Didn’t have much choice really. Unconscious for ten days, unable to get out of bed for another forty-one. Being forced to quit smoking was the silver lining, her mother said. Her mother liked to look for the silver lining. On one occasion, a birthday or a Christmas, something boozy, her mother announced to her guests that her Natalie had been in a terrible accident, but something good came out of it: she got Andrew.
When all the guests were gone, Natalie called mother cruel and ridiculous, and they didn’t speak for days. It
was
ridiculous. What, after all, did her mother really know about it? She hadn’t been there. She hadn’t seen the way Andrew had started to look at her, that summer at the French house, and then afterwards too. Sometimes she caught it, just out of the corner of her eye, when they were walking back from the cinema or having lunch together in the pub, she’d catch him watching her. Natalie’s mother hadn’t been privy to the conversations that they had, late into the night, night after night, when Lilah was out getting wasted, careening off the rails, when Andrew didn’t know what to do with her.
Her mother didn’t know. But if she didn’t know, if she was so ridiculous, then why was Natalie so rattled by it? Why did it hurt her so much? In the deepest, secret part of her, she knew, although she never allowed the thought to coalesce, to force itself to the forefront. She knew that even if she didn’t believe it, others did. Lilah certainly did. Jen might, she wasn’t sure.
Nat let herself slide back under the water, closing her eyes, listening once more to the murmurs of the house. She thought she could hear chatter, noises from the kitchen, pots and pans clanging against each other, faint, deep music, Lilah’s jagged laughter. Uneven, the laughter of an hysteric, a laugh that made everyone in the room look around.
Natalie first saw Lilah at a party, a rather formal event, at the beginning of their first year of university. A meet-the-dean type of affair, people dressed up and chatting politely with professors. Lilah wore leather trousers and sat in the corner smoking and whispering into the ear of some guy. And every now and then, that laugh. Natalie thought she was ridiculous. Ridiculous, terrifying, impossibly beautiful.
And beautiful she was, head-turning. It was impossible to go anywhere with her for a girly night out, because within minutes there would be someone making a play. It was effortless then, too, she was a different woman from the one here now. Then she was glowing, athletic. Not this rather strange, stick-like creation, skin a shade too dark, hair a shade too blonde. It was rather sad, really, Natalie thought. She looked down, contemplating the soft white mound of her belly, the mottled skin over her heavy breasts. All right, so not all
that
sad.
Natalie didn’t meet Lilah properly until weeks, possibly months after that first formal. It was at a rugby match. She’d been invited to go and watch by the handsome Irishman on her corridor, one Conor Sheridan, on whom Natalie had nursed the briefest of crushes before she first saw him with his girlfriend, who looked like she’d wandered out of a Renoir, all porcelain skin and raven hair. Natalie wasn’t much into sports, but she was keen to have a rounded college experience, and she was very keen to meet some promising boys, the ones on her course proving to be insufficiently stimulating.
They were sitting at the edge of the stands, three of them: Conor, flanked by his girlfriend on one side and Lilah on the other. Lilah was wearing jeans and knee-high boots with an enormous wedge heel, and was leaning forward, elbows on knees, chewing on a fingernail, not watching the match. When Conor caught sight of Natalie, he smiled and waved, beckoning her over to join them. The girlfriend smiled too. Lilah just looked at her, blankly.
There was no space to sit next to them, so Natalie had to sit in front of them, at their feet.
When all the guests were gone, Natalie called mother cruel and ridiculous, and they didn’t speak for days. It
was
ridiculous. What, after all, did her mother really know about it? She hadn’t been there. She hadn’t seen the way Andrew had started to look at her, that summer at the French house, and then afterwards too. Sometimes she caught it, just out of the corner of her eye, when they were walking back from the cinema or having lunch together in the pub, she’d catch him watching her. Natalie’s mother hadn’t been privy to the conversations that they had, late into the night, night after night, when Lilah was out getting wasted, careening off the rails, when Andrew didn’t know what to do with her.
Her mother didn’t know. But if she didn’t know, if she was so ridiculous, then why was Natalie so rattled by it? Why did it hurt her so much? In the deepest, secret part of her, she knew, although she never allowed the thought to coalesce, to force itself to the forefront. She knew that even if she didn’t believe it, others did. Lilah certainly did. Jen might, she wasn’t sure.
Nat let herself slide back under the water, closing her eyes, listening once more to the murmurs of the house. She thought she could hear chatter, noises from the kitchen, pots and pans clanging against each other, faint, deep music, Lilah’s jagged laughter. Uneven, the laughter of an hysteric, a laugh that made everyone in the room look around.
Natalie first saw Lilah at a party, a rather formal event, at the beginning of their first year of university. A meet-the-dean type of affair, people dressed up and chatting politely with professors. Lilah wore leather trousers and sat in the corner smoking and whispering into the ear of some guy. And every now and then, that laugh. Natalie thought she was ridiculous. Ridiculous, terrifying, impossibly beautiful.
And beautiful she was, head-turning. It was impossible to go anywhere with her for a girly night out, because within minutes there would be someone making a play. It was effortless then, too, she was a different woman from the one here now. Then she was glowing, athletic. Not this rather strange, stick-like creation, skin a shade too dark, hair a shade too blonde. It was rather sad, really, Natalie thought. She looked down, contemplating the soft white mound of her belly, the mottled skin over her heavy breasts. All right, so not all
that
sad.
Natalie didn’t meet Lilah properly until weeks, possibly months after that first formal. It was at a rugby match. She’d been invited to go and watch by the handsome Irishman on her corridor, one Conor Sheridan, on whom Natalie had nursed the briefest of crushes before she first saw him with his girlfriend, who looked like she’d wandered out of a Renoir, all porcelain skin and raven hair. Natalie wasn’t much into sports, but she was keen to have a rounded college experience, and she was very keen to meet some promising boys, the ones on her course proving to be insufficiently stimulating.
They were sitting at the edge of the stands, three of them: Conor, flanked by his girlfriend on one side and Lilah on the other. Lilah was wearing jeans and knee-high boots with an enormous wedge heel, and was leaning forward, elbows on knees, chewing on a fingernail, not watching the match. When Conor caught sight of Natalie, he smiled and waved, beckoning her over to join them. The girlfriend smiled too. Lilah just looked at her, blankly.
There was no space to sit next to them, so Natalie had to sit in front of them, at their feet.
Similar Books
