Of course Sonia loved Natalie. Of course she was in love with her. Wouldn’t you be? Who else was there for her to be in love with? Some women can’t go out their front door without meeting up with a randy wood-carver or an alcoholic one-eyed sailor, while others get into a state where they only ever meet other women. Men somehow dissolve out of their life altogether. This had happened to Sonia. So when Natalie knocked upon her door in the middle of the night, wide-eyed and dramatic, what did you expect would happen?
Don’t misunderstand her. Sonia would no more have touched Natalie than have picked up a dog’s turd with her bare fingers, even a dog she knew well. She would, that is to say, have considered any kind of physical approach shuddery, and she certainly could not imagine kissing Natalie. Sonia would have found the deed embarrassing and disgusting. Sonia was no lesbian. On the other hand – now, how can she explain this to you? – Sonia could quite see herself in the same bed with Natalie, clasped, clasping and intertwined, giving and receiving all kinds of pleasure, in imitation of the act (as she remembered it) with men: in the interests of comfort, consolation, present-quenching excitement and emotional and physical gratification. But not somehow kissing.
Sonia is a disturbed woman. She does not act the way the consensus agrees that a woman should feel and act. That is to say if she kills someone she should feel remorse. If her children are taken away from her she should feel grief. If she takes money from the State she should feel gratitude. If she falls in love with another woman, admit she is a lesbian. Sonia just won’t.
What strikes Sonia is how un-free any of us are, to act, be and feel the way we want. Things are offered, then snatched away. Sex with a man gives you such a stunning sense of safety. There you are, suddenly the size of two people, not one: not frightened any more, totally loved, needed, used, valued. As long as it lasts. It’s an illusion, isn’t it? It stops: it presents you with perfection and then snatches it away. He rolls off and away and you’re half what you suddenly perceive is your proper size, and he’s back to his wife or his bank balance or his mates or whatever it is that’s preoccupying him. How quickly, as young girls, you lose your rightful expectations. Your first lover isn’t likely to be loving, tender, permanent, true, is he? The statistics are against it. It’s your uncle or his best friend or your best friend’s boyfriend, or you’re gangbanged or taken for a laugh or so drunk you can’t even remember except you’re pregnant. And it’s a loss. It’s a real loss. Why is it men pay so much for the privilege of deflowering a virgin? It’s because they’re getting real value for money. Virginity is real, it’s a proper state, all rightful expectation, and self-righteousness, not just the run up to being fucked by all and sundry. This is why Sonia is glad Stephen has custody, care and control of Teresa, Bess and Edwina. Sonia has no illusions left. Little girls need illusions. Stephen will do them very well: he is all expectation and self-righteousness – look how he behaved over Alec. His daughters will learn from Stephen and look after their virginities until they’re ready to hand them over to nice, caring, loving, boring permanent men. If they stayed with Sonia they’d be running after strangers in no time at all, in order to talk to them, and take their sweets, and go behind the bushes, never to emerge again.
Okay, give Sonia a fix. What loathsome drug is choice for today? Go ahead, poison her, calm her, finish her off. It’s all attention, isn’t it. Attention-seeking devices, like all you Eddon shrinks with your Eddon Method. Goodnight. Sonia will try and do better tomorrow.