Student (7 page)

When Linda returns with the coffee, Aidan is still in the shower. She points to a shelf by the main window.

‘He’ll be better if he takes those.’

His meds. Three separate bottles.

‘He doesn’t always?’

‘You know what he’s like.’

I don’t. Not really. Not at all.

‘You started to say something about his father earlier,’ I say. ‘Aidan never mentions him.’

‘He left, when Aidan was five. He’s abroad now. There’s been no contact for ten years or so. My second husband, Aidan’s stepfather, adopted him. But they’re not close. The only person to get close was Huw.’

There’s a younger brother and sister, I recall. Half brother and sister. They must be at school.

She goes on. ‘You’re the first girl he’s ever invited back here, Allison. He must think an awful lot of you’.

She smiles weakly, then leaves.

I listen to the shower. Huw replaced Aidan’s dad and now I am to replace Huw. If I were to turn and run now, nobody would blame me afterwards.

I drink some of my coffee. Espresso, rocket fuel. I can do this, I think, as the caffeine hits. I can take this on. Me and Aidan against the world.

For I need someone to love. And so does he. We can be everything to each other. I can take him out of this sterile, cosy hideaway and bring him to Nottingham. I’ll cure him and he’ll cure me.

The bathroom door opens. Aidan’s body is lithe and wet, glistening in the silver sun.

‘Sorry I kept you waiting,’ he says.

Sophomore is the word for a second year university student. It’s derived from
Sophism
which means
false argument or to lie
. I like to know where words come from. This one goes back to a Greek word for a teacher of philosophy. Some second years think they’re sophisticated: subtle, complex, worldly. They’re lying to themselves.

I put this in an email to Aidan and he comes back with a word that isn’t in my dictionary:
sophomoric
. This means 
behaviour typical of a sophomore: immature, superficial, crude or inflated in manner
. I decide to avoid being all of these things. I will work hard. I will write for the university newspaper, in case I decide to pursue journalism after I graduate. I will be sociable but slightly aloof from the other people in my house.

It’s Freshers’ Week, only this year they’ve turned it into Freshers’ Fortnight, with ‘welcome back’ events for second years in the second week. My room is in the attic. I have a view of the road below, and a dormer window through which I can see the stars. My room is directly above Steve, the last minute substitute for Paul. He’s doing Electronics.

We’ve hardly spoken to so far. I know he’s straight. His bed frame is noisy and some of his partners are particularly loud. Freshers’ week is made for guys like Steve, who come on all sophisticated to impressionable first year girls. Last night, at midnight, I went down to the toilet and heard a girl with a Sloane accent telling him loudly and enthusiastically how grateful she was to him for deflowering her. Yuck.

Maybe he was doing her a favour, I think as I get off the train in West Kirby on Friday afternoon. Maybe getting it over with is what your first week at uni is all about. I should have done that myself rather than waiting until Christmas to seduce my ex-boyfriend. At nineteen, I shouldn’t be able to count the number of times I’ve had sex on the fingers of one hand. I shouldn’t be able to count them, full stop.

Last year, I never went home at weekends during term time, but then I didn’t have a boyfriend in Birkenhead. Or a car to pick up. I passed my test ten days ago and Dad has promised me my own Mini.

I spend an evening with Mum and collect the car in the morning. It’s pillar box red. I’d like to have a target painted on the roof but Dad tells me this would be expensive, and ostentatious.

‘Don’t let one of your mates do it. They’ll wreck the thing. A car like this holds its value if you look after it.’

‘When are we going to meet this boyfriend of yours?’ Ingrid asks.

‘You may have to wait until the wedding,’ I say, which throws her.

I drive over to Birkenhead, where my lover’s mother gives me tea and cake and marvels at the hundred mile journey I am about to make.

‘You’re fearless, Allison,’ she says, implying that my taking on her son is part of that fearlessness. Then she tells me that Aidan won’t be joining us for a while as he hasn’t left his room for two days. I pretend to laugh this off.

‘He’s been sleeping a lot more since Huw died,’ she says.

‘Leave him to me.’

Aidan is fast out in his large, metallic bed. When I open the blinds, he doesn’t stir. I have a shower, then get into bed next to him. The pills that were on the window ledge last time I came are now by the bed. I wonder how many antidepressants he’s on but don’t know which is which. There’s only one pill I know the name of and Aidan doesn’t take it. I, on the other hand, am anxious to justify its daily imposition. But I can’t seduce Aidan unless he opens his eyes.

Oh. I can.

‘That was exciting,’ I tell Aidan afterwards, but he’s gone back to sleep. I’m disappointed. It’s not that I’m looking for someone like Steve, who’s driven by his dick, and gives me lascivious looks all the time (I expect he does the same to Vic and Tessa, too, but I’m home more). It’s just that I worry Aidan doesn’t fancy me as much as I’d like him to. I’m worried that he doesn’t talk to me.

I shouldn’t be so self-obsessed. He’s depressed because his best friend killed himself last month. He’s allowed to fall asleep after sex. Men do that.

I read a couple of the comics on his desk, silly tales about superheroes whose powers alienate them from the people they have vowed to protect. I put on one of Aidan’s Krautrock LPs. That’s right, a vinyl record. He pays a fortune for them on eBay. He says the scratches and static crackle make them sound more authentic.

When it starts to get dark, his mum knocks on the door and invites me to eat with the rest of the family.

‘We do appreciate you trying so hard, Allison,’ step-dad Keith says, over lasagne and Chianti.

Half-sister Anna gives me a suspicious look that tells me she suspects what I’ve been up to with her brother and does not approve. At thirteen, I’d probably feel the same way.

When I accept a second glass of wine, Anna asks me if I’m driving home later. I take a deep gulp before breaking the awkward silence that follows.

‘I told my mum I was staying here tonight. I want to be here when Aidan wakes up even if, you know, it’s four in the morning.’

‘Where will you sleep?’

‘In his bed, of course,’ I say.

Anna gives her mum a shocked look. She’s revived the thirteen year old bitch in me. Keith raises an eyebrow in what would probably become a wink if he didn’t think better of it and start talking about his own university days instead. I nod enthusiastically when he goes on about seeing ‘The Floyd’ though I’m not certain what or who he’s talking about. When dinner’s over, I help Anna clear the table.

‘Can’t you take him to Nottingham?’ Anna hisses as we load the dishwasher. ‘It’s like living in a psychiatric ward, having him here. These are meant to be my years in the granny flat before granny moves in. Not his.’

‘I’m sorry. He’s not my responsibility.’

‘I didn’t say he was. It’s just, you’re strong. I’ll bet you could shake him out of it.’

‘I’m trying, believe me. I do care about him, a lot.’

‘I don’t. And Dad only pretends to.’

Watching TV with them later, the conversation is forced, mundane. Everyone’s life is on hold, waiting for Aidan. I don’t know what I’m doing here.

‘I’m going up to my night vigil,’ I announce when the late film starts.

I find Aidan awake, dressed and at his computer.

‘I thought I’d dreamt you coming,’ he says.

‘You say the most romantic things.’

‘Did we... earlier?’

‘You had a wet dream, yeah.’

He kisses me. His hair is moist from the shower. He shows me a site he likes and we look at it together. We start to play, making up names for each other. Imaginary animals take imaginary drugs that combine sexual ecstasy with profound self-perception. Later, when everyone’s gone to bed, Aidan goes downstairs and eats cereal and toast with huge mugs of builders’ tea.

We watch a science fiction DVD. Aidan devours several joints, with only a little assistance from me. We cuddle, but he shows no desire to go back to bed for an encore. At four in the morning, I fall asleep. When I wake, I’m in bed, in my underwear. Aidan is dead to the world, even harder to rouse than he was yesterday. I shower and go downstairs. The house is empty but for him.

While the family are at church, I write Aidan a note, asking him to visit me. It wouldn’t be difficult. His mum’d drive him to Lime St Station. I’d collect him in Nottingham. In the note, I tell him I’m worried that he never sees daylight, sleeps twelve hours or more a day. I want to finish it ‘I love you’, but we haven’t used these words and they seem to be too much of a hostage to fortune. Only what am I doing here if I don’t love him?

Some people never use the word ‘love’. Love is like religion, rationally impossible but easy to subscribe to if you find yourself blessed with faith. But people’s feelings for each other shouldn’t be a matter of belief. I haven’t believed in God for five years, but I’m not so sure about love. I know what I want love to be, like a rollercoaster, crushing everything in its path, possessing me utterly. But not everyone can feel that. Maybe my emotions are always going to be minor key piano pieces, rather than loud power chords on an electric guitar. What I feel for Aidan is stronger than what I felt for Mark. Or is it just different? If I made an Aidan pie chart it would show forty percent infatuation, fifty percent lust, and ten percent my appetite for taking risks.

I brew some coffee then drive to Nottingham, taking note of the speed cameras my dad warned me about yesterday.

When I get back, the other four are making a roast chicken dinner and invite me to join them. We agreed not to cook together, so I’m happily surprised. I make gravy from a packet. Steve is all smiles. The others tease him about the girl he brought home last night. Vic says she can use some tips on pick-up techniques. Steve offers to set up a threesome, which makes Vic blush. I’ve never seen her blush before. Did she consider his offer, if only for a moment?

‘Visiting your boyfriend?’ Steve asks, as he begins to carve.

‘That’s right,’ I reply. ‘We spent all weekend in bed.’ 

When he discovered that both Vic and I had our birthdays just before we moved in, Steve suggested we have a house party. He assumed I was twenty, like Vic, and I didn’t correct him. I never looked like the youngest person in my year, but I always was. Mark used to tease me about my birth sign. Virgo by name, virgo by nature, though he hasn’t done this since he slept with me.

I told Steve I wasn’t bothered about a party, pretended I’d had one at home during vacation. The other three overruled me. The theme was Finn and Tessa’s idea. They’ve decorated the front room with white sheets and candles, giving it a ghostly air.

‘Is your boyfriend coming?’ Steve asks, as we clear the kitchen, laying out the borrowed glasses and paper plates for the veggie curry Finn concocted earlier.

‘I’m meeting him at the station later.’

I’m not keen on Steve. If we’d had a vote about inviting him to move in, I would have voted against, but I abdicated responsibility to Vic and she still thinks he’s OK. What happened after Paul dropped out was this: Vic put up spare room notices on various boards at uni, but there was hardly anyone around in the summer, so she ended up phoning the landlord, Mr Soar, to see if he had anybody looking for one room. Steve met Vic for a coffee and she thought he was OK, so Finn, Tess and I agreed to him by email, sight unseen.

Steve’s good looking in a square-jawed sort of way, but has a bad haircut, a cheap, shaggy look. He doesn’t smoke or do drugs, but I try not to hold that against him.

Aidan rings up to say he’s missed the train. I tell him there’s another one in an hour. From the way he mumbles I suspect he’s only just got out of bed. At seven in the evening.

I don’t really have a boyfriend. I have this guy I’ve met four times who emails me occasionally and is useless on the phone.

‘We’ve got a fortune teller coming,’ I tell him. ‘You can’t miss that.’

‘OK.’

The fortune teller was another of Finn’s ideas. Turns out Finn knows somebody who does Tarot and takes it all quite seriously. We’re putting him in my room. I think Aidan would make a good fortune teller. He’d look great in a turban, like that famous photo of Rudolph Valentino. And I can’t think of another career he’s suited to, unless he has a hidden talent for acting.

When we’ve finished in the kitchen, Steve helps me sort out my room (Steve’s room is being used for coats, so doesn’t need much attention). I have bought mosquito nets, actually net curtains, from a stall in Victoria Market.

‘I thought your boyfriend would be here by now,’ Steve says. We are attaching the nets to the ceiling so that they float down, creating an intimate space at the side of the room.

‘He’s on his way.’

‘Hold on. Finishing touch.’

Steve replaces my low energy light bulb with a red one, making the room feel like a brothel.

‘If he gets here soon, you could have some fun in here before the fortune teller arrives,’ he says.

‘Or after they’ve gone,’ I say.

‘Why wait?’ He slides his hand around my bottom and, squeezing it, pulls me towards him. Before I pull away, he kisses me.

‘I’m going to pretend that didn’t happen.’

‘I’ll bet you’re good at pretending.’ He clears off before I can hit him.

I have a quick shower, then put on my short black dress. We’ve urged guests to wear white, but white doesn’t suit me.

There’s an Indian rug over Finn and Tess’s bed. A friend of Finn’s has lent them a goldfish tank that lights up and they’ve placed it on the chest of drawers. When they turn off the main light, the tank appears to contain bright blue water and is backlit in such a way that the bubbles floating to the surface reflect a kaleidoscope of light from the exotic tropical fish. In the corner of a tank is a starfish. No, two. They cluster around an orange plant with delicate, coiled leaves. The fish seem oddly static. Ah, I see.