time. The city was dominated by a castle on a massive rock, looming and glowering over the
Georgian and Victorian buildings of the city. We studied the history of the town, we read all the books which were set there
like
Jekyll and Hyde
and
Confessions of a Justified Sinner
and the novels of Ian Rankin. And whenever I read a book, Helen read it next; our fingerprints jointly stained score upon
score of battered paperback novels.
I loved History. I read voraciously. I rarely forgot a fact. But Helen was the scholar. She came covered in clouds of glory
– we all knew she had been offered a place at Oxford and had turned it down. Her mother was a Professor of History at Cambridge
University, her father was a senior civil servant. I stayed with them once. All the curtains were chintz, there were knick-knacks
in every room, not a trace of dust, and everyone spoke ironically and at length. I adored them. I compared them with my own
suburban parents, with their boisterous enthusiasms and their silly holiday games. And I yearned for my own family to die
painlessly and heroically in a freak asteroid strike. Then I could adopt Helen’s parents as my own
de facto
family.
At Finals, Helen got a decent 2.1. I received a glittering First, and was marked down by my tutors for great things to come.
Strangely, after that, I saw very little of Helen. She moved back home without saying goodbye, and never turned up for any
of our college reunions. Ten years later I was still sending her long, detailed letters (yes, I wrote letters, not emails
in those days!) every Christmas, describing lyrically and entertainingly my intellectual trials and tribulations, my boyfriend
troubles, my thoughts on life and everything. Helen never wrote back, we never met. We spoke on the phone a few times, but
somehow an actual meeting always proved problematic.
Eventually I got the message. I stopped writing the letters, making the phone calls. Now, I can hardly remember Helen’s face.
But I remember that sense of specialness. We were the terrible two. Yin and Yang, left and right, a bonded pair.
And then – we weren’t. It was over, and we were strangers.
I still get distressed over it, to be honest. Why wasn’t Helen more needy? How could she cut me out of her life so easily?
Of course, I moved on. I made new friends. Except they weren’t really friends. Not
real
friends. That intensity was missing.
It’s not that I was a social cripple. I was a reasonably good raconteuse. I could banter, amusingly. I was amiable, easygoing,
sweetlooking. People took to me, by and large.
But I always found it hard to make best friends. Something in me resists it. Perhaps it’s because I felt let down – first
by Clara, then by Helen. Or perhaps I am too independent, I find it too hard to love.
My third best friend was Tom, who was also my lover. Tom was different. He was special. He was the only friend who never,
ever let me down.
Although, I suppose, when I think about it – I’m the one who let
him
down.
Freckles were my curse.
As a child, the freckles made me cute. People always praised them. “Look at those lovely freckles.” “Isn’t she cute?” I took
it as praise. And maybe it was meant as such. But in retrospect… I cringe. “
Cute?
”
Freckles were my curse!
Does that sound extreme? Maybe. And, okay, as a teenager, admittedly, the freckles were a neutral thing. I was more embarrassed
by my thick square glasses, in an age where contacts for teenagers were the norm. My eyes were particularly poor, combining
astigmatism with myopia, and I was considered a bad candidate for lenses. So I had glasses, and freckles, and pale skin that
never tanned but only ever burned.
One summer when I was fourteen I played on the beach with my family and that night the skin peeled off my forehead and legs
and face. My mother warned me to be more careful in the sun. So I wept, and the tears burned my raw peeling
Georgian and Victorian buildings of the city. We studied the history of the town, we read all the books which were set there
like
Jekyll and Hyde
and
Confessions of a Justified Sinner
and the novels of Ian Rankin. And whenever I read a book, Helen read it next; our fingerprints jointly stained score upon
score of battered paperback novels.
I loved History. I read voraciously. I rarely forgot a fact. But Helen was the scholar. She came covered in clouds of glory
– we all knew she had been offered a place at Oxford and had turned it down. Her mother was a Professor of History at Cambridge
University, her father was a senior civil servant. I stayed with them once. All the curtains were chintz, there were knick-knacks
in every room, not a trace of dust, and everyone spoke ironically and at length. I adored them. I compared them with my own
suburban parents, with their boisterous enthusiasms and their silly holiday games. And I yearned for my own family to die
painlessly and heroically in a freak asteroid strike. Then I could adopt Helen’s parents as my own
de facto
family.
At Finals, Helen got a decent 2.1. I received a glittering First, and was marked down by my tutors for great things to come.
Strangely, after that, I saw very little of Helen. She moved back home without saying goodbye, and never turned up for any
of our college reunions. Ten years later I was still sending her long, detailed letters (yes, I wrote letters, not emails
in those days!) every Christmas, describing lyrically and entertainingly my intellectual trials and tribulations, my boyfriend
troubles, my thoughts on life and everything. Helen never wrote back, we never met. We spoke on the phone a few times, but
somehow an actual meeting always proved problematic.
Eventually I got the message. I stopped writing the letters, making the phone calls. Now, I can hardly remember Helen’s face.
But I remember that sense of specialness. We were the terrible two. Yin and Yang, left and right, a bonded pair.
And then – we weren’t. It was over, and we were strangers.
I still get distressed over it, to be honest. Why wasn’t Helen more needy? How could she cut me out of her life so easily?
Of course, I moved on. I made new friends. Except they weren’t really friends. Not
real
friends. That intensity was missing.
It’s not that I was a social cripple. I was a reasonably good raconteuse. I could banter, amusingly. I was amiable, easygoing,
sweetlooking. People took to me, by and large.
But I always found it hard to make best friends. Something in me resists it. Perhaps it’s because I felt let down – first
by Clara, then by Helen. Or perhaps I am too independent, I find it too hard to love.
My third best friend was Tom, who was also my lover. Tom was different. He was special. He was the only friend who never,
ever let me down.
Although, I suppose, when I think about it – I’m the one who let
him
down.
Freckles were my curse.
As a child, the freckles made me cute. People always praised them. “Look at those lovely freckles.” “Isn’t she cute?” I took
it as praise. And maybe it was meant as such. But in retrospect… I cringe. “
Cute?
”
Freckles were my curse!
Does that sound extreme? Maybe. And, okay, as a teenager, admittedly, the freckles were a neutral thing. I was more embarrassed
by my thick square glasses, in an age where contacts for teenagers were the norm. My eyes were particularly poor, combining
astigmatism with myopia, and I was considered a bad candidate for lenses. So I had glasses, and freckles, and pale skin that
never tanned but only ever burned.
One summer when I was fourteen I played on the beach with my family and that night the skin peeled off my forehead and legs
and face. My mother warned me to be more careful in the sun. So I wept, and the tears burned my raw peeling
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