the room like an intruded knife. Standing over Julianne, I touched her elbow. ‘Scrambled,’ I said.
‘What?’ she said.
‘Egg.’
Her eyes were closed, her breathing even; her upper lip curled back, as if she might draw blood. Nevertheless, twenty minutes later she stumbled down the stairs with me, pretending to be an invalid and slumping on my arm. ‘Wait a minute,’ I said, ‘I have to check my post.’
‘Post? Does it come at this time?’
My hand plunged into the pigeonhole. ‘It’s my letter. I’ve been waiting. It’s come.’
Julianne seemed dazed. I slid a bank statement and a postcard from her pigeonhole and pressed them into her fist. I carried Niall’s letter into breakfast; I wanted to rip it open at once, but I knew I would not get the best out of it if I read it in public. I wanted to be able to dwell on every word, and at intervals press the paper to my cheek, pretending it was his skin. This effort of imagination could only be made in private.
I put the letter on my chair, collected my breakfast from the hatch, picked up the letter again and put it on my lap. Weak tea was poured. There was a patter of rain against the long windows. Lynette had not yet put on her lipstick; her face seemed only half-formed. Karina sat rubbing her eyes. ‘Toast, Carmel?’ cried Claire. There was a grating cheeriness in her voice.
Sue sat at the end of the table, yawning hugely. ‘Don’t you think we ought to be allowed to come down in our dressing-gowns?’
‘There would be some melancholy sights,’ Lynette said.
Claire said crossly, ‘Really, if people can’t make the effort – ’
‘What’s the matter with you this morning?’ Julianne asked her.
‘And what’s the matter with you?’ Claire snapped back. ‘We never see you at breakfast. What have we done to deserve this honour?’
‘Think of it as a rehearsal for Guest Night,’ Lynette murmured.
I looked down the table at Claire: irate, her wood-shaving curls leaping away from her scalp. Sue looked jaundiced, and as if she had not slept. She kept her place when the rest of us trooped up for our scrambled egg. It slid through the tines of our forks, pale and perplexing as ever. Sue began to butter a half-slice of rubber toast, and then lost interest. She dropped her knife rather ostentatiously, let it clatter on to her plate. I glanced at her, sympathizing.
Julianne picked up her teaspoon and tapped it against the rim of her cup. ‘Young ladies, if I may have your attention? You may well ask what I’m doing at breakfast. If this pap is the standard, I’ve been well out of it, and as for the grace, wit and civility of the conversation – ’
‘Go and eat worms,’ I said.
‘They would be a most acceptable substitute: but first I wish to make an announcement.’ I noticed a little stir at an adjacent table; they thought it was an engagement, and that soon a diamond would be passed around. ‘I thought it was better to do it all at once,’ Julianne said. ‘I’m going to change my name. I don’t want to be called Julianne any more.’
‘Why not?’ Lynette said. ‘It’s . . . sweet.’
‘So it is,’ Julianne said. ‘And so I’m not. It’s a doll’s name. A baby name. I don’t want it. From now on you can simply call me Julia.’
There was a short silence. Then, ‘Fine,’ Claire said. ‘If you like.’
Lynette said, ‘Perhaps I, myself, should consider . . .’
Karina said, ‘It doesn’t matter what you’re called. It doesn’t change what you are.’
This made Julia smile. ‘Anyone else want to join in? Carmel?’
‘Definitely,’ I said. ‘Call me Zsa-Zsa.’
‘Make me Fifi,’ Sue said. Her voice was wobbly. Our heads flicked in her direction. She stood up, gripped the back of her chair; she hung on to it for a second, then blundered towards the door.
I was quickest on my feet, sprinting out after her. She let the heavy half-glazed door swing back in my face, and she was crouching on the floor outside the diningroom when I reached her. I had brought my letter with me of course, but I dropped it so that I had both hands free to scoop her floppy fair hair back from her face. Her hand clawed at my shoulder for support. She was sick on the floor, my right shoe and my letter.
The shoe could be salvaged. Had to be, really. But my letter was illegible and smelt noxious. It was by an act of omission, not commission, that I understood its contents. I heard nothing from Niall for the rest of the week, and on Sunday I took the extreme, panicky step of telephoning him at his lodgings.
There was a delay before he came to the phone, and his voice was reluctant. I burst into tears when I heard it. ‘I thought you were dead under a truck,’ I said. ‘I thought you must be.’
‘You didn’t get my letter?’
I couldn’t seem to make him understand that Sue had been sick on it. ‘Why was she?’
‘Because she’s pregnant,’ I said. ‘Why else?’
A long breath. It was a bad line, but in time I understood that we were finished, that he wanted – what did he say? I can’t remember now. The phrases fade. It seemed to have something to do with the fox fur. That he was afraid of what I’d be like, in ten or twenty years, if that was what I deemed to be the proper solace for a cold night.
The next day I didn’t go to lectures. It was the first time I had missed. Sue came to my room mid-morning. Her face was swollen from crying. She had been home for the weekend, and given Roger her news. Her account of events was sketchy, jarring and not entirely coherent, but it was obvious to me that Roger was stringing her along. I worked at embroidering my sweater, because while my face was hidden from her I could evade the task of assuming a suitable expression.
