The Truth About Julia: A Chillingly Timely Psychological Novel

by Schaffner Anna

  I devoured every single article about Julia, and I had numerous discussions with Amanda about her that usually resulted in heated disagreements. Although I don’t deny the attraction of psychoanalytical explanatory models, I simply don’t believe that they can account for everything, as Amanda does. You, too, George, confessed to me once that you found Amanda’s views curiously limited, blind to all political and historical considerations. In addition, Amanda soon made it clear that she felt I had become unhealthily obsessed with Julia White – of course she had many a theory up her sleeve to explain why Julia appealed to me so, and what she appealed to in me, but I refused to listen. Maybe, with hindsight, I should have.

  Then I decided to transform my obsession into something productive. It made complete sense: I would write Julia White’s biography. I would try to unravel the mystery of her strange allure and at the same time turn my research into a much-needed new book. For the first time since the trial, I felt strong enough to tackle a serious project. I didn’t even need to convince you. This was the first project since the accursed trial that wasn’t just a bread-and-butter job, which you had kindly pushed my way and that came with an acceptable cheque that would go towards paying off my debts. The biography was my chance to shake off my sense of failure, the conviction that I was a sell-out. I had been producing nothing but shallow entertainment porn since 2010, and you can’t imagine how much that hurt. I used to live and breathe for my work – it meant everything to me. It was all I had. I’m sorry, George – I am of course infinitely grateful for every job you sent my way, and I am acutely aware that you reserved the most lucrative commissions for me, but they did inevitably also tend to be the most facile ones. I had been living like a ghost for the past four years; I felt so hollow.

  The generous advance you negotiated for me was of course also more than welcome – my finances were (and still are) a mess so horrific to behold that I had left the task to a trusted financial adviser, who fed me only manageable nuggets of information when she felt I was able to cope. The last I had heard from her was that it would take me at least fifteen years to clear my debt – provided the commercial commissions kept coming in regularly.

  I admit that I was also attracted by the challenge. It was clear that I had to research and write the book as quickly as possible, as other publishers would want to cash in on the Julia hype, too. It was a race both against time and against the competition – whoever got their book out first would win the lion’s share of the potentially vast number of readers interested in Julia’s story. I had set myself the ambitious task of delivering the complete manuscript in only fourteen weeks.

  But time wasn’t the only problem: since it was clear from the start that the subject of my book wouldn’t grant me an interview, I would instead have to gather all my materials from the people who knew her best. That, too, would be far from easy, but I was used to dealing with difficulties of that kind. I had written three unauthorized celebrity biographies under extreme time pressure before (of a young pop star who had taken too many horse tranquillizers and lost her mind, a suicidal TV chef, and a firmly facelifted politician with a penchant for parading through our numerous reality TV shows in outfits that are too tight and too bright). I was confident I would be able to master this one, too. I used to win people’s trust easily. I could get almost anyone to reveal their secrets to me.

  A part of me was also secretly hoping that Julia would make an exception and agree to speak to me after all (I cannot tell you how much I wish she hadn’t now). Right at the beginning, I contacted the lawyer who was representing Julia, asking her to pass my request for an interview on to her client, and I sent her two follow-up messages a few weeks later when I didn’t receive a response. In any case, in the first instance my plan was to contact Julia’s family and friends. I knew there would also be university acquaintances, teachers, neighbours, distant relatives, old playmates and political activists who would no doubt be eager to share with me their version of events. Normally, all kinds of people crawl out of the woodwork when they sniff the elusive fragrance of fame, even if it is just by association.

  As soon as I had signed the hastily drawn-up contract in your office, I threw myself heart and soul into the project. All of a sudden, the weariness that had been oppressing me for four long years lifted and I felt almost like my old self again. Besides, Aisha had thankfully recovered from her illness (it turned out to be a harmless stomach bug), and there were exciting developments in Laura’s life. In spite of the fact that the Blue Nile is a non-fussy, down-to-earth affair that consistently privileges quality over hipness, hidden away in one of the less busy side-streets in Bloomsbury, it had received enthusiastic reviews in various papers. Even more thrilling was the fact that Laura and Moira had just found out that they had been nominated for the Time Out Best Newcomer of the Year award (in the organic/wholefood category). Amanda and I were incredibly proud of Laura, and, to be honest, enormously relieved that things had turned out so well for her.

  I miss going to the Blue Nile – I used to drop in once or twice a week, to sample their ever-changing repertoire of delicious grain, rice and pulse salads, and when Laura wasn’t too busy, we caught up over a cup of tea. Laura is a very special person – she always knew exactly what she wanted in life, and also how to get it. She has loved cooking from a very early age (although, as you well know, neither Amanda nor I has any talent at all in that domain), and trained as a chef when all her friends went to university, before pairing up with Moira to realize her dream of running an organic café. Moira had the necessary funds and business connections, while Laura supplied the concept, the creative energy and her sure-footed food intelligence. You must visit the Blue Nile for me when you find the time, George – I always felt very much at home there, and would be really grateful if you could occasionally check on Laura to see how she is doing. I worry so much about how all of this is affecting her. She is a sensitive soul, underneath it all.

  II

  I sleep badly. Each night, I snap awake countless times and, sitting up, contemplate the darkness of my cell, too agitated to read or write. I can’t see the night sky; my shoebox-sized window exposes a view only of the depressing facade of the adjacent building. And when I do sleep, my dreams are so disturbing that I am grateful for waking up again. I keep seeing Julia. In my dreams, I drown in her eyes, which are the colour of ponds, the grey-green surfaces of her irises surrounded by a dark-blue outer ring and scattered with tiny splashes of amber and gold, like flecks of sunlight. Sometimes she stands with her arms folded and her head up high, looking down on me, a cruel smile playing on her lips, and sometimes she beckons me to follow her, and I do, in spite of myself, driven by forces over which I have no control. I also see his wide-open eyes, and how they cycle through disbelief, terror and abhorrence, and then, just before they close, succumb to a leaden weariness. And of course I see the little girl. Over and over again. I see her tiny white face, eerie as the moon, and her caterpillar eyebrows, and her sand-coloured plaits that stopped bouncing so abruptly and then hung on her unmoving. I still see her standing still as a statue in her festive pink satin dress. I see her small candy-coloured mouth with her lips pressed tightly together. I see the movement of her large grey eyes as they travelled, very slowly, from her father to her mother and back again, and then to me, and it was on me that they came to rest. I couldn’t bear that gaze. She alone remained silent, standing so perfectly still, even when all hell broke loose around us. Her eyes were still on me when they dragged me away.

  None of the other inmates has threatened me yet, but the peace seems precarious. They stare at me, but I stare right back at them. I can’t let them see my fear. A few days ago, a frightened-looking new girl arrived, mushroom-pale, her eyes always wet and her hands shaking so badly that she barely manages to cut her food with the frail plastic knives they give us here. Her name is Sarah and she sits next to me whenever she can, but she has barely spoken a word as yet. I am grateful for her company; with her around
, I feel a little less alone. And there is a black woman, about my age, with the most expressionless face I have ever seen. She always carries a book and keeps to herself. She has looked at me a few times, not unkindly. I wonder why she is here.

  Yesterday, my lawyer told me that my trial will commence sometime in March – a date that seems centuries away. Unsurprisingly, her second attempt to get me out on bail was rejected, too. I didn’t expect otherwise. But what does surprise me, George, is the bags of fan mail I receive every week – large numbers of the most outlandish letters. I’m genuinely horrified that I appear to have inspired the kind of people who write these letters, and that they have turned me into some twisted heroine. I read every single one of them, but they all evoke the same feeling in me: shame.

  But I should get on with my story. In early August, Amy White was the first to respond to the carefully phrased letter I had sent to all members of Julia’s family, in which I explained the nature of my project and asked whether it would be possible to meet for an informal conversation. I didn’t expect a reaction from anybody at that stage, but Amy emailed me just two days later. She suggested we meet in an Italian café in Soho. An odd choice, I thought, a place into which tired tourists stumble when they find there are no seats in the more appealing alternatives in the vicinity. Amy is twenty-three, four years younger than her sister, holds a BA and an MA with distinction from Corpus Christi College, Cambridge, and is currently studying for a PhD in English Literature at UCL. She has been working on her research project (provisionally entitled ‘Representations of Sisterhood in Early Victorian Women’s Fiction’) for about a year.

  I arrived early, but Amy was already waiting for me. Apart from her, there were only an elderly German couple clad in eminently practical travelling outfits, and a big, dreadlocked man with a Labrador, with whom he appeared to be sharing his pizza. A listless waiter followed a soundless football match on a small TV, which contrasted oddly with the faded pictures of Tuscan landscapes that hung either side of it on the limoncello-coloured walls. I was able to identify Amy without difficulty. She had chosen a table in the corner that was as far away as possible from the window and the waiter, and sat uneasily on the edge of her green plastic chair. Christ, she was thin. Skeletal, George. It pained me just to look at her. The big wound-like eyes in her small sunken face made her look like a terminally ill cancer patient. Although she wore a shapeless, oversized pullover and baggy corduroy trousers, her spiky shoulders and knees looked as though they were about to cut right through the fabric. Her light-brown hair was dull and brittle, and tied together in a ponytail. She didn’t resemble her sister in any way.

  We shook hands and I tried to engage her in small talk to make her relax a little, since she seemed terribly tense. She kept scratching a patch of skin at the back of her head, and repeatedly glanced at the other customers in the café, as though she needed to reassure herself that they didn’t pose a threat. Nevertheless, it became clear almost immediately that Amy was desperate to talk about her sister – to anyone who would listen. Although she disclosed private and no doubt very painful memories, our encounter remained curiously impersonal: once she got started she just couldn’t seem to stop talking. There was so much pent up inside her that she needed to relieve herself with the utmost urgency, to heave it all out as quickly as possible while someone was listening, anyone, making the most of the time she had before they abandoned her. Her account was a rapid, almost uninterrupted torrent, mingling memories, impressions and anecdotes, which were (surprisingly for a PhD student, I thought) only very rarely supported by any attempts at analysis. Amy’s story sounded very much like the report of someone who was still too shell-shocked to be able to make any sense of their traumatic experiences. I barely said anything myself. Apart from the odd short question, I just let her talk.

  We sat together in the café for four and a half hours, until we were thrown out by the exasperated waiter, and we met again the next day for another long session at a very similar place. I felt as though I was listening to the anguished song of an impossibly frail bird that had fallen out of its nest and broken all its bones. Even Amy’s voice was bird-like – feeble but piercing. I had the disturbing impression that I was the first human being to whom Amy had talked for a very long time. (Had she not spoken to her family about this at all? I wondered. As a family, you can’t just ignore a catastrophe of this magnitude – or can you? What of the parents – where were they, and why didn’t they take this sad little creature back under their wings?)

  Unsurprisingly, Amy rejected my offer of lunch, and I felt uncomfortable as I consumed a salad and a sandwich on my own during the course of our two interview marathons. She didn’t mind me recording our conversations. It was very much my impression that she didn’t care at all about the afterlife of her story; she just needed to tell it, to deposit it somewhere. What follows is Amy’s story in her own words, based on the two interviews I conducted on 10 and 11 August 2014. Here and there, I imposed chronological coherence and eliminated the repetitiveness that marked her original narrative, but otherwise this report is faithful to Amy’s original account.

  III

  I was the kind of younger sister who always tags along. I followed my sister everywhere, a bit like a slightly annoying puppy, you know? And Julia was the kind of older sister who didn’t mind, who was just nice and generous about it. Or at least she never let me feel it if I did get on her nerves. Until she came back from her gap year, that is – after that, everything changed. Or maybe I just didn’t get the message before then. I don’t know. I must have misunderstood something along the way. I often do that, misread people. I’m really not very good at picking up on the finer nuances of interpersonal exchanges. Everybody else in my family seems to be able to do that just fine. They’re all confident and functional and socially at ease, and all that.

  Julia has always been fiercely protective of me, from the very start, really. There are more pictures of her holding me when I was a baby than there are of my mother. Actually, thinking about it, there are barely any photographs in our family album in which we aren’t together: usually I’m holding her hand and we’re dressed in matching outfits. Or at least that was the idea – I was a bit of a copy-cat. I always wanted to wear exactly what Julia was wearing. But my outfits kind of ended up being not just pale but comic and weird-looking imitations of hers – I just didn’t have Julia’s sense of style, and of course I didn’t have the aura and personality that one needs to get away with more risky choices, either. Even on those days when Julia was super-nice to me and chose every single item of my outfit, and put together a really beautiful combination that would have looked amazing on anyone, it didn’t work. The other day, I flipped through one of our old photo albums again, and almost every picture of me made me cringe.

  When Julia went through a brief Goth phase – I think she was about fourteen or fifteen – I also insisted on wearing only black and on painting my eyes dark with kohl, trying never to smile and all that. But while Julia looked like a beautiful Victorian vampire in her velvet capes and long lace dresses, I just looked like a soot-covered chimney sweep. When Julia and her friends hung out in someone’s house to smoke and read world-weary poetry and listen to The Cure, and when they went to gigs, I trailed along. I don’t know how the others saw me – they probably thought of me as a peculiar little mascot or something like that. I’m pretty sure I did real damage to the group’s otherwise impeccable cool-factor.

  I really don’t know whether Julia thought of me that way, back then. I hope not. She never said so. But who knows? Maybe she was just being nice, and it cost her a superhuman effort not to lose her temper around me. Or maybe she just felt sorry for me. I don’t know how she did it, putting up with me like that, day after day, for years on end. How annoying must it be when someone copies everything pretty you do, and makes it all look totally ridiculous in the process, like a caricature or something? Not that I would know, of course – nobody would ever want to copy my style.<
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  Back then, Julia was always lovely and supportive and nice to me – really, I can’t remember a single occasion when I didn’t feel safe and protected in her company. She was simply amazing. She was the only person I ever felt at ease with, like I could just be myself and it was OK, you know? She still is, although she doesn’t speak to me anymore, of course.

  In any case, none of her friends ever dared to question why I was always with her – she could be pretty scary and forbidding when she felt that people were criticizing her decisions. When I was with Julia nobody ever had the nerve to treat me with anything but respect. And being with her meant that I could be in a group of people who would normally not even have looked at me – her friends were always by far the coolest types around. But without Julia by my side, I was nothing – the weird, sickly freak-sister, whom no one would ever speak to.

  I’ve always been frail – I have asthma and was born with a little hole in my heart, and other things I won’t bore you with. I needed a lot of medical attention when I was little. For some reason, it was always Julia and not my mother – although, ironically, she’s actually a surgeon – who made sure I took my medication and who came with me to every one of the hundreds of medical appointments I had to endure. Julia always insisted on sleeping in a bed next to me when I had to stay in hospital overnight. She really was that kind of person, you know? Just nice and caring. She was always there for me. I don’t know exactly why Julia took on that mother role – perhaps she really did love me as much as she always told me she did, back then. But sometimes, in my darker moments, I wonder whether I was just her guinea-pig, her first ‘case’ – a downtrodden creature in need of a strong helper. This obviously came to be her thing, later on. All of a sudden, she cared for all the other wretched of this earth, the far-away ones, and dropped me like a hot potato. But who knows what her real motives were. That kind of stuff is impossible to tell, isn’t it?