Student (17 page)

Who can I tell about this? The others in the house are second years and they all seem to be away this weekend. I know what they would say. I should have put the net curtains up as soon as I noticed him looking at me. Subconsciously, they will say, I want him to watch me. I want him. But I do not. I do not want anybody.

I have highlights put in my hair. I buy a new sweater and put on my skinny jeans. At twelve, he goes into his study and begins to work. I see him glance my way, but I am beside the dresser. He can hardly see me. I check my appearance in the mirror, then stand in the window, willing him to watch. I sway backwards and forwards as though involved in some ritual or form of exercise. I lean back like a cheap dancer, letting him take in the shape of my body. He pretends not to be looking, but every few seconds he stares in my direction, averting his eyes only when I appear to glance back at him.

This afternoon I find the nets, shoved at the back of a cupboard in the kitchen. I have no sewing machine but manage to cut them crudely to size. I stitch them up as best I can. Then I have to go into town again, to buy wire and hooks. The city is heaving with Christmas shoppers. Being there exhausts me. Everyone is spending so much money, it feels obscene. The woman at the stall gives me an odd look as I make my meagre purchase. Pushing my way out of the Victoria Centre, I see a bloke who works behind the bar with me. I haven’t been in since Steve moved out and have stopped remembering to call in sick.

‘Allison!’ he calls out, with convincing concern. ‘We’ve all been worried about you.’

I get ready to make up a lie, but don’t need to.

‘You still look really pale,’ he said. ‘It’s a bugger, glandular fever. Do you think you’ll be back in the New Year?’

‘I hope so,’ I say.

‘I’ll give your regards to everyone,’ he says, and lets me go. Glandular fever, it seems, was a good choice of illness.

Back home, I put the nets up. The hooks are meant to tap in, but come flying out when I connect the wire cord. On the third go, they hold. I have left the top bit of the sash window clear so that I can open it when necessary. Also, when required, I can stand on my bed on tiptoes and see over to his room. But he cannot see me.

In the evening, his light is on but the blind is drawn. My earlier suspicions about translucence are confirmed. I make out the outline of his desk, his lamp, just as he can see mine.

But now there is a further barrier between us: white, shimmering, like a thin membrane of cloud, or a veil.

Sunday. It is so dingy, I switch on the main light to work by. Immediately, I can feel him watching me. I move to the back of the room, but can’t see him from my perch on the chair. He may be too low for me, huddled over his desk. I should have bought thicker nets. I’m sure that he can see through them, see everything in my room when the light is on. I have only to move the curtain aside and I shall see him, staring. I duck out of sight and prepare to swoop on the curtain, catch him. But I will not give him the satisfaction. Instead, I draw the blind. The nets and the blind: these will protect me!

My dissertation is falling behind. Today, one of the others in the house said ‘We see so little of you, you’ve become like a ghost’. They think I go out all the time but I don’t. I stay in my room with the lights off. Then, when his comes on, I know at once.

His blind is down as often as it is up nowadays. He is punishing me for putting up the nets. Or maybe it is because the nights are colder and the blind provides a little extra insulation.

I know this, because I have mine down so seldom and I feel the difference. I fear he is no longer interested in me. Perhaps he never was. All sorts of doubts creep into the mind when you’re in a room on your own for so long. Where is he gone? Perhaps he has left for Christmas. I have moved my bed so that it is under the window. If I raise my head a little, I can push the nets aside and see his room.

Tonight, his blind is drawn but a light is on. I can see a faint outline at his desk, working. It is enough.

The doctor came today. One of the others in the house had come to see me, something about a bill. She called him at once. He tells me I have pneumonia and must rest constantly. He told me to go home to my parents, but I explained that one of them is in hospital and the other in Barbados. Then he insisted that I move my bed away from the window. As soon as he was gone I moved it back again.

The others in the house are solicitous. They bring me soup and drinks, though I rarely want them. The doctor must have said something. You looked up from your window today and I think you saw me staring at you. I no longer see the need to conceal that I am looking. Quickly, you looked away. I felt myself become weaker. Only you keep me tethered to the world. Your presence, across the road, shows me that I am real.

I am recovering, the doctor tells me on Christmas Eve! But my recuperation will be slow. I do not let him know that I am alone in the house, that the others have all gone away. He says that I seem low, offers me anti-depressants, which I refuse. If only he knew! The reason for my low spirits is that I have not seen you at the window for two whole days!

Christmas Day. The house is silent. Your blind is drawn. The lights are out. I venture from my room to the shower. The heating is on full and I savour being able to walk through the house naked, unfettered. When I return to my room your light is on. I switch on mine and hurry to the window, pulling my towel around me. You are in a dressing gown, leaning over the desk. You have a fluted glass in one hand and now and then you drink from it.

You are wrapping what must be a last minute present. I watch you do this for a minute, maybe two. You are slow and clumsy. If I was there, I would do it for you. I can feel it now, feel it down to the marrow of my bones: today is the day! I stand on the bed and pull the net curtain back so that it is behind me, willing you to look over. My bare shoulders brush against the frosted glass and tingle. You finish wrapping one present and start another, sipping at your drink all the while. Then you finish and stand up, presents in one hand, drink in the other.

At last it happens! You glance at my window and see me, staring. You smile, or I think you smile, and raise your glass in greeting. I smile back. I let the towel fall away from me and, naked, balanced on my bed, I rip the nets from their cord and pull them round me — a cold, pure white, like a wedding dress, or a shroud.

Then I draw the blind and go downstairs. 

On New Year’s Eve, I’m given the all clear on the pneumonia. Once again, I turn down the anti-depressants the doctor suggests. I’ve seen what they did to Aidan. The doctor offers to put me on the waiting list for counselling. I tell him I’ll see someone at the university if I get depressed again. I was physically ill, not mentally ill, I insist. I wasn’t suffering from depression, I was sad because my boyfriend split up with me. That’s natural and, anyway, I’m over it now. Sort of. I go back to the empty house, pack a bag, and drive to West Kirby.

‘No Steve?’ my father asks, after a cursory hug.

‘He’s working,’ I tell Dad, who doesn’t notice that I have lost weight and become uncommunicative. Why should he? I’ve been acting withdrawn with him for five years. He’s more interested in seeing Steve than he is me. Ingrid comments on how pale I look. I tell her it’s because I spend so much time inside, studying. Then I go and hide in the spare room until everyone’s gone to bed. Maybe this is how Aidan felt, back in the day.

‘What happened to you?’ Zoe asks when I call.

‘My phone was on the blink.’

‘I worked that out, but you didn’t answer emails either.’

‘I went off on one, but I’m back now.’

Off on one is Liverpudlian for ‘let’s not talk about it’, only Zoe won’t leave the subject.

‘I wouldn’t let Aidan get away with that, Allison, and he’s on medication. What happened? Why haven’t you been home?’

When I start crying she tells me to come round at once.

Her dad answers the door. I’m too numb to react, even though it’s the first time I’ve seen him by myself since that time on The Common, three summers ago. He’s lost weight and become greyer. If he remembers what happened back then, his face doesn’t show it. How much have I changed? My face has become thinner. I wear a little make-up, which I used to think was naff. My hair is shorter, less feminine, making my face look more pointy, or so I fear. But I am still recognisably the person I was two and a half years ago. Aren’t I?

‘How’s your mother?’’ Bob Pritchard asks. So he does know who I am. He’s prone to black-outs, Zoe told me on holiday. Maybe he has no recollection of trying to rape me.

‘No different. She could go on like this for years, the doctors say.’

‘Give her my best, would you?’

‘Sure. She won’t understand but... sure.’

He nods, then backs away when Zoe appears. I’ve never told Zoe what happened with her dad that day. Why? Because he’s her dad. What good would it do to tell her something that would make her despise him more than she already despises him? It does you no good to hate your dad, I could tell her that. Men know they’re pathetic, we don’t need to rub it in. They have a strength we crave, but it’s a mistake to rely on it in them. They’re also weaker than us, only in different places.

‘You look like shit,’ Zoe says. ‘What have you done to yourself?’

We talk about me for an hour. I’m not used to talking about myself, not since Mark left, anyway. Zoe sorts me out, sort of. I should get a new place in Nottingham, we agree, crack on with work, forget about blokes for a while. Sometimes all you need is a friend to spell out the obvious stuff.

‘I can’t believe Mark just backed out of your life like that.’

‘I wouldn’t have him back but Helen would. Why blame him?’

When we’re done dealing with me we go on to talk about Aidan. We make ourselves an elaborate coffee with the new Krups device that’s appeared in the kitchen. Bob’s boat building business must be doing well.

‘Aidan’s the best he’s been for years,’ Zoe says. ‘I mean, he’s still on a cocktail of stuff to ward off the anxiety and depression but he’s stopped self-medicating with hash and speed. He’s staying off the drink. I suppose you’d say he’s become a bit boring compared to how he was when I first knew him, or when he went out with you. But I love him. He suits me.’

‘And the marriage thing. What did you decide?’

‘That’s what I’ve been trying to phone and email you about. The church is booked for Easter. I still want you to be the maid of honour.’

How easy is it to move from total honesty to total pretence? Easier than it sounds. I give a definite ‘yes’, and we go all girly and start having the sort of conversation I always imagined having one day but thought would be with someone else at an unimaginable point in the future. My ongoing depression/lack of boyfriend problems are decreed to be sorted out and my being the groom-to-be’s previous girlfriend is conveniently ignored. We agree that, rather than go to my dad’s, I will stay at Zoe’s in the week leading up to the wedding (when, really, I should be getting ready for finals, but it seems churlish to mention this). The thought of a whole week in close proximity to Bob Pritchard sets my teeth on edge, but I don’t suppose it will do much for him, either.

‘I’m really, really happy for you,’ I tell Zoe, even though I’m pretty sure she’s making the biggest mistake of her life.

I’m saying goodbye to Zoe when her mum returns from the sales. I wave hello and start the car, for I need to get on. I have things to collect from home, stuff I put aside to take back to Nottingham. I’m going to collect them, then drop off my set of keys at the estate agent’s. The house is for sale. Soon, I won’t have a home in West Kirby any more.

‘Allison, wait!’ Mrs Pritchard shouts loudly enough for me to hear through the closed door. I wind down the window and she hurries over.

‘Zoe’s told you about the wedding?’

‘Yes, she’s asked me to be maid of honour, which is...’ while I’m searching for a euphemism, Stella Pritchard carries on regardless.

‘We think they’re rushing into it.’

‘They seem very determined.’

‘You know Aidan better than we do.’ Unlikely, given how long the two families have been friends, but I let this slide.

‘We want Zoe to wait until the autumn, when Aidan’s probation ends and he’ll have finished his current course of treatment. Aidan’s parents agree. They think Zoe’s very good for Aidan, but they shouldn’t commit their whole lives when they’ve only been together for a relatively short time.’

‘I can see what you mean,’ I say, though I don’t like the way we’re talking behind Zoe’s back, like my friends are patients and we’re their carers. What do they want me to do? Counsel them to delay until their parents think they’re ready? Both of them are older than me. Both know their own minds. I want to get away. It’s cold with the window down.

‘You’ll talk to her?’ Mrs Pritchard asks.

‘You haven’t told her this yourself?’

‘Not in as many words.’

‘You need to talk to her first. Then maybe she’ll talk it over with me.’

‘Thank you Allison. And you’ll talk to Aidan, too?’

‘I was passing,’ I tell Aidan’s mum, Linda. ‘I should have phoned first.’

‘Oh, nonsense. How lovely it is of you to drop in. Keith will be delighted.’

Linda and Keith make me feel uncomfortable. They comment on how well I look, which is a lie. They talk about Aidan as though we’re related. I think they see me as the ‘good’ girlfriend, the one who stayed on at university, the one who dragged their son from the depths of depression. But last time I saw Aidan, back in September, he seemed so fucked up. Why have I come? I want to be reassured that he’s not messing around with Zoe, that he’s thought through this marriage. I’m not here because I’m being pestered to act  as a go-between by both sets of parents. Definitely not.

Aidan’s out. Maybe I should go.

‘He’ll be back from church soon,’ Keith says.

‘They’ll want a big breakfast when they get back,’ Linda says. ‘No eating before communion. Have you eaten, Allison?’

‘A bit.’