Sandra's NaNo thread - excerpts ii

first thread here

Day Ten

The end of July ran quickly into August and August was a mad flurry of preparations and tantrums. I wanted everything to be perfect - for university, for my trip to Greece, for my new Life, for seeing Terence again. I suddenly needed a whole new wardrobe, not to mention textbooks and fountain pens and lip-gloss and long-lash mascara and bank-breaking Klorane mink-oil shampoo. But Klorane makes my hair really silky, Mum! I screeched, when she insisted all I needed was Head and Shoulders, reminding me that my hair had a particular 'aroma' if I didn't wash it frequently.
    I chose and re-chose objects that would remind me of home, that would define me in the eyes of new friends. It was a wretched process. I couldn't decide. My mother stood there watching me, her arms crossed, foot stamping.
     You have to fit into one trunk. I can't afford to ship more than one trunk, you know. You've got enough clothes to outfit an army squadron for Christ's sake. Throw some of them out.
    I shook my head, biting back the tears. I was surrounded by a mountain of my favourite things, none of which I wanted to leave behind. Should I take my collection of tiny perfume bottles? My flute that I had given up but might start again and it was sort of romantic looking? My collection of Russian novels that I'd never got round to reading but made me look serious and interesting? What about Zak, the stuffed lop-eared dog I'd had since I was seven? Or Hannibal, the moth-eaten brown teddy-bear my brother had given me when our cat of the same name disappeared - Just off finding elephants, he'd said, trying to stop my weeping. I certainly couldn't leave my photograph album, filled with badly framed and redundantly titled images: my brother at fourteen, dressed up in my mother's mink coat, looking more beautiful than a woman, 'Mark in a mink coat' in my childish handwriting underneath. Me, four years old, in my Aunt Emma's arms, holding each other so tightly we both thought we'd never, ever let each other go. This one was untitled. I knew what it meant. It meant love. The kind of love I'd never have for or from my mother. I sometimes thought Emma saved my life. Another photo, faded and curling at the edges, of my now dotty grandmother, cigarette pointing to the sky, her thin beige-fringe flipped up at the front like hand, the Arc de Triomphe at a crazy angle behind her. This one I had titled, 'Gran smoking with the ark de triomf'. We were all in Paris on one of my mother's attempts to find us a new home. I wondered, what if? as I flipped the pages of the album. I'd be Parisienne, off to the Sorbonne perhaps. I had never forgiven my mother for choosing to-hell-and-gone Donegal with its howling winds and mouldy cottages over a life in France. Until now. If we had lived in Paris I probably never would have escaped into Mary Renault novels about Ancient Greece, I'd never have gone to Cheltenham, I'd never have met Terence.
     I tucked the thought of him away. I'd had to force myself not to day-dream about him every minute of the day and night. It was a kind of torture, pulling myself away from those dreams. But I had to. I was convinced I'd jinx myself, that the happiness, the almost syrupy ecstatic feeling of anticipation that welled up inside me whenever I whispered his name, whenever I shut my eyes and his fine-boned face appeared, would be cursed if I imagined us together. I didn't even know if I would be accepted at Bristol. I felt like I'd vomit when I thought I might not be. I shut the album, put it on the 'yes' pile. A small black and white photograph fluttered to the floor. I picked it up. My father, holding me high in his harms, his handsome face beaming, my tiny-girl eyes scrunched up in a paroxysm of delight. I slipped the photograph back inside the album. Maybe I'd show it to Terence. Maybe I'd tell him what happened.
    I managed to distract myself from thoughts of Terence with all the packing and sorting and yelling at my mother. None of my clothes seemed right, either for looking dashing and intelligent at university or for frolicking on golden Greek beaches and exploring the Parthenon. I wished Alison was here now. She'd know what I needed. She'd lent me some of her clothes at the Summer School when she'd caught me rinsing out my cheesecloth blouse in the bathroom. I only had two outfits, a short, polka-dotted 60's style dress that had been my mother's and had come back into fashion, and those shiny black jeans with the cheescloth top. I was bustier than Alison, but she had a suitcase full of fetching scarves and wraps to cover up my popping out of her pretty tops.
    Once I'd got home we'd telephoned a few times, but she was always breathless and in a rush, in her own frenetic preparations for Oxford. You can always buy stuff when you're there, she'd said, not making me feel better at all. I wouldn't know where the shops were. I couldn't arrive for my freshman orientation wearing my thick frumpy sweaters and baggy jeans, smelling of turf-smoke and mildew, I had to arrive fully new, like Aphrodite from her shell. You'd look gorgeous if you wore a sack sweetie, she said. I gave up. She didn't understand. Her family had money and breeding. I had nothing. My mother made 'it's time get off the line' motions with so we said goodbye, promising we would visit each other in holidays, promising we would write, telephone, promising we would never forget each other.
    My mother stoically sewed cotton wrap-around dresses from Butterick patterns and shortened a selection (over many spilt tears and arguing) of her own warmer jackets and dresses while I went itsy-bitsy bikini-shopping. The letter of transferral from St. Andrew's to Bristol arrived two days before I was due to step on the Magic Bus from London to Athens. Conditional upon a meeting with the head of the department of Classics. Miraculously the meeting was set for two days after I got back from Greece. Just three weeks before the university term started. I wrote Terence a letter, telling him when I'd be coming, that I'd need to stay over one night.  I could have telephoned him, but I was too nervous. I wrote and re-wrote the letter, trying to make myself sound adult and breezy and cheerful and not mindlessly, desperately in-love with him, certain he'd have forgotten me, certain I wasn't really what he wanted. I decided not to stay over longer. One night would be tantalising, one night would be a taste neither of us would forget, a little hors oeuvre for the main event in September. Too much and it might spoil things. The truth was I was still absolutely terrified. We can go as slow as you like, he'd said. I took him at his word.

Greece was everything I wanted it to be. From the mad, bad, crazy 'three-day-non-stop' bus journey there (we arrived a day late due unscheduled diversions and pauses while our furious and often inebriated driver got lost in Brussels, had a burst tire near Ljubljana when I spent a brief but steamy bus-rocking night in the arms of a young Frenchman named Jules) to my wandering around the streets of the Plaka, to the sweaty climb up the Acropolis feeling superior to the throngs of red-faced, camera-laden tourists (I knew what a triglyph was, and they most certainly didn't) to my seventeenth birthday with Manos, my ex step-father. He'd metamorphosed from the boyish, anti-establishment, volcanically jealous 'greasy Greek' my mother had married and divorced in the space of one horrible, argument and sex filled year, to a portly and charming bank manager. He took me to Giorgios, one of Athens' most stylish nightclubs, toasted me with Dom Pérignon - 'only the best for my darleeng' - and had given me a pair of exquisitely beautiful earrings - a tiny ruby perched like a drop of blood on a circle of gold. You look like your mother only more beautiful, he had said when he first saw me. Sexy too, he smiled to the friend he'd brought, a young man with an enormous nose who spent every day of my three weeks there pursuing me. Hopelessly of course. My heart was taken.

I arrived back in Letterkenny confident, suntanned, slimmer and feeling a whole year older. Exactly as I planned. My trunk was ready for shipping, thanks to the final consolidation and careful folding of clothes by my mother, all we needed to know now was where to? St Andrews or Bristol? I felt so penny-bright and shining I never doubted I'd ace the interview. I hardly thought about it. I chose my clothes for the overnight trip carefully, but for Terence, not for the interview. I even charmed my mother into letting me borrow her Chanel No. 5 and her knee-high boots. She never wore them any more, the locals would have thought she was a tart. But they were stunning, deep chocolate brown with buttons all the way up the back. My Levis slipped neatly inside them, hiding their frayed hems. I washed my sun-streaked hair in Klorane, I plucked and tweezed and grimaced at a threatening pimple. I packed my A level results (all A's except for a limping over the pass-line E for Ancient Greek). I was ready. Heart in mouth I boarded the bus to Belfast, the flight to London, the train to Bristol. Eleven hours later, heart still in mouth, I lifted the brass hand hanging on Terence's door and knocked.

Re: Sandra's NaNo thread - excerpts ii

Oh, Sandra. I have been reading along and not saying anything because my brain feels like cottage cheese after my weekend of horror with my insignificant other, but this excerpt really got to me. You don't know how many times I have tried to write about a love like this, and I have always gotten the comments back that people couldn't understand the motivation for the love. Here, you have so brilliantly captured the feelings a young woman goes through during every waking breathing moment when they are in love, no matter the motivation. I am captivated by every second of it, and the voice is so “there”, present.

I hate to think you have lead us here, built us up for Sue's fall, but it is so wonderfully and intricately woven like a house of cards, and now I am so afraid of what will happen next. I almost can't bear the suspense.

xo
Andrea

Re: Sandra's NaNo thread - excerpts ii

Here for my daily fix of Sandra and look how you left us hanging.  How rude!  (just kidding).  Sigh.  I guess I'll have to wait until tomorrow.
xo Ayla
P.S. I'm not giving much critique on Nano writes because we're all just supposed to be freefall writing and we'll probably be able to see the problems areas and gaps when we go back for editing later.  That said, I still want your comments about where to open up etc. when you read mine (only if you feel like it, of course) because they help me so much.  I don't think you need much help, love.  If anything shouts at me, I'll say so just because you asked but nothing has so far.

Re: Sandra's NaNo thread - excerpts ii

Day Eleven.

An old Yiddish proverb says we are not old until our regrets take the place of our dreams. I find no comfort in this. I look back now, some thirty years later, and wonder what I could have done differently. Regret is a crippling emotion. I wonder if it is even an emotion. Like guilt it breeds on thoughts, thoughts that fester and build, scuttling about in a windowless, doorless room. There is no way out. Ever. I cannot turn back the clock. I cannot undo what has been done. Could I have, even then?

Re: Sandra's NaNo thread - excerpts ii

What a strange and bizarre reception for poor Susan.  Ah, I have a feeling that everything is not alright.  Susan is so young, so innocent -you've portrayed that beautifully, Sandra.  I hope we get some more Pia and Bella as well.  Such interesting characters, especially Pia. 
more please  xo

Re: Sandra's NaNo thread - excerpts ii

I have to agree with Ayla, Terence doesn't sound alright. Yet, I can understand Susan wanting t believe that everything wll be. Oh, what a setting, Greece. It feels very foreign and unfamiliar to me. I am glad Pia and Bella are there, and I can't wait to get to that minestrone. Such great detail makes me feel as though I am right there. Lovely. What's next?

Love,
Andrea

Re: Sandra's NaNo thread - excerpts ii

Ayla, Andrea. I can't believe you are still reading…((((hugs)))!


Day Twelve

We ate supper on our laps in the living room. Aaron shoved a pile of books aside and sprawled across the carpet, Pia and Bella curled up together on an enormous red bean bag. I knelt next to the coffee table, as close to Terence as I could without looking possessive or needy. Someone had cleared some space in the middle of the table, filled it with baskets of warm, roughly torn French bread and bowls of salad. A new candle flickered, the dirty wine glasses replaced by clean ones.
    Claret anyone? Aaron said in an over-the-top plummy accent. He held the bottle high, inspected its label. I think it's a good one, Mis en Bouteille en Château and all that.
    Yeah right, said Bella, delicately dipping bread into her soup. As if you'd know. American's don't know crap about wine. Or anything else for that matter.
    Hey! Aaron said, twisting his face into a caricature of pain while mock stabbing himself in the chest. His head lolled ridiculously to the side, tongue hanging. I  laughed. I was beginning to like him, beginning not to feel an outsider, the wine going quickly to my head, making everything feel warm and soft. I stretched my legs out, gave Terence a sideways look but he was somewhere else, staring into space, his soup uneaten.
    Wine? I asked, reaching for the bottle to pour him some. He turned to me as if out of a dream. His skin looked incandescent, as if lit from inside. He looked at me unsmiling for a moment, as if trying to remember why I was there. And then he smiled, touched my hair lightly.  No, no thanks. I've got a meeting with the boss.
    Oh for fuck sakes, Aaron said, slamming his fist on the carpet. Can't you take a break? Surely it can wait. Susan's here, all the way from bonny Ireland - he flashed me a look - Max's coming over, Julie too. You said you wanted to see them. Can't we take a night off for once?
    Max? Julie? I thought. More people? Part of me didn't want more people, the other part felt a tinge of excitement. I took another gulp of the tannic wine.
    Terence didn't answer. He looked at Aaron, and then at Pia and Bella. And then at me, and finally down at his uneaten soup. Everyone was silent, watching him. He started to eat, slowly at first, and then hungrily, reaching for the basket of bread. I took out a piece, handed it to him. He winked slowly at me. In a flash I was back in Cheltenham, the first time I saw him, elegantly leaning against the pale gold wall of the courtyard, a dark silhouette watching me. It seemed so very long ago, years even. Another life. And I was here now, in his house, with his friends, eating minestrone soup, the night still ahead, when I was sure I'd be in Terence's arms. I stuffed a spoonful of soup into my mouth in an attempt to stop my thoughts getting ahead of themselves. Later. It will come, I told myself.
    I have to, Terence finally answered Aaron, wiping his bowl clean with his bread. You know that. Auditions are next week. Bella gave a little cough, her angular face momentarily child-like. She saw me looking and the moment was gone, she was her spiky adult self again.
    I've told them I want you, Terence said. I just can't promise, you know that. You're an obvious choice for the part.
    Bella nodded, but her face was hard. Pia put an arm around her shoulders, pulled her close. Of course they'll choose you, she said with some force. Carlson knows Tavia is based on you.
    A needle of anxiety poked into my stomach. What had he written? I wondered for a small, horrible minute, if I could get my hands on the play and read it. Now. In the bathroom. Somewhere hidden. So I'd know. Know what? I wanted to know everything. All of it, his whole life, every woman he'd ever loved, ever touched, ever slept with. There must have been dozens. More. He couldn't be the way he was and not have had lots of women. I stood up, too quickly, dizzy, dropped back down, everyone staring at me. I laughed, too loudly, feeling my hot, stinging cheeks, my head looping. I felt exhausted. The buses, the flight, the trains, the anxiety and hope and wishing and trying not to think about Terence and the almost unbearable contrast between where I had been - who I had been - that morning, sitting at my mother's kitchen table, trying to get some toast down, her rushing about making sure I had my tickets, my papers for the interview, enough warm clothes, to now, the sensation of Terence's leg against mine as if a hot coal were being pressed into me, surrounded by talented, interesting people, me, drinking claret and eating soup made by a beautiful Italian actress.
    Is there a toilet down here? I asked. I had to get away, be alone, I had to collect the bits of me that were scattering, falling, like pieces of torn tissue.
    Sorry, only the one upstairs, Pia said, standing up, taking the empty bowl from my hands. Do you want some more? she asked, her nut brown eyes searching mine. I smiled, looked away, too much concern and a piece would touch the candleflame, destroying the part of me that was in control, handling all this just fine, thank you very much.
    I slid the bolt across the bathroom door. Pressed my forehead against the hard cool surface, listening to the low murmur of voices from the living room. Pia laughing at something, then Aaron, Then Terence. I listened for Bella. Were they talking about me? Had Bella said something? I sat on the edge of the bath. Put my fingers in my ears. Slipped down to the cold, black and white tiled floor. Stared at my knees. My blister, forgotten until now, stung and burned. I pulled the boot off, inspected it. Red, very sore. I got up, opened the medicine cabinet. Bottles, plastic, glass. Pharmaceuticals. Dental floss. A plastic pink cup holding several squished tubes. Antibacterial, antibiotic. hydrocortisone, others. A roll of flesh coloured bandage. I took out a box of Band-Aids and the plastic cup, sat on the toilet. Wondered which ointment would be best, found myself holding a tube of haemorrhoid cream. It felt slightly oily. I dropped it back in, leaned over to the sink and turned the tap on, holding my hands under hot water. God. Did Terence have haemorrhoids? Pia. Must be Pia. I'd read somewhere that large people got them more than thin. Or maybe she used it for baggy eyes. Isn't that what 'Cosmopolitan' said you should do? I stood up, studied my eyes in the mirror. A bit puffy maybe, not enough to risk trying the stuff. I finally chose an antibiotic ointment for my blister, spread it over, wincing. Stuck the plaster over. Stood one-booted at the sink, staring again at the contents of the medicine cabinet. I pulled out a small bottle of pills. The label was faded, half torn. ence Whyte. One to be taken at bedtime, when .. When what? I wondered. For sleep? For sex? I fingered another bottle, smaller. Turned it so the label faced forward. Bella Melchiorre. Antibiotic: one to be taken twice daily for five days.  I recognised the pills. I'd been given them for cystitis. You're too young to have cystitis, my mother had said when I told her, giving me one of her What have you been doing that you shouldn't have? looks. 
     I pulled out the other prescription bottles, wanting to find other names, Aaron's, Pia's, but all I found was one for a Jack Weatherly, empty. I shoved them back in, upset crawling up my throat, threatening to reach my eyes. Splashed water on my face several times, and then thought, Oh shit I've washed away my glitter but I carried on, it was too late, any glitter was swirling down the plug hole. I dried myself with  a slightly smelly hand-towel, and inspected the damage. I looked hot. Angry. Was I? I didn't know. Voices I didn't recognize in the background. A sweet smoky smell. A door closing. I wanted to be down there, with them, not shut up here in this bathroom with other people's (Bellas!) pills and haemorrhoid creams. I pulled my boot on, flipped my head down and up to fluff my hair, unbolted the door and dashed into my bedroom for a quick dab of lipgloss. Terence's door was open. Dark. I could go in there, I could check for signs. I bit hard on my lip. Stop it, I told myself, and I ran down the stairs, almost crashing into a thick-set man yanking off a heavy leather jacket.
    Whoa there, he said, looking me up and down and then up and down again, hovering somewhere around my breasts. And who might you be?
    Susan, Susan Newman, I said, giving him my hand and then taking it back when I saw he just stood there, arms hanging like great slabs of meat.
    Well. Delighted I'm sure. Terence still here?
    Yes, I think so, in the living room, I said, but he had already sidled past me, rather closer than was necessary and then ducked out of the hall into the living room. I followed. Another candle had been lit. Another bottle of wine, white. Aaron had swapped places with Bella - who was not in the room - and was crammed onto the bean bag with Pia, who was smoking a slender cigar. I'd never seen a woman smoke a cigar. She laughed when she saw my face. Darling, she said, you should try it. Men find it sexy.
    Sexy enough already in my opinion, the thick-set man said, not even glancing at me, pouring himself a glass, spilling some onto an ornate-looking magazine. Watch out, Aaron said, that's got Terence's interview in it. He pulled his shirt cuff down and mopped the wine up. You're a lumbering oaf, Max, anyone ever tell you that?
    All the time, Max said flopping onto the floor. Where's Terence? Bella?
I was wondering the same thing.
    A little pep-talk. Aaron said.  Bella's upset he can't guarantee her the part.
    Man that woman gives a lot of aggro. She'd drive me barkers.
Pia frowned. Pursed her lips. Blew a smoke ring.
    So, Max continued, ignoring Pia, slowly turning his big head in my direction. And just who, exactly, are you?
    I already said, I mumbled. I'm Susan.
    So you said, so you said. He downed his glass, not taking his eyes off me. They looked like fish eyes, I thought. Buggy and slippery.
    She's a friend of Terence's, don't give her a hard time, Aaron said. I shot him a grateful look.
    Of course she is. Tell me this, would you. Tell me how that wanker manages to, how do you American's say it? Corral all the foxy dames around here?
    Max! What's got into you? Pia, her voice kind and firm at the same time.
Max suddenly looked crumpled, his massive shoulders slumping, his face hang-dog.
    Sorry. Sorry everyone, he said, glancing around the room, sounding like he meant it. Fucking matinees. A bus load of pensioners. That's it.  Worse than a charity show for fucks sakes.  One of them even said, Speak up lad, I can't hear you, in the middle of my monologue.
    We all burst out laughing, Max's eyes brightened. He raised his glass.
    Cheers, here's to good company and everlasting friendship. Things that really matter.
    Cheers, we all said. I had a glass in my hand, filled. I wondered how it got there. I looked up, straight into Terence's eyes. He was standing in the doorway, watching us. He gave Max a nod. I tried to catch his eyes, but he was buttoning up his jacket. Black, soft, it looked. Warm.
    I'm sorry to be a party pooper, he said. I've got to go.
    Will you be late, Pia asked.
    Depends on whether or not I keep my temper.
    Clarence? Max asked, and then said to no one in particular, Who else.
    I stood up, Terence finally turning his head in my direction.
    I'm sorry, Sue. He glanced around the room. They'll take care of you. Ignore Max, he's doesn't mean to be a jerk. Max grinned at me, nodded.
    I followed Terence to the front hallway. Touched him on his arm. I couldn't believe he'd leave without saying another word to me. He turned. The dull yellow light made him look much older. We stood there, holding each other's eyes . Mine felt like they were trying to search inside him, trying to have him say something to me, what? That he loved me? Something, anything. His were steady, just looking.
    Are you with Bella, I blurted. Shocked at myself. I hadn't even thought of asking.
    Terence pulled me to him, held my face against the soft jacket. He lifted my hair, slipped a hand underneath, cradling the back of my head.
    Sweetheart. Is that what you think?
    I sniffed, certain tears were smearing my mascara.
    We once, well, had a thing. It was a long time ago. But she's too unstable. Actresses are not good for me.
    I lifted my head, looked up at him. I thought I'd like to try it, I said.
    Acting?
    Yes. Just experiment, you know. I did a lot when I was younger. Wrote plays even. But I'd like to act.
    You are full of surprises, he said, taking my face in his hands. It's a mean, nasty business. Soul destroying. Anyway, you're too much yourself to be an actress.
    He kissed me on the forehead.
    I've got to go.
    Will I see you later?
    I don't know. You should get to bed. Get some sleep. Tomorrow is important. For me too, I've a meeting with someone who wants to produce Benedicte. Early, I might be gone before you leave.
    Oh, I said, struggling to articulate my disappointment, my chaotic, random thoughts: he'd catapulted me into tomorrow, to my interview at the Classics Department - I didn't even know where it was - and then, immediately afterwards, the train back to London, the plane to Dublin. Ireland. My mother. I shook myself. It was only three weeks until term started. Not even a month. And then I'd be gone. Forever. I fingered his collar, my nose brushing his cheek. The faint, acrid smell of him intoxicating. It wasn't over yet, I told myself, he'd be coming back tonight. I'd wait up.
    Don't wait up, he said, pulling away. Not for the first time I felt transparent, flimsy nothing there at all, just a tissue-thin girl with a desperate crush. He lifted my hand, brushed his lips briefly against my fingertips. And then he was gone, the door clunking behind him, the slap of his shoes drumming against the concrete path, my heart an off-beat pitter patter. 
   

Re: Sandra's NaNo thread - excerpts ii

Oh, this is so good, Sandra at her best (talking about the writing), that's how it feels to me. I love the slow unfolding of this story, but I keep thinking it can't help but turn into disaster for the I-character, who seems so vulnerable and needy, even though on the surface she doesn't really appear to be those things. Just young, impressionable, drawn by kind words and to anything that remotely resembles love.

Do you want some more? she asked, her nut brown eyes searching mine. I smiled, looked away, too much concern and a piece would touch the candleflame, destroying the part of me that was in control, handling all this just fine, thank you very much.

My heart aches for Sue. I want to call Terence an asshole and a whole bunch of other names, and at the same time I'm thinking, ah but he's an artist, a poet, and all the other excuses we're always making for the Terences of the world. And the sad thing isn't even about the Terences, it's about how early life sometimes seems to be a setup for girls, for anyone, to fall… into errors of judgment (? — hmm, not quite sure how to put what I wanted to say).

Re: Sandra's NaNo thread - excerpts ii

Ruth. Oh you sure know when (and how) to comment, don't you? Just when I was feeling flat.
hugs, hugs.

Re: Sandra's NaNo thread - excerpts ii

Stinking Gaia post eating monsters.  ugh.
So, yeah, as I was saying, I'll call Terrance an asshole if she won't.  Insensitive asshole to boot.  God.  I'm dying for more.
Flat?  Maybe you're feeling flat, Sandra, but your work is not reflecting it one iota.
Crazy For More & Jealous,  Ayla

Re: Sandra's NaNo thread - excerpts ii

Ayla, Ruth, before I forget I just wanted to say how useful your comments are. Just telling me what you feel. It 'shows' me if and where I'm on track or not, at least in how I want this world to play out, feel etc. xo