The Hole in the Middle

Chapter 4: AUGUST 1994

“It’s Paris,” says Zoe. “I’m going.”

It’s a steamy night in August and we’re walking to a party. It’s muggy and airless, and I’m deeply regretting my choice of footwear. I’ve got my hair up in a scrunchie and am draped in a loose, sleeveless black peasant dress, but they are doing little to compensate for the fact that my feet are slippery with sweat inside my Doc Marten’s.

I’ve been planning this conversation for a few days now, but it’s not going the way I thought it would. “I can’t afford the apartment without you,” I say.

“That’s why I’ve been telling you since May to make other plans,” says Zoe. “I’m sorry, Sophie. I know how much you hate the idea of moving, but I’m going to Paris.”

I try one last time. “Are you sure you want to miss your last year on campus? It’s the best one. You can take all these great seminar courses …” I trail off as Zoe starts laughing.

“That’s you, Soph, not me,” she says. “With my GPA, it’s a miracle I got permission to do the exchange program at all. It’s happening.” She throws an arm around my shoulder. “It’s not the end of the world,” she says. “You can come and visit me next summer. And I’ll help you find a place. I’m going to ask a few people tonight.”

“I don’t want to live with a bunch of strangers,” I say.

“Strangers are just friends you haven’t met yet,” says Zoe, quoting one of my mother’s notorious aphorisms. I open my mouth, stick my finger in and make a gagging sound. “No need to be dramatic,” says Zoe. “We’ll find you something great. I promise. Now stop pouting and try to have some fun tonight. Will’s parties are legendary.”

“Is he on your hit list?” I ask. It’s clear that someone is; Zoe is wearing a baby-sized black tee with the words DO YOU WANT ME TO SEDUCE YOU? emblazoned across the midriff. It’s supposed to be ironic, but it works like a charm. It reminds me that Zoe isn’t an entirely satisfactory roommate; she rarely comes home alone on the weekend, if she comes home at all. But I’ve adjusted to her, and it’s a small price to share, however peripherally, in her sparkle. She gets me out of the house and out of my head.

“Oh, no,” she says. “I fooled around with him in high school, lucky me; it was like getting vaccinated. He’s trouble. I’ve got my eye on a couple of his engineering buddies.”

“Tell me again who Will is?” Zoe has a gigantic social circle: high school friends, camp friends, skiing friends, family friends. It’s dizzying to try to keep track of them all. I’ve never moved in packs; I’m more curatorial in my approach to collecting friends. And if I’m honest, I’ve never felt comfortable in Zoe’s pack. I recognize their ilk from my waitress days at the golf club near my parents’ house up in cottage country – all streaked hair and diamond studs and high quality fake IDs. Having collected Zoe, I try to hold up my end among the various PSR & Bs (Pretty, Skinny, Rich and Blonds) in her orbit, but I still feel like I’m supposed to be bringing them cheeseburgers and Tom Collins cocktails.

The first time I met Zoe was in my college dorm, in the first week of school. I was in my room, but with the door open, which was a compromise with my shy self: I wouldn’t venture forth into potentially awkward human contact, but would, by way of the open door, indicate basic sociability. No one had taken up my admittedly obscure invitation to come in and befriend me until Zoe showed up. I had noticed her, of course; she was absolutely gorgeous, and seemed to have acquired an entourage in the short time since she had arrived.

“Are you squeamish?” she asked.

“No.”

“Great. Then you can help me.” She came in and held out her hand. “I’m Zoe Hennessy.”

“Sophie Whelan.”

Zoe held out a diamond stud. “My piercing closed up.” She laughed at the expression on my face. “Don’t worry - the one in my ear. Can you push this through?”

I was fairly sick with loneliness by this point and prepared to take friendship in whatever form it was offered. “Sure,” I said. “Have a seat.”

Zoe sat down and I got to work. She barely winced. “Hey,” she said, pointing to the Thelma and Louise poster on my wall. “My English teacher liked that movie too. We had to write an essay on female empowerment. I always wondered: am I the only one who noticed that they drive off a f*cking cliff at the end? What’s empowering about that? Ouch.”

“Sorry. But it’s in. You’re done.”

“Awesome,” she said, standing up. “I knew the girl in black would know how to do a piercing.”

“The girl in black?”

“Yeah. You’re the mysterious, artsy one on the floor. Aren’t you?”

“I don’t know,” I said, too surprised to be anything other than honest. I’ve always wanted to be mysterious and artsy, and have chosen my back-to-school wardrobe accordingly with a heavy emphasis on long black skirts, black flowing blouses and dangling earrings. If my new floor-mates find me mysterious, though, it’s more likely because I’m scared to come out of my room.

“You are,” she said, definitively, and I feel a rush of gratitude that I’ve been given an identity in this strange new world. “What are you doing right now?”

“Nothing. Just hanging out,” I said, by which I meant that I planned to spend the evening alone, listening to the Indigo Girls and hoping that someone would come by to invite me to do something more interesting.

"I’m going to a party at the res next door. Do you want to come?”

It was a lifeline, and I grabbed on with both hands. Then at the end of first year, she astonished me, and everyone who knew either of us, by inviting me to share an apartment with her. Three years of university had sparked countless awakenings of the intellectual, political and even sexual variety, none of which were due to Zoe; but she was responsible for virtually all of the fun.

“I did tell you this,” says Zoe with a touch of exasperation. Zoe thinks I don’t make enough of an effort to be social, which is why I am usually single. “Will Shannon. Just moved back to town after doing his undergrad in Political Science at Duke. Very smart. Rower. Starting law school in September. Throws good parties, which you always miss because you go home for Christmas and summer holidays.”

We turn onto Abernathy Road, and Zoe stops outside an enormous red-brick mansion. “He lives here?” I ask. “Is it his parents’ house?”

“No,” says Zoe. “His parents are uptown. I’m sure this was the address, though.” And she climbs the stairs and rings the bell.

When the door opens, it’s obvious we’re in the right place. The main floor is packed, the music is blaring and it’s incredibly hot. “Push through to the kitchen,” yells Zoe, and we head for the back of the house. Above the din, I hear her calling Will’s name, and by the time I hit a clearing in the crowd, I see her being lifted onto the kitchen counter. “Beer me, baby,” she says, and the boy with his hands around her waist reaches below the counter and comes up with an icy bottle.

Rower, indeed, I think. He’s tall, with ridiculously broad shoulders and long muscular arms that make the word rower shorthand for physical perfection. And then there’s the dark hair set off by grey-blue eyes and a white tee-shirt that fits in all the right places. I laugh out loud, and both of them turn to look at me. They make a striking couple. “Sophie,” Zoe calls, waving me over. “I want you to meet Will. Will, this is my roommate Sophie.”

“Hey Sophie,” he says, “Having fun?”

“We just got here,” I say, but Zoe shoots me a look. “Amazing house,” I say, trying again. “Is it a rental?”

“Not exactly,” he says. “My great aunt owns it. She lives on the third floor and I’m living on the second floor with a buddy of mine.” He turns to Zoe. “Do you know A.J.?”

“Of course,” says Zoe. “I saw him at Heidi’s last week.” Zoe looks at me meaningfully. “A.J.’s an engineer,” she says.

“I heard you’re going to Paris,” says Will. “When are you leaving?”

“In three weeks,” says Zoe. “And I promised Sophie I’d find her a new place to live or a new roommate. Do you know anyone who’s looking?”

“I might,” he says. “Let me think about it. Sophie, do you want a drink?”

“Just water for the moment,” I say.

“Is A.J. here?” asks Zoe.

“I think all the engineers are in the backyard,” says Will.

“I’m going to go and say hi,” says Zoe, slipping off the counter. “Back in a bit.”

“Careful back there,” says Will. “You know engineers. They could be slaughtering a goat or climbing a grease pole. I take no responsibility.”

“I’ve got it covered,” says Zoe, and heads to the back, while Will pulls a glass down from the shelf, fills it with water and hands it to me. Another boy enters the kitchen from the living room, and Will shifts a few feet to let him past as he opens the fridge. Will looks out towards the backyard and shrugs. “She’ll be back,” he says. “Let that be a lesson to you. I’m totally unreliable.”

I don’t get the joke and shoot him a quizzical look.

“This is A.J.,” he says, by way of explanation.

“Hey,” says A.J., turning. I can sort of see why Zoe likes him. He’s shorter and more compact than Will, but he’s good-looking in a generic way. He has nice brown eyes with long dark lashes, which might be soulful on someone else, but he’s shaved his head and is wearing a loose basketball tank that screams jock.

“This is Zoe’s roommate,” says Will.

I hold out my hand. “Sophie,” I say.

“Oh, right,” A.J. nods. “I’ve heard of you. You’re the wingman.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Zoe’s wingman.” I shake my head. “You’re the one who goes with her to parties, hangs out with her while she decides who she wants to go after, chats up the guys she doesn’t want.”

I’m mortified. I always suspected that Zoe’s high school friends thought of me as a curiosity; now I see that they think I’m a loser. “It’s really not like that,” I say. God, engineers are such a*sholes.

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” he says.

“I’m not offended,” I say, trying hard not to cry.

Will steps in. “Zoe’s going to Paris and Sophie needs a new place,” he says.

“Yeah?”

“What do you think?” asks Will. I’m having trouble following this exchange, but that’s nothing unusual. I can never figure out how boys become friends when this is what qualifies as meaningful conversation. The secret must have something to do with sports.

“It’s your call, man,” says A.J. He looks at me uncertainly. “Are you OK?”

“Absolutely,” I say, glaring at him.

He runs his hands over his head and looks exasperated. “OK,” he says, finally. “See you around.” And he picks his beer up off the counter and heads for the backyard.

“He’s a good guy,” says Will.

“I’m sure he is,” I say, as neutrally as possible. Yet again, I’ve demonstrated my complete social ineptitude. I want Zoe to come back before I made it any more glaringly obvious that I don’t belong here. But Zoe is going to be occupied for a while now that her target is in her sights, and Will seems to feel responsible for entertaining me while she’s gone.

My flight instinct is kicking in, and I’m about to make up an excuse to leave when Will surprises me by saying, “I want you to meet someone.” He steps around the kitchen counter and says, “Follow me.” And he crosses over to the far side of the kitchen and opens what looks like a closet door. “After you,” he says. I look in and see a steep, narrow staircase.

Servants’ stairs, I think. How appropriate. But I climb up, my thudding footsteps echoing in the stuffy air. I pause on the little landing for the second floor. “Keep going,” says Will, and by the time I get to the third floor, I’m embarrassingly out of breath.

Will reaches past me and knocks, and I as I draw another deep breath, I take in the scent of soap and sweat, cotton and shaving cream: pure, unadulterated and decidedly male. Will turns the handle and pushes the door open.

“It’s Will,” he calls.

“Excellent,” says a woman’s voice. “We were just beginning to get on each other’s nerves.”

We step into a large sitting room bursting with antique furniture and exquisite oil paintings and books and silk carpets and lamps with fringes, and I have a sudden sensation of having passed through the back of the wardrobe into a new world. In the center of the room, there is a large carved fireplace flanked by two stone dogs, and sitting across from it on either end of a tufted velvet sofa are two women. One is clearly elderly, stout, unsmiling and glittering with diamonds. The other is younger and slimmer, in a linen sundress with her bare feet curled up under her. “Hello darling,” says the younger one to Will. “How is your party?”

“Going well, so far,” says Will. “I hope it’s not too loud. You’re welcome to come down, you know.”

The older lady shudders; the younger laughs. “I think not,” she says. “Who is your friend?”

“This is Sophie,” says Will. “She’s a friend of Zoe Hennessey’s. She’s looking for a rental for September.” He turns to me. “This is Lillian Parker, my great aunt,” he says of the younger woman, and then turns to the woman with the diamonds. “And this is my grandmother, Penelope Shannon.”

“Do sit down,” says Lillian. “Would you like some champagne?”

“Sure,” I say. “Thank you, Mrs. Parker.”

“So polite, William,” she says approvingly. “You can go back to the party.” Will turns to go and I stand up to follow him. “Not you, Sophie,” she says. “Do you prefer regular champagne or pink?”

I’ve never heard champagne described as regular, so I say, “Whatever is open is fine.”

“Pink, then,” she says, and expertly fills a flute. “So,” she says, handing me a glass, “You want to rent one of my rooms?”

“Oh,” I say. “Well, my roommate is moving out, but I didn’t realize … that is, Will didn’t mention that you had a room available.”

“Rascal,” says Penelope. It’s the first word she has uttered so far, and she delivers it with what appears to be a great effort.

“Penelope and I were roommates once,” says Lil. “That was many years ago, of course. She is my oldest friend.”

“Attrition,” says Penelope.

“She was rather displeased when I married her brother.”

“Gold-digger,” says Penelope, slowly but very clearly.

“All water under the bridge, as you see,” says Lil. She lowers her voice. “Penelope has aphasia since her stroke five years ago.”

“Six,” says Penelope, who obviously has little difficulty with her hearing.

“She can only say a word or two at a time, but she chooses them well. I’m going to show her the room, Pen,” says Lil, rising from the sofa and gesturing to me to follow her.

We walk through a large dining room into a vestibule. “The third floor is a self-contained apartment,” says Lil. “I live here when I’m in town, which is about half the year.” She opens the main door to the apartment and we walk down a grand staircase to the second floor. “There are four bedrooms on this floor,” she says. “At the moment, I have Will and his friend A.J. in the two rooms at the end of the hall. I wasn’t going to take another tenant but I could probably stand to have one more. I told Will that I would consider adding a girl for a civilizing influence.” She walks to the front of the house and opens a door. “Have a look,” she says.

I step inside and catch my breath. It’s twice the size of my current room, dominated by a huge bay window with a window seat looking out over a leafy maple tree. There is a heavy wooden canopy bed and a dressing table and armoire, all old and perfectly preserved – not unlike Lil, I’m beginning to realize. “You’ll need a desk, but otherwise you should have all the furniture you need,” she says. “So, what do you think?”

“It’s amazing,” I say. “But I probably can’t afford it. I didn’t have a chance to tell Will that I’m on a tight budget.”

“Could you afford $200 a month?” she asks. “I think that would be reasonable.”

“Yes,” I say. “I could afford that.” It’s half of what I’m paying to live with Zoe. I’d live with strangers if I could save half of my rent; and I might even be able to go and visit Zoe in Paris in the summer.

“Come back upstairs and finish your champagne,” she says. “One always makes better decisions over champagne.”

We rejoin Penelope in the sitting room, and I settle into an armchair by the fireplace with my glass of pink champagne. “It would be good for those boys to have a girl around,” says Lil. “And you seem a very sensible sort.” She looks at my boots. “More sensible than most, anyway. So, do we have a deal?”

“Yes,” I say. “We have a deal.”

“Marvelous!” says Lil. “This will be great fun.”

“Diverting,” says Penelope.

“Most definitely. Diverting,” agrees Lil. “When will you move in?”