Conversations with Friends

by Sally Rooney

  Yeah, delighted.

  How are you managing for money?

  Oh, I said. I’m okay.

  She glanced in the rear-view mirror.

  The doctor didn’t say anything else, did he? she said.

  No, that was it.

  I looked out the window at the station. I had the sense that something in my life had ended, my image of myself as a whole or normal person maybe. I realised my life would be full of mundane physical suffering, and that there was nothing special about it. Suffering wouldn’t make me special, and pretending not to suffer wouldn’t make me special. Talking about it, or even writing about it, would not transform the suffering into something useful. Nothing would. I thanked my mother for the lift to the station and got out of the car.

  28

  That week I went to class every day and spent every evening in the library writing CVs and printing them off on the library printers. I had to get a job so I could give Nick the money back. I had become obsessed with repaying the money, as if everything else depended on it. Whenever he called me I hit the reject button and sent him texts saying I was busy. I said the scan was clear and there was nothing to worry about. Okay, he texted back. Is that good news? I didn’t reply. It would be really nice to see you, he wrote. Later he sent me an email saying: melissa mentioned bobbi moved out of your apartment, is everything all right? I didn’t reply then either. By Wednesday he sent me another email.

  hey. i know you’re angry at me and i feel really bad about it. i would like if we could talk about what’s bothering you. at this point i’m presuming it has something to do with melissa but i guess i might be wrong about that too. i had the impression that you knew this kind of thing might happen and you just wanted me to tell you if it did. but maybe i was enormously naive about that and what you actually wanted was for it not to happen. i’d like to do what you want but i can’t if i don’t know what it is. otherwise maybe you’re not feeling well or something else has upset you. i find it hard not knowing if you’re ok. it would be really good to hear from you.

  I didn’t write back.

  Before class one day I bought myself a cheap grey notebook and used it to keep track of all my symptoms. I wrote them out very neatly with the date printed up at the top. It helped me to become more intimately acquainted with phenomena like fatigue and pelvic pain, which had previously seemed like vague discomforts with no particular beginning or end. Now I came to know them as personal nemeses which dogged me in various ways. The grey notebook even helped me to feel out the contours of words like ‘moderate’ and ‘severe’, which no longer felt ambiguous but definitive and categorical. I paid so much attention to myself that everything I experienced came to seem like a symptom. If I felt dizzy after getting out of bed, was that a symptom? Or what if I felt sad? I decided to be completist in my approach. For several days in the grey notebook, I noted down in tidy handwriting the phrase: mood swings (sadness).

  Nick was having a birthday party that weekend in Monkstown, he was turning thirty-three. I didn’t know whether to attend or not. I read his email again and again while I tried to decide. On one reading it might give an impression of devotion and acquiescence, and on another it appeared indecisive or ambivalent. I didn’t know what I wanted from him. What I seemed to want, though I didn’t like to believe this, was for him to renounce every other person and thing in his life and pledge himself to me exclusively. This was outlandish not only because I had also slept with someone else during our relationship but because even now I was often preoccupied by other people, particularly Bobbi and how much I missed her. I didn’t believe that the time I spent thinking about Bobbi had anything to do with Nick, but the time he spent thinking about Melissa I felt as a personal affront.

  On Friday I called him. I told him I was having a strange week and he said how nice it was to hear my voice. I rubbed my tongue against my teeth.

  You kind of threw me with that phone call last week, I said. Sorry if I overreacted.

  No, I don’t think you did. Maybe I underreacted. Are you upset?

  I hesitated and said: no.

  Because if you are, we can talk about it, he said.

  I’m not.

  He was oddly quiet for a few seconds and I worried he had something else bad to tell me. Finally he said: I know you don’t like to seem upset by things. But it’s not a sign of weakness to have feelings. A kind of hard smile came over my face then, and I felt the radiant energy of spite fill my body.

  Sure, I have feelings, I said.

  Right.

  I just don’t have feelings concerning whether you fuck your wife or not. It’s not an emotive topic for me.

  Okay, he said.

  You want me to have feelings about it. Because you were jealous when I slept with someone else and it makes you insecure that I’m not jealous.

  He sighed into the phone, I could hear him. Maybe, he said. Yeah, maybe, that’s something to think about. I was just trying to, uh … yeah. I’m glad you’re not upset.

  I was really smiling then. I knew he could hear my smile when I said: you don’t sound glad. He sighed again, a weak sigh. I felt like he was lying on the floor and I was tearing his body apart with my smiling teeth. I’m sorry, he said. I’m just finding you kind of hostile.

  You’re interpreting your failure to hurt me as hostility on my part, I said. That’s interesting. This party is tomorrow night, right?

  He didn’t say anything for so long then that I was afraid I had gone too far, that he would tell me I was not a nice person, that he had tried loving me and it wasn’t possible. Instead he said: yeah, in the house. Do you think you’ll come?

  Sure, why wouldn’t I? I said.

  Great. It’ll be nice to see you again, obviously. You can arrive whenever.

  Thirty-three is so old.

  Yeah, I guess it is, he said. I’ve been feeling it.

  *

  By the time I got to the party, the house was noisy and full of people I didn’t know. I saw the dog hiding behind the TV set. Melissa kissed me on the face, she was obviously very drunk. She poured me a glass of red wine and told me I looked pretty. I thought about Nick shuddering into her body when he came. I hated them both, with the intensity of passionate love. I swallowed a huge mouthful of red wine and crossed my arms over my chest.

  What’s going on with you and Bobbi? said Melissa.

  I looked at her. Her lips were stained with wine, also her teeth. Under her left eye was a small but visible shadow of mascara.

  I don’t know, I said. Is she here?

  Not yet. You need to sort it out, you know. She’s been sending me emails about it.

  I stared at Melissa and a shiver of nausea ran over my skin. I hated that Bobbi had been emailing her. It made me want to step on her foot very hard and then look in her face and deny that I had done it. No, I would say. I don’t know what you’re talking about. And she would look at me and know that I was evil and insane. I said I would go and wish Nick a happy birthday and she pointed out the double doors to the conservatory.

  You’re in a bad mood with him, Melissa said. Aren’t you?

  I clenched my teeth. I thought of how hard I could step on her if I put my whole weight onto the foot.

  I hope it’s not my fault, she said.

  No. I’m not in a bad mood with anyone. I should go say hello.

  In the conservatory, the stereo was playing a Sam Cooke song and Nick was standing there in conversation with some strangers, nodding his head. The lights were dim and everything looked blue. I needed to leave. Nick saw me, our eyes met. I felt it like always, a key turning hard inside me, but this time I hated the key and hated being opened up to anything. He came toward me and I stood there holding my arms crossed, probably scowling, or maybe looking scared.

  He was drunk too, so drunk his words sounded slurred and I didn’t like his voice any more. He asked if I was okay and I shrugged. Maybe you should tell me what’s wrong so I can apologise, he said.

  Meliss
a seems to think we’re fighting, I said.

  Well, are we?

  Is it any of her business if we are?

  I don’t know, he said. I don’t know what you mean by that.

  A rigidity had settled over my whole body so that my jaw felt painfully tight. He touched my arm and I pulled away from him like he had slapped me. He looked hurt, like any normal person would look hurt. There was something wrong with me, I knew that.

  Two people I had never met came over to wish Nick happy birthday then: a tall guy and a dark-haired woman holding a little baby. Nick seemed very happy to see them. The woman kept saying: we’re not staying, we’re not staying, it’s a flying visit. Nick introduced me to them, it was his sister Laura and her husband Jim and their baby, the baby Nick loved. I wasn’t sure if Laura knew who I was. The infant had blonde hair and huge, celestial eyes. Laura said it was nice to meet me and I said: your baby is so gorgeous, wow. Nick laughed and said, isn’t she? She’s like a model baby. She could do ads for baby food. Laura asked me if I wanted to hold her and I looked at her and said: yes, can I?

  Laura handed me the baby and said she was going to get herself a glass of soda water. Jim and Nick were talking about something, I don’t remember what. The baby looked at me and opened and closed her mouth. Her mouth was very mobile, and for a while she put her entire hand into it. It was hard to believe that such a perfect creature was dependent on the whims of adults who drank soda water and handed her to strangers at parties. The baby looked up at me with her wet hand in her mouth and blinked. I held her tiny body against my chest and thought about how small she was. I wanted to talk to her, but the others would have heard me, and I didn’t want anybody else to hear.

  When I looked up I saw that Nick was watching me. We looked at one another for a few seconds and it felt so serious that I tried to smile at him. Yeah, I said. I love this baby. This is a great infant, ten out of ten. Jim replied: oh, Rachel is Nick’s favourite member of the family. He likes her more than we do. Nick smiled at that, and he reached over and touched the baby’s hand, which was waving around in the air like she was trying to balance herself. She held onto the joint of Nick’s thumb then. Oh, I’m going to weep, I said. She’s perfect.

  Laura came back and said she would take the kid off my hands. She’s heavy, isn’t she? she said. I nodded dumbly and then said: she’s so lovely. Without the baby my arms felt thin and empty. She’s a little charmer, Laura said. Aren’t you? And she touched the baby’s nose lovingly. Wait until you have your own, she said. I just stared at her and blinked and said something like yeah or hm. They had to leave then, they went to say goodbye to Melissa.

  When they were gone Nick touched my back and I told him how much I liked his niece. She’s beautiful, I said. Beautiful is a stupid thing to say, but you know what I mean. Nick said he didn’t think it was stupid. He was drunk, but I could tell he was trying to be nice to me. I said something like: actually I don’t feel very well. He asked if I was okay and I didn’t look at him. I said: you don’t mind if I head off, do you? There are so many people here anyway, I don’t want to monopolise you. He tried to look at me but I couldn’t look back at him. He asked me what was wrong and I said: I’ll talk to you tomorrow.

  He didn’t follow me out of the front door. I was shivering and my lower lip had started to tremble. I paid for a taxi back into town.

  *

  Late that night I got a call from my father. I woke up to the noise of the ringtone and knocked my wrist on the bedside cabinet trying to pick up the phone. Hello? I said. It was after three in the morning. I nursed my arm against my chest and squinted into the darkness, waiting for him to speak. The noise in the background of the call sounded like weather, like wind or rain.

  Is that you, Frances? he said.

  I’ve been trying to get in touch with you.

  I know, I know. Listen.

  He sighed then, into the phone. I didn’t say anything, but neither did he. When he next spoke, he sounded immensely tired.

  I’m sorry, love, he said.

  Sorry for what?

  You know, you know. You know yourself. I am sorry.

  I don’t know what you’re talking about, I said.

  Although I had spent weeks calling him about my allowance, I knew that I wouldn’t mention it now and that I might even deny the money was missing if he brought it up.

  Listen, he said. It’s just been a bad year. It’s gotten out of hand.

  What has?

  He sighed again. I said: Dad?

  Sure, you’d be better off without me at this stage, he said. Wouldn’t you?

  Of course not. Don’t say that. What are you talking about?

  Ah. Nothing. Only nonsense.

  I was shivering. I tried to think about things that made me feel safe and normal. Material possessions: the white blouse drying on a hanger in the bathroom, the alphabetised novels on my bookshelf, the set of green china cups.

  Dad? I said.

  You’re a great woman, Frances. You’ve never given us a bit of bother.

  Are you okay?

  Your mother tells me you have a boyfriend up there now, he said. Nice-looking fellow, I’ve heard.

  Dad, where are you? Are you outside somewhere?

  He was quiet for a few seconds, and then he sighed again, almost like a groan this time, like he was suffering from some physical ailment he couldn’t speak of or describe.

  Listen, he said. I’m sorry, all right? I’m sorry.

  Dad, wait.

  He hung up. I closed my eyes and felt all the furniture in my room begin to disappear, like a backwards game of Tetris, lifting up toward the top of the screen and then vanishing, and the next thing that would vanish would be me. I dialled his number again and again, knowing he wouldn’t answer. Eventually it stopped ringing, maybe his battery had run flat. I lay there in the dark until it was bright.

  *

  The next day Nick called me on the phone when I was still in bed. I’d fallen asleep at around ten in the morning and it was past noon by then. The window blinds were casting an ugly grey shadow on the ceiling. When I answered, he asked if he’d woken me up and I said: it’s okay. I didn’t sleep well. He asked if he could come over. I reached a hand to pull the blinds open and said all right, sure.

  I waited in bed while he got in the car. I didn’t even get up to shower. I put on a black T-shirt to buzz him into the building and he came through looking very freshly shaven and smelling like cigarettes. I gripped my throat when I saw him and said something like, oh, it didn’t take you long to get into town. We went into my room together and he said yeah, the roads were pretty clear.

  For a few seconds we stood there looking at each other and then he kissed me, on the mouth. He said: is this okay? I nodded and murmured something stupid. He said: sorry again about last night. I’ve been thinking about you a lot. I’ve missed you. It sounded like he’d prepared these statements in advance so that I couldn’t later accuse him of not saying them. My throat hurt like I was going to cry. I felt him touch me underneath my T-shirt and then I did start crying, which was confusing. He said: oh no, what’s wrong? Hey. And I shrugged and made weird meaningless hand gestures. I was crying very hard. He just stood there looking awkward. He was wearing a pale blue shirt that day, a button-down shirt, with white buttons.

  Can we talk about it? he said.

  I said there was nothing to talk about, and then we had sex. I was on my knees and he was behind me. He used a condom this time, we didn’t discuss that. When he spoke to me I mostly pretended I couldn’t hear him. I was crying pretty badly still. Certain things made me cry harder, like when he touched my breasts, and when he asked me if it felt okay. Then he said he wanted to stop, so we stopped. I pulled the bedsheets over my body and pressed my hand down on my eyes so I didn’t have to look at him.

  Was it not good? I said.

  Can we talk?

  You used to like it, didn’t you?

  Can I ask you something? he said. D
o you want me to leave her?

  I looked at him then. He looked tired, and I could see that he hated everything I was doing to him. My body felt completely disposable, like a placeholder for something more valuable. I fantasised about taking it apart and lining my limbs up side by side to compare them.

  No, I said. I don’t want that.

  I don’t know what to do. I’ve been feeling fucking awful about it. You seem so upset with me and I don’t know how I can make you happy.

  Well, maybe we shouldn’t see each other any more.

  Yeah, he said. Okay. I guess you’re probably right.

  I stopped crying then. I didn’t look at him. I pulled my hair back from my face and took an elastic tie off my wrist to wrap around it. My hands were trembling and I was starting to see faint lights in my eyeline where there were no real lights. He said he was sorry, and that he loved me. He said something else also, like he didn’t deserve me or something like that. I thought: if only I hadn’t picked up the phone this morning, Nick would still be my boyfriend, and everything would be normal. I coughed to clear my throat.

  After he left the apartment I took a small nail scissors and cut a hole on the inside of my left thigh. I felt that I had to do something dramatic to stop thinking about how bad I felt, but the cut didn’t make me feel any better. Actually it bled a lot and I felt worse. I sat on the floor of my room bleeding into a rolled-up piece of tissue paper and thinking about my own death. I was like an empty cup, which Nick had emptied out, and now I had to look at what had spilled out of me: all my delusional beliefs about my own value and my pretensions to being a kind of person I wasn’t. While I was full of these things I couldn’t see them. Now that I was nothing, only an empty glass, I could see everything about myself.

  I got cleaned up and found a plaster to put over the cut. Then I pulled the blinds and opened my copy of Middlemarch. Ultimately it didn’t matter that Nick had taken the first opportunity to leave me as soon as Melissa wanted him again, or that my face and body were so ugly they made him sick, or that he hated having sex with me so much that he had to ask me to stop halfway through. That wasn’t what my biographers would care about later. I thought about all the things I had never told Nick about myself, and I started to feel better then, as if my privacy extended all around me like a barrier protecting my body. I was a very autonomous and independent person with an inner life that nobody else had ever touched or perceived.