Normal People (Page 29)

Connell moves his jaw around. The pulse in his neck is throbbing. He’s trying to visualise this scene, the Sheridans at home, Alan for some reason telling Marianne to commit suicide, but it’s hard to picture any family behaving the way that she has described.

What did she say? he asks. As in, how did she react?

I think she said something like, oh, don’t encourage her.

Slowly Connell breathes in through his nose and exhales the breath between his lips.

And what provoked this? he says. Like, how did the argument start?

He senses that something in Marianne’s face changes now, or hardens, but he can’t name what it is exactly.

You think I did something to deserve it, she says.

No, obviously I’m not saying that.

Sometimes I think I must deserve it. Otherwise I don’t know why it would happen. But if he’s in a bad mood he’ll just follow me around the house. There’s nothing I can do. He’ll just come into my room, he doesn’t care if I’m sleeping or anything.

Connell rubs his palms on the sheet.

Would he ever hit you? he says.

Sometimes. Less so since I moved away. To be honest I don’t even mind it that much. The psychological stuff is more demoralising. I don’t know how to explain it, really. I know it must sound …

He touches his hand to his forehead. His skin feels wet. She doesn’t finish the sentence to explain how it must sound.

Why didn’t you ever tell me about it before? he says. She says nothing. The light is dim but he can see her open eyes. Marianne, he says. The whole time we were together, why didn’t you tell me any of this?

I don’t know. I suppose I didn’t want you to think I was damaged or something. I was probably afraid you wouldn’t want me anymore.

Finally he puts his face in his hands. His fingers feel cold and clammy on his eyelids and there are tears in his eyes. The harder he presses with his fingers, the faster the tears seep out, wet, onto his skin. Jesus, he says. His voice sounds thick and he clears his throat. Come here, he says. And she comes to him. He feels terribly ashamed and confused. They lie face-to-face and he puts his arms around her body. In her ear he says: I’m sorry, okay? She holds onto him tightly, her arms winding around him, and he kisses her forehead. But he always thought she was damaged, he thought it anyway. He screws his eyes shut with guilt. Their faces feel hot and damp now. He thinks of her saying: I thought you wouldn’t want me anymore. Her mouth is so close that her breath is wet on his lips. They start to kiss, and her mouth tastes dark like wine. Her body shifts against him, he touches her breast with his hand, and in a few seconds he could be inside her again, and then she says: No, we shouldn’t. She draws away, just like that. He can hear himself breathing in the silence, the pathetic heaving of his breath. He waits until it slows down again, not wanting to have his voice break when he tries to speak. I’m really sorry, he says. She squeezes his hand. It’s a very sad gesture. He can’t believe the stupidity of what he’s just done. Sorry, he says again. But Marianne has already turned away.

Five Months Later

(DECEMBER 2013)

In the lobby of the Languages and Literature building she sits down to check her email. She doesn’t remove her overcoat because she’ll be getting up in a minute. Beside her on the desk is her breakfast, which she just purchased from the supermarket across the street: one black coffee with brown sugar, one lemon pastry roll. She eats this exact breakfast regularly. Lately she has started to eat it slowly, in lavish sugary mouthfuls that congeal around her teeth. The more slowly she eats, and the more consideration she gives to the composition of her food, the less hungry she feels. She won’t eat again until eight or nine in the evening.

She has two new emails, one from Connell and one from Joanna. She dabs her mouse back and forth between them, and then selects Joanna’s.

no real news from here, as usual. I’ve recently taken to staying home at night and watching my way through a nine part documentary series about the american civil war. I have a lot of new information about various civil war generals to share with you next time we’re on Skype. how are you? how is Lukas? did he take those photos yet or is that today? and the big question … can I see them when they’re done?? or is that prurient. I await your word. xx

Marianne lifts the lemon pastry, takes a large, slow bite, and lets it dissolve in layers on her tongue. She chews, swallows, then lifts the coffee cup. One mouthful of coffee. She replaces the cup and opens Connell’s message.

I don’t know what you mean by your last sentence there exactly. Do you mean just because we’re far away from each other or because we’ve actually changed as people? I do feel like a pretty different person now than I was then but maybe I don’t seem that different, I don’t know. By the way I looked your friend Lukas up on Facebook, he’s what you would call ‘Scandinavian looking’. Sadly Sweden did not qualify for the World Cup this time so if you end up with a Swedish boyfriend I’ll have to think of another way to bond with him. Not that I’m saying this guy Lukas is going to be your boyfriend or would want to talk to me about football if he was, although it’s something I am putting out as a possibility. I know you like the tall handsome guys as you say, so why not Lukas, who looks tall and is also handsome (Helen has seen his photo and agrees). But whatever, I’m not pushing the boyfriend thing, I just hope you have confirmed he’s not a psychopath. You don’t always have a good radar on that.

Unrelatedly we were getting a taxi through Phoenix Park last night and we saw a lot of deer. Deer are kind of strange looking creatures. In the night they have a ghostly appearance and their eyes can reflect headlights in an olive green or silver colour, like a special effect. They paused to observe our taxi before moving on. To me it’s weird when animals pause because they seem so intelligent, but maybe that’s because I associate pausing with thought. Deer are elegant anyway I have to say. If you were an animal yourself, you could do worse than be a deer. They have those thoughtful faces and nice sleek bodies. But they also kind of startle off in unpredictable ways. They didn’t remind me of you at the time but in retrospect I see a similarity there. I hope you’re not offended by the comparison. I would tell you about the party prior to us getting the taxi through Phoenix Park but it was honestly boring and not as good as the deer. No one was there who you would know that well. Your last email was really good, thank you. I look forward to hearing more as always.

Marianne checks the time in the top-right corner of the screen: 09:49. She navigates back to Joanna’s message and hits reply.

He’s taking the photos today, I’m actually heading over there now. Of course I will send them to you when they are finished AND I expect long flattering commentary on each individual photograph. I’m excited to hear what you’ve learned about the US Civil War. All I’ve learned here is how to say ‘no thank you’ (nej tack) and ‘really, no’ (verkligen, nej). Talk soon xxx

Marianne closes her laptop, eats another two bites of the pastry and folds the rest up in its little greaseproof wrap. She slips her laptop into her satchel and removes her soft felt beret, which she pulls down over her ears. The pastry she disposes of in a nearby bin.

Outside it’s still snowing. The exterior world looks like an old TV screen badly tuned. Visual noise breaks the landscape into soft fragments. Marianne buries her hands in her pockets. Flakes of snow fall on her face and dissolve there. A cold flake alights on her top lip and she feels for it with her tongue. Head down against the cold, she is on her way to Lukas’s studio. Lukas’s hair is so blonde that the individual strands look white. She finds them on her clothing sometimes, finer than thread. He dresses all in black: black shirts, black zip-up hoodies, black boots with thick black rubber soles. He’s an artist. The first time they met, Marianne told him she was a writer. It was a lie. Now she avoids talking to him about it.

Lukas lives near the station. She takes her hand from her pocket, blows on her fingers and presses the buzzer. He answers, in English: Who is it?

It’s Marianne, she says.

Ah, you’re early, says Lukas. Come on in.

Why does he say ‘you’re early’? Marianne thinks as she climbs the stairs. The connection was fuzzy but he seemed to say it with a smile. Was he pointing it out to make her appear too eager? But she finds she doesn’t care how eager she appears, because there is no secret eagerness to be discovered in her. She could be here, ascending the staircase to Lukas’s studio, or she could be in the campus library, or in the dorm making herself coffee. For weeks now she has had this feeling, the feeling of moving around inside a protective film, floating like mercury. The outside world touches against her outside skin, but not the other part of herself, inside. So whatever Lukas’s reason for saying ‘you’re early’, she finds it doesn’t matter to her.

Upstairs he’s setting up. Marianne removes her hat and shakes it. Lukas looks up, then back at the tripod. Are you getting used to the weather? he says. She hangs her hat on the back of the door and shrugs. She begins to take off her coat. In Sweden we have a saying, he says. There’s no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothes.

Marianne hangs her coat beside her hat. What’s wrong with my clothes? she says mildly.