‘Oh, poor you. That must have been awkward. Did you not have any male friends you could, you know, experiment with? A few of Ernest’s school chums came in handy for me. So to speak.’ She winked.
‘I did have friends who were boys. I was very close to one of them: George. We did everything together, for a bit.’ Ally’s eyes widened, and I rushed to clarify. ‘Everything school-wise. Nothing like that. That would have been weird.’
‘Would it? Sometimes friends can be good. Stops it getting too romantic. It’s like a barrier, a prearranged stop sign that helps you both stay on the same page. Although my first time – well, first sexual experience – was a sort of date, at the opera of all places. Tosca. I was fifteen. We were in a box watching the performance and my mother was keen for me to sit next to this boy called Archibald. Well, he liked to be called Archie but his parents thought that common. So, anyway, Archibald is an aristrocrat, which explains my mother’s reason for wanting us to be close. We were just getting to the torture scene when I felt his hand creeping up my thigh. We were slightly to the side, hidden – or at least I hope we were – from the view of my parents and his parents. I didn’t stop him. He kept on and I felt my knickers getting wet. He slid in so easily. God, it felt good. I came incredibly quickly, much faster than I had ever done by myself. I had to keep silent, though. To this day I’ve been rather proud of how I did that. A little concentration and the odd well-placed yawn go a long way.’
I felt slightly dazed by this level of oversharing, completely at a loss as to how to respond. If that had been me (which was unlikely, since my parents were always commenting on how pricey tickets to the local am-dram performances were), I think I’d probably have been too shocked and embarrassed to ever tell anyone. But Ally said it so coolly, in her no-nonsense, matter-of-fact way. I was quietly in awe of her.
‘James would probably fuck you, you know. If I asked him to. Do you want me to mention it?’
I gasped. ‘What?’
Ally laughed again, and this time I felt a prickle of annoyance. Was she playing with me? Trying to make me feel uncomfortable?
‘Oh, come on, Holly. You’ve got to lose the big V at some point. It might as well be to a man you clearly have the major hots for. So many girls fancy James. Many would kill – literally kill – for the chance. I swear some have got close to murder in the past. He’s left a trail of broken hearts in his wake. And broken hearts can be a dangerous thing. I’m sure you’ve read enough tragic love stories to know that.’
I was feeling very awkward now. ‘I think … I think I should go back to my room now.’ I made no immediate move to go, but Ally looked alarmed.
‘Oh goodness, I’ve upset you.’
‘You haven’t. I’m just not used to talking about this stuff.’
Ally surveyed me, as if thinking deeply about something. ‘Yes, I can see that.’
We sat in silence for a few seconds, her looking at me while twisting one of her locks of blonde hair around an index finger.
‘Bedtime,’ I said, and gave Ally a smile in case she thought I was offended. ‘I know it’s early but …’
‘It’s time.’ She nodded, returned the smile, and sat up on her bed. She gave me a hug at the door. There was something strange about the hug that I couldn’t quite work out. A mixture of comfort and acceptance. I felt I had passed a test in some way. Proved I was interesting enough to warrant her attention, perhaps? Or maybe the opposite. That I was innocuous and plain and wouldn’t change their equilibrium too much, so hey, they might as well have this boring poor girl as a friend. Or maybe I was just overthinking it. I said goodnight to Ally and went next door to my room.
Julianne
Knightsbridge, 2019
Dinner isn’t going well. If I were being honest with myself, I would admit I’d made a pasta bake partly to piss my mother off a little, as I knew she’d regard it as unsophisticated. But as I carved a chunk of the slightly overcooked congealed mass out of the bowl and a flap of solid cheese flopped onto her plate, I wished I’d gone with oysters.
‘My, you’ve certainly been busy,’ Diane says, moving a few tough bits of pasta to the side with her fork. ‘Every room looks as festive as could be. Must have taken you a lot of time and energy.’
‘A bit,’ I say, then turn round as I hear a noise behind me.
‘Ah, it’s my favourite grandson.’ She stands up to embrace Stephen as he walks into the room.
‘We started because we didn’t know if you were coming,’ James says in a voice that makes it clear he doesn’t approve.
‘I explained you were busy finishing up some work,’ I cut in quickly.
‘I’m sorry, yes, French coursework.’
‘They work you too hard,’ Mom says, pinching Stephen’s cheek. ‘Both the teachers and your parents.’ As she sits back down and Stephen goes to take the chair next to his father, a ripple of sadness runs through me. She never thought I was being worked too hard when I was up until one in the morning writing essay after essay, doing more than all my friends, desperately trying to get into one of the world’s most prestigious universities in a country I didn’t know. She didn’t tell me to have a break or suggest I should take Christmas off. No matter what I did, it was never enough. If I so much as watched a single episode of a soap opera or read a magazine, I was made to feel like I was shirking. Little comments would be made at the dinner table, suggesting television ‘was all I cared about these days’ or that she should donate some of my schoolbooks to Goodwill ‘because I hardly ever opened them any more’. I’d sit there with the tears close behind my eyes, trying to ignore her. Some things never change.
‘Stephen needs to work hard,’ James says. ‘He’s aiming for the best. Of course, if he’d gone to Eton like we originally planned, things might be more certain.’
When I married him, I’d been quietly confident we wouldn’t turn into one of those couples who make digs at each other across the dinner table – bring up old disagreements to wound the other. My parents did that throughout my childhood. And now, here’s James, making a little jibe about my problem with Eton. It’s deliberate. And it hurts.
‘Oh, I couldn’t agree more,’ Diane says. ‘There’s a reason it’s world-famous. But it’s amazing what he’s done to pull himself above the rest at that new-fangled place he’s at.’
I almost choke on my food. ‘Westminster is older than Eton, Mom. As if that matters. Especially to you.’
She looks affronted. ‘Of course my grandson’s education matters to me. And I did think the decision was made a little rashly. After all, James does know about these things.’
‘Well, it was all years ago now,’ James says. ‘And nobody doubts Westminster is a great school.’ He gives me one of his warm smiles, probably worried he’s upset me. I automatically send one back his way without thinking. Usually he’s pretty good at presenting a united front when my mother’s here. I just wish he was doing better today.
‘You do realise you’re all talking about me like I’m not here.’ Stephen’s looking sullenly into his food.
James lets out a laugh. ‘I’m sorry, you’re right. You must excuse us. It must be tiresome to have your old folks wittering on about you.’
‘Less of the old!’ I say, trying to sound more cheerful than I feel. James gives me a chuckle in response but Stephen and his grandmother remain stonily silent. I even see Diane raise one of