Liz Nugent - Unraveling Oliver

A year later, when I first started having sexual relationships with the girls in college, I was far more successful. While the “sexual revolution” of the 1960s had somehow just bypassed Ireland, in 1971 there were enough girls around campus with the curiosity and education to know that they also were entitled to orgasm. They were ready to do the things they’d read about. I followed the American tradition of hitting the four bases in order. I think I was unusual in that I almost always got to fourth base, and this certainly quickly boosted my confidence. Some of the other fellows subtly asked for advice, cloaking the request in jokey banter, but there was no secret.

I have learned over the years how to charm them. It’s not too hard if you are handsome and can appear to be clever with a dry wit. Act as if you haven’t noticed them. Then, gradually, begin to take an interest, as if she is a specimen in a laboratory. Poke her a bit with a long stick while keeping your distance. Ignore her for long periods to see how she reacts, and then give her a good shake. It almost always works.

In college, I dated girls until they yielded but usually dropped them when they began to ask questions about my background or my family. My reputation was one of a mysterious loner, and women, being naturally nosy, all thought they could get to the bottom of it. Perhaps they all thought they could mother me? As I didn’t have a mother, it was all meaningless to me. I fell into a pattern: pursue, claim, conquer, move on. It amazed me how women would try to possess me as soon as we’d slept together, as if I owed them a part of me. I had never had women in my life, and I simply didn’t know what to do with them. One girl, who I left sniveling in her predawn bed, threw a mug at my head and called me a “bastard.” I took my revenge by sleeping with her twin sister the following night.

Some of the girls I liked more than others. I certainly didn’t hate women, but I can’t say that I felt an emotional connection to any of them. Except for Laura.

Laura was a challenge from day one. The first time I saw her, she was crossing the campus with two other girls. It was a cold day, and I noted their breath wisping into the air as they laughed and chatted. She was wearing a homemade red wool scarf around her neck and a long trench coat. She waved at me and smiled, and I was caught for a moment, captured by her vivacity and unsure of how to respond, and then Michael, with whom I was walking, called out to her and I realized that she was waving at him, and I felt foolish.

Michael Condell introduced Laura as his sister, and I admit to being taken aback that siblings could look so different.

Ironic, when you think about it.

After that, I made a point of seeking her out, but unlike the other girls, she took no particular interest in me. Laura was darkly beautiful, willful and spirited, impulsive and brave. She was a year behind me, reading French, philosophy, and politics. She dated the rugby boys, the rich boys who had their own cars. It was going to be hard for me to compete, but, as I made an effort to get to know her, at least on the periphery, I realized that I didn’t just want to sleep with her. I wanted her in my life. I hoped that the golden aura that surrounded her might somehow encompass me and lift me to her pedestal. I can’t even now put my finger on what it was that was different about Laura. I had been out with beautiful girls before who all failed to tug at my alleged heartstrings. It may have been the way her blue eyes sparkled when she laughed, or the way she walked with purpose. It could have been her confidence, the fact that she seemed so sure of her place in the world when the rest of us were just pretending.

My usual tactics didn’t work with Laura. She appeared not to notice me at all. I was conscious of my secondhand clothes and my squalid bedsit, and knew I would have to reinvent my story if I was to stand a chance, so I befriended Michael and began to curry favor that way. I was invited to their home for dinners and sat across the table from Laura, ignoring her and pretending to be riveted by her mother’s conversation, feigning fascination in her father’s rhododendrons. When oblique questions were asked about my parentage, I deflected them, hinting at a father who was always traveling abroad on important but unspecified business. I hinted at a country house that I might one day inherit and was vague and enigmatic enough to discourage further questioning. Still, Laura paid me no heed.

I changed my game, and instead began to pay her some attention, included her in our plans, took an interest in her course work, offered help with essays, and invited her for drinks with us. Sometimes I would try subtly to ask Michael about her, but he would react huffily. Jealous of my interest in her, I assume. Michael was as gay as Christmas. It was never mentioned or acknowledged. Later, in France, I tried to help him be straight. Back in the day, we genuinely thought it might be possible. Perhaps we knew it wasn’t, but we were not willing to accept it. He liked me. I didn’t mind. He was useful. I liked him too, but not in the way that I know he wanted. However, his fraternal connection to Laura allowed me to get closer to her, although she was still proving immune to every seduction ploy I knew.

Eventually, inspired by Rostand’s Cyrano de Bergerac , which we were studying at the time, I decided to send her a love letter. I wrote more drafts of this letter than I have of any of my books. There were flowery versions, there was a terrible one in my own rhyming verse entirely ripped off from Keats, there was a version that included a Shakespearean sonnet, but in the end I simply told her how I felt about her, how beautiful I thought her, how she made me smile, and that I hoped she might one day let me take her to dinner. Above everything I have ever written, that letter is the text of which I am most proud. It was honest.

Two days after I mailed the letter, I exited the lecture hall to find that Laura was waiting for me. She hooked her arm into mine, wrapped her red scarf around both of our necks, and gave me a chaste kiss on the cheek. I loved her then, I think, if that warm and giddy feeling is love.

Our courtship was slow and sweet and delicate. I let Laura dictate the pace of our relationship. On a practical level, I had to deflect her curiosity about my background and lied that I lived with a strict aunt, which negated the possibility of her visiting my home, but Laura was not interested in my home, my past, my parents. Now that Laura had decided that we were a pair, she was interested in me. Me. We became quite the golden couple in a few short months, and I basked in the sunlight she reflected upon me. I was no longer the grubby boy in the secondhand coat trying to get his leg over.

When we did eventually make love, it was entirely different from anything I had experienced before. It was an early March afternoon in her parents’ house, and a wintry sun cast shadows across the tiled kitchen floor as we drank tea from china cups, leaning back, side by side, against the AGA oven. We were talking about our plans for the summer, and Laura suggested that we needed to get out of Dublin, “to get some privacy,” she said, and looked quickly at me, fiercely, and then looked away again. I knew what she meant, but I teased her—“Privacy? For what?”—and I brushed a strand of her dark hair out of her eyes and kissed her mouth gently. She responded softly at first and then twirled and stood in front of me so that we were nose to nose. “They won’t be back until after four,” she said, and led me by the hand up the back stairs to her bedroom. Once there, we quickly stripped and dived under the covers, both of us shy and tentative, and there we stayed for the next two hours, tenderly touching and tasting, and as I moved inside her I thought, idiotically, that life was good and that all would be well.