Goose (12 page)

‘Do you believe in God?' I ask Dean as he lies next to me in bed reading
Trainspotting
. It's our usual Sunday-morning routine. I have been plucking my eyebrows in my hand mirror for a while. Is it just me or do eyebrows grow more when you've been drinking?

‘I'm spiritual,' he says. ‘I got quite interested in Buddhism when I was in Thailand, but Christianity is bullshit to me. Just a way to make humans feel guilty for being human.' He carries on reading.

I dig away at a short hair above my left eye that is starting to drive me a bit mad.

‘I just don't get it,' I say. ‘Why people have to focus on a story. It's just a book of children's stories. Imagine if a guy turned up on Guernsey now and started saying he was the son of God. We would all think he was mad. I think Jesus was just a madman who was really convincing. He gave people something they needed to hear, an explanation of our existence, but he made it up. He was just a loony who was talking bollocks. But he was probably really handsome, so everyone just fell for it. They still fall for it.'

He lowers his book. ‘OK, what brought this on?'

‘It's my closest friend, Flo. She's turned to God. She lost her dad a few years ago and I think it's about that, but it's freaking me out.'

He puts his book on his belly. ‘Flo? You haven't mentioned her before. Who is she then?'

‘She's my best friend. At least she was. Have I really never mentioned her?'

And it strikes me – Dean knows nothing at all about me. It's been six weeks and he has never asked me anything about me but I know so much about him. I read his work, I know who his friends are, where he grew up, where he has travelled to. He has even told me in tiny detail about some of the women he has slept with. I acted interested even though I didn't really want to hear it, but when I tried to tell him about my past he just dismissed it like it was unimportant, because ‘that kind of sex was meaningless', and that making love to him for the first time was when I really started to understand how a man and a woman are supposed to connect sexually. It isn't that I disagree with that entirely, but I don't like brushing off my past as ‘meaningless'. It all meant something to me at the time.

We have sex a lot, much more than we talk. He is a bit obsessed with sex. Everything turns him on. He wants it all the time, and I find it quite hard to keep up, if I'm honest. I used to get really horny and crave sex, but now I barely get the chance. He decides he wants it, and before I have got in the mood, we do it. I miss working up to it in my own time. I rarely get the chance to instigate sex any more, because he always gets in there first, and that means a lot of the fun for me has gone. But I guess this is just what having a proper sexual relationship is like. It's more functional. And there is a lot more sex than chat.

Dean and I hardly chat at all.

We go to the pub, but Meg is usually there, and when she isn't Dean usually just tells me about ideas for plays that he has, and articles he needs to write for the
Globe
, and how he is waiting for the ‘perfect story' to break him into the real world of journalism. Then after the pub we come back to his. He and Meg stay up and get stoned, I go to bed, and in the morning we have sex, then some more sex, and then he reads and I usually leave. And I feel horrid when I leave, because ever since he said that thing, ‘Men fuck, women get fucked', sex feels so one-sided. Not to mention how he made me feel about the amount of people I've slept with. There is a shadow over me now, a feeling of guilt about the way I have behaved before. I was always so confident sexually, and now I feel so self-conscious about it all. And that seems unfair, seeing as he is quite open about the fact that he has shagged his way around the world. I worry he has ruined sex for me now. I can't get his words out of my head while we do it – he's taken the fun out of it.

The routine of spending Sunday mornings with him, then not having any contact until around Tuesday, then him calling me and asking me over so we can do it all again is such an odd thing to do with a person who knows nothing about me. I have mentioned Aunty Jo numerous times, but he has never asked me why I live with her, or if I have sisters or brothers, or where my mum is, or my dad. So maybe this is my moment, this is the next step of our relationship. This is the moment I can tell him a bit about who I am. Maybe if he knew more about me, the sensitivity would come back to the sex. Maybe he would care about me more.

‘I've never really told you anything about me, have I?' I say, starting slowly. Trying not to sound upset that he has never asked me anything.

‘No, but I have worked out what you like, haven't I?' he says, running his hand up my inner thigh.

‘No, not just sexually. I mean about me, my life. Don't you want to know a bit more about me? I mean, you don't know anything.'

‘OK, if you need to tell me stuff, tell me.' He lies back flat and moves his book to the floor.

‘OK, well. I used to live with my nana and Pop with my mum and my sister, but my mum died of breast cancer when I was seven.'

He doesn't react, though I thought he would say something. I carry on.

‘After she died my sister Nell and I carried on living with our grandparents. Oh, I forgot to say that my mum and dad split up when she got ill. My grandpa basically made him leave. He lives in Spain now and has a new wife and two other children. Nell got really anorexic a couple of years ago and ended up in hospital. All she really wanted was to be with Dad, so when Aunty Jo, my mum's sister, came back to Guernsey after her divorce she called Dad, because my grandpa hated him, and arranged for Nell to go out and be with him. And now Nell lives there. We never really got on and haven't spoken much over the last few years, but recently I've been missing her, and we spoke on the phone the other night and it was actually really nice. I think I might go to Spain for a few weeks this summer after the exams. But it will be scary, because I don't have a relationship with my dad. When I talk to him it's awkward and I just don't feel like he knows me. But it's OK because I live with Aunty Jo now and Nana lives with us too. Pop died last year. Nana has dementia and is getting madder by the day. Dean? Are you listening?'

He is so still I wonder if he has fallen asleep. But his eyes are open, so he is awake. Good, I didn't want to have to say all that again.

‘Christ, it's all a bit depressing, isn't it?' he says, sighing. ‘It's bringing me down. Do we have to do this on a Sunday morning?'

Bringing him down? What a cruel thing to say. If he feels brought down hearing it, how does he think I felt living it? And what has it being Sunday morning got to do with anything? Am I supposed to choose when I offer him nuggets of real-life information to fit in around his down time? I hoped he might commend me on how together I am after experiencing all of that stuff. Which, I have to admit, sounds pretty horrific when explained in one go.

‘Yeah, I guess so, but I am not depressed about it. It's just the way my life has been and I –'

He cuts me off. ‘Well, I guess it explains a few things.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Well, why you've put yourself around a bit. Must be about the attention, I suppose.'

I have to stop myself from panting like a dog. It feels like he stabbed me in the lung.

‘What is that supposed to mean?' I manage to get out.

‘I mean, it's pretty textbook behaviour for a girl who wasn't loved by her daddy. Literature is full of those characters.'

‘Did you listen to anything I just told you?' I ask him, wondering if he heard the bit about how I lost my mum, how my sister nearly killed herself, how I live with my aunty now. I told him so many things and the only one he thought to mention was my sex life?

‘Oh come on, don't get upset. I'm just saying that for a girl of your age to have slept with all of those people, there had to be an underlying reason.'

‘What about all the people you have slept with? What is your “underlying reason”?'

‘Babe, I told you. I am a guy, it's just different.' He tries to pull me towards him. ‘Come on, what you need is some sex to take your mind off all that stuff.'

‘Why would you want to have sex with someone like me?' I ask, meaning it, if he thinks so lowly of me.

‘Because I like girls who are a bit fucked up.'

I know that I will regret forever not telling him that he is the fucked-up one, not me. But I don't seem to have the confidence to say it.

He runs his hands over my body. I feel lost as to what to do. How can someone who makes me feel so guilty for being sexual then want me to be so sexual?

We have sex. I hate myself for it. I have never felt so self-conscious. To be enthusiastic makes me feel like a slut, to be unresponsive makes me look hurt, and I don't want him to think I am hurt. I also don't want him to think I am a slut.

Why, after I told him all of those things about my life, did he think sex was what I needed today? What I really needed was acknowledgement, a conversation.

It dawns on me then. Dean doesn't care about me at all.

Clearing out my locker in the common room for the last time, I feel like crap. Why did I have to pick a bigger virgin than me to be my first boyfriend? Even though I know Gordon not wanting to go further with me isn't really about me, the rejection is still making me feel horrible. I believe in God too, but I do want to live a normal life. I want a boyfriend who fancies me, I don't want to wait until I get married to lose my virginity. I find myself thinking about sex more than ever, it's all around me at the grammar, with the boys here too. I feel like I want to know now – I want to have it. I think. Oh maybe I don't  …  I would probably be crap at it anyway – my coordination is awful.

There are plenty of people I know who have sex and who go to church. You don't have to abstain the way Gordon does. Look at Madonna. She has sex all the time and never shuts up about God. How come she's allowed? Are there two Bibles?

Having a relationship with someone like Gordon would be impossible. There would be three people present at all times. Him, me and
Him
. I don't think I want to be with someone who can't put me first. I'm probably better off without him.

‘Kerry!' I shout as I see her come in on the other side of the room.

I go over to her, but she doesn't smile. She glares at me in fact. I just don't get it. What's her problem?

After a couple of minutes of really awkward silence I decide to clear the air.

‘Kerry, I thought we were friends, but for weeks you have acted like you regret inviting me into the group. Did I do something to offend you?'

‘I don't know what you're talking about,' she says blandly, but then she clocks the expression on my face and looks softer, like she's realising she is being unfair.

‘Oh Flo,' she says, shrugging. ‘You didn't do anything. It's me, not you.'

‘What do you mean?' I ask, confused.

‘I'm –'

She is cut off by the sound of Bernadette's voice, who has crept up on us and cornered us at the back of the common room.

‘What's up with you two? Arguing about which disciple you are most like? You look like a Peter, Kerry. Yeah, definitely a Peter. And Flo Parrot? Are you a God-loving virgin too now? Well, you definitely look like a Paul, with your big nose.'

Bernadette finds this hilarious and she and her two ugly friends start laughing and one of them says, ‘You crack me up, B. So funny.'

‘Just ignore her,' says Kerry. ‘She will go away.'

‘What is her problem with you?' I ask, but before Kerry has the chance to answer Bernadette is up close in our faces and obviously has more to say.

‘Jesus can't help you with being a little lezzer, can he, Kerry?'

‘You can't call her that,' I say, wanting to stick up for my friend.

‘Oh, hasn't she told you? She's a dirty little lezzer. And don't go telling me you're not her girlfriend. You look like a lezzer too, with your weird clothes.'

Bernadette is now right up in my face. She is so mean. I want to fight back to her, stick up for me and Kerry, but I can't. She catapults me back to the old me, who let Sally put me down. I feel incapable of self-defence and do nothing to stop her saying what she wants to say. I'm still as pathetic as I ever was.

‘Dirty little lezzers, both of you.'

We all jump as the door of the common room swings open. Renée bursts in. It couldn't be more obvious what is happening. I feel instantly relieved. Bullies like Bernadette are nothing to her. She is here to stick up for her best friend.

Or maybe not.

Renée takes in what is going on, looks me right in the eye, then turns around and leaves.

It's all the confirmation I need. Our friendship really is over.

‘Go on, lez off,' instructs Bernadette, forcing us out of the common room. She shouts, ‘Lezzers!' after us one more time, just for fun. We leave to the sound of her cackles.

‘You never told me you were a lesbian,' I say to Kerry as we walk across the car park, realising that I have never, to my knowledge, met a lesbian.

‘It's not something I shout about.'

‘So what's Bernadette's problem with you? How does she know?'

‘I guess you could say, she's my ex.'

Wow. I was not expecting that.

‘She used to come to our church. We were best friends. Then it turned into something else, something deeper. Bernadette was never at ease with it though, never able to admit who she really was. Then one day her mum caught us in Bernadette's bedroom together and she made Bernadette stop coming to the group, and the entire family started going to another church. Ever since then Bernadette has been vile to me. It's just an act, she knows that I know the truth about her. But she is full of so much fear that she has to live her life being someone else. I feel sorry for her in some ways.'

I try really hard not to react too strongly to what Kerry is telling me. Instead I turn the conversation back to us. I'll process the other stuff later.

‘And what about me? Why have you been so off with me?'

We stop by my car.

‘I like you, Flo. I've watched you in RS all year. When you helped me that day I thought you felt the same. You seemed to go out of your way. Then you started going out with Gordon and I didn't know what you were playing at.'

‘Wait, you thought I was gay?'

‘I guess we all get it wrong sometimes.'

‘Why? Why did you think I was gay?' I feel bad for making this about me, but I am really insulted and need her to clarify.

‘The way you dress, the way you were with Renée. I just presumed you were in love with her but that she didn't feel the same way, so if I stepped in you would want to be with me instead.'

How is it possible to feel so offended, but at the same time so happy that one person on this earth finds me desirable?

‘Well, I'm not a lesbian, and I'm not in love with Renée. I wasn't then and I certainly am not now. Not after what she just did.'

‘You can't blame her for not coming over. Bernadette isn't exactly inviting,' says Kerry, not quite getting what happened.

‘No, you don't understand. Renée isn't ever afraid of people like her. She didn't come over because our friendship is over. She doesn't care any more.'

Suddenly, explosive tears come out of me. The realisation that I have lost Renée, that boys don't fancy me and that girls think I am a lesbian is all too much.

‘I'm going to go home,' I tell Kerry. ‘I'm sorry you thought I was gay. I'm not.'

‘I'm sorry I've been off with you,' says Kerry. ‘It's not easy being eighteen and the only “out” lesbian in a year of 150 people.'

I am starting to wonder if being eighteen and anything is easy.