That kind of intense closeness with a parent is exhilarating, but exhausting. My mum’s friends would comment that I seemed insecure because I insisted on telling her I loved her a dozen times an hour. And when I was old enough to stay at other people’s houses, I’d feel guilty for breaking up our family unit for an evening.
By the time my second life began, my mum and I were already clashing like any teen cliché. So, when, half a dozen months after my first Bunbury at Swindon, she screeched up the stairs, ‘WHY DON’T YOU GO AND LIVE WITH YOUR FATHER IF YOU FEEL LIKE THAT?’ I did. While she sobbed that she hadn’t meant it and couldn’t understand why I was doing this, I dragged suitcases across town and moved in with the man I’d hated for the past five years.
Living with my dad proved convenient. He was out a lot and didn’t ask where I was going. Over months of microwaved rice and washing-up stand-offs, my dad and I began to rebuild the relationship I’d treasured as a little girl. However, my basic lack of respect for him as a parent meant conducting an affair under his nose was purely mathematical; uncomplicated by the guilt I’d felt when lying to my mother. My biggest shame, even now, out of everything I did and everyone I deceived, was allowing my mum to think I left because of her. My brother would update me on how many times a week he found her crying and how, for years afterwards, she would periodically tell him she still didn’t understand why I’d gone. After our initial anger had worn off, we tentatively made up, but our closeness was lost. We never spoke of me moving out and she told me she would be my friend from now on, but no longer my mother.
At sixteen, I’d achieved what I’d set out to do and what most teenagers long for: I’d shed parental guidance and found autonomy. But it felt awful.
I turned to Matthew and Annabelle. Matthew was not only my lover, but my father and mother too. And eating roast dinners around their table or helping them do the crossword on a Saturday morning let me pretend I had a functioning family.
However, when my dad took his campervan to raves or visited one of his girlfriends for the night, my functioning family became less Brady, more Bovary.
I’d wait in the hall, peering through the glass front door. The transparency of my father’s bay-windowed house freaked me out when I was alone at night and I’d imagine faceless strangers standing on the lawns, watching as I climbed the stairs and walked in and out of uncurtained rooms. On nights like this I’d worry the couple in the manor house across the road could see everything I did. I’d turn off the lights.
From the dark, I’d watch the curved front path bathed in orange streetlight. I’d jump at every shadow and tap my foot nervously when an old lady pulled her Fiat Punto to the other side of the street to stuff an envelope into the post-box.
I’d be wearing the knee-length suede coat my dad had bought me as a reward for getting straight As in my GCSEs. I’d have on the one pair of heels I owned, purchased for a tenner from New Look, and, underneath the coat, an intricately detailed lace thong or a complicatedly clasped suspenders set.
A black-coated figure would make his way up the path. He’d climb the porch steps and trigger the sensored light. We’d both panic. I’d let him in and shoo him away from the window. We’d go directly to my bedroom.
The walls were a deep red that my grandmother had warned would look like the lining of a womb. With candles flickering shadows to the ceiling and Norah Jones lilting softly, I felt it had the appropriateness of a theatrical set. The bed flaunted itself in the middle of the room, not beside a wall or tucked into an alcove, but centre stage. Around it were no stuffed toys, stacks of board games or cheesy ‘Best Buds’ photo frames, as featured in my friends’ bedrooms, but instead: white canvas furniture; bookshelves divided into novels, poetry, reference and erotica; a leather armchair with Steppenwolf resting upon it; six or seven kohl pencils beside the mirror; and a bottle of baby oil on the bedside table.
My silver-haired guest would unlace his shoes and place them together before neatly removing his clothes and folding them in a pile upon the chair. I’d keep my coat buttoned and he’d come to me. He’d coyly ask what I was hiding and I’d giggle.
At some point, the coat would fall to the floor and he’d push me, still in my heels, onto the bed. It had posts, to which I was sometimes delicately laced with silk scarves or violently chained by handcuffs. Other nights, however much I gripped the bars and moaned that I wanted him to take control, he wouldn’t be in the mood.
He’d direct his attentions beneath the lingerie, glancing at my face regularly to gauge his success, before methodically wetting himself with oil and spilling two drops on the beige carpet but not apologising. He’d manoeuvre my limbs as he wanted them, concentrating on his angle as he entered. He’d look at me briefly, searchingly, angrily, perhaps even accusingly, but eventually say, ‘I love you.’ I’d reply and the hardness in his eyes would return.
‘Do you?’ he’d demand as he twisted me over and pressed me to the sheets. I’d feel the weight of his wrinkled hand upon my back, but my crotch would respond and he’d split my thighs further with each thrust. I’d reach underneath to touch myself and, seeing me, he’d quicken his pace, clutching my hips to guide his strokes. I’d utter low, gravelly responses to his questions: did I like that? Could I feel him? Was he deep inside me? Was I bad? Did I need to be punished? Did I want to be fucked? He’d continue talking not looking for a response; my stifled cries enough. He was fucking me, he’d tell me, and he wasn’t going to stop, he was going to fuck me until I came, until my cunt was sore and I begged him to stop. I was a naughty little girl who needed to be taught a lesson, he’d growl. He had my legs split and was fucking me with his thick cock, he’d say, he was filling my hole, was right up inside me and wasn’t going to stop however much I wanted him to, was going to give me the best fucking of my life, was going to ruin me, was …
The deep thrusts would melt into frantic and sloppy jerks as I felt a hot liquid smear between my legs and begin to trickle. For a moment, I’d stay in the same position, still locked to the bed though his hand had gone. I’d become aware of my arse waving in the air and shyly roll over, reaching for a tissue. He’d be lying down already, drifting into sleep. He’d reach out his arm for me and we’d lie stiffly, avoiding the wet patch, until he roused himself and said it was late, he should leave.
My sixth-form life was thus divided between sordid trysts and a desire to fit in. I’d ruined a relationship with my mum, my dad was out four nights a week and my friends at school were so alienated by my jumble of lies that there was a rumour going around that I’d made up an imaginary boyfriend that I actually believed in, meaning I was probably certifiably crazy. Instead of spotty boys and impossible algebra, my head was filled with poetry, Uncles and how I could next see the man who told me I was special.
Every day after school, most weekends and all holidays I’d snake down the garden path and fall onto the street. I’d pace across town, and, hurrying past my mum’s house, I’d worry vaguely about the Grays and the Roberts as I darted through Matthew’s wrought-iron gate, noting whether Annabelle’s car rested beside his. I’d press the doorbell, plus bang the knocker if the chipped red door failed to open immediately, and my foot would tap anxiously before a face peeked from behind the draught-excluding curtain, checking over my shoulder for witnesses and whispering hurriedly about Annabelle’s mood or how long we had alone. Once inside, those familiar smells of incense and coffee, cat and perfume. The hallway full of Indian patterns, net curtains and antique lamps, stairs leading upwards and doors to my left and one to my right. If Annabelle was home, a quick shuffle to the right and softly close the study door. A kiss and an embrace between the solid fire-proof door and the light blue curtains, drawn above the leather chaise longue, banishing the street outside, separating Uncles from others; us from them. I’d lean back on the dark wood of the ancient desk, absently fingering the knob of the locked drawer where my diaries were kept. I’d smell the familiar scent of the books on the shelf, twisting with too much Jovan Musk in the air. My ancient lover would be clean-shaven, wearing a soft pink shirt, or stubbly and sick-looking, padding about in a dressing gown and