everything she’d overheard from the girls at school who spoke about it with a sort of aged disappointment. Because he didn’t think he had to treat her the way he would one of the skinny women he’d marry, and she had nothing to lose. Afterwards he gave her the lines he’d picked up from American films and she let himget them out: he wasn’t looking for a relationship, he just wanted to have some fun; she was a great girl, she really was.
I’m coming over, she would tell him at school or she’d text him when she was already out the window, sliding down the roof slope, dropping to the grass. Sometimes he said: well, I told you I’m not looking for anything of the frequent-flyer persuasion, or he’d shake his head and say he wished he could, he really did, but his evening had pretty big plans wound up in it. That line only held fast the time it took for her to get her bra off.
When he said it, she knew it surprised him more than her. She let it rest between them for a moment with his face sort of stiffening as if he’d been electrocuted. Then she said: well, yes. Me too. And that was that. Harrow Williams was the sort of boy who only held one state of mind at a time and once he decided they were on, there was nothing he or anybody else could do about it. She told him she didn’t believe in marriage, that nothing she was ever going to do was for the government or god or anything else beginning with g and that marriage was just a force of control. He looked at her the way he did when she said things he didn’t understand; but after they’d had sex, he told her if she wanted to live at his house they’d need to get it done.
She’d never really given up something for anyone. You could do anything else, she told herself; you could breakeverything in half and scoop out the middle and put it back in. You could write a book or a play or cure infertility. She was eighteen and school was done and she could go to Cambridge or Oxford or London and study maths or English. She could travel. Except she had time for all that. And she had time for him.
If you don’t want to marry me you don’t have to, he said, a little sulky with it.
I do want to. OK?
Yeah. OK.
Her parents didn’t like to argue but, after she told them, she caught them studying her face in a sort of confusion. As if they would discover, looking hard enough, the trick of the matter, the deal she’d been forced into. As if she would slide a note across to them if they waited long enough and it would say: Help me .
At the wedding she turned and looked at their bemused faces. There was no one there but them and Harrow’s mother, who was dressed in red and crying. Nora waited for the day to be over and then it was.
She wished someone had told her what living with a man was like. She would not have changed tack but she thought, all the same, a degree of warning would have been good. The musky smell; the stains on the toilet he did not seem to see; the handfuls of tissue she pulled out from down the side of the bed. There were days she thought on what she’d given away. Days she tried toread two books at a time to catch up. Days she went into the city and handed out CVs and saw what little she could get with good marks at school and an attractive husband.
Even then there was never a consideration of going. The shape of him beneath her hands in the morning, the words he said when he was sleepy enough not to think about them, the way he remembered things she told him.
Well, except Harrow had died. Barely a year and she only nineteen, but there it was. She stood next to his mother at the hospital and thought she understood what they were saying except she was certain they were wrong. There wasn’t a blood clot in his lung that had, probably, been there since he was born and only now exploded. That was not what had happened. Harrow, she was certain, had died because he decided he loved her after all. He was an eight or a nine and she was a three or a four
I’m coming over, she would tell him at school or she’d text him when she was already out the window, sliding down the roof slope, dropping to the grass. Sometimes he said: well, I told you I’m not looking for anything of the frequent-flyer persuasion, or he’d shake his head and say he wished he could, he really did, but his evening had pretty big plans wound up in it. That line only held fast the time it took for her to get her bra off.
When he said it, she knew it surprised him more than her. She let it rest between them for a moment with his face sort of stiffening as if he’d been electrocuted. Then she said: well, yes. Me too. And that was that. Harrow Williams was the sort of boy who only held one state of mind at a time and once he decided they were on, there was nothing he or anybody else could do about it. She told him she didn’t believe in marriage, that nothing she was ever going to do was for the government or god or anything else beginning with g and that marriage was just a force of control. He looked at her the way he did when she said things he didn’t understand; but after they’d had sex, he told her if she wanted to live at his house they’d need to get it done.
She’d never really given up something for anyone. You could do anything else, she told herself; you could breakeverything in half and scoop out the middle and put it back in. You could write a book or a play or cure infertility. She was eighteen and school was done and she could go to Cambridge or Oxford or London and study maths or English. She could travel. Except she had time for all that. And she had time for him.
If you don’t want to marry me you don’t have to, he said, a little sulky with it.
I do want to. OK?
Yeah. OK.
Her parents didn’t like to argue but, after she told them, she caught them studying her face in a sort of confusion. As if they would discover, looking hard enough, the trick of the matter, the deal she’d been forced into. As if she would slide a note across to them if they waited long enough and it would say: Help me .
At the wedding she turned and looked at their bemused faces. There was no one there but them and Harrow’s mother, who was dressed in red and crying. Nora waited for the day to be over and then it was.
She wished someone had told her what living with a man was like. She would not have changed tack but she thought, all the same, a degree of warning would have been good. The musky smell; the stains on the toilet he did not seem to see; the handfuls of tissue she pulled out from down the side of the bed. There were days she thought on what she’d given away. Days she tried toread two books at a time to catch up. Days she went into the city and handed out CVs and saw what little she could get with good marks at school and an attractive husband.
Even then there was never a consideration of going. The shape of him beneath her hands in the morning, the words he said when he was sleepy enough not to think about them, the way he remembered things she told him.
Well, except Harrow had died. Barely a year and she only nineteen, but there it was. She stood next to his mother at the hospital and thought she understood what they were saying except she was certain they were wrong. There wasn’t a blood clot in his lung that had, probably, been there since he was born and only now exploded. That was not what had happened. Harrow, she was certain, had died because he decided he loved her after all. He was an eight or a nine and she was a three or a four
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