Rooms with a view

The room is unfamiliar. And come to think of it…so is that stench. What is that? It smells like rotten fish seeping through the gaps in the venetian shutters determined to find a path up my nostrils.

There is a loud screech and the sound of wheels coming to an immediate stop.

“Vafancullo! Stronza! Ma che cazzo!”

Was that something about a cat? Maybe Italians, sorry Sicilians, are just not that keen on moggies? I feel as if my senses are being attacked from every angle. Time for a deep breath. I can do this; I can do this. I am lying in a huge bed, far bigger than my bed in my parents’ house. Come to think of it, it couldn’t be more different to my entire room in my parents’ house. For one thing, I am on my own. No annoying sister to share my room with. I don’t know who thought that was a clever idea…especially in the hormone infested teen years. I’m surprised we’re both still standing. The ‘acquisition’ of my things and then asking for forgiveness: Topshop outfits, Kylie CDs, my diary with all my deepest secrets.

But now she’s not here, I miss her dreadfully. Distance does indeed make the heart grow fonder and I’ve never felt so fond of my younger sister, Amanda or ‘Mand’ to us. What I would give to be bothered right now by her. Or in fact bothered by someone else. I can’t think about that now. I scan the room …in front of me is a very large walnut wardrobe just looking to be filled with beautiful Italian clothes, handbags and shoes. It will be disappointed when I pull out my rather drab but sensible outfits from Next in every shade of grey and blue. There is a long mirror covering the length of the right door on said wardrobe. Just what anyone needs to see first thing in the morning. My face. My pimpled pale face and my hair looking like it was in the middle of a party I interrupted. Really attractive. No wonder he left and I’m alone. I did wonder if making the ever so drastic decision to cut my long thick locks off into a bob just before I came to a warmer climate was a clever idea. I’m going to be called “mushroom head” by the children or “Signoria Funghi”. I am drowning in layer upon layer of bedsheets. Embroidered into the edges of the top bedsheet are birds and deer nestled amongst the trees. It truly looked like something ethereal you’d see hanging in the Uffizi. I’m aware of a subtle smell of must and as I gently move, I see tiny speckles of dust float into the air. I feel like one of those speckles. Floating out into the ether, not totally alone but also not sure where I am headed. I wonder when these sheets were last washed. I can feel something sandy under my legs. Perhaps remnants from the last victim. On each of the walls hangs a crucifix. My granny, ‘Lulu’ has one in each room of her terraced house in Cornwall but three in a room? I’m really being judged. That’ll be the Catholic guilt rearing its head again. It sits in every bone of my being and appears every so often as if to say, “I’m just popping in, I won’t be long, just a reminder that I’m still here.” What is my recent sin? Oh yes, after years of declaring to my friend Gwen that I would wait for someone special, I meet a handsome rugby player who I thought I knew, he takes my virginity and then leaves for Africa of all places. I am a ruined woman.

I don’t know how I got here. And then it all comes rushing back.

⃰

It was a cloudy middle march afternoon in Oxford, and I had been lying on my bed in my shared house at St Wilfred’s college wearing my college joggers and hoodie dunking chocolate digestives into my sixth cup of tea for the day while reading. A Room with a View was my go-to escape. I felt it was an acceptable read as a short break from my dissertation. I know Lucy Honeychurch was disappointed about the lack of view from Pensione Bertolini but in that moment I wouldn’t be disappointed with a view of anything in Florence. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t me disappointed with a view of anything in Italy.

While I thought of beautiful Italian piazzas and beautiful Italian men, the phone in the hall downstairs rang. I let it ring for a while but as the caller clearly wasn’t giving up, and there wasn’t any of the usual chatter and screaming, I assumed I was the only one in and dragged myself up. As I took my time, slowly walking down the flight of stairs to the phone expecting it to be someone’s boyfriend, either that or Cassie’s mum who liked to call daily, I was surprised that it was for me. It was my friend Gwen. It started as it always did.

“But pleaaaseee.” she begged in her own inimitable way.

“N…O…”

“You haven’t heard me out yet.”

“But it’s always the same question Gwen.”

“But please.”

“No.”

“But why?”

“I’m busy. I don’t have time to go on an adventure with you.”

“How do you know I was going to ask that?”

“Because its Saturday night. Everyone finds you annoying so I’m your next victim.”

“Harsh.”

“But true.”

“But please.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake. Were you like this as a child? Did you spend a lot of your school holidays with very distant aunties?”

“I did as it happens…I never thought of it like that. That was harsh. Truthful but harsh. Thank you for ruining my childhood.”

“You’re welcome.”

“But pretty please with the juices of Leonardo di Caprio sprinkled on top.”

“Yuck. You’ve got the wrong time in my cycle to mention Leo. I’m feeling a bit more Bruce Willis now.”

I’d recently read an article in Cosmopolitan, the fountain of all truth, about the types of men that you found attractive depending on the time of your cycle and loved using it in conversation. I’d also found it a good repellent to the opposite sex, “sorry, no I’m not free for a drink. I’m sorry I have no control. It’s to do with my cycle.”

“Fine. With the sweat of Bruce sprinkled on top.”

“No Gwen, I’m behind with my dissertation. I’m putting the phone down.”

“Oh, come on. It’ll be good for you to enjoy a bit of craic, and you may meet a yummy Irishman who you can discuss the...” Gwen opened her mouth for a huge dramatic yawn… “you know so you can discuss the influence of the…sorry, falling asleep here…” another yawn and then “Catholic Church in Ireland on the plays of Brian Friel or whatever bollocks you’re writing about.”

“God, it sounds so dull when you put it like that.”

“So, let’s not be dull…just for a night.”

“Nope.”

“But it’s Saturday night and we’re young and hot…. well, I am, and your dissertation will keep till tomorrow.”

“No.”

“Pretty please.” I knew Gwen would keep going as she always did, and I suppose it was Saturday night.

“Well maybe. Can I be Skye this evening?”

“Mmm, not sure about that. You’re too well put together to be an activist.”

Gwen and I had been the closest of friends since meeting in our college JCR at the start of fresher’s week. She had come skipping up to me, hair in bunches and I had honestly thought they had let a complete nutter through the door.

St Wilfred’s College was a teaching college in Oxford, affiliated to the university but as most courses were in education it wasn’t deemed to be ‘proper Oxford’. I had spent most of my time at school building up to a life at ‘proper Oxford’ but on changing schools at seventeen and feeling the need to reinvent myself as not just a nerd, I fell in with the wrong crowd, lost my focus and spent a lot of time ‘hanging’ listening to Radiohead rather than ‘studying’.

When I failed to achieve my predicted grades at eighteen, my parents gave me the option to repeat a year at college, resit my exams and then apply again but I was too mortified, so I came up with a plan. Get into St Wilfred’s, get a first and then do a master’s at ‘proper Oxford’. Forming close friendships wasn’t really part of the plan but as soon as I met Gwen, I knew I loved everything about her. We had this sort of giddiness when we spent time together which usually started with her infectious laugh whenever we saw each other. There was something truly endearing and childlike about our friendship.

Early on we had developed a silly ritual of creating personas when we headed out for a night on the tiles. It was so much fun. Gwen usually went by the name ‘Skye’ and liked to tell her victims that she was an environmentalist who spent summers as a volunteer cleaning up the Cornish beaches whereas I liked to say my name was Arabella, I had a pony, and I was a distant relative or some lowly member of The Royal Family. Gwen endearingly said it was because I had a rather inbred looking demeanour, and I said she fit the part with all that hair under her armpits.

“It’s still a no. Putting phone down now.”

⃰

Not taking ‘no’ for an answer, Gwen turned up at my door ten minutes after I’d hung up on her. With a bottle of Liebfraumilch in hand looking like a human glitter ball with the chunkiest of wedge sandals, I did wonder how she was planning to walk the streets of Oxford without looking like a Eurovision song contest entry. Gwen told me I had twenty minutes to get my sparkle on which would be a struggle as my hair was greasy and I needed to shave my legs, but I managed to pull something relatively acceptable together. Maybe a night out was just what I needed. After all, I needed a break from my dissertation and studies at some point.

We would usually start our nights out somewhere local. Gwen was always on the lookout for a Wetherspoons as she said it reminded her of her hometown of Woking. Poor Woking, having that as a connection. I was delighted that Oxford didn’t appear to have been graced by such an establishment. We would start in some of the more ‘towny’ pubs at the start of our evenings out. The highly desirable Slug and Lettuce or Cock and Camel. And without fail, these establishments certainly did contain ‘as it said on the tin’, and it wasn’t long before we usually decided to move on to our safe place where we knew the drinks were cheap and Gwen wouldn’t be offered a £1 for a snog. The Oxford Union. A building which had welcomed and entertained royalty, politicians, Hollywood legends and even Ben Affleck. God knows why we were allowed in as we usually lowered the tone and there was always an element of expectation about spending time there. On one, well maybe more than one occasion I had encouraged Gwen to snog the union president.

“Look, I know he’s short, but you never know he may be Prime Minister one day and blue is really your colour.”

“But he’s wearing purple velvet trousers. I don’t think he’s interested in ladies.”

“Oh Gwen, that’s a minor point. If anyone will encourage him to expand his repertoire it’ll, be you.”

And she would then usually snog the chap, it would be photographed, and we’d all move

on and laugh about it for weeks to come until we saw the unfortunate incident in a copy of The Oxford Student in the JCR.

⃰

That evening, we’d both had a nutritious dinner of two stale white slices of bread slightly toasted with margarine and accompanied by a few glasses of Liebfraumilch while getting ready. We had then had a top up of rank red wine bought for us by the slugs and cocks, so by the time we arrived at the union bar we were on our way, and the idea of a dance seemed like the only option. I do remember entering the sweaty rabbit warren of a nightclub with all the twists and turns and rooms full of students snogging and other less innocent pursuits. ‘The Purple Turtle’ which produced enough liquid for a turtle to swim in most evenings was full of lots of large guys in their black DJs swaying due to the large amount of drink they appeared to have consumed.

“That’s our target for the evening.” Gwen instructed.

“I wish you wouldn’t put it like that. We sound like predators.”

“Sorry love it’s all that Attenborough; I can’t get enough of him.”

And with that Gwen and I moved in on said target and the rest of the night became a blurry mess.

⃰

With my head pounding the only saving grace was the light streaming through the beautiful bay windows and hitting my face. I felt so rough that I thought now may be the time I meet my maker. I wish it had been as when I took a quick look under the duvet, in horror I discovered I was just wearing my pants.

I could hear singing coming from the room next to me and moments later I did think I was in an alternate universe. A very tall very handsome chap opened the door and walked towards me with his white T-shirt and shorts on and a huge smile. He planted a kiss on my lips.

“Good morning beautiful”

“Oh, good morning.”

Can’t remember his name. I was also conscious that my breath probably stank of red wine, and as my tongue touched my bottom lip, I could feel the crusty remnants. On the wall next to the bed, I noticed lots of sticky notes with my name and phone number on. Where’s the note with his name on? I wasn’t sure whether to be worried by the volume of notes or to be hugely flattered.

“Goodness that’s a lot of notes.”

“I know, I think I may have taken it a bit too far. I wanted to get your number before you left and then you passed out.”

“Wow. Sorry. That’s so attractive.”

“Don’t worry nothing happened, I slept on the sofa.”

“Thank you. That's very kind. Listen I’ll get dressed and be out of here in a second.”

Pulling the duvet further up my body, I suddenly felt hugely self-conscious and wished

that I’d not drunk so much.

“Would you like a tea or coffee?”

“Please don’t worry, I can grab one on the way back. I’m sure The Nose Bag will be open.”

“Oh, I love that place.”

“Me too. So cosy and nice for a glass of elderflower wine. Not sure why I mentioned wine given how rough I feel.”

“Ha! Are you sure I can’t get you anything? Paracetamol?”

“No, that’s fine. I’ll just get…”

“Let me give you a bit of privacy and I’ll walk out with you.”

“Thank you.”

Handsome man went out the front door and I surveyed the floor and quickly grabbed my remaining clothes looking for some sort of letter or document with his name. Handsome had the most minimalist room, a copy of Kafka’s Metamorphosis on his bedside table, a few CDs: Stone Roses, Bob Dylan, The Rolling Stones and a very tidy desk overlooking Christ Church meadows. I doubt I’d get any work done if I looked over that view. The blossom tree-lined promenade down to the river looked like it was calling you for adventure. After finding my dress on the floor, my next item to locate was my bra.

I made it into the bathroom. Found it. I then caught a glimpse of my face. Oh great, I clearly bought my waterproof mascara from a liar. I grabbed a bit of toilet tissue, dampened it and wiped the black rings from under my eyes. My teeth were fine, but I applied a bit of toothpaste to my finger to attempt to remove the smell of Merlot and I pulled a bit of lip gloss from my bag and applied it to try and cover the red wine crust that had appeared on my lips. I shouldn’t be allowed out. How attractive. Not! Why did handsome even talk to me? As I heard the bedroom door open, I realised I needed a quick exit plan.