The play was fantastic. I sat forward in my seat as the actress languished across the stage and offered Løvborg the pistol. I caught the eye of the blonde girl next to me again in the interval. Sitting alone while the others found the loos and more wine, I merged in my mind the blonde’s curls with Hedda’s heaving bosom and felt the muscles tense pleasantly in my thighs.
After the bang from backstage, I peered through people’s shoulders as we filed down the stairs, trying not to lose the bobbing blonde head. On the street, a decision was made to turn left and I cheered silently as I noticed the denim jacket on the same girl’s back as she walked a few steps ahead of us with someone I presumed to be her grandmother. I muttered responses to the others and applauded the costumes, lighting and set, all the while thinking we must keep pace, I need to know where she’s going.
We followed them halfway down the main street, but Valerie was lagging and Beatrice was staring longingly at the wine lists in the windows of the bars we were passing. Eventually we stopped, choosing an outdoor table. Everyone was jolly and I joined in the amateur critique, feeling more excited and alive than I had for months, yet also crushingly deflated by the anticlimax of the whole event. I thought of Matthew and wished it had been just he and I in the theatre, wished he could have seen the girl and encouraged me to say hello. No, I didn’t wish he was there. I liked the purity of it as it was. The girl had been mine to watch, not in a sordid way, but in the beautiful, poetic way that Hedda takes her own life and Mrs Dalloway buys the flowers. This was my moment and, though I’d liked to have sat in that bar with Matthew describing and analysing the literary eroticism of living above the parapet, I was glad I hadn’t had to share it.
The following day, Matthew and I sat at his computer scanning a list of Fringe theatres in London. I was looking for addresses; I’d already drafted a letter.
Dear Sir/Madam
I’m an English Literature undergraduate, just coming to the end of my first year, and I would like to enquire as to whether you have any work-experience opportunities.
I’m interested in pursuing theatre, eventually as a director, and am looking to gain as much experience of the industry as possible. My summer break runs from 30th June until 1st September and I could be in London for some or all of this time.
Thank you for taking the time to consider my query. Please don’t hesitate to contact me if you require any further information. I have enclosed a copy of my CV.
Yours faithfully,
Natalie Lucas
Hedda Gabler had been the first play I hadn’t fallen asleep in. I’d attended the theatre with my mum as a child, mostly with my nana, who liked to see adaptations of things like Wuthering Heights and Sons and Lovers, but even if I was enjoying the play and I cared about the characters, something about the soft seats and the darkened auditorium always lulled me into a light snooze after the interval. But having finally understood an ending by piecing the third act to the first and second rather than to the first alone, I was convinced this was the world I wanted. I longed to be in charge: to be the master of the beautiful puppet-like actors, to choose the colours and the set and to own the audience’s imagination for those brief hours. It was an industry of Uncles; it had to be.
Matthew was supportive. He said his tenants’ contract ran out at the beginning of July, so he could keep his flat in Kew empty over the summer. I could live there and he could visit me a few days every week, juggling his betting and Annabelle. We would be together and alone. We could go food shopping and spend afternoons in cafés where no one would know us. It’d be perfect.
I sent my letter to thirty theatres in London. With a little more hesitation, I also wrote an email to the secretary of Durham’s Student Theatre asking how I could get involved.
In the first week of the new term, I was assigned to stage manage a production of Michael Frayn’s Clouds. The director was a tall, friendly, ex-public-school boy, the producer a short and bubbly Literature student, and the designer a tiny, beautiful, brunette vegan. I ran around arranging poster printing and finding props, but also began following the production team to college bars after run-throughs and laughing with people my own age.
I told Matthew on the phone I’d finally found people at university with passion. Unlike the English students who partied all night and rolled out of bed for their nine-fifteens without having opened the books, here were people offering their time for free, willing to paint sets until four in the morning, then return to their bedrooms and finish writing that paper on John Donne that needed to be handed in at 10am, grab some sleep before rehearsals at noon, then do the whole crazy thing all over again. Matthew quietly replied that he was happy for me.
With a week and a half until our get-in, I received a letter from the Blue Box Theatre. I keyed it into Google and found it was right there on the District Line, just a dozen or so stops from Kew. They said they had a good internship programme and, if I could make it down to London for an informal interview, they could probably offer me six weeks in the summer. They needed a ‘deputy stage manager’ for a new play.
I told Lee, one of the actors in Clouds, first and he jumped around with me in excitement, then took me for a picnic to celebrate.
‘So, you want to be a director?’ he asked, passing me the brie.
‘I think so. What about you?’ I lay back and propped myself on my elbows, careful to avoid the duck and goose shit covering the grass.
‘I like comedy. Stand-up and stuff.’ Lee’s long legs were crossed and he was turned to me, focusing intently. ‘I mean, acting’s okay, but I get stuck with all the supporting roles here, you know – the token black guy in a white university.’
I snorted a giggle and immediately wondered whether that was inappropriate.
‘So I’d really like to be a comedian,’ he smiled.
‘Cool. How do you get into that?’ I tore some bread for something to do with my hands.
‘Just do it I guess. I’m going up to Edinburgh this year, and I’ll spend the summer at home in London trying to get some gigs at clubs and such.’ He was still smiling his half-goofy, half-sexy grin.
‘Fun.’ I smiled back.
‘Hey, you should come. You’ll be in London. We could go out.’
‘Oh.’ I looked at his chocolate eyes and wondered what exactly he meant. ‘Yeah, maybe.’ An imaginary something poked me in the stomach: Isn’t London meant to be just you and Matthew? You and Matthew living in his flat, living together, living like a normal couple who don’t have to worry what people think of them?
‘Where are you staying when you’re there?’
‘Oh, um, my uncle has a place in Kew that’s going to be empty.’
Is he flirting? Are you?
‘Cool, Kew’s really nice. You must be close to your uncle.’
‘Yeah, I guess.’
‘We could go to the botanical gardens. Or Hampton Court. You’ll have to have a day off, right? I could show you round my city.’
‘Sure. Well, I probably won’t know my schedule until I’m down there, but maybe.’
The conversation died as we ate and later it turned to making up silly rhyming songs. As Lee made me laugh until Coca Cola came out of my nose, my muscles untensed; this was just two friends having fun, he wasn’t interested and neither was I. It was fine.
12
‘Scarlet Jean? Natalie Scarlet Jean Lucas? Ha ha ha ha!’ The slightly balding guy sitting behind the shabby desk with a half-smoked cigarette dangling from one hand and my CV in his other collapsed into loud, honking laughter. ‘Your parents didn’t like you much, did they? Sounds pretty pretentious!’
I blushed, partly because of his good-natured ridicule, partly because I was realising how out of place I looked in the carefully chosen black trousers and button-down shirt that at nine this morning I’d thought made a perfectly appropriate outfit. Far from the frighteningly formal interview I’d expected, I was now sat on a chipped wooden chair on the first floor of a corner building fille
d with over-stuffed files, pots and pots of paint and an ancient electric kettle balanced precariously on a fridge that needed a copy of the Yellow Pages to keep it shut.
‘Well, put the kettle on and we’ll see if you can handle the job.’
I hesitated, unsure whether he was serious, then fumbled to obey.
‘I have two questions for you,’ he continued. ‘Can you make a cup of tea? And, do you mind passive smoking? Because, if you do any work here, there will be a lot of both.’
I smiled. I was beginning to like this odd guy with his cheeky smile and slightly Northern accent. His name was Raoul. He’d agreed to meet me this weekend, the first after Clouds had closed, so I’d forked out for the train down to King’s Cross and was doubling it as an excuse to stay in a hotel with Matthew for the night. We were going to see Mark Rylance in Hamlet at The Globe this evening, his treat.
After I’d made Raoul a satisfactory cup of tea, he showed me around the theatre, which didn’t take long: it was a small black box above a pub that had made the Fringe lists because of its reputation for championing new writing. The stage was no bigger than my college bedroom and the temporary seating could fit a maximum of fifty in the audience. Backstage consisted of the office, which doubled as prop room and stage-left entrance, and a small dressing room with two mirrors and shelves full of wig heads.
By the time I left, we’d arranged for me to start attending rehearsals as soon as my term ended. The stage manager would handle everything alone until then.
Back in Durham two days later, I was buoyed by the thought of my summer plans. Matthew and I chatted excitedly about what we would do with my days off, how amazing it would be to have our own space and how we could construct Bunburys for Annabelle and my parents.
There were still four weeks left of term, but with Clouds over and most of the drama students preparing to take plays to Edinburgh, I found my social life dwindling. I agreed to design a set for WomanSoc, who were putting on The Vagina Monologues. I found them less sociable than the theatre crowd and grew rather miserable painting flats alone in a borrowed studio.
After chatting to Rose online one evening, feeling frustratedly horny, I logged on to Gaydar for the first time in months. My inbox was full. Among the predictably crude and weird, I found a series of emails from NJ26, desperate to meet because we were in the same city. I clicked to her profile and saw a pretty dark-haired girl who described herself as ‘seeking fun’. Her profile said she was from Egypt, doing a Masters in England and ‘hoping to make the most of my time here’. I clicked back to her latest email, sent two days ago. My mouse icon hovered over the reply button. She was attractive. She was in Durham, probably in the graduate college, just a few hundred yards away, perhaps only steps from where I’d spent the day constructing my set. If I contacted her, we’d probably have an awkward coffee, and then she’d make an excuse to leave because she found me utterly repulsive and I’d never see her again. But, on the other hand, the potential for humiliation was limited by the fact that I was leaving soon: I had little to lose.
Something stopped me, though. I saved her email and signed out of Gaydar. I heard Tim and Dave’s crass laughter in my mind, their drunken, manly warnings to each other about ‘shitting on your own doorstep’. I masturbated in bed and fell asleep.
A couple of days later, I dragged my housemates to The Vagina Monologues. As we queued to enter the lecture hall in which it was being performed, the girl who had orgasmed over and over before me during the dress rehearsals the night before walked by us. A couple of people ahead wished her luck and – because I had gone home to replay her moans as I lay in bed – because I had thought of nothing but her in my lectures that morning – because I had left the auditorium sure that the wetness between my thighs must be visible to all – because I had ached miserably all night for a girl with blonde curls who wore leather and screamed for more – because I was totally besotted – I stopped her too. I stuttered out a, ‘You were really amazing yesterday, break a leg tonight,’ and went bright red as she smiled sweetly and my friends giggled. She walked away as I swallowed my mortification.
After the play, Tim and I trudged back to our college. I slammed my door and punched on my computer. Attacking the keyboard with more vigour than was necessary, Harriet Moore sent NJ26 a reply.
‘By the way, my real name’s Natalie,’ I blurted in embarrassment as we sat down. It was the following evening and we were in a college bar, in plain sight of students and staff. An immediate flirt, she’d bought me a beer and put me at ease.
‘Nadiyya,’ the girl shrugged. ‘It’s Arabic, it means delicate. Are you Italian?’
‘No, why?’
‘Natalie. It’s Italian, I think.’
‘Oh yeah, sorry.’ I blushed. ‘No, I suppose my parents just liked it.’
‘You could be Italian. Or maybe French. You have gorgeous eyes.’ Gazing into Nadiyya’s wide, clear smile was like looking at a bottle of Evian after completing a city-wide bar crawl.
My life transformed into a scene from Better than Chocolate as she led me back to her room. I had little idea what was going on except a vague voice in my head chanting: ‘This is it, this is it!’
As she pulled me through the doorway of her spacious double room, she wrapped her hands around my waist and kissed me lightly on the mouth.
‘Are you okay, baby?’ she drawled.
‘Uh huh,’ I managed.
‘I’ll put some music on.’ She paced across the room and turned the dials on the stereo until a lazy melody began to play low. ‘Hey, relax.’ She returned to me and shrugged my jacket from my shoulders, brushing her lips along my neck. ‘I hope you don’t think me too forward.’
‘Oh, no,’ I managed to choke out.
‘It’s just I don’t have much longer left in England, and I like to live.’ Her fingers brushed their way beneath my T-shirt.
‘Uh huh, that seems, um, fair enough.’ I self-consciously began to nuzzle her neck.
‘I’ve met quite a few people from Gaydar, but you’re by far the most beautiful.’ Her hands ran over my stomach and up my back. ‘You’re so sexy and you don’t even know it.’
I smiled into her hair.
‘You also seem quite open and true, which is good,’ she paused. ‘I should have told you something in the bar, I hope it doesn’t change the way you feel about me.’
I stiffened and wondered what she had to say, but murmured, ‘I’m sure it won’t.’
‘I have a fiancé. Hugh. Back in Egypt. He knows all about what I do here and gives me his blessing. I’m allowed to love girls here, but I’m going to be his wife when I return.’
‘Oh.’ My nose was still in her hair and I didn’t remove it.
‘Is that okay with you, baby?’ Her fingers tickled my spine. ‘I’ll understand if it’s not, but it really shouldn’t make any difference.’
‘Um, I guess not.’ A messy feeling crept into my gut, but I thought about Matthew and whether the half-truths I’d told Nadiyya in the bar counted as dishonesty. Sure, Matthew had warned me against becoming caught up with couples and getting in trouble, but if the fiancé was in Egypt, he couldn’t pose a threat, could he? And I could hardly accuse her of misleading me when I’d revealed nothing about my secret life and pretended only to be a normal first-year student.
Nadiyya manoeuvred me to the bed and kissed me harder now. She purred ‘baby’s and ‘beautiful’s as she undressed me and slid her tongue down my belly. She pulled her own clothes off and I saw she was shaved. The first girl I’d truly seen naked.
Nervous and giddy, I don’t remember much. Nadiyya asked me to stay the night, but I told her I needed to remove my contact lenses. I left her curled in blue sheets and walked into the night. I wandered along the river, staring at my mucky reflection with coy smiles.
I woke up thinking of Nadiyya and found her online.
Chat with NJ26
NJ26: I missed you this morning baby.
Harry: Sorry.
> NJ26: I want to see you again.
Harry: Okay.
NJ26: When? I have a girl from Leeds coming over tonight, but I’d rather see you. Are you free?
Harry: Yes, but if you have plans.
NJ26: No, no, she won’t mind. She sounded relaxed in her profile.
Harry: Oh. What profile?
NJ26: Gaydar, silly. I’m sorry, obviously I wouldn’t have arranged it if I’d known you were going to contact me, but it’s a little late to cancel it now. I have to be polite.
Harry: I suppose.
NJ26: But you could come too. We’re having dinner, then maybe going out to a club. Please please come. I want you there.
Harry: I don’t know. I think I’d rather not.
NJ26: Really? Are you mad at me?
Harry: No, why should I be? We could see each other tomorrow.
NJ26: Yes, but I’d really like you to come tonight. I miss you so much already. Will you come to my room this afternoon? I have to study, but I’d like you here.
Harry: Okay, maybe for a bit.
NJ26: Yay! I need go now. See you later beautiful. xxxxxxxxxxxxx
After Googling ‘cunnilingus’ and reading an article about tracing A–Z with my tongue, I showered. I tried on three different pairs of knickers before deciding on a black lace thong Matthew had given me last Christmas.
After lunch, I headed over to Nadiyya’s room and we lazed in bed, interspersing making love with reading critical theory.
‘Can I take your photo, baby?’
‘Like this?’ I was naked on top of her sheets.
‘Sure. You’re beautiful. I told Hugh how gorgeous you are, baby, and he wants to see.’
‘Um, I don’t think so.’ I pulled the duvet over me.
‘Oh baby. I’m sorry. I won’t if you don’t like it, but I really want to. Maybe you’ll let me another time.’
I ignored that feeling in my gut again and turned back to my essay.
A few hours later, Laura arrived. She had scruffily bleached short hair and a nose piercing. Her face was blotchy and her stomach squidged over her jeans. She said she was thirty-two. She had a seven-year-old daughter and a partner who didn’t mind her seeing other men as well as women as long as she only had anal sex with him. I found this out over fajitas in Nadiyya’s communal kitchen.
Sixteen, Sixty-One Page 12
