‘So, is he good at kissing?’ Megan blew one of her smoke rings, big and blue, which stretched and thinned as it floated free of her mouth.
Like a jellyfish, Eleanor decided, sleepily tracking its tremulous progress towards the ceiling. It was three o’clock in the morning on the last Monday of their first term. She and Megan were propped on cushions on the floor of Megan’s room, among the soggy remains of the two Spud-U-Like baked potatoes that had constituted their supper, four flattened cider cans and an almost empty bottle of wine. The room’s oak-panelled walls glowed and shifted in the shadowy light cast by the candles Megan kept on her shelves and windowsills, sputtering now out of the tops of older, long since emptied bottles of alcohol.
Megan was one of the few freshers to have been quartered in the original body of the college, at the very top of the staircase that ran between the chapel and the dining room. It was a space that filled Eleanor with envy every time she entered it, in spite of the notable proximity of the college clock, which induced Megan to work, and often to sleep, in a pair of large purple earmuffs. Eleanor, who had fallen asleep on the sofa countless times during the course of their late conversations, never minded the bells. The way the city chimed was one of the many things she had grown to love about it, a counterpoint to the bustle, unchanged and unchanging, like birdsong, so integral to life that one forgot to listen.
‘So, he’s bad at kissing,’ Megan prompted, with the bluntness that Eleanor liked and which sometimes reminded her of Kat; Kat, whom she missed occasionally, but felt bad about for not missing more. They had spoken just once, early on, when Eleanor phoned from a call box to wish her sister a happy fifteenth birthday. Kat had sounded her usual self – bolshie, resentful, disinterested. Everything was fine, she declared coldly; home, school, her birthday, their father, all were all fine. Even when Eleanor explained that she had posted a birthday gift, several yards of soft pink and green tweed which she had not been able to afford, Kat said only that it hadn’t arrived yet, managing to communicate indifference as to whether it ever did.
Letting the heavy phone box door fall shut after the call, closing out the stale stench of urine and cigarettes, Eleanor was aware of her home life shrinking back to the dot to which she had consigned it, and being glad. She had her new life now, made up of things like Beowulf, with whom she still tussled, but happily, and nineteenth-century novelists, with whom she struggled not at all; and drinking, and new friendships like Megan, and surviving on a shoestring; and Nick Wharton, who was a friend but also something so much more. Every moment of every day was hectic, all-consuming. She didn’t want the term to end.
Eleanor blinked slowly at Megan’s questioning face, aware of the effort of sliding her lids over her eyeballs. They had drunk too much, as usual, but more than anything, she was exhausted. She wondered idly if she looked as terrible as Megan, whose face was the colour of putty, with dark circles under her pale green eyes and a fringe so overgrown and unkempt she looked like she was peering through the bars of a cage. Megan in fact was very pretty, though she never thought so herself, injecting any discussion about looks and clothes with disconsolate slaps to her solid backside and strong stocky legs. Her figure was certainly on the square side, but Eleanor, burdened with her own heavy rangy limbs, admired its compactness, the impression of contained energy. Even the way Megan walked had a spring to it, bouncing on the balls of her feet as if in a permanent state of readiness to break into a run. The Christian Union affiliation had turned out to be a rumour. Megan liked hymns she said, but only because she was keen on the tunes and enjoyed singing; otherwise she regarded herself as mostly Buddhist, thanks to an inspirational couple of months spent travelling in India and Nepal in her run-up to university.
‘Nick Wharton is not a bad kisser,’ Eleanor conceded at last. ‘In fact he’s the opposite of bad.’
‘As in good?’ Megan giggled.
Eleanor sighed. ‘Very good.’
She rolled onto her back, shoving one of the cushions under her head. The need to talk about Nick was surging inside her. Megan had had her usual outpouring about Billy Stokes, whom she despised for his public-school arrogance, but with whom she claimed to be in love nonetheless. But there had been a development with Nick just that afternoon – unexpected, game-changing – and Eleanor was still reeling from it, not quite ready to offer it up for one of her new friend’s well-intentioned but clumsy interpretations.
She was good on some things, Megan, like work and college gossip and sadness. When Eleanor had confided the fact of her mother’s death, she had simply crawled across the sofa and put her arms round her, not saying a word. Not even Nick had managed such a perfect response, reacting to the same news with an expression of pained compassion, but then gently changing the subject, like he was steering her away from harm. On other matters, however, such as relationships, Megan had proved less reliable. The yearning for Billy Stokes, for instance, hadn’t prevented her from having several one-night stands with fellow students, only to howl with self-recrimination afterwards. Yet when Eleanor had ventured a few confidences about Kat’s surly attitude and wildness with boys, Megan had offered the view, albeit in a tone of speculative apology, that Eleanor’s little sister sounded like a bit of a jealous slut.
‘I should go,’ Eleanor murmured, closing her eyes, enjoying the solidity of the floor under her spine too much to move. All her dates with Nick were floating through her head, a procession of details and pleasures. There had only been four kisses, five if she counted their first brief lip contact under a street lamp on the night of the film date to the Penultimate Picture Palace five weeks before. A mere brushing. Nick had pulled back so suddenly that Eleanor feared something last-minute might have put him off. Like bad breath, or the sight of her face close up, which, she knew, had manifold imperfections. Back in her room afterwards, she had scrutinised her reflection brutally in the small mirror above her washbasin, tugging at her skin, trying to see what Nick might have seen.
But then there had been the second kiss, ten days later. A proper one this time, as they strolled back to college after having a pizza. His tongue had found hers, gentle and exploratory, solicitous if such a thing were possible, Eleanor had wondered, reliving the experience again and again in her mind, comparing it cruelly to Charlie’s clumsy foraging. Nick had tasted faintly of cheese and mushroom and red wine and Eleanor had loved this too. She had fallen against him afterwards, dizzy and exhilarated, feeling like a film actress.
‘You have the nicest eyes,’ he had said gruffly. They had been in a side street near the college, half leaning against some railings. It was the most intimate thing he had ever said to her, but even as Eleanor luxuriated in it, his mood seemed to change, grow awkward. There was no more kissing, just the walk back to college, Nick keeping a pace ahead, doing his finger-clicking while casting out staccato comments about how much work he had and how he needed to get some sleep. When they reached the tangle of bikes in front of the porters’ lodge, he had said a breezy goodnight and cantered off up the steps, his long legs taking three at a time. Eleanor had trailed after him, bewildered. Catching a last glimpse as he ducked under the arched entrance to his staircase, he seemed to pause to wipe the back of his hand across his mouth. Like he was wiping away their kiss, Eleanor had thought wildly. She had slept fitfully, the pizza cheese heavy in her stomach, her heart veering between elation and the old fear of some part of her having been found repellent.
But a few days later he asked her out again. The third kiss had followed. A week later, the fourth. Each lasting longer. Each getting better. Kissing was something that could be learnt, Eleanor had realised. It made her feel sorry for girls like Kat and Megan with their promiscuity, always in a rush, questing after the next sexual experience the moment one was done. She and Nick were the opposite of being in a rush, Eleanor decided ecstatically. The slow, unhurried intimacy of the way his tongue touched hers still took her breath away. It stirred a new, animal part of her, something that felt like recognition as much as physical need, as if her body had been waiting just for him to come alive.
But then that morning had happened. She had been in the library in her usual place, pulling together her findings for her final essay, when Nick appeared in the doorway, miming an invitation to lunch. They had gone to what had become their usual café, where he had eaten at even greater speed than usual, casting pinched looks across the table, as if there were things he might say if his mouth wasn’t otherwise engaged. Eleanor had sensed something building – some declaration – and been foolish enough to feel excited. She even wondered if he was going to invite her back to his rooms there and then. Sex in the afternoon. She would need to pee first, she realised frantically, her bladder being full and the café not extending to the luxury of a loo. She had felt shy of that more than anything – confessing the need to stop in the icy toilet on his landing, the sound of her pee, the sound of the flush.
Her instincts had proved correct, but also misguided. Nick had indeed been steeling himself towards a declaration, just not the one she had expected.
‘Over?’
He had waited until they were back in the street. Eleanor was aware of her jaw hanging gormlessly open and the need to snap it shut. It had seemed important, facing this new crisis in her life, not to look gormless. She shifted her legs to a wider stance, needing physically to steady herself.
‘I am… committed elsewhere.’
Shoppers and tourists steered round them, giving them a pocket of space, as if they sensed the magnitude of the conversation.
‘Where?’ Eleanor found herself scanning the busy street, as if the person to whom he was referring might leap out and present herself. But it turned out the person wasn’t even in Oxford. She was called Tilly and was back home in Wiltshire, training to be a nursery nurse. Eleanor had managed not to gasp at this. Indeed, it gave her hope. Nick could not stay forever with someone called Tilly who was training to be a nursery nurse. It was ridiculous. Quite impossible, even if they had, as Nick explained, blurting and wretched, known each other since primary school and been going out since they were fifteen. For six years in other words. Six years. They were each other’s first and only love. While apart they wrote regularly and rang each other at prearranged times several nights a week. She kept a curl of his hair in a locket round her neck and he had a treasured picture of her face in his wallet. They were as good as engaged. He missed her like mad. She missed him so much, she often wept herself to sleep. He waggled the wallet picture at Eleanor as if it was the final proof she needed in order to accept his words.
‘Over?’ she repeated stupidly, her brain snagging on the thought that something could not be over when it had barely started. There was so much still to do. So much that she had wanted and imagined. Her future. Their future. He couldn’t just wave a photo and take it away. ‘Maybe…’ She stopped, astonished to see tears in his eyes. She had never seen a man cry. Even when her mother died, her father hadn’t cried. He had gone silent instead, ossified, as if to protect some deep unassailable part of himself.
‘I’m betraying her by seeing you,’ Nick growled, swiping at his face and rubbing his nose on the sleeve of that day’s baggy jumper. He had several: the grey cable, two blues and a bright green Fair Isle one that Eleanor had teased would be appropriate in a golf club. ‘I like you, Eleanor. I really like you. But this is wrong. Tilly and I… we have sworn… we are… we have always said…’
Watching his struggle, Eleanor experienced a sudden flooding calm. This man, whom she also liked, so very much, was trying to walk away from her and she had to find a way to stop him. And seeing him unhappy was unbearable too. It cleared her head, made her thoughts sharp.
‘But, Nick, we can be friends, surely?’ She put her hand on his arm. ‘You haven’t betrayed anybody. All you’ve done is kiss me. Four times. Five if you count when we left the PPP.’ She held his gaze, blazing a coolness she did not feel. She even smiled. ‘You’ve been amazing. The model of restraint. And I like you too. A lot. So let’s settle on being friends. Okay?’
‘Okay. Just friends. Great. Thanks, Eleanor.’ Relief gusted across his face, relaxing its handsome features. He pulled her to him and they hugged fiercely.
So this is love, Eleanor thought. This is love and it hurts.