A Love Story for Bewildered Girls

by Emma Morgan

  ‘Did you drink before I got here?’ asked Violet, shocked both by the possibility of maternal afternoon drunkenness and the horrible nature of the discussion.

  ‘Only a glass or two. I feel so unwanted. He won’t even touch me any more. He doesn’t seem to want to. I asked him if he was having an affair but he denied it.’

  And her mother put her face into her hands and started to cry again. Violet saw that her mother’s dark hair was slightly matted at the back and wanted to go and get a brush but didn’t.

  ‘Do you believe him?’ she asked instead and went to get her mother another tissue from the box on the oak dresser that had been hidden away in the attic when she was a teenager. Gradually, over the years, her mother’s things had crept out into Steve’s house, which they had moved into when Violet was seven. That was a good thing, Violet thought, her mother finally having her own things around her. She touched the blue and white Chinese teapot she had loved as a child. Her mother had pretty things.

  ‘Of course I do. I’ll say that for him. He is utterly, utterly trustworthy. Always has been. But he’s gone all monkish recently.’

  Her mother was still sniffing. Violet gave her the tissue and put her hand on her mother’s shoulder.

  ‘OK. Look, Mum, I do understand. I mean I don’t think about it but I suppose I always did presume that you still did. You know.’

  ‘Did what?’

  ‘Did you know. It.’

  ‘Call a spade a spade, Violet. Sex is a wonderful, natural thing. Well. Used to be.’

  ‘I know, you told me that when I was fourteen. What are you going to do about Steve?’ Violet said, putting on the penguin-shaped oven gloves and opening the oven door. A wave of heat rushed out.

  ‘What can I do? I’ve tried buying new underwear. And very expensive it was too. I’ll have to take it back. I wonder where I put the receipt,’ said her mother and got up and went to look in a drawer in the dresser.

  ‘What about some counselling?’ Violet asked, closing the oven door.

  ‘Do you mean marriage guidance? I’d be too embarrassed.’

  But apparently not too embarrassed to talk to me, thought Violet. Her mother had her back to her and was stirring her hand around in the drawer.

  ‘Well, something like that. Because if it’s as bad as you say it is I don’t think black lace is going to help,’ said Violet, sitting back down at the table.

  ‘Pale pink silk. Black lace isn’t very tasteful. No, I can’t find it.’

  ‘Maybe he’d like not very tasteful? I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.’

  ‘Yes, and you’re not being very helpful,’ said her mother, and came and sat down next to her.

  ‘What do you want me to suggest?’

  ‘If I knew that I wouldn’t have asked you. I’ve got all het up about it. Is the stew in?’

  ‘Yes, the stew is in. Have some more wine, Mum.’

  ‘What are you here for anyway?’

  ‘That’s a little bit rude,’ said Violet. Her mother was never rude.

  ‘I’m sorry, yes, it was. But you rarely come here and so I wondered if something was wrong,’ said her mother, doing her concerned face which always made Violet want to laugh.

  ‘Sort of,’ said Violet and started to twiddle with the pepper grinder.

  ‘Are you feeling unwell again?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Has Annie been helping you at all?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘It’s just that she can sometimes seem … I’m not sure if she is the ideal person for you when you feel … like that. You could always come and stay here with us for a while. Steve would love to have you.’

  Violet thought about this. Steve would be the jolly giant he always was – teasing Violet about her size, calling her ‘Mousie’, patting her on the head. And her mother would try to keep her occupied with baking and walks by the river. She wanted to tell her mother the truth. ‘I’m tired of being scared all the time and everything is so much effort. It’s like I’m underwater,’ she wanted to say, but how could she say that? Her mother wouldn’t understand, she never lacked impetus, what with the house and Steve and her work in a soft furnishing shop she never stopped. She couldn’t possibly understand Violet’s feeling of having completely stalled.

  ‘Perhaps you are coming down with something?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I know what. I’ll run you a bath. I’ve got this lovely new raspberry bubble bath.’

  ‘I’d prefer to get pissed, to be honest.’

  ‘Violet! Do you think that’s a good idea? If you are feeling low.’

  Her mother would never use the word ‘depressed’, it was a swear word. Her mother liked things to be nice.

  ‘I’ve got “the fear”, Mum,’ said Violet and tears rose into her throat.

  ‘What fear?’

  ‘I’m afraid all the time.’

  Her mother stood up.

  ‘I’ll just check the oven,’ she said and walked over to it and while she was turned away Violet took the screwed-up tissue her mother had left behind on the table and mopped her eyes.

  ‘It’s probably hormonal,’ said her mother brightly without turning around. ‘I’ll run you a bath.’

  This is Annie and her sweet tooth

  Annie loved her flat even more since she had had the big clearing-out session. She stroked the black marble top of her clean kitchen counter enjoying the cool smoothness of it and looked in the ordered cupboards with the neatly lined-up tins. She was toying with the idea of getting a cleaner, which her mother would totally disapprove of. She was fed up with doing it all herself and Violet was useless and anyway why shouldn’t she when she could afford it? I won’t tell her, Annie thought. Like I won’t tell her that I’ve met a handsome man either. She’ll only get over-excited.

  Later she stood outside Manfred’s wondering yet again at the faded cards in the window advertising badly grammaticized services and badly spelt objects. She had more than once suggested to him that she correct them but he had said that this was tinkering with the freedom of the customer and everybody had the right to make mistakes. She didn’t agree with him but brought it up sometimes for fun. Now she went into the shop hoping to enjoy a chat and buy some baklava if he had any. Annie had the sweetest tooth of anyone she knew.

  ‘Annie,’ Manfred said, putting down his book and smiling. ‘Beautiful as always.’

  Manfred was reliable in his compliments.

  ‘What are you reading?’ asked Annie.

  He showed her the cover. Japanese for Beginners.

  ‘Is it hard?’ she asked. ‘I was no good at languages myself.’

  ‘The pronunciation is very straightforward. Bit like Spanish.’

  ‘You speak Spanish?’

  ‘Yeah. Did Spanish and French at school, I was good at them, and I’ve got German and Turkish from my mum. I thought I’d learn something different. Then I’ll go for Mandarin. Working up to that. I can now get directions to any hospital in Japan, should I ever need to do that.’

  ‘That’s useful.’

  ‘I can also get to a massage parlour.’

  ‘That sounds dubious.’

  ‘It does that. Where’s Violet, then? How is she?’

  ‘Not great. In bed most of the time.’

  Manfred reached under the counter and got out a packet wrapped in silver foil and opened it out. It contained shortbread.

  ‘Sorry, Annie, run out of baklava. This is all I have. My mum made it. I told her that my favourite customer likes a freshly prepared pastry or biscuit item.’

  ‘Thank you very much.’

  Annie took a piece and put it into her mouth. I probably take Manfred’s kindness too much for granted, she thought. She munched while he looked on expectantly.

  ‘Delicious. Please thank your mum for me. It was very kind of her.’

  ‘No worries.’ He busied himself with his extensive chocolate display. ‘Are you all right, Annie? Yo
u look perturbed. You can tell me all about it if you want.’

  Annie hesitated and then she said, ‘Violet’s got this thing she calls “the fear”.’

  ‘Sounds nasty.’

  ‘She’s scared all the time but she can’t tell me what about. She’s had it for years but it seems to be getting worse. I try to understand but it’s not in my nature.’

  ‘Never get scared?’

  ‘Not that I can think of. You?’

  ‘Only in dark alleys. My mum gets that, I reckon. “The fear”. She’s agoraphobic. Will hardly leave the house.’

  ‘I can’t get Violet to leave the house either.’

  ‘Maybe she could go see someone.’

  ‘I do know a therapist who’s supposed to be good.’

  ‘There you go then.’

  ‘Would your mother see a therapist?’

  ‘Would she heck! But Violet’s more modern, if you see what I mean. Worth a try, don’t you think? She’s nothing to lose. Except a few quid.’

  Annie took another piece of shortbread.

  ‘With all those languages you could do something else if you wanted to.’

  ‘I don’t mind it in here. And it’s my dad’s business, isn’t it? We make a good enough living.’

  ‘What did you want to do? When you were younger.’

  ‘Simultaneous translator. Like for the UN. That must be brilliant.’

  ‘You could work towards that.’

  ‘No, way too late. And I’d have to fork out to go to university, wouldn’t I? And we’d have to pay someone to run the shop while I wasn’t here.’

  ‘You can do anything if you want it enough.’

  ‘That’s what I like about you, Annie. You’ve got a lot of ambition. That’s good. I wish I had your drive.’

  ‘Why don’t you go to Japan on a holiday?’

  ‘It’s hard to get away. And, to be honest, my mum needs me. Between me and my dad, we don’t like to leave her on her own for very long.’

  ‘Why haven’t you ever told me that before?’

  ‘Never came up.’

  ‘This shortbread really is very good.’

  ‘Anything for you, Annie,’ he said, with a large smile. ‘Anything at all.’

  This is how Grace got Sam to kiss her

  Sam phoned and left a message on Grace’s mobile. In it she invited Grace to her flat. To her flat! Grace felt as if she had been awarded a prize for good behaviour. She ignored the fact that she had more or less given up and that it had been fifteen days of anxiety and torture. There was an entrance exam. She had passed. She listened to the message seven times.

  She rang the doorbell and Sam came down to open the front door for her and Grace went in after her and fell over a pile of junk mail in the hall and twisted her ankle and had to be helped up the stairs. She loved being helped up the stairs because it meant that she had to drape an arm over Sam’s shoulder and Sam put her own arm around Grace’s waist. Sam’s shoulders felt strong and her arm taut, it must be all the digging, thought Grace. She wanted to kiss her but she was in too much pain.

  ‘I’ve just moved in,’ Sam said as they struggled upwards slowly one step at a time.

  ‘When?’ Grace said, gritting her teeth.

  ‘About a week ago.’

  ‘I remember you said that you liked these houses but it was a shame that they’d been made into flats.’

  Grace was not sure how she managed to get that many words out of her mouth without hyperventilating.

  ‘Did I? I don’t remember,’ said Sam.

  On the landing outside Sam’s door there was a huge jungle plant. Her living room was full of plants too, plants Grace couldn’t name but which were so lush they were menacing. She wondered if Sam also had them in the bedroom. She hoped not.

  ‘How’s the leg?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Better,’ Grace said, although she was lying.

  ‘I think you should sit down.’

  Sam lowered her gently on to the sofa and Grace managed not to pull Sam down with her although she wanted to very much. She was sad that the physical contact had ended. She could hear noises coming through the ceiling. Guitars.

  ‘What’s that music?’ she asked.

  ‘The man upstairs plays in a band and he practises,’ said Sam.

  Standing there, with her hands on her slim hips, she was as beautiful as Ingrid Bergman and Grace considered telling her that but it seemed over the top.

  ‘What kind of band?’ said Grace, even though it wasn’t that easy to speak.

  ‘Heavy metal country. I’ve got a flyer that he gave me.’

  Sam went over to a table and ruffled through a pile of papers. That at least was familiar in this strange new country of infatuation that Grace had emigrated to. Everybody in the whole world had those piles of papers. They must be a feature of being human, like having two eyes or going out without a coat when you should have worn one but being too lazy to go back and get it. Grace decided to give herself up to her tangled emotional state, her preceding two days of twisted nerves and inability to digest food and the extreme pain in her ankle. She closed her eyes and listened to the guitar. A whole new musical fusion. When she opened her eyes again she was lying on the floor and Sam was kneeling next to her.

  ‘You fainted,’ Sam said, looking alarmed. Grace liked the fact she could elicit this emotion in her because up to now Sam had always seemed such an even-tempered person, if you ignored the roller derby aggression.

  ‘What?’ Grace asked, trying to sit up. The room spun. She lay back again.

  ‘You fainted. Do you need to go to hospital?’

  ‘No, no, it’s OK.’

  ‘Is it your leg?’ said Sam.

  ‘It hurts a lot,’ Grace decided she might as well admit.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I didn’t want you to send me home.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have. Can you sit up, do you think?’

  ‘I’ll sit up if you kiss me first.’

  It must have been the pain that inhibited Grace’s until then strong inhibitions in Sam’s company.

  ‘What?’ said Sam, although she had probably heard.

  ‘Kiss me Hardy. I know it’s emotional blackmail but I don’t care.’

  Sam’s kiss took away the pain. Her kiss was the one Grace thought she would remember until her deathbed. The cold floor under her back. The ridiculous music coming down from above. Sam’s long body almost touching her but her sweet mouth on hers. She opened her eyes to see that Sam’s eyes were closed so she closed hers again. Mouth on mouth. Nothing more. Bliss. It was like falling slowly through cool water on a hot day. Then suddenly there came a loud noise that interrupted this reverie. To her dismay Sam’s mouth moved away from hers and she opened her eyes to see Sam’s face was above hers, looking nervous. The noise came again, and it wasn’t guitar.

  ‘What’s that?’ Grace asked.

  ‘Ruth,’ Sam said.

  ‘Who’s Ruth?’

  ‘My ex-girlfriend. I must have left the downstairs door open,’ said Sam.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘It’s OK,’ she whispered, ‘lie back down. Sssh.’

  Grace lay back down again parallel to the coffee table. Under it there was a screwed-up piece of paper. She reached to get it. It was a Fry’s Chocolate Cream wrapper. She had a moment of nostalgia, she thought they had disappeared. Wagon Wheels. Curly Wurlies. Her grandfather Cyril had had a thing about them. I must ring him, she thought. Walnut Whips. Wrigley’s spearmint gum in sticks. Then voices came back into her consciousness.

  ‘No, I’m not going to let you in,’ said Sam in a voice that seemed both calm and kind.

  ‘Please. I want to talk to you,’ the other voice shouted. Ruth. The ex-girlfriend.

  ‘Well, I don’t want to talk to you,’ said Sam.

  ‘Have you got someone there?’ shouted Ruth.

  ‘Go home. I’ll ring you tomorrow.’

  ‘No, you won’t. You say that but you won�
�t ring.’

  ‘Yes, I will. If I say I will, I will.’

  ‘Swear.’

  ‘I swear. Now will you go home?’

  ‘You’ve got to swear on something.’

  ‘Have you been drinking?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘You have.’

  ‘Well, I’ve had a couple.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Let me in, Sam!’

  And the banging started again. Ruth. The ex-girlfriend. Grace felt smug. She was the one on the inside of the door. She was the one being kissed. She tried to imagine what Ruth looked like. Squat. In a baggy red checked shirt. Moustached. Then Sam reappeared crouched by her side. Grace put her hand on Sam’s trainer.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Sam asked her, putting her cool hand on Grace’s forehead.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said, loving to have it there. Sam was her idea of a dream nurse.

  ‘Sure? Are you cold? Do you want a blanket?’

  ‘How long have you been split up?’ Grace asked, because now she wanted to know everything.

  ‘Not long. But she can’t seem to accept it’s over,’ said Sam, and shrugged.

  ‘Is it over then?’ Grace’s stomach twisted.

  ‘Yes. Completely. But Ruth, she’s insistent.’

  ‘I can hear that.’

  Sam stroked her forehead. More banging. The guitar bloke started again.

  ‘I’m sorry about this,’ said Sam, and she did look sorry. Grace wasn’t, though, she was jubilant.

  ‘Do you want me to talk to her?’ Grace asked.

  ‘In a professional way? No. Definitely not. That would make it much worse.’

  ‘You could ring the police?’

  ‘I don’t want to get her into trouble. It’s not her fault. She’s drunk.’

  ‘What about the neighbours?’ And Grace pointed to the ceiling.

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Do you think they’ll call the police?’

  ‘There’s only the guy upstairs. The girl downstairs is away. And that guy isn’t the sort to call the police.’

  ‘Ah. That’s all right then,’ said Grace.

  Sam sat on the floor cross-legged next to her.

  ‘He’s got loads of skunk growing in the attic apparently,’ she said.