So it was one of those scenes where I was touching her and pulling her and talking her into it all the time. And she was playing not exactly hard to get, but like, Convince me. So I convinced her over to the sofa, and as I say it was like kids’ sex, getting at bits of one another, trying to undo your belt with one hand while being busy with the other, stuff like that. A bit of push-me, pull-me, and little things we hadn’t done before. For instance, I quite like being bitten. Not heavy stuff, but a serious nip or two where the flesh is meaty. At one point I had the side of my hand in her mouth and was saying, ‘Go on, bite me.’ And she did, hard.
And then I was inside her and we were fucking.
But the thing about sofas is they’re really designed for kids. Especially old broken-down sofas like this one. So we were kids on it for a bit. But anyone who’s ever had a tweak in their back or got used to proper beds doesn’t find the terrain so hospitable any more. So after a while I got both arms round Gillie and rolled us onto the floor. She hit it with a bit of a bump, but I wasn’t going to be knocked out of her, not for anything. And that’s where we stayed till we came. Both of us, by the way.
Gillian It didn’t happen as I said it did. I wanted you to keep the good opinion you have of Stuart—assuming you do. Perhaps I was working out the last bit of guilt I felt towards him. The way I told it to you is the way I would have liked it to happen, if I knew it was going to.
When he came downstairs, he said, ‘The girls are fine.’ Then he added, ‘I looked in on Oliver too. He’s wanked himself to sleep.’ Stuart said this a bit brutally and it ought to have made me feel sorry for Oliver, but it didn’t.
We were drunk, of course. Well, I was more than a bit. I usually stop at one glass nowadays, but I must have had nearly half a bottle by the time Stuart reached across and made a grab for me. I’m not using that as an excuse. Not for him either.
He got me half round the waist and his nose thumped into my cheekbone hard enough to make my eyes water, then I turned my lips away from his.
‘Stuart,’ I said, ‘don’t be silly.’
‘This isn’t silly.’ He reached his other arm across me and seized my breast.
‘The girls.’ This might have been a tactical mistake, I admit, as if they were the main impediment.
‘They’re asleep.’
‘Oliver.’
‘Fuck Oliver. Fuck Oliver. But that’s just it—you don’t fuck Oliver, do you?’ The way he said it didn’t sound like Stuart—or not the Stuart I’d known.
‘That’s none of your business.’
‘It is at this very moment.’ He dropped his hand from my breast to my legs. ‘Come on, fuck me. Fuck me for old times’ sake.’
I began standing up, but I was a bit off-balance, and he used that, and I was suddenly on the floor with my head against one of the sofa legs, and Stuart was on top of me. I thought: this doesn’t feel like a joke. His knee was pushing mine apart. ‘I’ll scream, and someone will come,’ I said.
‘They’ll think you’re fucking me,’ he replied. ‘They’ll think you’re fucking me because you don’t fuck Oliver any more.’
He was pressing the air out of me with his weight, and I opened my mouth. I don’t know if it was to scream or not, but Stuart shoved the side of his hand between my teeth.
‘Go on, bite.’
Part of me couldn’t take it seriously. I mean, this was Stuart, after all. The words Stuart and rape—or something approaching it—simply don’t go together. Didn’t. And at the same time I was thinking it was a sort of cliché. Not that I’d been in that position before. But part of me wanted to say, in a matter-of-fact voice: look, Stuart, just because Oliver and I aren’t having much sex at the moment that doesn’t mean I want to fuck you, or anyone else for that matter. If you’re twenty and not having sex, you think about it most of the time. If you’re forty and not having sex, you stop thinking so much about it and worry about other things instead. And you certainly don’t want it like this.
He got my skirt up. He got my knickers off. Then he fucked me, with my head hard against the wood of the sofa. I smelt dust. He had his hand in my mouth all the time. There didn’t seem any point in biting it.
I didn’t panic. And I wasn’t remotely excited by it. He hurt me a bit. He didn’t break anything. He just fucked me against my will and against my choice. No I didn’t bite, no I didn’t scratch, no I haven’t any bruises to show except one just above my knee, which proves nothing. Not that I need to prove anything. This isn’t going to court. That’s my choice.
No, I don’t think I ‘owed’ it to Stuart for the way I treated him ten years ago.
No, I wasn’t exactly frightened. It was Stuart, after all, I kept saying to myself, it wasn’t a hooded stranger in a dark alley. I loathed it, and you could say I was bored by it at the same time. I thought: is this what they all want? Even the ones who seem nice? Is this what they’ll all do, regardless of you?
Yes, I do consider it to have been rape.
I thought that, being Stuart, he would apologise. He just left me lying on the floor, got up, fixed his trousers, went across and set off the dishwasher, then left.
Why didn’t I tell you this before? Because things have changed. I’m definitely pregnant. And it can’t be Oliver’s.
19
QUESTION TIME
Stuart I think you might be right. I’m certainly prepared to consider the matter. You see, when organic wines first started being produced, they weren’t of very good quality. They just seemed a bit cranky. And then there was biodynamism—and that seemed even crankier, following the cycles of the moon and so on. I think one of the problems is that when people open a bottle of wine, they don’t have the same health awareness as when they buy a bunch of carrots. But wine-making skills have improved across the board, and there’s some decent organic stuff around. I’ll definitely have another look at it. Anything that helps promote one-stop shopping is good in my book. As long as it’s one-stop shopping at The Green Grocer.
Gillian You’re asking me to go back ten, twelve years.
You understand how I fell in love with Oliver, but you don’t understand ‘how or if’ I fell out of love with Stuart? Well, just asking that question answers half of it. If you understand ‘how’ I fell in love with Oliver, then you understand ‘how’ I fell out of love with Stuart. One thing blots out the other. A loud noise drowns out a quieter one. No, let’s not go in for comparisons. When someone claims to be in love with two people at the same time, in my opinion that means they’re only half in love with each of them. If you’re wholly in love with one, you don’t notice the other. The question doesn’t arise. If you’ve been in my position you’ll understand. If not, you’ll go in for mathematics.
‘If ’ is the more interesting question. Stuart never behaved badly towards me. He tried to interfere with our wedding—but that was never going to be a straightforward day anyway. And even though I hurt him badly, he was practical and helpful—no, generous—all through the break-up. Insisted that I keep on the studio. Didn’t contest the divorce as he could have done. And so on. I never saw him as an enemy, or an obstacle. When I did think about him, my feelings were always . . . positive. He was someone who had loved me and never mistreated me.
Until the other night. I still can’t find a way of thinking about the other night. It was such a terrible betrayal of all I thought about Stuart.
Oliver Byron. George Gordon, Lord. Didn’t you even recognise that? ‘I want a hero . . .’ Arguably—no unarguably one of the most famous opening lines in the history of . . . history.
Mme Wyatt Why are you so curious about my marriage? It was all a long time ago. It is—how do you say it?—‘all done and dusted.’ It is—that expression Stuart taught me—‘blood under the bridge.’ I think I do not remember his name any more. As one of your fine aristocratic ladies put it, ‘Intromission is not introduction.’ I have my daughter. She was not exactly a virgin birth, true, but—no, I think I do not remember his name a
ny more.
Ellie Course I’m not telling you what Stuart’s like in bed. You’d only ask him the same about me. And so on. Anyway, the sex had nothing to do with it. With the rest of it, I mean.
Gillian Why should I be jealous of Ellie? That doesn’t make any sense.
Stuart No. We may not have parted on the best of terms. But . . . no. It’s private.
Mme Wyatt Quelle insolence!
Gillian Yes, I have read Oliver’s screenplays. They’re very good, actually. In my opinion. Which is not one that counts. My only criticism would be that they’re not simple enough. You know when songwriters try to be too clever—it’s the music that should draw the attention, not the words. Don’t you agree?
One was about Picasso, Franco and Pablo Casals taking part in a pelota competition just before the Spanish Civil War. Some people definitely liked it, but no-one could raise the money. ‘Where’s the babe interest?’ That was one comment that rankled. So he wrote Mountain Charlie, based on a true story about a woman who dressed as a cowboy. But they said it lacked sparkle, so he rewrote it as a musical, a Girl of the Golden West for the new millennium. And then he did a prequel to The Seventh Seal . . . Well, it’s the old story, isn’t it?
Sophie About an hour, maybe less. I told you. Then the dishwasher went off, then the front door banged, then I heard Mum come upstairs and creep past our door in case she woke me up. No, I didn’t hear anything ‘odd.’ Why should Mum be crying?
Stuart Yes, of course it’s true about Skullsplitter. I wouldn’t have you on. It really does come from the Orkneys. You ought to try it one day.
Mme Wyatt That is very well observed from your part. Yes, my name is Marie-Christine. Yes, my husband—the miserable one who I no longer remember—ran away with a girl, a tart, called Christine. And my second granddaughter is called Marie. But no-one can possibly know all these three facts except me. And you. So it is all a coincidence, in my opinion.
Stuart Yes, I expect my parents would have been proud of me. But that’s neither here nor there. They were always a bit disappointed in me when they were alive, and looking back I realise that didn’t help my self-confidence when I was a kid. And they died when I was twenty. So it’s all a bit late for them to start being proud of me.
If ever I have children, I’m going to make sure I never undermine them the way I was undermined. I don’t think they should be spoiled, but I do think they should be given a sense of their own worth. I’m sure that’s easier said than done, but still.
My sister? Funnily enough, I have tracked her down. She married an ear doctor and lives in Cheshire. I called in one afternoon when I was up that way. Nice house, three children. She’s given up work, of course. We got on OK. Rather like we did as kids. Not badly, not well, just OK. And I certainly didn’t tell her what’s been going on in my life recently. So it’s no good asking her.
Gillian Sophie? No, Sophie’s fine.
Mme Wyatt Sophie? Well, adolescence has begun, no? Nowadays it begins at ten. She is a very conscientious girl, she wants very much to please. That has always been her nature. But who can resist adolescence?
Stuart No, I never did hang the painting. In fact, I took it back to the shop I’d bought it from. They said they didn’t want to buy it back from me. Not at any price. Meaning—we found the only mug who would take it off our hands when you walked in, and we don’t think we’ll ever find another one. What’s it of? I don’t remember. A sort of view of the countryside, I think.
Ellie It was so dirty I thought at first it was a Nativity. As I cleaned it, it turned into a farmyard scene. A cowshed, a cow, a donkey, a pig. The work of a talented amateur, as they say, i.e., not worth the canvas it’s painted on.
Oliver That old chestnut? That vieux marron glacé? No, really not, drearly not. Never a stir in that direction. Of course, no prejudice, some of my best friends and all that—actually, none of my best friends, come to think of it—unless—you’re not hinting, are you?—Stuart?—it’s a theory—you mean he crossed to the sunny side of the street when he was in the States—or before—makes sense in a way—two mayfly marriages—and he did look peculiarly ill at ease with Ellie when I tried to set them up. Well, well, well. Now that I glance in my moral rétroviseur, it all makes sense.
Terri I’m outta here. But this time, it’s my choice, not Stuart’s. I don’t owe you guys anything. Work things out for yourselves.
Dr Robb I don’t know. I can’t predict. It’s a depression of moderate strength. I’m not making light of it. But I don’t think he’s actively suicidal. He’s not hospitalisable. Not yet. We’ll keep the dosage at 75mg for the present and then reconsider our options. This isn’t an illness you can predict, especially not with a patient like Oliver.
For instance, I was trying to get him to talk the other day. He was lying on his back in a fairly lethargic state, not really responding, and I mentioned his family background again— meaning his mother—when he turned towards me, suddenly all focused, and said in a flirting sort of way, ‘Dr Robb, you’re in a much higher risk category than me.’
It’s true—some of the highest risk categories in developed Western countries are doctors, nurses, lawyers and those in the hotel and bar trade. And women doctors are higher risk than male ones.
But I do think he’s in a fragile state. I wouldn’t like to predict what might happen if he took another blow.
Gillian I’ve no idea whether or not Oliver’s mother killed herself. The fact is, I only met his father once, and never having heard the theory in the first place, I was hardly likely to bring it up on such an occasion, was I? He seemed a nice enough old boy, though it was rather fraught, as you might expect. Oliver had prepared me to expect a monster, and when I didn’t get one I naturally thought he was a lot nicer than he necessarily was. Also, I had a feeling that Oliver was, if not boasting about me, at least presenting me to his father in a competitive way. I suppose that’s normal. Look what I’ve got—that sort of thing. His dad just sucked on his pipe and didn’t rise to the bait, which I suppose was a relief.
When Dr Robb asked me if I knew anything, I said I’d look in Oliver’s files for the death certificate. Actually, ‘files’ is an exaggeration. Oliver’s got a small cardboard box labelled ‘Ancestral Voices’, which I dug out after he’d gone to bed one night. It’s all he’s kept of his family. A few photographs, a copy of Palgrave’s Golden Treasury with his mother’s name and a date in it—I think she won it as a recitation prize at school—a small brass hand-bell which he once explained to me, a leather bookmark of oriental design, an extremely battered Dinky toy—a cream and maroon double-decker bus, if you really want to know—a silver spoon which might have been a christening present except I never knew Oliver had been christened. Anyway, the point is—no death certificate. His father’s is there, in an envelope marked ‘Proof’.
I suppose we could send off to Somerset House for a duplicate, but how would that help? Lots of suicides are covered up, so it wouldn’t necessarily answer the question. In fact, it might mislead us. And if it did say death by suicide, well, that would be just too grim, wouldn’t it?
Yes, you’re right. If there had been a suspicion of suicide, there would have been an inquest, and according to Oliver one week she was alive and the next week she was being buried, so would there have been time? Except he was only six when it happened, and we know how approximate Oliver’s sense of chronology is, don’t we? So that doesn’t get us much further.
Stuart Me? Why would I risk having my own firm investigated by the Revenue?
Gillian I don’t know. I suppose it depends on Oliver’s condition. We can’t expect Stuart to go on paying his wages indefinitely. And I’d never accept charity from Stuart. Especially not now.
Oliver I’ve a question for you. Anyone know how long it takes for a monkey-puzzle to grow full size? I need a tethering-pole for my unraced two-year-old.
Marie Going to call him Pluto.
Oliver Another question. Would you rather? Love or
be loved? You can only choose one or the other! Tick, tock, tick, tock, BONG! Decision time!
Stuart No, you certainly can’t see the photograph.
Ellie I’ll tell you one thing about Stuart, though. You remember where he lives? All those service flats and narrow streets and residents’ parking bays. Know what he did when I first stayed the night with him? Over breakfast? Gave me a handful of parking vouchers so I wouldn’t get clamped. I must have looked puzzled because he then started explaining how to use them. You take a coin, scrape off the day, hour, minute of your arrival, blah blah.
I knew that already. That wasn’t why I was looking puzzled.
Gillian No, I don’t want to ‘trace my father.’ I’m not an orphan. He knew me, he left me.
Oliver Another question for you. Know it’s against the rules. Fuck the fucking rules. Gillian. The sainted one, the light of my life. Certainly been manipulating me all these years. Not to mention Mr Cherrybum. Shelves, even. The plutocrat with the spirit level. Point is—question is—how much has she been manipulating you as well? Think about it.
Terri Yes, Ken still calls when he says he’ll call. Thank you for asking. Thanks for remembering that. And for remembering his name.
Mme Wyatt Did I really? Did I truly say that the only immutable rule of marriage was that a man never leaves his wife for an older woman? And do I still think so? I have no idea. I do not remember that I believed this. I am not certain that I know very much, finally.
Ellie Do I feel conned? By Stuart? Yes and no. The weird thing is, I feel more conned by Gillian. Something in her attitude. Like, you can have Stuart for a bit, be my guest, because I can get him whenever I want him. Maybe she didn’t even bother to think that. But she ought to have, oughtn’t she?
Love, Etc. Page 18
