“This isn’t fair.”
“No. It isn’t fair.” Anya was finding it difficult to keep control of her anger. Geoff just didn’t seem to think he was doing anything wrong. “It’s not fair that you get home and eat and work and watch the box but I have to do all the sodding housework before I can decide whether to do some reading or relax a bit or go to bed or do some work because I’m so bloody tired! It isn’t bloody fair Geoff. You’ve got to start doing your share, I’m not your wife, I’m not your skivvie and I’m not your bloody mother’s Eileen.”
She looked at him waiting for him to say something, but he stayed quiet.
“I know I don’t pay rent or anything but I would if you’d let me. Do you think doing all the chores is my way of paying my share of the rent? Am I just your home help or am I just a prostitute, your kept woman who has all expenses paid as long as I fuck you every night and twice on Saturdays. I want to work hard but I also want to have some fun.”
“Fun?” Geoff didn’t seem to understand what she was talking about and picked out the easiest point to respond to. He didn’t feel up to discussing the role of women and liberation and equality. “You have fun with just about every man you meet.”
“That’s not fun, that’s sex.”
“Why do you screw around so much?”
“I don’t.”
Geoff started ticking off on his fingers. “The English student who lives next door, the dentist in the pub last week I was talking to about rugby, the barman at The Phil, the guy on that train when we went to Manchester, that Portuguese chap visiting your department…”
“University is supposed to be the most fun time of your life isn’t it? Well for the first two years I was at home every night when I bet you were screwing yourself silly with all and sundry. Then there was the year in Hall when all I did in the evenings was be with you and now all I do is work and housework. If I only had sex with you I’d be so fucking bored.”
“I get the picture.”
“No you fucking don’t! I have as much right to enjoy myself as you do! All you want to be is the nice little man being looked after by the nice little woman but the nice little woman is pissed off.”
“You mean it’s my fault you go out, find complete strangers and screw them.”
“I’d do it more if you weren’t around. Why shouldn’t I?”
“Why shouldn’t you? You have to ask?” Geoff was beginning to realise the depth of Anya’s anger even if he had no idea what was causing it.
“And what a fucking mistake this flat was! You do sod all around the place. I need to work just as much as you but I do all the housework because it’s not as important for me to do well is it? Of course not! My course is just to keep me occupied for a year until you’re ready to move on with your life and drag me along too. What a pity I can’t get pregnant then I’d have to give up all those silly ideas about having a career wouldn’t I? You’d be the centre of everyone’s attention. The house would revolve around you, just what your bloody mother made you believe for your whole life. Well I’m not going to do the same.
“I thought…” Geoff tried to find an answer but was quickly interrupted.
“Why are we living like a sodding middle aged bloody married couple? And another thing. I’m sick to death of having to ask you for money all the time. This is your flat, you paid the rent before I had a chance to contribute. I have sex with you and you give me money to keep this bloody place going. What does that remind you of? You think you bloody own me! Well you fucking well don’t. Stuff it. I’m off.”
“Is that ‘off’ as in ‘going out’ or as in ‘going for good’?”
“Which do you want?”
“I thought we were happy.”
“Well you know what fucking thought did don’t you!” She knew she wasn’t making any sense.
“We have some good times?” She didn’t answer. “I really thought you were happy.” He repeated, more quietly and with some sadness.
“No. I. Am. Not. Happy.” And she burst into tears.
Geoff put his books carefully on the floor and got up from the settee, walking over to put his arms around her.
“OK I’ll do more. Honestly I will. I’ll do more.”
“No you won’t. You’ll never do more. I’m only your bit of rough, housekeeping for you while you finish your degree then you’ll fuck off south to your precious Fiona and your precious fucking middle class family. I’ve never been good enough have I? OK for a shag, OK to do the housework but I’ll never be good enough for you. I heard your mother ‘not suitable’ she said, I heard her telling some pompous old git, ‘that tart isn’t a suitable friend for my Geoffrey.”
“Ignore my mother, you probably didn’t hear her right anyway. We’re good together, why do we need to be with other people? Aren’t I enough for you?”
“Listen to yourself! We’re 21 years old. We should be out at clubs or discos or parties or anything when we’re not working. We can be like this for years if we want to but not yet, not now. We shouldn’t be like this now.”
“I love you Anya. I don’t want to go with anyone else. I thought you loved me?” It was the first time he had mentioned love. He sounded pathetic and he knew it. Anya didn’t answer, she just stared at him.
“I’m going.”
“Will you…”
Anya turned her back and he listened as drawers opened and shut and he could picture her throwing things into her duffle bag before the sharp crack of the front door being shut rather too forcefully told him she had left.
“… be coming back?” Geoff asked the empty flat.
Geoff kept the silence in the flat at bay by having the radio or television on at all times but they couldn’t stop him thinking. He wasn’t used to questioning his own actions but he recognised that he had been rather domesticated, it suited him that way. He liked having Anya around, she made him feel comfortable and he tried to understand why it was different for her.
On her second evening away he sought out people they both knew to ask them nonchalantly whether anyone had seen her. When no one had he began to worry about where she might have gone and who she might have fallen in with. Whenever he returned to the flat he hoped to see the lights on and Anya back. He had never been on his own like this and he didn’t like it.
On the third day he sat on the bed and promised the absent Anya that things would be different, he would be different, when she got back, if she came back. He stared out of the window willing the next person to walk round the corner to be Anya. When it wasn’t he said she would be tenth person to round the corner. When she still hadn’t come after twenty people had walked along that stretch of pavement he turned away from the window. He made himself consider how he might change, perhaps if he made the right decisions she would come home.
As it grew dark he stood in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil wondering what she had thought about when she had been on that spot. He stared around him at the fridge and the well-stocked shelves and thought they were really very lucky; most post-grad students had to scrimp and save to afford the steak meals that they ate regularly. It slowly dawned on him why she was so resentful. She had chosen none of these things, not the flat, nor the mugs and plates. He had bought everything, not because she didn’t want to, or couldn’t, but because he had not given her the chance. Her grant was not overgenerous but it would be enough to do the normal things in life. He had never let her be herself. He had overwhelmed her. He thought about the posters she had put up in that first week, when, he realised, he had left her alone in the flat they had only been in for one day. He had taken them down, replacing them with some prints which he thought looked better but he had never said her posters had been nice or asked her which she preferred. He had just gone ahead and done it. As he ticked off thoughtless action after thoughtless action he wondered why she had stayed with him so long.
In a few months they would have to make decisions that would set the course for their lives. She would be de
termined to be independent. Perhaps she would want a career that would take her away from him. She would listen to Women’s Libbers and think she could make it through life on her own. Somehow, if, when, she came back, he had to find a way of making her want to stay with him.
He knew her well enough to realise independence meant money of her own. And somehow they would have to have more of what she insisted on calling ‘fun’. He remembered Fiona telling him in great, and at the time immensely boring, detail how it was necessary to let the more headstrong puppies and ponies have the longest leads when they were being trained. Anya was a wonderful, spirited, stubborn animal but she was not yet ready to be trained. He would have to let Anya have her head in the short term if he wanted her with him for the long. He looked down at the now cold cup of coffee and realised how important it was to him to have her with him. He just had to find a way.
As he walked in the park on the Thursday afternoon when Anya had been away four days he found what he thought would be the perfect answer. He sat on a bench by the pond for an hour trying to think through the consequences if Anya agreed. There were risks and he would have to swallow his pride and control his possessiveness more than he had ever had to before, but he thought it might work. Anya would have her ‘fun’, he could make sure she had money of her own yet he would still be in control. As he watched the ducks dabbling in the shallow water he felt snowflakes landing on his hands. More and more snow fell and it began to turn the grey path and the dirty looking grass white. More than anything he wanted to share the park’s transformation with Anya, he couldn’t enjoy it without her.
He was at the front gate when he looked up and saw the lights on in the flat. She was back. He closed the gate quietly and in the few strides it took to get to the front door he had time to tell himself that he must be patient, he must listen to what she had to say. Then they’d go to bed and he’d show her how much he had missed her.
Anya had lit the fire and was sitting cross legged on the hearth rug staring at the flames as he came in.
“You’re home then.”
He had to stop himself asking questions, he made himself wait until she was ready to talk. He sat down next to her and was relieved when she laid her head on his shoulder and took his hand in hers.
“Yes I’m home.”
They sat together watching the fire for what seemed to Geoff to be a long time. He had to break the silence.
“Things will be different. I promise.”
She took a few moments to reply and then it was a dull monosyllable full of doubt. “How?”
“I’ll start by doing more around the flat.” She turned and looked at him, her expression one of scepticism. “Honestly Anya, I will, and I’ll start by cooking supper tonight. And I’ll do the washing up.” He was rewarded by her head returning to its position on his shoulder and a slight pressure from her hand on his. They sat together until the fire needed more coal and his getting up broke the spell. He left her by the fire as he busied himself in the kitchen. Every few minutes he looked round the door but she hadn’t moved. He began to worry what had happened to her. Her stillness was so unusual.
“Only egg on toast with beans.” He said putting the plates on the table.
She unwrapped her long legs and stood, stretching for a few moments before turning to the table. “Fine. Thanks.” Both were remembering their argument of five months before about chinkies.
They ate in silence, Geoff glancing up occasionally but he never managed to catch her eye. She seemed to be miles away.
He gathered up the plates and washed them up, drawing out the process by carefully drying and putting away the plates, the pans and the cutlery. He wanted to put off the moment he knew was coming.
She was going to tell him she was leaving him.
“Coffee?” he asked trying to hide the panic in his voice.
“Please.”
She was sitting in front of the fire again and didn’t move when he came in so he put her mug on the hearth in front of her and sat down next to her, cradling his mug in his hands. Never, he told himself, had he felt so awkward. He had no idea when to break the silence or what words to use. They sat, not touching, until the fire had almost died again.
When she spoke it was as if she was reading from a script and had over-rehearsed the words.
“I’m back, Geoff, but I can’t stay more than a day unless things change. You have to let me be me. I know I’m not someone you always like or respect but I’m me. I have to drink with and screw with whoever I want. It’s never anything serious, it’s my way of sticking two fingers up at the world. Two fingers at the world, Geoff, not at you. I’m not ready to be tied down but if I was, when I am, I can’t think of a kinder, more generous, nicer man to be tied down with. So you can take me or leave me Geoff. Cope with my ways or don’t. It’s up to you.”
“You do want to stay then?” He asked tentatively.
“Only if things change.”
“They will.”
“Promise?” She held out her hand and he squeezed it.
“I promise. Anya, you mean so much to me. I don’t think you know how much.”
“Perhaps you should have shown me a bit more, taken me a little less for granted?”
“I’m so sorry.”
“So you should be. You should have shown me a little bit more respect.”
He tried to see the old Anya in her words. Was she teasing him? Was she playing with him?
“Shown you respect? How?”
She reached over and touched his face. Then she leant forward and kissed his mouth in a way he remembered from their early days together. He moved his tongue to hold hers, she moved hers away, tantalising, teasing. He had had enough of her playing and pushed her to the floor.
“Anya.” He said more firmly than he meant to. “If you don’t want me to do this tell me. Just say no and I’ll let you go.”
Anya didn’t say a word.
They lay together on the rug in front of the burned out fire.
“Changes, Anya, there will be changes.”
She didn’t reply so he continued.
“From now on we’ll take it in turns to make bets.”
“Bets?”
“Yeah. Say I bet you that you can’t screw so and so on a particular day.”
“And?” Anya was intrigued.
“I’ll be there to check.”
“You’ll watch?”
“Sometimes, yes, I’d have to check you’re actually winning the bet.”
“If I don’t?”
“You lose the bet and pay me.”
“Could be fun.” Anya lay back with the warm feeling of satisfying sex filling her. She wondered if the feeling she had for Geoff was love. She felt comfortable, relaxed, warm and complete.
“Geoff?”
“Yes?”
“Do you understand why I hate myself so much?”
It had never occurred to him that someone could hate themselves. “Do you?”
“I’ve always hated myself. I hate myself for being different from everyone else.”
“You’re not. You’re brilliant and beautiful. How can you hate yourself?”
“I’ll tell you some day.”
“When you’re ready.” He leant over and kissed her.
“Geoff?” She asked as he moved himself ready to take her again.
“Yes?”
“Are you pleased I’m back?”
“Pleased? Just you feel how pleased I am.”
They lay back together on the mat in front of the long dead fire. Geoff folded his arms around Anya keeping her warm against the chill of the night.
“Come to bed.”
Another opportunity was missed for Anya and Geoff to talk about things that mattered. Instead they made love and the moment for explanations that would have saved so much pain passed.
The next morning they lay together as if there had never been a problem.
“You know those bets you were talking about last nigh
t?” Anya asked nonchalantly.
“Yes?”
“Who starts?”
“Me.”
“OK what and how much?”
“To start you off, and this is the one and only time I’m involved directly, I bet you twenty pounds…”
“I haven’t got twenty to spare.”
“… twenty pounds that I won’t have made love to you in half an hour.”
“That’s too easy.”
“Well what’s your suggestion?”
“You know that barman at the Phil?”
“You’ve been with him before.”
“Is that against the rules?”
“Yes.” Geoff sounded less doubtful than he felt, he hadn’t thought about rules. “There’s this guy on my course. He’ll be more of a test.”
Friday 21st January 1972 Back in Liverpool
Four days in London was far too long and despite having great time (in some ways) I was surprised how much I missed G. I even worried about him worrying about me. Why did I go?
The problems are easy: 1. Domesticity 2. No money 3. Dependence on G. Such simple problems. I certainly didn’t find any solutions in London. When I got home G had this silly idea to make me earn money by gambling. He’ll bet me I can’t screw people or do other stuff and he’ll pay me. I’ll get my own money (well almost my own) from the bets. I’ll go along with it because at least he’s trying. The first bet is a weird chap on his course, he always wears a knitted woollen hat of many colours I get £20 if he fucks me by next Friday. G reckons he’s a virgin. I asked how he’d know I’d done it. He said he’d know because Arthur (really!) wouldn’t be able not to tell everybody. Is this just another sort of perverted prostitution? Another Psychology treatise: ‘Is sex for money always prostitution?’ What about all those young blondes who marry old men exchanging sex for a couple of years for their vast fortune when they die? Is what we’re doing prostitution? I’ve thought about and I don’t think so. Not really anyway.
G is doing more around the flat. So far cooked steak last night, did the washing up (eventually), tidied his clothes away even put his dirty pants in the laundry bag (!!) and he didn’t complain that he had no clean t-shirt. He is being quite sweet really but we’ll see how long it lasts.
Highly Unsuitable Girl Page 11
