Writing this journal makes me feel better too. Getting my thoughts onto paper – or, more accurately, onto the computer screen; paper is so old-fashioned – stops them festering in my head.
I wonder what my fellow students will write about in their journals? It’s not hard to imagine. Brian will be writing his in the guise of a mythical character from one of his fantasy stories: Brian the Bloody Awful, roving the land and bewitching lusty maidens with his magic staff. Kathy will detail her lipstick-lesbian affairs in her journal: blow by blow, or lick by lick, accounts of Sapphic escapades. I’d love to read it. Barbara will stick pictures of her grandchildren in hers, confusing it with a scrapbook, and write long poems about Des Lynam. I can barely remember the names of the other students, so nondescript were they.
Unlike the teacher.
Siobhan. She came into the room with a knowing smile on her face, unhooking her bag from her shoulder and studying her new students in turn. Her hair was cut in that short, boyish style that I like, and she had big, bright eyes, though I couldn’t quite work out their colour. They seemed to change as I looked at her – or maybe it was just my opinion about them changing: blue – no, grey – no, green – no, hazel. She said she was 35 – I’ve always thought I’d like an experienced older woman. She also said she had no husband, and I wondered if she was divorced. She was too attractive not to have been snapped up at some point. There was something in her eyes that betrayed pain, disappointment. But she looked confident, standing there in front of us, as if whatever trials she’d been through had made her stronger. I like that. I like women to be strong. Intelligent. The kind of woman who can put up a fight when she needs to. I couldn’t imagine ending up with a wimpy girl. I would have been shitting myself if you asked me to stand up – or sit on a desk – in front of a group of strangers, but Siobhan clearly took it in her stride.
I’m sure that her eyes lingered on me for an extra beat when she looked around the class. She touched the bridge of her nose, as if she was pushing back a pair of glasses. A part-time contact lens wearer, like me. The gesture made me think she wanted a better look at me, that she was evaluating me. When she spoke and introduced herself, her voice was musical, but quiet. I had to lean forward and concentrate to understand what she was saying. It was night music; a lullaby. I noticed Barbara fiddling with her hearing aid.
When my turn came to speak, my voice trembled with nerves and I only managed to get out one sentence before coming to a halt. I’m sure this didn’t make Siobhan think badly of me, though. She’s a writer: she’s almost certainly into sensitive men. I was sad when the class ended, because it meant I had to say goodbye to her for a week. Still, that week is almost up now. I’ll see her again in a few hours.
The tube train got stuck in a tunnel just outside Oxford Circus. The lights flickered and electricity hummed through the carriage. Nobody looked at anyone else; nobody said anything.
There was a crackly, inaudible attempt at an announcement and I could feel myself getting hot, tense. Nobody else seemed to have even noticed that we’d stopped. I had an image of that scene in The Rats, passengers traipsing through the tunnels, savaged in the dark by razor-teethed rodents.
The woman opposite gave me a look. She chewed the inside of her cheek for a moment then said, ‘You okay?’ She was American.
‘I’m fine.’
‘It’s just that you made this noise…’
I felt my cheeks heat up.
I put my head down, concentrated on the litter. The train lurched into motion and I got off at the next stop. I waited till the next train came along.
I eventually emerged from Leicester Square station. I needed something to read and immediately thought of the second-hand bookshops on Charing Cross Road. I trawled around the shops, scanning the tables, picking up yellowed paperbacks, sniffing them and putting them back again. I like second-hand bookshops for their cheapness, but there’s something revolting about them too. The thought of all those greasy fingers handling the pages, all that dead skin gathering in the folds. Examining one book, I found a squashed spider between the pages. Perhaps someone had used it as a bookmark.
I passed a pleasant couple of hours wandering in and out of shops, until I found myself in a pokey bookshop back near the tube. If I don’t find anything here, I decided, I will spend my money on alcohol. Which was when something caught my eye.
It was lying on a table. The title was Tara Lies Awake. The author, Siobhan McGowan. My teacher. I tingled. It felt like a sacred moment, and I lifted the book with slow reverence, stroking the hardback cover like it was a holy artefact. Siobhan’s book. I flipped open the cover and the scrawled pencil mark told me it was only £2. I would have paid a lot more for it. Without any hesitation, I took it up to the counter and practically threw my money at the old bloke behind the till.
‘Hey, your change… ’ he called as I pushed the door open.
Out in the street, my change now safely in my pocket, I looked at the cover. There was a naked woman on it – artfully done, of course. And there, on the inner flap of the dust jacket, was Siobhan herself. She was a few years younger, with a broad smile on her face, but… well, I’ve got the book lying open in front of me now. She doesn’t look as good in the photo as she does in real life. It looks a bit posed, fake. When she stood up in front of us in the classroom she seemed real. I mean, of course, she was real, but… oh, I don’t know what I’m trying to say. I suppose what I mean is that although Siobhan looks good in the picture, she could be any woman. But the woman who stood in front of us in the classroom last week seemed special.
I stopped at the off-licence on the way home and bought a bottle of wine, then shut myself in my room with the book and stayed there all evening.
God, the dreams I had after reading Tara Lies Awake. It’s so erotic. So… sensual. Or is it sensuous? I’ll have to look it up. Don’t want to say the wrong thing when I discuss it with the author, do I? Whatever, it’s damn sexy. And beautifully written. Sexy and beautiful – and surely a book is a reflection of its author? I saw a hint of it last week in the classroom, but only a hint. I expect she has to hide it in front of most people. It can be dangerous being that passionate. You have to keep it in check, wear masks. But I feel like I’ve learned so much about her from reading the book, and I can’t wait for her to show more of herself.
Siobhan’s novel is about this woman called Tara who is a virgin until she’s 21. She’s always been scared of men and relationships, and then she meets this guy called Luke. He’s married, and older than her. And they fuck. Christ, do they fuck. I’ve been around the world. I’ve been to Bangkok where girls are supposed to know every trick in the Kama Sutra. But I bet those Thai girls wouldn’t have heard of some of the things Tara and Luke get up to in Tara Lies Awake. The book is written from Tara’s perspective after the affair ended. She’s lying in bed, thinking about all the stuff they did, touching herself. She ended the relationship because of his wife, but she still craves him. And on the last page, there’s a knock at the door.
And that’s how it ends.
Oh Siobhan, you seem so calm, so placid on the surface. But underneath… I know what’s inside you.
Oh Siobhan.
I want to be inside you. Imagine how thrilled she’ll be when I turn up with her book tonight. No – wait, though, I won’t take her book along with me. That’s too unsubtle, and one of the others might ask to borrow it and I won’t be able to say no. I don’t want to let the book out of my clutches. I have uses for it. So what can I do to make Siobhan happy?
Of course. It’s obvious…
