Eimear McBride - The Lesser Bohemians

So had you a girlfriend then? That’s the next bit, he says.

She was the year above but two years older — twenty-one to my nineteen. Nice nails. Nice dresses. Completely out of my league but once I set eyes on her that was it. I was already pretty good with women by then but she wouldn’t give an inch. When I’d ask her out — which was a lot — she’d say Where are you going to take me? Down the dogs? But after seeing me in an end-of-term play she got a lot more flirtatious suddenly. Nothing was said directly but I saw it and played along. Whenever I was about to leave a party with some other girl, I’d always go say You’ve got first call love, if you want to make a man of me. I was terrible around women I suppose — never met one I couldn’t find something to fancy about. So I had a bad reputation for that and she was very straight but I could see she got a kick out of how direct I was about it, and playing shocked. Soon she started letting me over to borrow books. As soon as I’d try to kiss her — which I always did — she’d turf me back out but then I’d catch her watching me all the way down the road. Being constantly broke meant I had to be more inventive than most. So I’d arrive to take her for midnight walks bringing bunches of roses I’d stripped from someone’s hedge. I once got arrested in St James’s Park for — while completely off my head — trying to swim out and steal her a duck egg. But it was the end-of-year party did it — reciting all of Goblin Market kneeling at her feet. It was her favourite poem and the grand gesture made her laugh, sitting there with all her friends checking each verse off. Worked though. She said Alright, you’ve earned your stripes, and took me home. We spent the next week in bed and she wasn’t so fussy about my reputation after that. So we were together then for the next three years during which every single thing that’d made her wary about getting involved I did to her, and worse.

Was she who you had your daughter with? Yeah, he says That was her.

I was crazy about her in the beginning. Kept asking her to marry me all the time — thank God she had the sense to refuse. But we were happy and it was easy at first. Lots of sex. Going out. Staying in. She even introduced me to her parents — I’ve never seen two people look more appalled. I’d borrowed a tie and everything but it really was no use I had an accent you could’ve cut with a knife. She liked that though, slumming it. And all the drugs fascinated her at first. I was happy then though so I wasn’t too bad. Well actually that’s not true I was but they were still helping me to be a nice guy so the problem didn’t really show itself then.

*

So, she graduated that summer. I had another year to go. By the time I did, she was starting to want more and I didn’t know what more meant. What more could you want than getting trashed, having great sex and rolling around London having a laugh? But it was me she wanted more out of and I wasn’t able for that. She didn’t like my being closed about family. Whenever she asked I’d say we didn’t speak or sometimes that they were all dead. If she really pushed I’d end up losing my rag and fucking off for a few days. She wouldn’t bring it up for ages after that. I suppose I just didn’t know how how to be with someone, close to someone, or what it would entail. So I’d mostly agree to whatever she said — which is how we ended up moving in together, even though I’d no interest in that. We got a tiny flat in Finsbury Park. I remember being summoned to her father’s club. Roundly informed of her mother’s shame and warned if I got her pregnant I’d be in more trouble than I’d ever been. Of course, by the time I did I already was so it didn’t matter anyway. Nothing would dissuade her though. She said she was in love and to be honest I didn’t give a shit about what anyone’s mother thought.

Anyway, by the time I graduated too she was already well on her way. Plenty of small, but good, parts and good in them — RSC, Royal Court, that kind of thing — whereas I auditioned a lot but couldn’t land anything and, without the routine of school, I started to go down. All the confidence just began leaking away. As the months passed and I still got nothing I started spreading the weekend. Began needing a pick-me-up before going in. Same again when I came out. A whole lot more when I didn’t get the part, then forgetting it’s not the best idea to go auditioning off your face. It was like not feeling real any more. Disconnected despite all the talking. Watching the self I’d built up over four or five years just crack and fall off me like paint. People kept saying It’s only a matter of time so I persevered in the hope they weren’t lying. At the same time, beginning to think I might’ve been lying to myself. Wasting everyone’s time with fantasies of this career I couldn’t have. The person I could never be. There was just so much rejection and not enough of me. So I got afraid. And I lost my nerve — which is really fucking fatal in this line of work. By a year I was falling. Just breaking apart. Taking whatever I could to feel normal again. To get out of bed. To get back in. And I’d be a real cunt to her sometimes and not because I begrudged her, I just wanted something for myself. And she was always trying to help. Introduce me to people. So I’d get bits here and there but not enough to fix what was going wrong, as if anything could have been.

Then I cheated on her. It wasn’t the first time, just the first time I got caught, and I knew I should feel guilty but, really, I didn’t understand all the fuss. For me it was only a drunken fuck. She was shattered though, wouldn’t see me for weeks. And when she did take me back it was different because it obviously meant more to her than me. So rows began ending more frequently with me fucking off for days and not telling her where. I stopped hiding the extent of my habit as well. I didn’t care how much she begged or how much I spent. She started tagging along everywhere I went, mostly to get me home safe or drag me off someone else. I made her do that, take control and I didn’t make it easy at all. I think we spent a year getting kicked off buses and out of cabs because of the way I’d carry on, picking fights with strangers and being a twat. I’d wake up with black eyes or cracked ribs and no fucking memory of how I did it, which brought shedloads of older memories in so I’d have to up the dosages to push those away again. And I’d have the odd moment of thinking What are you playing at? But they always came to nothing because I couldn’t stop. I just didn’t know how.

Did you still love her? As much as I was able, he says Which probably wasn’t as much as she deserved. She just wanted so much and it suffocated me. I didn’t want to talk about or hear about things. It was the intimacy I suppose. I just couldn’t, I mean, my position was, if you feel down, down a few of these and spare me all the fucking chat.

By halfway through our third year together I was mercilessly fucking around, hardly bothering to hide at all. When she’d threaten to leave I’d beg her to stay and she always would. Then I’d get that buzz in my head and be off to find someone else. And if I didn’t wake up with a stranger’s skin under my nails it was in bed with one of her friends, some girl from her play. She’d be so humiliated and I’d know I was a piece of shit but I had no real conscience about sex. Just wanted it and wanted it. Always pestering her for it too until she stopped wanting to. Then we’d row because I wasn’t able to touch her without it becoming that. Sometimes she’d just lie there and let me and I still would. I fucking knew I shouldn’t do that but then it was another excuse. Say she was cold so I fucked someone else. I know I hurt her over and over like I was looking up ways in a book. The worst part was, she couldn’t hurt me back. Once or twice she was unfaithful and flaunted it. For appearances’ sake I ranted and raved but I didn’t really care. I think I got her to believe that it was all her fault. That if only she could make me happy I would stop and that was a lie. It must have made her so lonely, all that fucking addiction, because even when I was with her she was on her own.