PRIYANKA
“Pree, it’s time to get up.”
Andy is shaking my shoulder gently. I was dreaming about Beau. We were in the neonatal unit with the yellow elephant curtains and the green padded chairs, listening to mechanical beeps, navigating the wires.
“Are you all right?” The mattress dips as Andy sits down, smoothing my hair.
My face is wet. I was crying in my sleep. And I remember then: Beau didn’t make it and I was devastated. Except that it wasn’t him in my dream but a baby with an indistinct face.
I prop myself up on my elbows, wiping my eyes. “I dreamed about Beau again.”
He reaches for my hand. “That’s all behind us now.”
But the letter isn’t. And maybe he’s thinking the same thing, because a look of uncertainty passes over his face.
This is exactly what I didn’t want to happen. I didn’t want anything coming between us, spoiling our marriage.
I look away, out of the window. The trees are almost bare. Somehow the leaves have fallen and I haven’t noticed—haven’t kicked through the autumn leaves with Beau, simple pleasures evading me.
“Are we okay?” he says, fiddling with my fingers.
After years of teaching Ethics, my word used to mean something to me. I believed that you made choices throughout the day—great and small—as to how much truth your words contained.
Now honesty feels perfunctory, optional. “Of course.”
Andy’s still wearing his pajamas, his hair stuck on end. I’ve tried all kinds of gels for him, but he’s not a product guy. It looks wrong on him. Somehow, bushy, startled, suits him. And I find this unbearably sad at that moment.
He’s fifty-one, his whole life wrapped up in me and Beau. Where would he go from here? What would happen to him, if falsely or rightly accused? Would anyone even care which way around it was? Wouldn’t being accused in itself be enough to ruin him? Graying, skin loosening, bones weakening, all the little injustices that life deals as you age...only to have your reputation and self-respect taken too.
“You’re not still upset about the dream, are you?” he asks gently.
Yes, it’s the dream. That’s what’s breaking my heart, Andy...
I’ve decided what I’m going to do today. I thought about it all night. I don’t like letting down my pupils, but Tuesdays are my lightest timetable day, mostly lesson planning that I can catch up with from home. I don’t feel I have a choice; I’m desperate.
Trying to get up, I sit back down heavily, holding my head. “Oh...”
“What’s wrong?” He looks at me in concern, still entwining his fingers with mine. I sense that he doesn’t want to let go, is lingering.
“It’s my head,” I whimper. “I’ve never had a migraine like this.” That’s because I’ve only ever had one, a dozen years ago, tequila-induced.
“Maybe it’s...” He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to.
Stress, anxiety, fear. Pick one. They all work.
“Maybe I should stay in bed.” I sink onto the pillow, lying still.
He touches my forehead, as though a doctor. “You do feel a little warm.”
“My tummy’s hurting too. I don’t think I can go into school.”
“You definitely shouldn’t... Do you want me to call them for you?”
“No. It’s better coming from me. But could you drop Beau to Tadpoles on your way to work and get him later?”
“Of course.”
He’s been extra kind to me lately, since our talk Sunday night. It pains me to see. I want to reassure him that he doesn’t have to try so hard, that he already has my unwavering love and support. Yet even with my new ability to lie, I can’t bring myself to say that.
Stooping, he kisses me lightly on the cheek. “You just rest, my love. Would you like some ibuprofen?”
“No, thanks. I’ll sort myself out when I’m up.”
“Well, I’d best get a move on, then.” He claps his hands against his legs. “Anything in particular Beau needs to wear?”
I manage a smile. “Use your imagination.”
“That’ll be interesting.”
Staring up at the ceiling, my eyes grainy, I think about my dream: about Beau as a baby with pneumonia. You’d think I’d be focusing on the positives; the fact that he’s here now and so healthy. Yet the wallowing isn’t intentional. My subconscious likes to dredge it up from time to time, aided and abetted by my very conscious fear that his bad start was my punishment.
I did try to talk to a counselor about it, but she kept telling me I was being far too hard on myself—that my past had nothing to do with Beau’s illness. I didn’t even get around to telling her about the butterfly tattoo.
I watch Andy as he puts on his blazer with elbow patches and his corduroy trousers, looking like a college professor. He was wearing something similar the first time we met, and it was what warmed me to him: the idea of a genteel man who was devoted, tender. We were married within a year, something that didn’t feel rushed or reckless at the time.
He had been married before, but I didn’t see this as a negative. I thought it meant he embraced responsibility, in contrast to the succession of commitment-phobes I’d dated over the years.
Katie; that’s what his first wife was called. That’s almost as much as I know about her. He hardly ever mentions her, aside to say that it was as a complete disaster.
But why was that?
I squirm farther down beneath the sheets. There could be a host of reasons, none of which seem all that pleasant. I’d love to ask him about her, but how can I?
Ironically, if I hadn’t confided in him, I could have asked him anything I liked—could have initiated a completely open conversation. As it stands, everything will seem suspicious, as though I don’t believe a word he said.
He’s about to leave the room, but again I sense that he’s reluctant to go, glancing at me circumspectly. “Aside from you being poorly...everything else is all right, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” I nod.
“It’ll get better...everything...” he says vaguely. Yet I know what he’s trying to say: given time, we’ll forget and move on. He smiles sadly. “It’s just that I’m happy the way things are. I was, well, you know...”
I know.
I was happy the way things were too.
I light the gas fire. It’s nine thirty in the morning, but still dark out. I watch the blue flames leaping from the artificial coals, the diary on my lap. The gold embossed date on the front is faded yet legible. I run my finger across it, feeling the grooves. On the table beside me, steam curls upward from my coffee cup. Beau’s clunky Lego bricks are lying all over the floor. I haven’t got the energy to clear up; I like them being there anyway. While the bricks are there, life is normal.
Tugging up my sleeve, I examine my tattoo. I’ve thought many times about having it removed, but I’ve heard it can be painful in areas where there’s little skin. And besides, sometimes it’s a helpful word of warning.
I wasn’t exactly an angel, growing up. At university I was known as Party Pree, drinking too much, sleeping with too many men.
Going to teacher’s training in Bath was just another way of running away from all that—from the dislocation between who I thought I was and who my family wanted me to be.
I outmaneuvered them, winning my freedom. Good times. Until one morning in my late twenties, after a heavy night out, I woke up with blood all over my arm.
Tattooists aren’t supposed to accept drunk clients. Alcohol thins the blood and causes excess bleeding. My tattoo, when I’d washed away the blood, turned out to be a patchy butterfly. I had no idea why it was there.
And then I bumped into a man with a gold tooth in a bar in town, who asked me how the tat was. Turned out, he’d taken me to an unlicensed backstreet shop, the sort where they don’t sterilize equipment or worry about blood poisoning. He said he’d asked them to give me a butterfly because he’d never known anyone to open and close their legs as fast as I did.
I met Andy not long after. I told him about Party Pree and Priyanka Bandyopadhyay; two very different people. And he offered me a fresh start as Priyanka Lawley.
Reaching for my coffee, I take a sip, welling up. Whatever I find in this diary, I can’t lose Andy. I can’t lose him.
Nicola Waite wasn’t much of a diarist. Some of my least diligent pupils could have done a better job. In all fairness, though, it wasn’t her idea in the first place. According to her half-hearted entry on New Year’s Day, her mother had pressed the diary on her for Christmas because she’d heard that writing a journal was good for anxiety. Her mum, so Nicky divulged, was a long-term agoraphobic. Her dad had abandoned them years ago and was a total prick face. Her words, not mine (February 4th 1990).
On the second day of the New Year, she wrote simply: 113 lbs 
On the third: 114 lbs
Aside from the brief mention of her dad in February, she wrote fondly about everyone back in her hometown of Leeds. She preferred it to Bath, but maybe was just homesick. Her two flatmates, Kim and Lucy, didn’t help matters. Both from the counties surrounding London, they were wealthy, into horses.
The three girls were at Bath university, in their first year, studying for a business degree. Most of Nicky’s worries were about trying to find a work placement for her third year, at a time of mass unemployment. They didn’t need to secure the placement until spring 1991, yet Nicky was beginning to panic.
Kim’s father, an entrepreneur, had made a few calls on his daughter’s behalf; Lucy was equally well taken care of. They had personal contacts. Whereas Nicky, with her armchair mum and absent father, seemed to have none.
A straight A’s student, she had thought that going to university and getting a first class honors would be enough to set her up in life.
How stupid and naive can you be? (May 11th 1990).
Weeks would go by without anything in the diary, aside from her weight, which she logged religiously. If she lost a pound, she earned a smiley face.
The summer passed with a riot of blank pages. Back in Leeds, she hung out with her mum in their small row house. There were a few lines about boys whom she went out with, even though she didn’t seem to really want to. Maybe it was boredom. Maybe she was flattered. She liked to record not what she wore or where they went, but the compliments they gave her.
You’re beautiful, you know that?
I can’t stop thinking about you.
She’d go out, have a few drinks, kiss them and then return home, where she’d end up in the kitchen, eating toast, chocolate, cake, anything in the tins.
The next day there’d be several sad faces.
Laying the diary aside, I look at the fire, listening to it softly buffeting. One hundred and thirteen pounds doesn’t sound a lot to me, no matter what height she was. She must have been starving.
My coffee’s gone cold. I go through to the kitchen to make a fresh one, thinking about Nicky and her neat handwriting and love of record-making, trying to marry this to the distorted canvases in her daughter’s chaotic storage unit.
I don’t want to read on. I know what’s coming and it’s all the worse for knowing who she was and seeing her words, so raw, immediate.
Picking up the diary, I slowly make my way forward through the empty pages until at last I meet an intense sea of black ink, signaling the beginning of the end.
Saturday, December 15
It’s midnight but I had to write, even though I’m so tired. I wasn’t going out, but Lucy begged me—fancies a guy in marketing class. So I went along to help her out.
It was so busy. Soon as we got to the White Hart, Lucy went off to find her man, leaving me with Kim. She always waits for me to get my purse out first, even though she owns half of Kent, so I gave her the slip and went to the jukebox. And that’s where I met the boys, just as a party popper landed in my hair and the whole pub started singing along to Slade. This guy appeared—short, but handsome!—and helped me untangle the string from my hair. He was with 2 friends. It was too loud to talk so we went outside.
The short one’s Jack, a student home for Christmas. Lee, also a student, is so tall and a real gent. (He lent me his jacket ’cos I was cold.) And Brooke’s a soldier, on leave, the first one I’d ever met. We talked as though we’d known each other all our lives. But then when time at the bar was called, they suddenly downed their drinks and left. I didn’t know whether I’d see them again, so I ran after them.
Turns out, they were going to the Montague Club! (Lucy and Kim are always plotting how to get in there.) I told them, casually, that I’d always fancied seeing inside the club and they said we could talk about it tomorrow, if I fancied joining them at the White Hart for lunch?
Lucy & Kim will be dead jealous. I could be about to get into the most exclusive hot spot in town! Who knows—it could even help me to secure a work placement, if I meet the right people. That could actually happen. Is my luck changing?
Sunday, December 16
112 lbs 
I was supposed to be going home on the snail coach to Leeds this morning, but knew that wasn’t going to happen. I rang Mum to explain and she sounded disappointed, but she’ll come around. I’m only postponing by a week—will be there next Sunday.
Then I spent an hour panicking about what to wear. Turns out, I don’t have an outfit for lunch with rich people. In the end, I decided on my black shirtdress. I asked Lucy to come because I didn’t want to go on my own, but she was meeting her parents. I even asked Kim, but she made up an excuse about writing an essay. Her loss.
I needn’t have worried. Lunch was perfect. Jack was so attentive, looking into my eyes when I spoke. I felt like the most fascinating girl in the world. Brooke was dressed in a smart polo shirt with his collar up. He wasn’t so chatty but seemed to listen well. And Lee had to stoop to avoid the ceiling beams and again, such a gent—pulling out my chair for me to sit down. No one’s ever done that for me before.
They told me about the club, how their fathers are members, how it’s just had a makeover. There are giant lilies that leave pollen on their clothes if brushed against, and they serve champagne piña coladas and something called a Flying Grasshopper, which has to be tried at least once.
The dress code is business smart and the boys keep their suits in a special dressing room to change into. The fire in the Green Room’s always lit, even in summer. The women—only permitted to join 2 years ago—wear diamonds and sequined cocktail dresses. My heart sank at that and then I thought of Lucy. If I could get her into the club too, she’d definitely lend me a dress. That’s how it works isn’t it? At least, it seems so in Bath.
By the time we left the pub, the day was already losing light and the city felt magical, lights glowing inside windows. As we said goodbye, they invited me to join them on Saturday night at the Hart again. I pretended to think about it before saying yes...
Tuesday, December 18
112 lbs
I told Lucy and Kim about the Montague tonight. Lucy was excited, but Kim didn’t say a word. I asked if they fancied joining me Saturday night, to see if maybe we might end up at the club. Lucy started squealing and dragged me through to her room, emptying her wardrobe onto the bed. I didn’t even have to ask. Kim stood in the doorway, looking like she was sucking a lemon. I bet she’ll come on Saturday though. She’s just not going to admit that she needs anything from someone like me.
Mum rang tonight and got all funny about me missing the coach and wasting money, even though the ticket was cheap as chips. I tried to explain that it’s a great opportunity, but she wouldn’t listen. She said I don’t know these boys from Adam and rang off in a huff. I was upset, but can’t let it get to me. Mum doesn’t know how these things work—that business is all about who you know. You just need to be moving in the right circles. I love her but she has her life to lead, staying home all the time, and I’ve got mine. And maybe I want something a little different for myself. I’ll see her on Sunday anyway and it’ll all be forgotten by the time we’re sitting down by the Christmas tree.
Thursday, December 20
111 lbs
Jack rang tonight to ask if I’d like a quick drink at the Hart. I hadn’t been in long from lectures and was in the middle of warming up a tin of soup. I burned my mouth where I ate it so fast, putting on some makeup before dashing out. Going up the main street, I told myself to slow down so I wouldn’t arrive all disheveled.
Jack was sitting near the window and jumped up when he saw me, kissing me on the cheek. When he went to the bar, I secretly checked him out, eyeing his muscly arms. We’d only just started talking, Jack telling me that he’s not all that rich and I was thinking how his eyes are like toy marbles—green with swirls of blue and brown—when there was a rap on the window and Brooke and Lee were there, wagging their fingers.
They joined us, accusing Jack of trying to pull a fast one. I laughed, but then realized they had some kind of bet or competition about who was going to date me. It seemed jokey, but still, I didn’t want any friction. So I decided to go ahead and ask whether my friends could join us Saturday night.
They seemed to like the idea. They were allowed to sign in one guest each, they said.
I took from that that we definitely are going to the club and somehow managed to keep my face completely blank, as though it wasn’t a big deal.
I stayed for one more drink, Jack telling me about his economics course, and Lee his IT studies. Brooke was very quiet again, probably because he’s not a student so couldn’t comment, but I noticed that he looked at me a lot.
When I got up to leave, Jack reminded me to wear a little black dress Saturday night. Brooke didn’t take his eyes off me, but it was Lee who walked me to the door, stooping to ask whether I’d like him to walk me home. I said no, but on my way home I decided that if he asks me out, I’ll say yes.
Girls like me always go for guys like Lee. It’s just that no one ever seems to realize why and always acts surprised about it.
I break off reading. The next entry is Christmas Eve, two days after that Saturday night.
I can’t understand how things changed, how they went from congenial drinks in the White Hart to a...sexual assault allegation. A little bit of friendly rivalry between young males seemed about the worst of the tensions in the run-up to that night.
What on earth happened?
Looking about me, I’m surprised to see such banal details as the flames of the gas fire and Beau’s Lego bricks on the carpet. I’m barely aware of the present, still in 1990.
Turning the page, I read on.