Free The Rachel Papers by Martin Amis

half-successes. Referring to Conquests and Techniques: a Synthesis, I write on the inside cover of the Rachel folder itself:

    Initial 2B
    Compensatory A3 tendencies
    Emily gambit
    Marilyn variation deferred.

    I erase 'deferred' and put in 'declined'. This doesn't tell me much.

    The first day at school was intensely embarrassing, not for me (I felt) so much as for the directress and her staff, unhelpful as these distinctions generally turn out to be.
    On my way there, walking up attractive Addison Avenue, I took out the two letters I had received that morning. It was a clear day, and so, being morbidly early for school, I slipped between the bird-pats on a pavement bench to take a proper look at them.
    The fact that my mother had in her life made any written contact whatever with the outside world was in itself a moving tribute to the British GPO. My name mis-spelt, an address which even I could make little of, four ip stamps upside down in the top left-hand corner. I put on my glasses and began worrying a few key phrases: pity missed you Sunday ... clearing up? got sick ... Your father in London two weeks but ... giving rather grand house-party ... the ? of one college is coming ... you come? ... Love to Jenny ... Norman is behaving ... Mrs Wick found vests you forgot ... My face burned. What was the point? There always was a point. Ah, sinisterly clear ending ... take care. Find out from him how many are coming. He can be reached at 01-937 2814.
    9-3-7, W-E-S, Western: Kensington area; must be his slag's place. Why didn't she ring him at the office ? Or was this some wily show of uninterest? The whole thing would have depressed me, but I happened to be having tea with Rachel that afternoon - d deux. And the telephone number might come in useful.
    The second letter was airmail, garishly stamped. It was from Coco.
    'Coco' was the sixteen-year-old daughter of a Lebanese economics professor (cultivated by my father when he was visiting lecturer at Cambridge the year before last). Towards the end of the summer the family had come out for three weekends. Coco was tanned, minx-like, exotic; she was, furthermore, a girl, and I was just old enough and rude enough to seem quite unimprovable to her. The first weekend I kissed Coco on the landing. The second I smoothed her shy breasts in the greenhouse. The third I persuaded her to come to my room at 12 p.m. - a perfect night, though intercourse did not take place. She was barely fifteen then and I didn't want to come out of jail when she was barely twenty-one. Besides, she wouldn't let me. I kept up our correspondence because it made me feel sexually active and in demand, and because I like showing off (doubtless to myself only) in letters. I read:

    Dear Charles,
    Thank you for your letter - at last! Shame on you for not writing to me sooner! I am very pleased that you did so well in your exams. My o levels were not so good! ?

    I skimmed for the bits about how handsome I was. The final paragraph went:

    I always hope I might come to England soon. Mummy says may-be (?) next year. I think often about meeting you again and that you will not like me any more. If I come next year you will be at University and I at Drama-school ! ? But this belongs to Maybe Land. Well! I must go to bed now, I am so tired out! Write to me soon. Love Coco XXX

    This required immediate attention. Taking out a memo-pad I began to draft my reply:

    My Sweet,
    Thank you for your long-awaited letter. I was particularly intrigued to hear of 'Maybe Land'. Could you tell me more about this strange clime? What, for example, is its capital, its geographical situation, its type of government? What, say, are its climatic features, its territorial boundaries, its chief industries? Moreover, you neglected for the second time to tell me whether on your next visit you are going to let me go to bed...

    I stood up, stretching like a starfish. It was nearly nine thirty. I gathered my papers and trotted off.
    The school