The Fantastic Book of Everybody's Secrets (21 page)

I panic. Clearly, a response is required. I wonder if he has asked anybody else the same question. Have other women stood here, exactly where I'm standing now, and, in reply to interrogation by an impatient Edwin, come out with lines such as ‘I like to have my breasts stroked' or ‘Well, actually, I'm rather partial to having my clitoris rubbed'? I conclude that it is an indication of my sexual unadventurousness that these are the hypothetical answers that spring to mind. Perhaps Edwin is right to be disappointed in me.

More panic. No, he can't be disappointed – that can't happen. It would ruin the oppositeness of everything, if
disappointment
were to be involved. (On his side, I mean – it's fine for me to be disappointed. Which, as long as Edwin isn't, I
won't be. What matters to me is not that I should enjoy this but that he should. I am desperate to make Edwin Toseland happy. I am the only person in the world who is. Mine is, indeed, a minority position.)

‘Golden showers, master-slave, swinging, cross-dressing…' Edwin continues to list sexual practices in the hope that I will plump for one of them.

I ransack my mind for something impressive to say, but can think of nothing with enough sparkle or wit. Total honesty is my only option. ‘Individual people,' I say eventually.

‘Hey?' He looks puzzled.

‘I just like to have…well, relatively normal sex, I suppose, with people I fancy. There, will that do?' I cannot help the confrontational edge that creeps into my voice. ‘And something I don't like is too much talking, too much analysis. I've always thought that if you're going to talk during sex, it has to be pretty good, exactly right, or it's better to keep quiet.' I regret this as soon as I've said it. I don't want to fight back, I want to please Edwin, and appease him, as a symbol, place offerings at his pointy-booted feet.

To my amazement, he grins. ‘That's more like it. That's the Jo I know.'

He is referring to our shared past (mimed inverted commas). The way he said this to Susan and Susan made it sound darkly intriguing, whereas in fact our history, our back-story, such as it is, is rather silly. Four years ago, Edwin accused me of stealing a book from the library. I had done no such thing, and took exception to being branded a thief on the basis of no evidence. Edwin responded by calling me a ‘shrew-bag'. When he found the book in question, he thought it was hilarious, and rang me to tell me. He giggled a lot, didn't apologise, and used the word ‘misunderstanding' rather too many times for my liking.

For three years, I ignored Edwin. I made a point of going to the library and cutting him dead whenever I could spare the
time. Then, one day last year, as he was stamping my book and we were not speaking to each other as usual, something strange came over me. Edwin was shooting regular hopeful glances at me, as he had taken to doing, and I heard myself say, ‘Edwin, this is daft. It was ages ago. Shall we call a truce?'

His smile appeared straight away, as if he'd had it ready and waiting just in case. ‘An end to hostilities!' he said. ‘Yes, why not? Long as you promise not to purloin any more vols.'

And that was that. Friends. I even laughed at his little joke, irritating though it was. As I left the library that day, I felt a calm, happy feeling spread through my whole being. I had taken something horrible and destructive and extracted an upbeat outcome from it. I was not the stubborn, harsh,
unforgiving
judge I'd always thought I was; I was a peacemaker. It sounds absurd to say it – which is why I never have, not to anyone – but it was my relationship with Edwin Toseland, its trajectory, that made me think things could improve, wounds and scars could disappear, the world was not necessarily past its peak. Previously, I had been a sort of cheerful cynic, nonchalantly and wittily expecting the worst, and not really caring either.

Every time I saw Edwin after the day we cemented our entente cordiale, I felt a warm glow deep inside me. Redemption suffused me, and my thoughts invariably turned to hope and salvation and mercy and kindness and innocence and
essential
goodness. I was full to the brim of benevolent abstract nouns, quite the most jolly person in the library. As the only adversary, in my long history of bickering and brawling, with whom I had ever sorted things out, Edwin had come to symbolise the possibility of a better future.

Oddly enough, I wasn't tempted to try to make peace with anyone else I had fought with over the years. That wouldn't have been at all appropriate. The decision was made, in the control room of my being, that Edwin was to be the only one. Of this I was convinced, and my certainty was unflagging.
There could be only one Edwin, just as there could be only one God (whether one believed in Him or not).

It's no surprise, really, that when the thing I prized most in my life turned to sludge and slid away greyly, decomposing as it went, Edwin sprang to mind in a consolatory capacity. I started to go to the library more often, to be close to my symbol of redemption, but for the first time it didn't make me feel better. I thought nothing would, because of the severity of the problem. Until this evening in the pub, when he started to flirt with me, and it occurred to me that perhaps what I needed was greater proximity – greater sexual proximity, to be specific – to my salvation icon. I needed more than Edwin's smile and blithely offensive banter over a library book. I felt driven to internalise his essence, which would then cure me from within. This is not, of course, compatible with safe sex, but one has to prioritise.

‘You say it's better to keep quiet during sex,' he says now. ‘But we're not actually having sex yet, are we?'

‘No. Your pedantic questions are holding us up, that's why.'

Edwin squawks with laughter and sounds like a parrot. I am relieved to see that I judged the situation correctly. He prefers it when I give as good as I get. It's that rudeness-
as-sense
-of-humour thing again, and I am heartened to discover that Edwin does not have a double standard about this; it is not one law for him and another for me. In this respect too, he is the opposite. He sees us as equals. I am pleased and offended.

‘I've noticed an interesting thing over the years,' says Edwin. ‘All the women I've ever done the deed of darkness with, without exception, have made a hell of a noise. Screaming, moaning, wailing. All faked, of course. Do you think it's true in general that women make more noise in bed than men?'

‘Yes,' I say at once. It
is
true, although it has never occurred to me before.

‘So what is it with you women, then? Why do you all make such a bloody racket?'

I laugh. I cannot answer, because I am experiencing a moment of pure joy. Everything is totally fine between Edwin and me, as good as new, couldn't be better. We are sharing new insights. We can say anything to one another.

‘What?' he says.

‘I was just thinking, it's weird that we fell out and now everything's really good between us. That hardly ever happens, does it? I mean, normally, even after you've patched things up with someone, that's all they ever are – patched. It's almost impossible to be as fallen out as we were, and then make up again so…properly, so that no lasting damage has been done.'

Edwin shrugs. ‘I don't know. What's the point in making up if you don't do it properly? I never hold grudges.'

‘It's different with members of your immediate family: husbands and wives, parents and children, siblings. But there are very few people you can have a full-scale fight with, knowing everything will definitely be fine again soon.'

‘Stop banging on and take your clothes off,' says Edwin. ‘Some of us are yearning to ogle thy bod. Come on.' He stands up and taps his hand against his thigh. ‘The bedroom's through here.'

I follow him, thinking about what I've just said. I'm right. But why should it be the case? Why shouldn't friends – lovers – be the same as family in this respect? Why is it so hard to put unhappy, troublesome shared experiences behind us, even when all the right words are said, the correct procedure followed? Even after apologies and acceptances of apologies. ‘If I knew that…' I whisper to myself.

‘Stop mumbling, loon,' says Edwin. We are in a bedroom. The smell of rabbit cage is stronger here. There are two white fitted wardrobes, with pink lines around their edges. They look like wedding cakes stuck to the wall. On a matching
white-and-pink bedside table there is a ball of cotton wool, a brown scratched glasses case and a bandage that might be used or unused. ‘This is my mum's room,' says Edwin. ‘She's had to go in with my dad tonight, because I'm here. His lucky night!' He chuckles.

Somehow, we end up standing on either side of the bed, which slots neatly into the space between the two wardrobes. Everything is covered in white hairs about an inch long: the flowery duvet cover, the pillows, the pink carpet. I remember Edwin mentioning cat-sitting. I haven't seen a cat, but there must be one around somewhere. As I arrived, I pulled a similar short white hair out of my mouth, unsure how it got in. I was still only in the porch at that stage.

‘Go on,' says Edwin. ‘Get undressed.'

He still hasn't kissed me. If my flesh had a mind of its own, I would suspect individual skin cells of trying to slide towards the door, desperate to escape. I feel awkward and self-conscious but I do as I am told. Edwin watches carefully. I have no idea whether he approves of my body or not. ‘Lie down on the bed,' he says. I obey. It is easier to follow
instructions
. As long as Edwin is happy, I'm happy. Once I am lying down, Edwin removes his clothes (thank God – that awful furry suit) and climbs on to the bed. I find that his
appearance
is less disturbing when he is nude. His legs and arms are muscly, tubular. I am fairly sure that none of the six pictures he showed me earlier was of him, and am relieved that blatant self-promotion is not among his flaws.

He plants his knees on either side of my legs and kneels over me. ‘Right!' He rubs his hands together. ‘Let's see what turns you on.' I remind myself that this is an important ritual, and try not to think about how ridiculous the scene would appear to an outside observer.

Edwin puts two of his fingers inside me, then three. He then commences an activity which I can only describe as rummaging around. There is a distracted, straining expression on his face,
as if he thinks he might have left his car keys somewhere near my cervix. It is so absurd that I cannot even scream or moan convincingly, so I remain silent and just stare at him, bemused. Can he really believe that this is what one is supposed to do?

After a while he gives up rummaging (no car keys – oh well!), extracts his hand, leans back and sighs. ‘That didn't seem to be going anywhere,' he says. Then his eyes light up. He bounces off me and lands cross-legged to my right. ‘I know,' he says. ‘Do you masturbate?'

Marvellous. Absolutely bloody marvellous. If I say no, he will attribute it to spinsterly frigidity. He will begin to wonder if I collect lace doilies. If I say yes, he'll think I'm a sex-crazed nymphomaniac who doesn't get serviced often enough by real men. I opt for what I hope is a compromise answer. ‘Sometimes.'

‘Go on, then,' he says.

‘
What
?' Oh, shit.

‘Masturbate.'

‘Er…no!' I sit up.

‘Why not?'

‘Because… Look, no offence, Edwin, but I hardly know you.'

‘So?' He smiles at me indulgently, as if he might be thinking that I am charming but difficult. ‘All right, you don't have to. Why don't you tell me what your favourite sexual fantasy is and we can act it out, if you want.'

‘I
don't
want.' Heat behind my eyelids tells me that I might be about to burst into tears.

‘What? What have I said?'

‘Nothing, it's just… Look, you're probably going to think I'm a prude, but I don't care! The whole point about
masturbation
is that you do it
when you're on your own
! And the whole point of sexual fantasies is that they exist in your head
and nowhere else
! If you start trying to act them out it turns into a pantomime. It's ludicrous!'

Edwin looks peeved. ‘Okay,' he says. ‘I've done my best with you, but…I'm going to have to ask you: what's really going on here?'

‘What?' This I was not expecting.

‘You're tense as fuck, and you seem determined to…close down all the avenues of possibility. I'm going to have to go to the bog for a sly wank at this rate. What the fuck's the matter with you? Come on, out with it.'

I stand up and dress as quickly as I can, my skin buzzing. Edwin doesn't bother. He puts his hands behind his head and leans back, stretching out like an artist's model. Once I have the protection of clothing, I sit down on the bed beside him. ‘I had a… bad experience recently,' I say. It is true, and I suppose there is no reason why I shouldn't tell Edwin, but I am alarmed by how low I am prepared to sink. Do I really intend to use the most terrible trauma of my life so far (and hopefully ever) as a way of getting Edwin off my case, rather than admit that, even in a brilliant mood and in the best of all possible worlds, I am simply not the sort of person who masturbates in front of live audiences and/or turns my sexual fantasies into am-dram productions?

‘What, were you raped or something?' Edwin asks.

‘No,' I say crossly. ‘Why does it always have to be that?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Everyone is always getting raped! Any time someone has some bad event in their past, it always turns out to be rape. It's such a cliché. It's almost like, if you haven't been raped, shut up – you've got nothing to complain about.'

Edwin shakes his head. ‘You're a real nut case. You sound as if you're jealous of rape victims.'