.

‘I did have friends who were boys. I was very close to one of them: George. We did everything together, for a bit.’ Ally’s eyes widened, and I rushed to clarify. ‘Everything school-wise. Nothing like that. That would have been weird.’

‘Would it? Sometimes friends can be good. Stops it getting too romantic. It’s like a barrier, a prearranged stop sign that helps you both stay on the same page. Although my first time – well, first sexual experience – was a sort of date, at the opera of all places. Tosca. I was fifteen. We were in a box watching the performance and my mother was keen for me to sit next to this boy called Archibald. Well, he liked to be called Archie but his parents thought that common. So, anyway, Archibald is an aristrocrat, which explains my mother’s reason for wanting us to be close. We were just getting to the torture scene when I felt his hand creeping up my thigh. We were slightly to the side, hidden – or at least I hope we were – from the view of my parents and his parents. I didn’t stop him. He kept on and I felt my knickers getting wet. He slid in so easily. God, it felt good. I came incredibly quickly, much faster than I had ever done by myself. I had to keep silent, though. To this day I’ve been rather proud of how I did that. A little concentration and the odd well-placed yawn go a long way.’

I felt slightly dazed by this level of oversharing, completely at a loss as to how to respond. If that had been me (which was unlikely, since my parents were always commenting on how pricey tickets to the local am-dram performances were), I think I’d probably have been too shocked and embarrassed to ever tell anyone. But Ally said it so coolly, in her no-nonsense, matter-of-fact way. I was quietly in awe of her.

‘James would probably fuck you, you know. If I asked him to. Do you want me to mention it?’

I gasped. ‘What?’

Ally laughed again, and this time I felt a prickle of annoyance. Was she playing with me? Trying to make me feel uncomfortable?

‘Oh, come on, Holly. You’ve got to lose the big V at some point. It might as well be to a man you clearly have the major hots for. So many girls fancy James. Many would kill – literally kill – for the chance. I swear some have got close to murder in the past. He’s left a trail of broken hearts in his wake. And broken hearts can be a dangerous thing. I’m sure you’ve read enough tragic love stories to know that.’

I was feeling very awkward now. ‘I think … I think I should go back to my room now.’ I made no immediate move to go, but Ally looked alarmed.

‘Oh goodness, I’ve upset you.’

‘You haven’t. I’m just not used to talking about this stuff.’

Ally surveyed me, as if thinking deeply about something. ‘Yes, I can see that.’

We sat in silence for a few seconds, her looking at me while twisting one of her locks of blonde hair around an index finger.

‘Bedtime,’ I said, and gave Ally a smile in case she thought I was offended. ‘I know it’s early but …’

‘It’s time.’ She nodded, returned the smile, and sat up on her bed. She gave me a hug at the door. There was something strange about the hug that I couldn’t quite work out. A mixture of comfort and acceptance. I felt I had passed a test in some way. Proved I was interesting enough to warrant her attention, perhaps? Or maybe the opposite. That I was innocuous and plain and wouldn’t change their equilibrium too much, so hey, they might as well have this boring poor girl as a friend. Or maybe I was just overthinking it. I said goodnight to Ally and went next door to my room.

Chapter 7

Julianne

Knightsbridge, 2019

Dinner isn’t going well. If I were being honest with myself, I would admit I’d made a pasta bake partly to piss my mother off a little, as I knew she’d regard it as unsophisticated. But as I carved a chunk of the slightly overcooked congealed mass out of the bowl and a flap of solid cheese flopped onto her plate, I wished I’d gone with oysters.

‘My, you’ve certainly been busy,’ Diane says, moving a few tough bits of pasta to the side with her fork. ‘Every room looks as festive as could be. Must have taken you a lot of time and energy.’

‘A bit,’ I say, then turn round as I hear a noise behind me.

‘Ah, it’s my favourite grandson.’ She stands up to embrace Stephen as he walks into the room.

‘We started because we didn’t know if you were coming,’ James says in a voice that makes it clear he doesn’t approve.

‘I explained you were busy finishing up some work,’ I cut in quickly.

‘I’m sorry, yes, French coursework.’

‘They work you too hard,’ Mom says, pinching Stephen’s cheek. ‘Both the teachers and your parents.’ As she sits back down and Stephen goes to take the chair next to his father, a ripple of sadness runs through me. She never thought I was being worked too hard when I was up until one in the morning writing essay after essay, doing more than all my friends, desperately trying to get into one of the world’s most prestigious universities in a country I didn’t know. She didn’t tell me to have a break or suggest I should take Christmas off. No matter what I did, it was never enough. If I so much as watched a single episode of a soap opera or read a magazine, I was made to feel like I was shirking. Little comments would be made at the dinner table, suggesting television ‘was all I cared about these days’ or that she should donate some of my schoolbooks to Goodwill ‘because I hardly ever opened them any more’. I’d sit there with the tears close behind my eyes, trying to ignore her. Some things never change.