by Louise Voss
David was shocked. “What, never? I’ve seen guys checking you out at our shows. They think a chick on bass is just about the coolest thing ever. And surely you did before you were in the band?”
“No. Anyhow, I’m not worried about it,” I said defensively, although I was secretly delighted that boys checked me out. “I don’t want a boyfriend, anyway.”
David edged nearer until our noses were touching. “I don’t want a girlfriend either,” he whispered, kissing my mouth and pushing his tongue inside. It was nice, not as yucky as I’d always imagined. I understood what it meant in books when people’s lips were described as velvety.
“So, don’t you think it’s time to lose your virginity?”
I sat up, too fast. “Certainly not! I’m going to wait until I’m married. And besides, how would we ever face each other afterwards if we did that?”
David laughed and pulled me back down again. “Relax, H, it wouldn’t be any big deal. We would just decide right now that we wouldn’t mention it again, and it’ll just make us better friends. I swear I wouldn’t tell Joe and Jus, or anyone. Oh, come on, it’s real fun.”
“No way, David. Go to sleep or I’m kicking you out of this bed. Besides, I don’t want to get pregnant.” I felt very mature, talking about taking precautions as though I was actually going to have sex like a normal, healthy teenager with a boyfriend. I didn’t for a minute think I would, but the prospect did not seem nearly so scary with sweet old David offering. I was lying down on my back with my legs firmly crossed, and my elbows sticking out so he couldn’t get near me.
“Too bad. Oh, well, if you ever change your mind, just holler,” he said amiably. A few minutes later I heard gentle snoring, and so I relaxed and fell asleep myself.
Later still I was woken again, this time by an amazing melting sensation coming from between my now–loosely crossed legs, and a familiar prodding against my hip.
“You won’t get pregnant, I swear. I have condoms,” David said in a low voice.
I was surprised at his persistence, but even more surprised at the feeling of mellow heat that I realized was caused by David’s forefinger rubbing me through my pajamas. Actually it was utterly blissful. At that point I pushed aside the memory of my promise of celibacy to God, and the fact that David was not my boyfriend. I didn’t even worry about the others bursting in, or David realizing how fat I was. All I could think about was how I felt, and how I wanted more.
I moaned, and David rolled on top of me. He didn’t seem to weigh anything at all. He kissed me again and I tasted toothpaste. Not fair! I thought. I haven’t cleaned my teeth. The gentle rubbing was replaced by a persistent prodding, but it felt just as good. More satisfying. My pajama bottoms were rolled down over my thighs and I barely noticed until he entered me with one huge, accurate lunge. I waited to feel pain, but there was none. Part of me couldn’t believe this was happening, and part of me didn’t ever want it to stop.
The next morning I was woken by the splutter and roar of a recalcitrant car engine coming from the motel forecourt. I had a thumping headache and my legs felt very stiff. As I gathered up my clothes and a towel and staggered over to the bathroom, I made out David’s and Joe’s prone figures crashed out on the next bed, top to tail, with only the curry bedspread draped over them. David had his T-shirt on again. As I passed by, an audible fart emanated from his end of the bedspread, and I shuddered, bolting into the bathroom. The previous night seemed to have happened to someone else, and had I not felt an unfamiliar soreness down below, I might have thought that it was just a story someone told me.
Justin burst in the room just as I emerged, washed and dressed, from the shower. He was in fine form, full of stories about his conquest of the previous night, and insisted we all go en masse to the diner for breakfast so he could brag some more, and taunt poor Joe. Over hangover fodder of pancakes and maple syrup, David and I exchanged small sheepish smiles.
I felt wracked with guilt, but I kept that between me and God. Guilt aside, it was a relief to be able to write to Sam and tell her what had happened, and I was grateful to David for making me feel like a normal person, not someone who was too hideous ever to lose her virginity.
November 18, 1984
Dear Mar Tangs (Clam Digger and Lobster Trapper),
I did it, I did it, I finally did it! And you’ll never guess who with? David!! Yup, geeky little David. What a sly dog. Our van broke down in Butt-fuck, Ohio (sorry, Justin’s name for a hick town!), so we had to cancel a show and spend the night there. I got drunk, too—don’t be too disapproving; it’s only rock ‘n’ roll (“but I like it, la, la, la”). Have you ever had tequila? It’s yummy, but it doesn’t half give you a terrible hangover. To be honest, I don’t really even remember much about It—one minute I was asleep/passed out on the bed, the next, David’s all snuggled up with me, and the next, he’s … you know. The others weren’t there—obviously. They were trying to make out with the barmaid.
I think I enjoyed it. It was good and bad, that I did it with David and not some strange boy. Good because I trust him and know him so well, but bad because it’s not like we’re gonna be an item or anything. We were both drunk. Also, bad because it feels a bit incestuous. Still, at least I am officially No Longer A Virgin. I was getting worried, after you and Martin Trubshaw had that night of passion (what’s up with him these days? Is he still blanking you?)—I am a year older than you, after all.
Love from your experienced friend,
H xx
November 25, 1984
Dear Helena,
Oh my God! Congratulations! Send more details—if you can remember them. Is he, you know, small all over??? And is everything okay now? I mean, isn’t it a bit awkward, having a one-night stand with someone you spend all your time with?
Martin “Nadger” Trubshaw is still avoiding me. I think he fancies Mel; she’s always telling me she bumped into him, and I haven’t bumped into him for weeks. I don’t know if I should tell you this, but I heard Mel say to the Nadger’s friend (whose name is Chris) that “her” friend Helena is a famous pop star in America, and if he liked, she could get your autograph for him! So you see, she hasn’t changed a bit. You’ll be pleased to know that whilst I’m inordinately proud of you, and boast about you as often as possible, I wouldn’t dream of prostituting your good name (well, your name, you old tart) in that wanton way!
School is quite good at the moment. I’m really enjoying the A-level courses, especially History and English. I’ve decided that the only men in my life are going to be Urban VIII, Bishop Frederick Nausea, and Oliver Cromwell. Olly’s a bit ug, bless him (he really should’ve had those heinous warts seen to), but we must not forget that he was a Healer of Breaches. Or was that breeches?
“Anthony and Cleo” is great, too. Apart from the death issues, I wish I was Cleopatra. She manages to be a vamp and a romantic heroine at the same time: “O my oblivion is a very Anthony, and I am all forgotten!” I wonder what the Nadger would do if I turned around and said that to him one day? “O my oblivion is a very Martin Trubshaw … etc.” No, doesn’t have quite the same ring to it, does it?
(And there’s another funny thing: Why do people “turn around” and say stuff to each other? Usually they’re already facing them. It makes no sense.)
French is okay. Here’s an insult for you to try out on Joe next time he annoys you: “Joe, tu es un grouillement continu!” It means “You are a seething mass.” That’ll confuse him.
Anyway, I’m rambling now. Write soon, you exciting, nearly famous person.
Lots of love and kisses,
Sam xxxx
P.S. Handy phrases for you to remember if you’re ever on tour in Germany:
“Ich habe mein Schtampwappen veloren”: I have lost my totem pole.
“Mein Beutelmaus hat verstopfung”: My wombat is constipated.
Aside from being the most memorable, that leg of the tour was a lot more rewarding, as our reputation slowly began to precede us. The au
tumn scenery was absolutely stunning, too. To be confronted with majestic sweeps of red, orange, and yellow on valleys around every corner made the driving infinitely less tedious. I could quite happily stare for hours out of the window at the rich foliage presenting its last colorful stand. The leaves on some of the trees were such a perfect, delicate shade of peach that they made me want to cry. I would search for these particular ones whenever we stopped for gas or lunch, kicking ankle-deep through the carpet at the sides of the road, and if I found any I would put them carefully in the glove compartment of the van, meaning to send them to Sam. I didn’t recall ever seeing that peachy tint from English autumn leaves. But after a couple of days their color always faded to a nondescript dull russet, and I ruefully threw them away, along with the myriad McDonald’s boxes and Twinkies wrappers that littered the van floor.
We finally made it back to the East Coast. We were driving through Vermont on our way home, engaged in some pointless but vaguely entertaining bickering about whether a girl in my year at high school had suddenly begun to stuff her bra. The mountain vistas were particularly ravishing, but I was driving, and so couldn’t allow myself to gaze at the foliage too much.
“She did not! She just discovered those push-up bras. Believe me, women know these things.” I was getting interested, despite myself.
Justin snorted. “Excuse me, but I think us men spend more time staring at girls’ hooters than you do.”
“Generally speaking, I wouldn’t count on it,” I replied, pulling into the fast lane to overtake an octogenarian couple in an RV, who were rubbernecking at the trees above them.
“Do girls stare at other girls, then?” asked Joe curiously.
“Well, yes, of course. Just out of interest and for comparison purposes. You do the same, don’t you? Except that boys have a name for it.”
Justin wasn’t so keen on this line of questioning. “Since when are you such an expert on men, Miss ‘No-Boyfriends’ Nicholls?”
I blushed.
Joe joined in the inquisition. “Yeah, Helena—why don’t you go out with guys? You haven’t dated anyone since we’ve known you.” He stared at me with mock horror. “You’re not … you’re not … one of those lesbians, are you?”
I spluttered with outrage. “No! Of course I’m not! Jeez. What’s the matter with you? When have any of us had time to have dates and stuff in the last two years, anyway?”
The boys exchanged glances implying that they’d somehow managed to find the time. Thankfully, David kept quiet in the back of the van. I was worried for a minute that he’d be tempted to chime in with the benefit of his firsthand experience. But he never even had the chance to, because Justin was like a terrier with a toy between his teeth.
“You don’t hang out with anyone from school, girls or boys, H. I’ve never seen you put any names on the guest list, except your folks once or twice. Why are you such a loner?”
I misheard him. “I’m not a loser! How dare you call me a loser!”
Justin grinned, making a winding-up motion with his hands.
“For your information, you bunch of mutons, no way am I a lesbian. And I do have friends, Mary Ellen Randall and, er, Margie Westerburg, but they just aren’t into our sort of music. And my best friend, Sam, is coming to stay with me soon. She lives in England, otherwise I’d be hanging out with her the whole time. Satisfied?”
“Oooh, Sam! She wears the pants in your relationship, does she?” sang Joe from the back.
“Shut up, Joe, shut up, Justin. I’m really sick of hearing your voices. Turn the radio on, can’t you?”
Justin smirked maliciously, knowing that yet again they had succeeded in embarrassing me. He did switch it on, though, and after a few minutes of chasing up and down the dial, he stopped twiddling the knob when we heard the final bars of a Jonathan Rich-man tune.
It faded into something else—a song that we all, in one split second, thought, That sounds familiar, what is it? before we recognized it with screams of joy.
“Turn it up!”
“Oh my God, it’s us!”
“Louder!”
“Stop the van!”
Quickly, I pulled over to the side of the road. Cranking the volume up full blast, we opened the windows and let the sound of the first track on our album pour out over the crisp, colorful hillside, accompanied by our voices yodeling along in unison. We were bouncing around with so much excitement that the van shook from side to side, and passing motorists stopped looking at the scenery to wonder what on earth was going on. We’d heard Blue Idea tracks on the radio before, but only when we’d actually been at the station at the time, giving interviews. It was indescribable, the sensation of hearing on the radio, unanticipated, a composition that had come from my own head. As the last note approached, we shushed one another and listened attentively, leaning our heads toward the radio to hear better, even though the speakers were in the doors.
“Shhhh, it’s ending.”
“Yeah, we know, Joe, we were there, too.”
“Shh, see if he says anything!”
There was a moment’s pause and we held our breath. Then the DJ came on air. I would have known this was a college station even without him playing our song, because of the sound of his voice. Every college DJ in the country seemed to have the same voice, languid but slightly hesitant, making it sound as if they were smoking reefer while all the records played. Which they probably were.
“Yeah, um, that was a band with a new record out. They’re called, ah, Blue Something—wait, I’ve lost the sleeve—oh, here. Blue Idea, kids, out of Freehold, New Jersey, and that was ‘This Is Your Blue Idea,’ the first track from their brand-new album, Switch On, out on Ringside Records. Yeah … Actually, they seem, you know, really cool. Check it out. And next up, here’s Japan with ‘Ghosts.’…”
Every time I hear “Ghosts” now, David Sylvian’s autumn voice washes over me like falling leaves, and I see layers of things: peach and red, curried bedspreads, the head-spinning of tequila, hazy sexual pleasure, the purity of unplayed vinyl, and the first thrill of success.
SAM’S TREACHEROUS BLONDE
SOMEBODY WAS LURKING AROUND MY HOUSE. OVER THE YEARS I had of course come across quite a few assorted lurkers, loomers, anoraks, and saddos, but fortunately I’d never had my very own stalker. I’d known plenty of other artists who’d had “privacy-invasion issues,” though. Adam Ant once told me that he had someone living in his roof space for months, spying on him through holes drilled in the loft floor—God, how did he not notice? Ever since I heard that, I had examined my bedroom and bathroom ceilings through a magnifying glass. And what about poor Björk, with the nutter who blew his brains out on home video for her? Nightmare.
So, no peepholes in the plasterwork, but an intermittent, undeniable lurky sort of presence, enough to make me feel extremely nervous. A shadow past the side of the dining-room window, as if someone was trying to peek through a gap in my muslin curtains. A fresh footprint in the mud next to the garden path, which couldn’t belong to the bin men because they’d been there two days earlier. A dry, bottom-shaped patch on my swinging garden seat, when the rest of the garden was wet.
One night after Mum had returned to New Jersey, I was sitting at my refectory table sorting through boxes and boxes of photographs, fanning them out in cascades around me, wondering how to begin to make sense of them all. It was part of a kind of “get my affairs in order” campaign.
I’d sorted through the Hel-Sam Box of Important Stuff as soon as it had arrived from Cynthia, and pulled out some letters and Bluezines, which I intended to copy into the manuscript. The whole correspondence, plus accompanying photographs and press features, etc., was a great source of Blue Idea memorabilia. Might be worth quite a bit after I’m gone, I thought. The rest of the stuff was more personal, and pretty much as I’d described to Cynthia: a gruesome collection of baby teeth, Sam’s beloved dormouse key ring, the aforementioned four-leaf clover, my second favorite Barbie (the top favorite sti
ll Missing in Action, last seen at Salisbury Fair in 1977)—oh, and a big Genesis badge, which I won at the same fair. I’d worn it on my coat lapel for ages, thinking myself quite hip and unusual to have such a badge. It was only after an older kid at school asked me if I had all their albums that I discovered Genesis wasn’t just a book of the Bible.
But personal as it all was, I found that these things, though important, didn’t move me as much as, say, hearing two minutes of a song that reminded me of Sam. This could reduce me to an emotional jelly, as could the sight of her tiny spidery handwriting—but her key ring was just a key ring, however much she’d prized it.
I looked at all the photographs in front of me. It was odd, looking at a lifetime’s worth of little shiny Helenas: teen Helena, tummy pooched out over the top of tight jeans; Helena in a yellow bikini ten years later, the same stomach shrunken and bronzed; Helena scruffy, chewing her cuticles; Helena wealthy and manicured. I wondered if I scanned all these different images into a computer, would it come up with the one definitive Helena? And if it could, what would she be like? Thirty-one years of a digital me, assembled from the sum of my parts and the snaps of my holidays. I was sure she would look better than the real thing, this wrinkly, one-eyed, lonely failure.
The telephone rang.
I let the machine pick up. Unless it was Sam, calling to say hi from the Other Side, or Toby, I wasn’t interested.
But the machine clicked off again without recording a message. I had a sudden hopeful vision of Toby cradling the receiver between his neck and his chin, leaving the scent of his aftershave on the earpiece, a feeling so strong that I got up and dialed 1471. “The caller’s number has been withheld,” said the robot inside the phone, and I was disappointed that I couldn’t even smell a trace of Toby.
Sam was in at least eighty percent of the photographs, always smiling: Sam in shorts; on a bike; with Cynthia; with me. There was one of us at about nine, topless, arms round each other’s shoulders. Her chest was flat, brown, and smooth; mine lard-white and flabby, the whisper of cotton wool breasts budding. It looked as though Sam was carelessly pinching my pudgy nipple between thumb and forefinger.
