‘Scarlet Jean? Natalie Scarlet Jean Lucas? Ha ha ha ha!’ The slightly balding guy sitting behind the shabby desk with a half-smoked cigarette dangling from one hand and my CV in his other collapsed into loud, honking laughter. ‘Your parents didn’t like you much, did they? Sounds pretty pretentious!’
I blushed, partly because of his good-natured ridicule, partly because I was realising how out of place I looked in the carefully chosen black trousers and button-down shirt that at nine this morning I’d thought made a perfectly appropriate outfit. Far from the frighteningly formal interview I’d expected, I was now sat on a chipped wooden chair on the first floor of a corner building filled with over-stuffed files, pots and pots of paint and an ancient electric kettle balanced precariously on a fridge that needed a copy of the Yellow Pages to keep it shut.
‘Well, put the kettle on and we’ll see if you can handle the job.’
I hesitated, unsure whether he was serious, then fumbled to obey.
‘I have two questions for you,’ he continued. ‘Can you make a cup of tea? And, do you mind passive smoking? Because, if you do any work here, there will be a lot of both.’
I smiled. I was beginning to like this odd guy with his cheeky smile and slightly Northern accent. His name was Raoul. He’d agreed to meet me this weekend, the first after Clouds had closed, so I’d forked out for the train down to King’s Cross and was doubling it as an excuse to stay in a hotel with Matthew for the night. We were going to see Mark Rylance in Hamlet at The Globe this evening, his treat.
After I’d made Raoul a satisfactory cup of tea, he showed me around the theatre, which didn’t take long: it was a small black box above a pub that had made the Fringe lists because of its reputation for championing new writing. The stage was no bigger than my college bedroom and the temporary seating could fit a maximum of fifty in the audience. Backstage consisted of the office, which doubled as prop room and stage-left entrance, and a small dressing room with two mirrors and shelves full of wig heads.
By the time I left, we’d arranged for me to start attending rehearsals as soon as my term ended. The stage manager would handle everything alone until then.
Back in Durham two days later, I was buoyed by the thought of my summer plans. Matthew and I chatted excitedly about what we would do with my days off, how amazing it would be to have our own space and how we could construct Bunburys for Annabelle and my parents.
There were still four weeks left of term, but with Clouds over and most of the drama students preparing to take plays to Edinburgh, I found my social life dwindling. I agreed to design a set for WomanSoc, who were putting on The Vagina Monologues. I found them less sociable than the theatre crowd and grew rather miserable painting flats alone in a borrowed studio.
After chatting to Rose online one evening, feeling frustratedly horny, I logged on to Gaydar for the first time in months. My inbox was full. Among the predictably crude and weird, I found a series of emails from NJ26, desperate to meet because we were in the same city. I clicked to her profile and saw a pretty dark-haired girl who described herself as ‘seeking fun’. Her profile said she was from Egypt, doing a Masters in England and ‘hoping to make the most of my time here’. I clicked back to her latest email, sent two days ago. My mouse icon hovered over the reply button. She was attractive. She was in Durham, probably in the graduate college, just a few hundred yards away, perhaps only steps from where I’d spent the day constructing my set. If I contacted her, we’d probably have an awkward coffee, and then she’d make an excuse to leave because she found me utterly repulsive and I’d never see her again. But, on the other hand, the potential for humiliation was limited by the fact that I was leaving soon: I had little to lose.
Something stopped me, though. I saved her email and signed out of Gaydar. I heard Tim and Dave’s crass laughter in my mind, their drunken, manly warnings to each other about ‘shitting on your own doorstep’. I masturbated in bed and fell asleep.
A couple of days later, I dragged my housemates to The Vagina Monologues. As we queued to enter the lecture hall in which it was being performed, the girl who had orgasmed over and over before me during the dress rehearsals the night before walked by us. A couple of people ahead wished her luck and – because I had gone home to replay her moans as I lay in bed – because I had thought of nothing but her in my lectures that morning – because I had left the auditorium sure that the wetness between my thighs must be visible to all – because I had ached miserably all night for a girl with blonde curls who wore leather and screamed for more – because I was totally besotted – I stopped her too. I stuttered out a, ‘You were really amazing yesterday, break a leg tonight,’ and went bright red as she smiled sweetly and my friends giggled. She walked away as I swallowed my mortification.
After the play, Tim and I trudged back to our college. I slammed my door and punched on my computer. Attacking the keyboard with more vigour than was necessary, Harriet Moore sent NJ26 a reply.
‘By the way, my real name’s Natalie,’ I blurted in embarrassment as we sat down. It was the following evening and we were in a college bar, in plain sight of students and staff. An immediate flirt, she’d bought me a beer and put me at ease.
‘Nadiyya,’ the girl shrugged. ‘It’s Arabic, it means delicate. Are you Italian?’
‘No, why?’
‘Natalie. It’s Italian, I think.’
‘Oh yeah, sorry.’ I blushed. ‘No, I suppose my parents just liked it.’
‘You could be Italian. Or maybe French. You have gorgeous eyes.’ Gazing into Nadiyya’s wide, clear smile was like looking at a bottle of Evian after completing a city-wide bar crawl.
My life transformed into a scene from Better than Chocolate as she led me back to her room. I had little idea what was going on except a vague voice in my head chanting: ‘This is it, this is it!’
As she pulled me through the doorway of her spacious double room, she wrapped her hands around my waist and kissed me lightly on the mouth.
‘Are you okay, baby?’ she drawled.
‘Uh huh,’ I managed.
‘I’ll put some music on.’ She paced across the room and turned the dials on the stereo until a lazy melody began to play low. ‘Hey, relax.’ She returned to me and shrugged my jacket from my shoulders, brushing her lips along my neck. ‘I hope you don’t think me too forward.’
‘Oh, no,’ I managed to choke out.
‘It’s just I don’t have much longer left in England, and I like to live.’ Her fingers brushed their way beneath my T-shirt.
‘Uh huh, that seems, um, fair enough.’ I self-consciously began to nuzzle her neck.
‘I’ve met quite a few people from Gaydar, but you’re by far the most beautiful.’ Her hands ran over my stomach and up my back. ‘You’re so sexy and you don’t even know it.’
I smiled into her hair.
‘You also seem quite open and true, which is good,’ she paused. ‘I should have told you something in the bar, I hope it doesn’t change the way you feel about me.’
I stiffened and wondered what she had to say, but murmured, ‘I’m sure it won’t.’
‘I have a fiancé. Hugh. Back in Egypt. He knows all about what I do here and gives me his blessing. I’m allowed to love girls here, but I’m going to be his wife when I return.’
‘Oh.’ My nose was still in her hair and I didn’t remove it.
‘Is that okay with you, baby?’ Her fingers tickled my spine. ‘I’ll understand if it’s not, but it really shouldn’t make any difference.’
‘Um, I guess not.’ A messy feeling crept into my gut, but I thought about Matthew and whether the half-truths I’d told Nadiyya in the bar counted as dishonesty. Sure, Matthew had warned me against becoming caught up with couples and getting in trouble, but if the fiancé was in Egypt, he couldn’t pose a threat, could he? And I could hardly accuse her of misleading me when I’d revealed nothing about my secret life and pretended only to be a normal first-year student.
Nadiyya manoeuvred me to the bed and kissed me harder now. She purred ‘baby’s and ‘beautiful’s as she undressed me and slid her tongue down my belly. She pulled her own clothes off and I saw she was shaved. The first girl I’d truly seen naked.
Nervous and giddy, I don’t remember much. Nadiyya asked me to stay the night, but I told her I needed to remove my contact lenses. I left her curled in blue sheets and walked into the night. I wandered along the river, staring at my mucky reflection with coy smiles.
I woke up thinking of Nadiyya and found her online.
Chat with NJ26
NJ26: I missed you this morning baby.
Harry: Sorry.
NJ26: I want to see you again.
Harry: Okay.
NJ26: When? I have a girl from Leeds coming over tonight, but I’d rather see you. Are you free?
Harry: Yes, but if you have plans.
NJ26: No, no, she won’t mind. She sounded relaxed in her profile.
Harry: Oh. What profile?
NJ26: Gaydar, silly. I’m sorry, obviously I wouldn’t have arranged it if I’d known you were going to contact me, but it’s a little late to cancel it now. I have to be polite.
Harry: I suppose.
NJ26: But you could come too. We’re having dinner, then maybe going out to a club. Please please come. I want you there.
Harry: I don’t know. I think I’d rather not.
NJ26: Really? Are you mad at me?
Harry: No, why should I be? We could see each other tomorrow.
NJ26: Yes, but I’d really like you to come tonight. I miss you so much already. Will you come to my room this afternoon? I have to study, but I’d like you here.
Harry: Okay, maybe for a bit.
NJ26: Yay! I need go now. See you later beautiful. xxxxxxxxxxxxx
After Googling ‘cunnilingus’ and reading an article about tracing A–Z with my tongue, I showered. I tried on three different pairs of knickers before deciding on a black lace thong Matthew had given me last Christmas.
After lunch, I headed over to Nadiyya’s room and we lazed in bed, interspersing making love with reading critical theory.
‘Can I take your photo, baby?’
‘Like this?’ I was naked on top of her sheets.
‘Sure. You’re beautiful. I told Hugh how gorgeous you are, baby, and he wants to see.’
‘Um, I don’t think so.’ I pulled the duvet over me.
‘Oh baby. I’m sorry. I won’t if you don’t like it, but I really want to. Maybe you’ll let me another time.’
I ignored that feeling in my gut again and turned back to my essay.
A few hours later, Laura arrived. She had scruffily bleached short hair and a nose piercing. Her face was blotchy and her stomach squidged over her jeans. She said she was thirty-two. She had a seven-year-old daughter and a partner who didn’t mind her seeing other men as well as women as long as she only had anal sex with him. I found this out over fajitas in Nadiyya’s communal kitchen.
After we’d eaten, I said I’d leave them to it. But Nadiyya re-filled my wine glass and begged me to stay a little longer. We finished two bottles before the pair of them dragged me to the club. Laura ordered me doubles and it wasn’t long before I was gyrating with Nadiyya on the dance floor. In the bathrooms, she drawled that she wished she was just going home with me tonight and wouldn’t I join them – it would be fun.
‘Noooo,’ I slurred. ‘I think I should just go home.’
‘Please.’ She pushed me into a stall and slid her fingers into my jeans.
Two more drinks later and I was stumbling up Nadiyya’s stairs with the two of them. Once again, I declined an invitation to stay the night and managed to depart before Nadiyya put her waterproof sheet on the bed and opened her cupboard full of strap-ons, but not before her camera came out and, bullied and drunk, I posed next to Laura’s sagging nipples, arched my back and allowed the two of them to crouch between my thighs.
I cried on the phone to Matthew the next day. He laughed and said at least I seemed to be having fun. Rose asked if I’d orgasmed with Nadiyya yet. Matthew added, ‘Perhaps your friend can visit us in London.’
I scrubbed my skin in the shower and refused to check my email all day.
That night, Nadiyya called my room phone. She’d looked it up in the college directory.
‘Where have you been today, baby? Will you come over tonight?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I’m sorry; you didn’t like Laura did you?’
‘It’s not that.’
‘I’ll cancel everyone else. Would that make it better?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I only want to see you. I know it’s just been two days, but I’m crazy about you already. Please come. Let me make it up to you.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Please.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Please.’
‘Okay.’
For the following two weeks, I camped out in Nadiyya’s room. In the mornings, she made us large mugs of sweet black coffee before we left for lectures. I stopped eating during the day, just so I could arrive at her door hungry and watch her make me a ‘super sandwich’, towering lettuce on mustard and cheese and meats and beans until the thick bread was toppling from the plate. ‘Eat, baby.’
On the fourth day, Nadiyya told me she loved me. I didn’t say it back, but I stopped being shy about her reaching for her camera and, towards the end, we set up my digital video recorder on a tripod facing the desk chair.
It wasn’t all sex in every corner of her room. We went for walks along the river and she introduced me to some of her friends from her course. I took her to my college once and showed her my room, then felt foolish when she turned to leave and whispered that we should return to her comfy double bed.
Eventually, too, I told her about Matthew, though not his exact age and not any of the details that might have left an acrid taste on my tongue. She kissed me hard, saying, ‘I’m sooo glad you have someone, baby. Like me and Hugh.’
I handed all my essays in and Nadiyya checked out from the library the books she would need to finish her dissertation back in Egypt. She was returning to Durham in August to hand it in, but wanted to spend July with her family. Her flight was in two days. I was leaving in three, skipping the final day of term so I could be back down south in time for Glastonbury Festival.
The thought of Nadiyya leaving was crushing, but I was excited about Glastonbury. Rose was supposedly part of the entourage for Garbage and, not only were we planning to finally meet for the first time in those muddy fields, but also she’d promised to introduce me to the band’s frontwoman, Shirley Manson.
‘You should come and visit me, baby – come to our wedding, you could stay with us.’ Nadiyya grinned with that smile I no longer thought like water.
I kissed her and pulled her to me.
‘I’m going to cry when you leave,’ I whispered.
‘Me too. I love you, baby, even if you won’t say it back. You’re incredible.’
And with those words, or some like it, my first girlfriend packed up her belongings, secured her hard drive full of pornographic photos and left the country to return to her Muslim fiancé.