After we’d eaten, I said I’d leave them to it. But Nadiyya re-filled my wine glass and begged me to stay a little longer. We finished two bottles before the pair of them dragged me to the club. Laura ordered me doubles and it wasn’t long before I was gyrating with Nadiyya on the dance floor. In the bathrooms, she drawled that she wished she was just going home with me tonight and wouldn’t I join them – it would be fun.
‘Noooo,’ I slurred. ‘I think I should just go home.’
‘Please.’ She pushed me into a stall and slid her fingers into my jeans.
Two more drinks later and I was stumbling up Nadiyya’s stairs with the two of them. Once again, I declined an invitation to stay the night and managed to depart before Nadiyya put her waterproof sheet on the bed and opened her cupboard full of strap-ons, but not before her camera came out and, bullied and drunk, I posed next to Laura’s sagging nipples, arched my back and allowed the two of them to crouch between my thighs.
I cried on the phone to Matthew the next day. He laughed and said at least I seemed to be having fun. Rose asked if I’d orgasmed with Nadiyya yet. Matthew added, ‘Perhaps your friend can visit us in London.’
I scrubbed my skin in the shower and refused to check my email all day.
That night, Nadiyya called my room phone. She’d looked it up in the college directory.
‘Where have you been today, baby? Will you come over tonight?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I’m sorry; you didn’t like Laura did you?’
‘It’s not that.’
‘I’ll cancel everyone else. Would that make it better?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I only want to see you. I know it’s just been two days, but I’m crazy about you already. Please come. Let me make it up to you.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Please.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Please.’
‘Okay.’
For the following two weeks, I camped out in Nadiyya’s room. In the mornings, she made us large mugs of sweet black coffee before we left for lectures. I stopped eating during the day, just so I could arrive at her door hungry and watch her make me a ‘super sandwich’, towering lettuce on mustard and cheese and meats and beans until the thick bread was toppling from the plate. ‘Eat, baby.’
On the fourth day, Nadiyya told me she loved me. I didn’t say it back, but I stopped being shy about her reaching for her camera and, towards the end, we set up my digital video recorder on a tripod facing the desk chair.
It wasn’t all sex in every corner of her room. We went for walks along the river and she introduced me to some of her friends from her course. I took her to my college once and showed her my room, then felt foolish when she turned to leave and whispered that we should return to her comfy double bed.
Eventually, too, I told her about Matthew, though not his exact age and not any of the details that might have left an acrid taste on my tongue. She kissed me hard, saying, ‘I’m sooo glad you have someone, baby. Like me and Hugh.’
I handed all my essays in and Nadiyya checked out from the library the books she would need to finish her dissertation back in Egypt. She was returning to Durham in August to hand it in, but wanted to spend July with her family. Her flight was in two days. I was leaving in three, skipping the final day of term so I could be back down south in time for Glastonbury Festival.
The thought of Nadiyya leaving was crushing, but I was excited about Glastonbury. Rose was supposedly part of the entourage for Garbage and, not only were we planning to finally meet for the first time in those muddy fields, but also she’d promised to introduce me to the band’s frontwoman, Shirley Manson.
‘You should come and visit me, baby – come to our wedding, you could stay with us.’ Nadiyya grinned with that smile I no longer thought like water.
I kissed her and pulled her to me.
‘I’m going to cry when you leave,’ I whispered.
‘Me too. I love you, baby, even if you won’t say it back. You’re incredible.’
And with those words, or some like it, my first girlfriend packed up her belongings, secured her hard drive full of pornographic photos and left the country to return to her Muslim fiancé.
13
‘You don’t know why I’m angry? That’s the typical selfish little child Natalie, isn’t it? I don’t know why I expect more. You prove me wrong time and again.’
I sighed into the phone. ‘I’m sorry, I really don’t understand what I did.’
‘You don’t understand what you did?’
‘No.’
‘You don’t understand what you did?!’
‘No, I’m sorry.’
‘YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU DID?’ he roared. ‘I set you up with women and listen to your pathetic little stories about why you can’t even hold hands with them. I bend over backwards to accommodate your needs and to do everything for you in bed. And when you finally get a girlfriend, you ring me up telling me how wonderful it is to lap the cunts of the dirty little slut and probably her disease-ridden friends – “Oh darling, I love you and I’m having such fun” – “Oh darling, I miss you so much and I wish you were here, but while you’re away I’m frotting with this Egyptian bitch and sending her fiancé photographs, Oh darling, isn’t it great?”’
‘I’m sorry, I thought you were okay with it.’
‘Okay with it? Okay with it? I’ve been waiting for it for three fucking years. But it’s fucking insulting. You sent Hugh photographs and you hardly found a spare moment to even phone me. I was here, waiting by the phone, ready to leap in my car and book a hotel for the three of us as soon as you said “jump”, but it didn’t even occur to you that it might be polite to share. YOU DIDN’T EVEN THINK OF MY NEEDS, DID YOU?!’
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’
‘And it’s not even just me. You’ve upset Rose too and she really doesn’t need it right now. She thought you were an Uncle – she’s so disappointed.’
‘Is that why she’s not coming any more? She emailed me last week saying “Glastonbury’s off”.’
‘No, you selfish little bitch, it’s not always all about you. Rose didn’t want to worry you or spoil your happy little cunt-sucking mood. She wanted to protect you, but I don’t think you deserve it any more. So here goes. Rose’s got cancer. That’s why she’s cancelled every meeting, because she’s woken up vomiting blood and she doesn’t want you to see her in a wig and with bags under her eyes. She was feeling better, which is why she was going to pull everything out to see you at Glastonbury. I told her she shouldn’t exhaust herself, but she said she wanted to, for you. But with all the stress of your behaviour, she’s relapsed. She’s flying to LA for more treatment – that was why she went in the first place. The Hollywood job was secondary. So now she’s on a plane not knowing whether she’ll live or die and worrying about you and me because she’s that kind of person.’ He fell silent.
‘I’m sorry,’ I eventually whispered. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘No, I’m sorry,’ he replied more softly. ‘I shouldn’t have told you like that. I’m just hurt, supremely hurt. I’m worried about my friend and sick of Annabelle nagging at me and the one person I thought I could turn to has been off frolicking with her girlfriend and forgetting about me. It’s too much. I can’t cope with it right now.’ I heard his voice break and wanted to say something to heal the man I loved, but he cut me short: ‘I can’t talk any more. Goodbye. Enjoy your festival.’
I stared at my mobile. Call ended: 13.41. I was standing between a pair of tyre tracks behind a caravan in the quietest place I’d been able to find when Matthew called. The Thrills would be playing on the Other Stage in twenty minutes and I would need to make my way to the Pyramid Stage at least an hour before Radiohead’s eight o’clock set to ensure a place by the barrier. I was hungry and slightly stoned. I hadn’t pooed in thirty-six hours and the mud was squelching beneath my boots. I kept seeing things I wanted
to point out to Nadiyya. There was a Henna tent that had caught my eye this morning that I thought I might go back to. I was surprisingly taken by Idlewild. R.E.M. had been incredible. And Rose had cancer. And Matthew was disappointed in me. And I didn’t know it yet, but I had a bacterial infection that would need antibiotics. And Rose had cancer. Rose had cancer and she hadn’t told me. Rose wasn’t coming to Glastonbury because she had cancer and might die. Rose was angry with me and she had cancer. Rose was flying to LA because she had cancer. Rose, my Rose, my friend and everything-but-lover, she had cancer.
14
Arriving at the Blue Box, I was greeted by a frenzy. The producer squealed that she was glad I was here because the stage manager was sick and rehearsals were already running behind. She put me on book and assigned me the jobs of making prop lists, reporting script problems and noting down the blocking – a task that, I was informed, would be somewhat thwarted by Raoul’s ‘organic’ way of directing plays. I nodded, took the offered pencil and clipboard and sat in a plastic chair trying to translate my instructions into English.
Returning to Matthew’s cosy Kew flat after my first day, I lay in his arms and told him I already loved it. We had made up, once again with me apologising until my tongue was numb and submitting to his will in the bedroom while his eyes hardened and he told me he would teach me a lesson. Also, I’d emailed Nadiyya and she’d agreed to visit us both in Richmond when she was back in the country to hand in her dissertation. Matthew was content. I was nervous.
I immediately loved living in Kew, though. Matthew showed me a pretty route back from the station, pointing out the enormous houses celebrities supposedly owned. His flat was on a picturesque, tree-lined street. It had a gravelled parking space, treasured in London, and an imposing white front door. The curved hall, where every day I hoped not to bump into real residents because I wasn’t sure who knew Matthew as Albert and who didn’t, led to the less impressive door to the flat. Panicking a little, I’d fumble at waist height for the keys and finally fall into the narrow entrance, coat rack to my left, cramped bathroom ahead. The toilet didn’t flush too well and when Matthew and I fought that summer, he’d call me a ‘constipated bitch’. The shower was functional but not pleasant; I didn’t look forward to languid latherings so much as hurried hops in and out before wrapping myself in a scratchy towel and passing quickly into the main room to seek warmth in my clothes.
The main room was why the flat was lovely. If I turned right from the front door I faced an enormous bay window. As a ground floor flat, all I could see was the car, the pavement and the town-houses opposite, but the net curtains maintained our privacy and the flood of daylight from that much glass made the place feel larger than it was. To my right would be a narrow staircase that led to a fairly decent sized kitchen, half sunk underground, its ceiling jutting into the main room with a good two feet of wooden banisters that spewed natural light onto our scrambled eggs and fruit bowl. We didn’t cook much that summer; the flat contained only the basic equipment landlords provide for tenants and, anyway, Matthew enjoyed uncomplicated meals. We ate ham and eggs, mashed potatoes and banana sandwiches; salads were simple, served in breakfast bowls and offered only with a jar of Colman’s Mustard. There was a door from the kitchen so small that even I had to duck; through it, bare stone walls lined a narrow passage and cracked paving slabs offered stepping stones. Around the spooky corner, where one bulb glowed a faint yellow, lay a washing machine and cleaning equipment, including an ancient vacuum cleaner. I tried to avoid this room. I did my washing only twice and, each time, propped the door open in case it automatically locked and I became trapped down there where no one could hear me scream. I’d heap the damp bundle in my arms and hurry back to the light, up the stairs to drape it in the main room, remembering again that this was what I liked about the place, what I liked about the intimacy of living with Matthew. Beneath the bay window sat a small dining table with just two chairs. They were not comfy, but it was a nice place to read or to boot up my laptop. There was no other furniture; it wasn’t our place. We sometimes talked about how we would decorate it if we were to stay, musing that one day – once I was done with university and we no longer had to worry about parents and wives – we could move here.
If I stood before the window and turned to face the room, I could view the whole flat. I could see three deep steps in front of me, framed by long white banisters. The tops of the banisters continuing from the kitchen below formed a railing around the bedroom above. Taking the steps in one leap, I would be in the left corner of the room, which was raised above the rest and held the queen-sized bed, a mahogany wardrobe and a mostly bare bookshelf. Flopping on the sheets, Matthew would join me and we’d stare at the ceiling, speaking of how wonderful it was to be alone.
‘You know what to do, right? It’s hardly rocket-science!’ The American twang in my ear projected the girl’s boredom and superiority to the task at hand with crystal clarity, despite its thickness betraying her blocked nose and evident illness.
I hadn’t met Becky yet, but I’d heard a few (not especially favourable) reports from the actors and now tried to picture the bolshy international student on the other end of the phone. I assured her I had it under control, staying quiet about the fact that while Becky herself might find writing rehearsal reports tedious unskilled labour, I – having never written one before – was petrified.
When we finally met, it was in a whirl at the beginning of a rehearsal the following week. Becky breezed into the rehearsal room wearing torn jeans and a bandana around her hair. She dumped her backpack on the floor and sank into a plastic chair, her long legs spread either side of the bag as she unzipped it and removed the props she’d collected over the weekend. When I entered, the gangly girl looked up vaguely and mumbled a hello as she went back to the task at hand. Once she was done, she explained in an authoritative tone that almost masked her Philly accent what each prop was for and that she hoped I was able to manage because she had to help paint the set and wouldn’t be in rehearsals for the rest of the week. ‘Okay?’ she concluded, impatient to be off.
‘Okay,’ I replied, wondering whether I’d be able to get on with this gruff girl for the weeks ahead.
By opening night, I had my answer. The only backstage crew who had to be at every rehearsal and performance, Becky and I developed a ritual of racing each other silently down the stairs after the play. One of us ordered two Coronas while the other claimed a pair of stools in the corner of the bar. In silence, we poked lime slices into our bottles and raised them to a perhaps immature, but nevertheless satisfying toast of ‘FUCK’.
Then we collapsed in giggles and proceeded to gossip into the night. Becky was studying performing arts in London and filling every waking hour with theatre, bar work, art classes and lovers. Over the next few weeks we became friends, often talking cynically about the latest diva-esque actions of the actors. The eldest and more widely known of the two was a rather large, flamboyant man in his seventies. He never tired of telling us of the old days, name-dropping directors and stars to remind us what a step down this play was for him. One night, he even turned up with a break-a-leg card from Paul McCartney and handed it around while applying his face. Far from star-struck, Becky would cruelly imitate the old man and mock-vomit at the fact she’d seen him in just underpants in the dressing room.
Press night happened to be my nineteenth birthday. My mum came up to see the show, bringing along my brother and a couple of friends. I was excited and a little nervous for them to see it, but the cast and crew were all in a good mood. Raoul had made a few last-minute changes to the technical running of the show and I was frantically going over my notes in the little tech booth. The house was filling up and I knew the audience contained representatives from Time Out, The Times, The Guardian and The Telegraph.
As I brought down the house music with the lights, switched to the new show CD and set my levels for the next cue, the play began. On the first scene change, I hit play and pressed
the light cue. The music blared out much louder than I’d expected and, panicking, I tried to subtly bring it down. The same happened with the next cue and the next. Checking and rechecking my notes and the soundboard, I could find nothing wrong and decided it must sound different in the house and perhaps I was just paranoid.
However, I watched one of the actors flinch as I gave the next sound cue and a second later a scrawled piece of paper was shoved through my window: ‘SOUND LEVELS WAY TOO LOUD! DO SOMETHING!’
I panicked. I checked everything again and saw it was all as we’d set it during the technical run and as I’d executed it in the previews. Muttering uncertainly to myself, I cautiously turned the main volume down three notches. For the next cues I would just have to guess. But at the end of the play, there was what was supposed to be a nuclear explosion, which involved me frantically pressing five buttons at once, fading bombs out and repeating, all to cues in the script. If I guessed wrong for that, the heart-pounding bombs and shatters would either be laughably quiet or so loud they’d cause permanent damage to the audience’s hearing.
Perspiring, I cued up for the final scene. The first bomb went off and the audience jumped. Good. But now the actor had lost his flow and was jumbling up his lines. I had to improvise with my cues and looked up at one point from my frenzied button-pushing and knob-twisting to see I’d left him bathed in light. I swore and willed him to hurry up and get this disastrous night over with.
After the show, Raoul came up to ask what had gone wrong.
‘I’ve no idea; I did everything as we’d agreed. The only difference was the new CD.’
‘Shit, we didn’t do a sound check to make sure the levels were the same as the old CD.’ Raoul slapped his hand to his head.
Sixteen, Sixty-One Page 13
