Free Precocious by Joanna Barnard Page A

only defence will be, pathetic as a shrug: ‘I couldn’t stop it.’
    Lies, arguments, silence, secrets. This is the new anatomy of our marriage.

six
    Diary: Wednesday, 11 November 1992
    I phoned HM, he’d just got out of the shower (there’s an image), we talked for a bit. He said he’s got a letter for me, he’s had it for a week and kept forgetting to give it to me! I remember now seeing him at the play rehearsals the other day and he dropped an envelope, then shoved it back into his jeans pocket. I had a feeling it might be for me. He says he’ll give it to me on Saturday – nudge nudge, wink wink, etc.
    When I think about it, I have really sort of worked on him, and I feel like I’m getting somewhere. In the space of about a year, I’ve decided I would get close to him and I have. I wonder if this will always work for me? I know I’m not exactly good looking, so it’s not like I attract loads of boys, but I think I have a good mind and once I set it on someone, I get them.
    I have got a tiny piece of HM – but it gives me hope. I will get all of him some day.
    No one at home questioned why I was going to Mr Morgan’s house on a Saturday, although I didn’t give them the opportunity to. I only told Alex, who muttered, ‘he’s a pervert’, but then, he said that about everyone. ‘Pervert’ was his new favourite word. He even shouted it at Dad once, who just blinked at him as though he didn’t know what it meant.
    I was up early, twisting my damp hair into knots to make it curl, humming, slathering cocoa butter onto my skin until the smell made me feel dizzy. Mum was busy ‘cleaning’. Contrary to initial appearances, she wasn’t very domestic. She made a martyred show of housework but was terrible at it. She would spray polish without dusting first, leaving sweet-smelling balls of hair and mites mummified on the furniture. She vacuumed only the centre of rooms, so that the edges turned grey while a central circle of carpet buzzed with colour.
    The soundtrack to what she called cleaning was always The Musicals. She loved them all. You could tell what mood she was in by which record she was playing: today was
Phantom of the Opera
so was obviously going to be dramatic. Her quivering voice fought with the vacuum cleaner.
    As I edged towards the window she saw me, narrowed her eyes and shouted, ‘Why are you wearing so much makeup so early in the day?’
    ‘I’m going out,’ I yelled over Michael Crawford. I stood at the window watching for your car, and immediately its blue-green nose rounded the corner I was down the path.
    ‘See you later,’ I called, my bag swinging behind me.
    Even though I hoped I would be staying all day, I ran my eye greedily over every detail of your bungalow: a square, welcoming hall and five closed doors. You opened one of them, to the right, and motioned for me to enter the lounge. Its terracotta walls looked freshly painted. A sofa and matching chaise-longue showed no signs of wear. I looked down. A bold, diamond-patterned rug was positioned in perfect alignment against the polished dark wood floorboards. Even your scatter cushions were
organised
. Reluctant to sit down for fear of creasing something, I retreated and found you in the kitchen (spotless). I watched you from the doorway and laughed when you filled the kettle from a little jug rather than just yanking it from the wall as we did at home.
    ‘What’s so funny?’ you said without turning around.
    ‘You are,’ I said. Typically, you didn’t respond to this.
    ‘Do you like the house?’ you asked, spooning Douwe Egberts into a chrome cafetière.
    ‘Mm.’ I continued my unguided tour, gently pushing doors open and leaving them that way. In the bathroom was the Aramis I smelled on you every time you leaned over me in class. Toothpaste, cap on. Towels, impeccably folded. I couldn’t find a single thing out of place. Everything was coordinated, not just in each room but from one to another. The colours and