Neil Gaiman - Trigger Warning - Short Fictions and Disturbances

My mum was pleased to hear I’d met someone. Her questions – what Cassandra’s parents did, for example – I simply shrugged away.

I went on three ‘dates’ with Cassandra. On each of our dates, I took the train up to London, and took myself to the cinema. It was exciting, in its own way.

I returned from the first trip with more stories of kissing, and of breast-feeling.

Our second date (in reality, spent watching Weird Science on my own in Leicester Square) was, as told to my mum, merely spent holding hands together at what she still called ‘the pictures’, but as reluctantly revealed to Rob and Scallie (and, over that week, to several other school friends who had heard rumours from sworn-to-secrecy Rob and Scallie, and now needed to find out if any of it was true) it was actually The Day I Lost My Virginity, in Cassandra’s aunt’s flat in London: the aunt was away, Cassandra had a key. I had (for proof) a packet of three condoms missing the one I had thrown away and a strip of four black-and-white photographs I had found on my first trip to London, abandoned in the basket of a photo booth in Victoria Station. The photo strip showed a girl about my age with long straight hair (I could not be certain of the colour. Dark blond? Red? Light brown?) and a friendly, freckly, not unpretty, face. I pocketed it. In art class I did a pencil sketch of the third of the pictures, the one I liked the best, her head half-turned as if calling out to an unseen friend beyond the tiny curtain. She looked sweet, and charming. I would have liked her to be my girlfriend.

I put the drawing up on my bedroom wall, where I could see it from my bed.

After our third date (it was to see Who Framed Roger Rabbit? ) I came back to school with bad news: Cassandra’s family was going to Canada (a place that sounded more convincing to my ears than America), something to do with her father’s job, and I would not see her for a long time. We hadn’t really broken up, but we were being practical: those were the days when transatlantic phone calls were too expensive for teenagers. It was over.

I was sad. Everyone noticed how sad I was. They said they would have loved to have met her, and maybe when she comes back at Christmas? I was confident that by Christmas, she would be forgotten.

She was. By Christmas I was going out with Nikki Blevins and the only evidence that Cassandra had ever been a part of my life was her name, written on a couple of my exercise books, and the pencil drawing of her on my bedroom wall, with ‘Cassandra, 19th February, 1985’ written underneath it.

When my mother sold the riding stable, the drawing was lost in the move. I was at art college at the time, considered my old pencil drawings as embarrassing as the fact that I had once invented a girlfriend, and did not care.

I do not believe I had thought of Cassandra for twenty years.

***

My mother sold the stables, the attached house and the meadows to a property developer, who built a housing estate where we had once lived, and, as part of the deal, gave her a small, detached house at the end of Seton Close. I visit her at least once a fortnight, arriving on Friday night, leaving Sunday morning, a routine as regular as the grandmother clock in the hall.

Mother is concerned that I am happy in life. She has started to mention that various of her friends have eligible daughters. This trip we had an extremely embarrassing conversation that began with her asking if I would like her to introduce me to the organist at her church, a very nice young man of about my age.

‘Mother. I’m not gay.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with it, dear. All sorts of people do it. They even get married. Well, not proper marriage, but it’s the same thing.’

‘I’m still not gay.’

‘I just thought, still not married, and the painting and the modelling.’

‘I’ve had girlfriends, Mummy. You’ve even met some of them.’

‘Nothing that ever stuck, dear. I just thought there might be something you wanted to tell me.’

‘I’m not gay, Mother. I would tell you if I was.’ And then I said, ‘I snogged Tim Carter at a party when I was at art college but we were drunk and it never went beyond that.’

She pursed her lips. ‘That’s quite enough of that, young man.’ And then, changing the subject, as if to get rid of an unpleasant taste in her mouth, she said, ‘You’ll never guess who I bumped into in Tesco’s last week.’

‘No, I won’t. Who?’

‘Your old girlfriend. Your first girlfriend, I should say.’

‘Nikki Blevins? Hang on, she’s married, isn’t she? Nikki Woodbridge?’

‘The one before her, dear. Cassandra. I was behind her, in the line. I would have been ahead of her, but I forgot that I needed cream for the berries today, so I went back to get it, and she was in front of me, and I knew her face was familiar. At first, I thought she was Joanie Simmond’s youngest, the one with the speech disorder, what we used to call a stammer but apparently you can’t say that any more, but then I thought, I know where I know that face from, it was over your bed for five years, of course I said, “It’s not Cassandra, is it?” and she said, “It is,” and I said, “You’ll laugh when I say this, but I’m Stuart Innes’s mum.” She says, “Stuart Innes?” and her face lit up. Well, she hung around while I was putting my groceries in my shopping bag, and she said she’d already been in touch with your friend Jeremy Porter on Bookface, and they’d been talking about you—’

‘You mean Facebook? She was talking to Scallie on Facebook?’

‘Yes, dear.’

I drank my tea and wondered who my mother had actually been talking to. I said, ‘You’re quite sure this was the Cassandra from over my bed?’

‘Oh yes, dear. She told me about how you took her to Leicester Square, and how sad she was when they had to move to Canada. They went to Vancouver. I asked her if she ever met my cousin Leslie, he went to Vancouver after the war, but she said she didn’t believe so, and it turns out it’s actually a big sort of a place. I told her about the pencil drawing you did, and she seemed very up-to-date on your activities. She was thrilled when I told her that you were having a gallery opening this week.’

‘You told her that?’

‘Yes, dear. I thought she’d like to know.’ Then my mother said, almost wistfully, ‘She’s very pretty, dear. I think she’s doing something in community theatre.’ Then the conversation went over to the retirement of Dr Dunnings, who had been our GP since before I was born, and how he was the only non-Indian doctor left in his practice and how my mother felt about this.

I lay in bed that night in my small bedroom at my mother’s house and turned over the conversation in my head. I am no longer on Facebook and thought about rejoining to see who Scallie’s friends were, and if this pseudo-Cassandra was one of them, but there were too many people I was happy not to see again, and I let it be, certain that when there was an explanation, it would prove to be a simple one, and I slept.

***

I have been showing in the Little Gallery in Chelsea for over a decade now. In the old days, I had a quarter of a wall and nothing priced at more than three hundred pounds. Now I get my own show every October, for a month, and it would be fair to say that I only have to sell a dozen paintings to know that my needs, rent and life are covered for another year. The unsold paintings remain on the gallery walls until they are gone and they are always gone by Christmas.

The couple who own the gallery, Paul and Barry, still call me ‘the beautiful boy’ as they did twelve years ago, when I first exhibited with them, when it might actually have been true. Back then, they wore flowery, open-necked shirts and gold chains: now, in middle age, they wear expensive suits and talk too much for my liking about the stock exchange. Still, I enjoy their company. I see them three times a year: in September when they come to my studio to see what I’ve been working on, and select the paintings for the show; at the gallery, hanging and opening in October; and in February, when we settle up.