Next thing I knew, he began kissing me on lips. He’d kissed me before we parted ways yesterday night, but it was a chaste peck, though lingering. This kiss was different. It was urgent, even forceful. He began tugging away at zip on dress. Tried to lift restraining hand, but it was a limb muddled by Champagne and port. Before long, dress and bra had vanished, and he had transferred attention to nipples. Felt brief surge of alarm. But it felt so good. So right. After all, Mark was a gentleman. Not one of those scruffy lads hanging around neighborhood where I grew up. His hands began moving downwards; last piece of cloth on body slid off moments later. Began to feel anxious, as I’d learned from somewhere that it tends to hurt the first time. Tried to push him away, but hands failed to convince even myself.
Then it happened. A sharp tearing pain, followed by general discomfort. But he was gentle, and it was all over in matter of minutes. Can’t say I enjoyed it too much, but I suppose it will be better next time. He grunted, rolled off my body, wedged himself under duvet, and began snoring. Not knowing what to do, I studied his profile for several minutes, sore and perplexed. Eventually crept out of bed, put dress back on, and stole out of room at 23:35, leaving roses behind. Thankfully, I did not meet any porters during scamper across quadrangle to side door. The crisp night air and brisk walk back to lodgings in Mill Road helped clear head. Heard Mrs. Perkins stirring as I crept inside at 23:55, but otherwise disturbed no one.
What have I gotten myself into? Mark’s Duo, for God’s sake. Monos and Duos have no future together. But Mum and Dad will adore Mark if they meet him. Looking forward to his phone call tomorrow, at any rate. He did mention over dinner that he would love to take me to Norfolk this weekend in his Jaguar, for picnic on coastal dunes with large bottle of vintage Bollinger from his dad’s cellar.
My tears are in free-flow mode, as I now understand what happened over the days that followed. I flip the pages to my 3 June entry:
04:22: Woke up with racing pulse and sweaty palms. Horrible dream involving Jenkins with purple face. Yelling at me from behind counter, saying I’m useless and pathetic. My entry for 29 May says I’ve had similar dream before. Awful…
22:45: Mark did not call today in the end. But am sure he will call tomorrow regarding Norfolk. Weather forecast for Sunday looks amazing: 28?C and sunny. Am picturing us walking hand in hand along pebbled beach with rustic picnic basket.
My entry for 4 June reads:
21:15: Phone still has not rung. Hopes of picnicking on Norfolk coast under sunny blue skies long evaporated. Still wondering what has happened to Mark. (NTS: Should call him tomorrow. After all, something bad may have happened.)
And I now understand why Mark behaved the way he did when I phoned him on 5 June:
18:04: Called Mark on Mrs. Perkins’s phone before cycling over to VB. Said he was sorry he did not call during the weekend; had to attend to urgent family matter. Sounded distant, even preoccupied. Said he had to go. Placed receiver down feeling confused. Suppose I should be relieved nothing bad has happened to him.…
I flip a few more pages of my diary, scanning their contents. They confirm my growing suspicion about those early days of our relationship: Mark had pursued me with vigor right up to the night we had sex in his Trinity room, only to lose interest in me afterwards. He did not phone again to invite me to a picnic. Or dinner, for that matter. In fact, he did not ring at all.
Truth I’d failed to see: Mark merely wanted to have sex with me, a once attractive nineteen-year-old virgin.
Nothing more.
Which explains why I spotted him a few days later with another girl. My diary says so, in plain factual terms. Perhaps I should reacquaint myself with what occurred that evening, now that I’m finally realizing the truth about his early behavior.
Using a sleeve to dab my eyes, I turn to the entry dated 12 June 1995:
18:30: First two hours of VB service quiet. Emily said it was because May Balls were taking place at Trinity, Jesus, and Claire.
21:32: Showed customers to seats by window. To my horror, saw Mark walking along pavement across road, wearing white tie and holding hand of girl in stunning peach dress and white gloves. They were clearly going to a ball, probably Trinity. Gaped for several moments before hurrying to Emily and begging her to cover for me (Jenkins was, thankfully, distracted by customer). Shot out of VB only to discover that Mark and girl had vanished from sight. Was determined to confront Mark, so began running in direction they were heading. Failed to spot them along Chesterton Road; backtracked after realizing they could have crossed footbridge over Jesus Lock.
Eventually spotted them on footpath alongside river. Began running in their direction, itching to yell at Mark. But girl stepped forward and did exactly what I wanted to do: she pulled off glove and slapped Mark in face. Raised hand to hit him again only to lose balance. Reeled backwards over stilettos, smashing head on nearby lamppost and hitting ground in tangle of limbs and fabric. Staggered back to knees and tried to slap Mark again, though more feebly this time.
Wondered if I should join girl in attacking Mark. But I told myself he had gotten what he deserved, and Jenkins would sack me if I abandoned duties for too long. Turned and began walking back to VB, but soon felt another hot surge of anger. Pushing Jenkins out of head, did abrupt U-turn on Chesterton Road and ran across bridge again. By then, Mark and girl had vanished from Jesus Green. Was sure they were farther ahead, so continued running along riverside path. Eventually spotted Mark on Magdalene Street. He was alone. Girl in peach dress had vanished
I turn the page and freeze. The subsequent sheets are gone. Only thin strips of paper remain at the diary’s spine. The rest have been cleaved away neatly, probably with a blade or a penknife.
My tears have evaporated. I run a trembling finger along the strips of paper. Bafflement mingled with disbelief prompts me to count them: twelve in total. The next diary entry begins a whopping thirteen days later, on 25 June. I must have removed those pages at some point in the past.
But why?
My entry for 25 June might explain why the preceding pages have vanished. I scan the passage with eager eyes:
05:50: Drenched sheets, thanks to dream-version Jenkins and his insults. (“You’re useless, Claire. Pathetic.”) Struggled to go back to sleep. Checked earlier entries here: I’ve had this dream four times since I started work at VB. Jenkins is pursuing me both day and night. Am tempted to quit job. But he pays better than Hair & Beauty Solutions.
10:30: Woke up from troubled, post-Jenkins half sleep. A dull, sinking feeling pinned me to bed, so just lay there and stared at spidery cracks on ceiling.
12:30: Decided I should listen to Emily. Hauled myself up from bed and rang Bridge Street Medical Center. Managed to get appointment with GP Arthur Devine at 11:00 on 29 June. (NTS: Should tell Dr. Devine that a black, bottomless hole has swallowed me, that I struggled to fall asleep last night, and that I have terrible, suffocating pains in chest. But I shouldn’t tell him that my mind strayed to tempting possibilities offered by Mrs. Perkins’s kitchen knife yesterday, before I set out for VB.)