It’s two weeks since I last saw Jeremy, at the barbecue but I’m really looking forward to seeing him this weekend. Or at least I think I am. Or could it be that I’m just really really looking forward to what we’ve got planned later. It’s a big weekend for him. It’s his mother’s 50th birthday celebrations and he’s taking the opportunity to introduce me to his parents. So I’m not just meeting his parents and younger brother for the first time, but all of his extended family as well. They’re having afternoon tea at his parent’s house, in Teddington, South West London, before a group of us are going to the ballet in the evening. It was so kind of him to invite me, not least because of the occasion but also because he knows what a ballet fanatic I am and the opportunity to see this particular artist in this particular setting is a once in a lifetime dream of mine. Proper bucket list stuff and I’m very grateful. A part of me does wonder if I would have accepted the invitation if it hadn’t included the trip to the ballet this evening. But I’ve said “yes” now and I’m on my way up to London on the train.
Jeremy is planning to come up to Paddington station to collect me at 1pm before driving us both down to his parent’s house, which should take around another 45 minutes or so, traffic permitting.
It was difficult choosing what I should wear today. Obviously, I want to make a good first impression with his family, but I also don’t want it to look like I’m trying too hard. Added to that, what is planned requires practicality as well as the need to stay warm as evening falls, so needs to be smart enough for the afternoon tea as well as the ballet later. I’ve opted for an all-white Laura Ashley long, linen, maxi summer dress, nipped in at the waist with a fashionably wide belt, flat pumps and a classic cashmere pashmina for later, teamed with pearl earrings today rather than my usual simple diamond studs.
Looking out of the window at the rows and rows of grey London brick terraces that whizz past outside, signally our imminent arrival into central London, I try not to think of my bedroom floor at home which is strewn with discarded outfits. Last night I drafted poor Mel in, to give me her opinion on every myriad of different outfit combinations. Two bottles of wine and about 50 outfits later, I’m sure she was just saying “yes” to anything and everything!
Stepping down from the train and into the throng of tourists and day visitors travelling up to town for the weekend, I spot Jeremy waiting for me on the opposite side of the ticket barrier.
“Gosh, you looked like an angel from heaven, walking down the platform towards me just then,” he says as we greet each other. “The sun was streaming through the roof making your hair shine as if you had a halo.”
He’s always had a thing about my hair. He loves to stroke it and touch it. I reach up and give him a peck on the cheek, then he leans down to take my overnight bag from me with one hand, and with his other, reaches for mine to hold, as we walk out of the station and towards his parked car.
He looks so pleased to see me and I suppose I am pleased to see him too. He’s been nothing but lovely, courteous and kind to me since we first met two months ago. He’s well mannered, well educated, earns a solid income, clearly has great prospects and I expect, as I’m about to discover today, also has a lovely family as well.
I haven’t yet introduced Jeremy to my mum and stepdad, but I know he is the exact kind of husband material my mum would have chosen for me. She’s already been grilling me as to his prospects and breeding. She wants to know where he went to school, where he works, what his parents do, where they go on holiday and so on. She’s coming down to London in a few weeks. We plan to do some shopping and see a West End show, so maybe I’ll get the chance to introduce them to each other then. Or maybe I won’t, I’m still not sure. I know that once my mum has met him, there’ll be no going back if she thinks he’s perfect, which I have a feeling she will.
The sun is high in the sky and the weather is seasonally warm, in fact very hot, even for late June, so Jeremy has the top down on his car. I love the feeling of driving topless, so to speak. There really is nothing else like it and I know we make a striking couple as he zips through the streets of West London down towards Hammersmith, before picking up the A316 past Kew and on towards Richmond. He turns to look at me, his classic blue cotton shirt contrasting sharply with the red leather of his driver’s seat. Reaching for my hand, he lifts it to his lips, kisses the back of it affectionately and smiles over at me. I know he really likes me, he’s already told me that, as well as alluding to the strength of his feelings (which I know are in danger of being a lot deeper and certainly a lot deeper than mine). As much as I do like him too, I worry that things are moving too fast. I dread him telling me that he loves me, which I have a feeling he might say later tonight. Not that it wouldn’t be flattering to hear it, of course, but I’m a long way away from feeling that myself and it would be unbelievably awkward not knowing what to say in return. I run through the choices in my head.
“That’s nice,” which would be awful for him and is basically an obvious way of ensuring he knows I don’t feel the same. Or should I just lie and say something like, “Me too”, or, “Ditto.” Alluding to one's feelings without actually saying those three little words in return.
In retrospect it doesn’t feel that long since I ended my last serious relationship with Steve although it has been over nine months. Even though I now realise that relationship was completely flawed from the very beginning, it still feels like I haven’t had much time to reflect or regroup emotionally. How ironic that with Steve I was more in love with the idea of being in love, and now that I’m in a relationship which on paper at least, ticks all the right boxes, I’m not falling head over heels? I can only assume it will happen with time. I do enjoy spending time with Jeremy and we do have very similar interests and although I can’t deny that I wasn’t not looking for a boyfriend when we were introduced, I realise I also wasn’t looking for anything too serious either. At least not just yet. But at the same time, I don’t want to hurt him and today is an important day for both him and his family. Him, because I know he’s excited to introduce me and I assume gain their approval, and for his family, because of the significance of the event. Your mother only turns 50 once. So I put my doubts to the back of my mind, as he turns off the main road and his tyres crunch on the gravel drive, signifying our arrival at his parent’s home.
“Deep breath,” he says, squeezing my hand reassuringly. My nerves clearly palatable. “You’ll be absolutely fine. I know Mummy and Daddy (he still refers to his parents as if he were two years old) are going to love you and I’m sure you’ll charm them as well.”
I flip down the sun visor to check my lipstick in the mirror, running my tongue across the front of my teeth. Using my fingers as a comb I smooth down my hair which has gone a bit haywire after our open-air jaunt and I readjust my fringe. Satisfied with my appearance, I gather my skirt, and grab my clutch.
Jeremy having watched me do my final adjustments, now jumps out of the car and round to the passenger side, opening the door and offering a hand to help me out.
“You look lovely, Victoria. Come on, let’s go and face the enemy.” Offering me his left arm, I slip my right arm through his and we walk into the house together.
Jeremy’s parents’ house is a typical London double-fronted Victorian villa on a large leafy plot set back from the main road. The drive is already littered with five or six cars, all of them top of the range executive saloons or small and fast sports cars similar to Jeremy’s Lotus. Large symmetrical bay windows, framed in white period stone masonry that match the lintels and the columns of the main entrance, are surrounded by the distinctive and unique colour of London brick. Three storeys rise up to meet the sloping roof which houses a number of tall chimney clusters, giving an indication to the original form of heating in this old house. My heels clack quietly as we step up onto the porch causing me to look down at the patterned terracotta floor tiles of the entrance porch which look original Victorian. Overall this is an impressive house. Even if his parents have lived here all their married life, having purchased it long before the initial house price boom which started back in the 1980s, this is still a much grander house than your average family home.
If I thought the front of the house was impressive, that was before we walked inside and through to the back. The traditional façade of the front and the few formal rooms that I can see leading off on either side of the hallway, housing original Victorian period features, such as grand marble fireplaces and original decorative coving, could not be more different than the back of the house. At some point, someone took a massive sledgehammer to the entire back of the building, opening up all the living spaces to create a large open-plan kitchen/diner and family room which, due to the huge bi-folding doors, when fully opened (as they are now) to create a seamless flow from the inside to the outside, means the room is both flooded with light and space.
The garden must be at least a couple of acres. South-facing and sun drenched. A patio leads down to a formal lawn, bigger than a tennis court. Borders of roses and colourful perennials frame the lawn and at the bottom of the garden a beech hedge leads down to a small shaded woodland beyond. The garden is milling with people and liveried waiters who are handing out glasses of fizz and canapés of smoked salmon blinis and caviar on toast. A small group are playing croquet on the lawn and the ambiance is completed by the purest sounds of a classical string quartet, set up on the farthest corner of the patio, who are currently playing ‘Spring’ from Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. This, I can see immediately, is one helluva garden party, even by middle-upper class British standards.
I grip Jeremy’s arm even tighter as he walks past a few casual groups gathered together on the patio, champagne flutes in hand, mouthing greetings of “Hello” and “Lovely to see you”. He heads straight for a glamorous and immaculately turned out woman, who’s wearing a long floaty floral silk shift dress, cut at the front to show just the right amount of cleavage, teamed with a full-length string of pearls, her beautifully coiffed hair falling softly over her shoulders. By the similarity in their facial features, this clearly is his mother.
“Mummy,” he says kissing her on both cheeks. “I’d like you to meet Victoria.”
“Darling,” she replies, embracing her son “…and you, my dear,” turning her attention to look at me, reaching down for both of my hands which she pulls forward, her eyes briefly glancing up and down my body, giving me the once over, as if she were about to purchase a young filly capable of successfully breeding with her stud of a son “…look just too delightful. Welcome to our home and please, you must call me Diana.”
“Now, Jeremy. Be a dear and run along and fetch us two lovely glasses of champagne, so that I can talk about you behind your back to your lovely girlfriend.”
My body jolts instantly. Hearing Jeremy’s mother refer to me as ‘your lovely girlfriend’ has made me react physically. Suddenly in that one moment, things have just become officially serious. I have a named place in this family. A position, a responsibility. One that I didn’t ask for and one I’m sure I’m not ready to assume. It suddenly hits me, the enormity of the step I’ve just inadvertently taken. Being someone’s girlfriend in private and amongst your friends is one thing but being ‘your lovely girlfriend’ in front of family is so much more serious. As Jeremy leaves in search of the nearest waiter, Diana turns her attention back to me.
“Happy birthday. Thank you so much for inviting me, and on such a special occasion,” I say politely. “You have a beautiful home.”
“Well, we are very lucky,” she says proudly, “and although the place is a bit big now that the boys have both left, it was fun bringing them up here.”
I can only imagine what fun it would have been to have been a child growing up in this house, especially with a sibling to play with. Endless places to play hide and seek, or to run around the lawn in swimming trunks, dodging the ice-cold water of the sprinklers on a hot summer’s day, such as today. For a fleeting moment I allow my mind to picture a charmed life such as this. What it would be like to own a home like this myself one day, raising my own family in such luxury and space. I suspect Jeremy would be able to give me that if I wanted it.
“I imagine it was,” my mind having confirmed the image of a perfect family life in the perfect English home.
“So, Jeremy tells me you’re a big fan of the ballet.”
In my nervousness I launch into a monologue. “Yes, it was something I was introduced to at a young age and I’ve had a passion for ever since. I obviously took lessons as a child, like most small girls do, but I lack the natural turnout and high insteps in my feet that are required to take it much further, but that didn’t stop me becoming a theatre enthusiast. Coming from the north of England, we would always make the effort to go and see whichever ballet company was on tour. My mother always believed we should support the arts and in particular those companies that endeavour to bring their productions to the provinces, otherwise they may stop coming back. So I’m very fortunate that I’ve seen almost all of the classics. The only drawback is that the stages in the north are smaller than in London, so you can tell that sometimes the productions have had to be scaled back, or that the dancers do not have the room they really need. Nothing compares to seeing The Royal Ballet at Covent Garden, or The Bolshoi or The Kirov at the London Coliseum. You’re so lucky to have all of that on your doorstep.”
“Well it sounds like you know more about it than all of us put together. You’ll have to keep us right, when we go later,” she says warmly.
“Oh, I don’t know about that. But this is an exceptionally special performance this evening. A one-off and I still can’t quite believe I’m going. It’s so very kind of you to have invited me.”
“You are more than welcome, it’s so kind of you to join us... I can see exactly what Jeremy sees in you Victoria. I do hope you two make each other very happy. I can see he adores you.”
An instant stab of guilt catches me by surprise. With her last statement Diana has indirectly given me her approval and confirmed that her son ‘adores me’. However, in the same moment I’ve also just realised that her son doesn’t make me happy either, not really happy deep down and I don’t know why. He also doesn’t make me unhappy either and that is what is so confusing. I know on paper he should, but my heart doesn’t flip or do somersaults when I’m with him, or even when I’m just thinking about him. Are my expectations just too high? Steve didn’t light my fire either. No one since Mr Summer Fling or Mr STI has made me feel those feelings of longing, but then all that fire disappeared after that night at college and I don’t know how to get it back.
But life isn’t a Disney fairy-tale, is it? Men do not come charging in on their white horses to rescue princesses locked in tall towers, but something is missing between Jeremy and I, and I just wish I knew what it was and what I could do about it. Most people agree that you can’t confuse lust with love, and that over time any initial feelings of attraction are replaced by softer emotions. A shared companionship, underpinned by trust and loyalty. There’s no doubt if I was looking to get married or settle down, Jeremy would be a perfect catch, so not knowing what it is I want is so frustrating. Clearly he’s into me, so why can’t I make myself want him?
Why can I not be happy with what I’ve got? How many women would swap places with me right now? Should I just count my lucky stars and suck it up? I could do a lot worse than be with this charming and polite man who, in his own mother’s words, ‘adores me’.
“Ah, speak of the devil, here’s Jeremy with our drinks. I’m sure he’ll be dying to know what we’ve been talking about…. and so that’s the story of how Jeremy ended up shaving his younger brother’s hair off.” Diana changed tack, pretending she’s been telling me a story from his childhood, just as Jeremy comes back within earshot.
“Oh, not that old chestnut again, Mummy. Next she’ll be telling you how I persisted in taking all my clothes off in public until the age three and a half,” he says, handing me a glass of bubbly before leaning in to give me an affectionate kiss on the cheek whilst simultaneously sliding a protective arm around my waist. It’s clear he wants everyone here to know that we’re together, and that I belong to him.
“Really, now that is a story I would like to hear,” I reply with a grin taking one of the glasses of champagne from him.
“I think it’s time to steal you away, Victoria. I’d like to introduce you to some people who are less likely to tell you embarrassing stories from my childhood.” With his arm behind me he steers me away from his mother and across to a group of twenty-somethings, gathered together on the patio.
“Very nice to meet you, Diana.” I slip in, before he’s whisked me too far away.
“And you too, Victoria. We’ll talk more later,” she replies, and I’m left unsure if she is making a light observation or issuing a command.
We spend the afternoon in mindless chatter with lots of cousins and family friends and their grown-up children, most of whom were also childhood friends of Jeremy’s. I’m also introduced to Jeremy’s younger brother, who insists on telling me more embarrassing childhood stories. I’m formally introduced to Jeremy’s father. A stern and typically ‘stiff upper lip’ British type, nearing the end of his long career in finance in the City, at which he has clearly made a decent wedge of cash. Unlike Jeremy’s mother who is warm and welcoming (at least on the exterior), Jeremy’s father is formal and upright, rather like a boarding school headmaster. I can’t imagine him having changed any nappies when the boys were young. It’s clear his role in their relationship was to provide financial security, whilst Diana created a home and raised the children.
I appreciate I’ve only just been introduced to Jeremy’s parents, but I can’t tell whether they’re happy together. There is no obvious animosity between them but then no obvious affection either. They appear numb to each other. This could simply be a generational thing, though. Despite them growing up in the swinging sixties, perhaps they still feel it is frowned upon to show affection in public, but my gut instinct tells me Diana is unhappy and unfulfilled. Her husband commuting every day into town, her children having grown up and left home, and with no career to fall back on, despite the seemingly perfect home and perfect life, she has an aura of sadness around her. I feel mournful that she should be forced to stay in a passionless marriage because she has no other choice. Or at least she chooses to stay for the security, the wealth and the perfect exterior, instead of choosing the more difficult path, but one that could potentially lead to more fulfilment. Perhaps she is also missing the same thing that I’m searching for. Perhaps this is what I’m afraid of. Living a perfectly comfortable existence, with a grand house and lots of friends round for afternoon tea, but one that leaves me unfulfilled and empty inside.
I find myself wondering if Jeremy’s father has ever had an affair. I suppose that would be a clue as to the true state of their marriage. Jeremy’s never mentioned anything, and it’s not the type of thing you would ask in casual conversation. “Excuse me dear. I was just wondering if your father has ever cheated on your mother as, despite appearances, I’m picking up that she seems unhappy and unfulfilled deep down.”
Yup. I can just imagine how that conversation would go. So, I keep my thoughts to myself and continue to mingle with his immediate family, laugh at unfunny jokes, listen to endless family friends recount endless stories of Jeremy as a child and be mindful of the amount of alcohol I’m consuming. Although getting outrageously drunk and creating a scene would be one sure fire way of accelerating the end of any fledgling relationship we may have, I find myself wanting to make Jeremy look good in front of his family, and if that means I must continue to play the part of his dutiful girlfriend, at least for today, then that I will do.
***
At six o’clock, we raise our glasses and join in the toasts to Diana that follow the speeches, which appear to focus on her life as a devoted wife and mother, and which again I find it quite sad that her entire identity is defined by her supporting role to the males in her life. What has she ever done or had for herself? Who would she be if you stripped all of that away? Surely after 50 years, she is more than the sum of her life as a wife and mother. But perhaps it is unfair for me to judge her so. Perhaps I am basing my judgement on what I unconsciously would want or not want in my own life and instead I should accept that this is the path she has chosen, whether through choice, or because she has found herself on this path and has been unable to change. Still, as I raise my glass and chant, “Hear, hear,” along with the other guests, I’m left pondering which is true.
A ceremonial cutting of the birthday cake follows suit before the majority of the party wraps up and the guests leave. Meanwhile, two sleek black saloon cars arrive to take Jeremy, myself, his mother and father, his brother and a couple who are his parents closest friends, up the road to Teddington Lock. There, we are to be met by another couple of their friends who are to take us up the Thames on their boat to Hampton Court Palace and to the special performance taking place in the grounds this evening.
Teddington Lock is the first lock on the River Thames. In the past it was an important gateway for trade and transport but today it signifies the point where the river is no longer tidal but transitions into a waterway for pleasure. Countless families have enjoyed slow meandering holidays on its water, sailing upstream, past Oxford and into the very heart of England.
The cars drop us off just upstream of the lock itself as we hear a, “Diana, over here.” A man dressed in shorts, one shoeless foot up on the side of a small pleasure boat, shouts over in our direction.
“Welcome aboard The Lucy,” he says warmly to Diana as she clambers aboard air-kissing him and his wife on both cheeks. Once everyone is settled onto the padded seating that wraps around the stern of the boat a cool box appears, concealing yet more booze. Some of the men crack open beers, as another grabs the nearest bottle and I hear the familiar ‘pop’ of another champagne cork flying through the air, landing this time in the Thames. Champagne flutes are filled with fizz and offered around the remaining guests. I feel as if I might just pop myself if I drink anymore bubbles, but I politely take another glass when it’s handed to me. Drinks held aloft, and three cheers given in honour of Diana, we castoff from the tow path and head upstream.
The soft lapping of the water slaps gently against the boat as it cuts through the river. Those enjoying a summer’s drink from the outdoor beer gardens and riverside pubs wave and raise their glasses as we pass. The light wind softly blows both my pashmina and my hair behind me as I turn to gaze at the passing scenery. This part of Greater London is a wealthy commuter belt. The increasingly impressive waterfront properties are a mix of modern but stylised Tudor with the familiar painted white upper storeys, interlaced with dark stained English oak beams, and earlier Victorian houses, in both the darker London brick and the odd one in a brighter, more modern red brick.
I take a sip from my glass, drinking in my surroundings. Despite the joyousness of the occasion I feel melancholy. Watching Jeremy and his family, him and his brother ribbing each other, his mother and father and their friends laughing and enjoying each other’s company, my mind flashes back to the last time I travelled up the Thames in a pleasure boat. The time when I was a baby on holiday with my own mother and father, and a wave of sadness washes over me. It was such a long time ago, I have no idea why this memory flashes up unexpectedly now and why it adds to my feelings of heartache. It’s not as if, despite the breakup of my parent’s marriage I never had a loving upbringing, or missed out on anything, but once again I feel like an outsider. I’m surrounded by people but I’m all alone. I’m the person on the other side of the glass looking in on a life that I don’t fit into and one I’m not sure I want to. I’m not sure of a lot of things at the moment.
Jeremy sensing my mood comes over. “You OK, sweetheart?”
“Yes, Jeremy,” I reply, turning and smiling at him.
“Come on, let’s go and sit upfront.” He grabs my glass, expertly holding both our flutes in his left hand, and with his free arm leads me round the starboard side of the boat. “Watch your step,” he says considerately.
Leaning back against the cushions on the bow, he passes me back my glass, clinking it against his own before taking a sip of champagne. Without any hint of embarrassment of the occasion or the company we’re in, he leans forward and kisses me fully on the lips. His lips brushing mine lightly, before he deepens the kiss. The softness of his slightly moist lips contrasting against the sharp prickles of his fashionable two-day old stubble. He reaches his arm around my waist to pull me closer as his tongue darts inside my mouth and I return his kiss momentarily, before breaking away early. It just doesn’t seem appropriate to be making out in front of his family. He clearly isn’t bothered, as after today we have officially been pronounced as ‘a couple’, visible for everyone to see, and I sense he also wants everyone to know that. Like he’s just scored the winning try in an important rugby match and he’s the hero of the moment.
“I have been dying to do that all day,” he says, taking another drink from his glass. “Are you sure you’re OK. You seemed miles away before.”
“Yes, I’m absolutely fine, I was just having a quiet moment soaking up the atmosphere. It’s not every day you get to travel up the Thames, drinking champagne and having fun,” I say, attempting to lighten the mood.
After another ten minutes or so, everyone on the boat pauses their conversations. We all are spellbound by the scene that opens up on the right-hand river bank. Hampton Court Palace has just come into view. A palace is the exact word to describe this magnificent building. Its remarkable architecture renders everyone speechless. Approaching the palace from the roadside is one thing and the way most tourists will see the building for the first time but seeing it from the river is even more breath-taking. The distinctive Tudor red stonework, formal grounds and endless chimneys make this a very unique and historically important place. It’s absolutely stunning.
“Wow,” is all I can say. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a beautiful building. For all he was a megalomaniac and a horrific tyrant, you can’t take away the fact that Henry was one helluva visionary.” I comment on the most famous owner of the palace. The infamous King Henry VIII, who was responsible for much of the building’s development.
Today Hampton Court is a stunning tourist attraction, luring visitors from every corner of the world, and viewing it now from the river, as we approach Turk’s Pier ready to disembark, it’s easy to see why. As our party alights onto the shore, Diana stops and thanks the skipper for the gift of the journey up the Thames. They exchange familiar conversation, discussing their next dinner date, before a few more air kisses and everyone is onshore.
“Right, who’s hungry?” Jeremy’s father asks.
What more food? I think to myself. I still feel so full after our endless canapés and afternoon tea on the lawn earlier, I can’t imagine anyone else is hungry either, but nevertheless a pre-ordered picnic is collected and we all head into the East Front gardens along with other pre-concert goers who all appear to be doing the same. The family lay out a couple of large picnic rugs before spreading out the food from the hamper for all to share. I find it almost impossible to eat anything else, but aware of the amount of alcohol I’ve consumed, and realising that my stomach could do with something to soak it up, I nibble on a couple of cucumber sandwiches, some smoked salmon on rye bread and of course, some obligatory strawberries and cream.
“Come with me,” Jeremy instructs, leaping up and brushing his hands together to remove any lingering crumbs, having drained his glass of the latest alcoholic offering. “Mummy, we’ll meet you in Base Court ten minutes before curtain up, there’s something I need to show Victoria.” He holds out his hand to help me to my feet, before grasping it firmly and running across the lawn at full pelt, making me stumble in his wake in order to keep up.
“Slow down, you madman,” I laugh, as we continue to run across the grass and away from his family. “Where are you taking me?”
“No trip to Hampton Court is ever complete without a visit to The Maze… let’s get lost together.”
Well, here goes nothing, I think to myself as I run in Jeremy’s wake. “Another tick on my bucket list.”
Hampton Court Maze is over 400 years old and one of the largest and oldest mazes in the UK. We’ve stopped running now but continue to walk briskly towards the entrance which is now in sight up ahead. I see my opportunity and break away from him, running ahead and through the entrance, taking the first few turns in quick succession in an attempt to get lost.
“You’ll have to find me first,” I tease, as we giggle and laugh as he gives chase. It doesn’t take him long to catch me. Grabbing me around the waist with both hands he turns me around and embraces me fully.
“Or I could just lose myself in your eyes, Victoria,” he says stroking my hair tenderly.
My head feels fuzzy and I can’t think straight. A combination of too much alcohol, consumed slowly over a long afternoon, combined with the intensity and intimacy of the occasion. Knowing I’m being scrutinised by his family, and that he wants to show me off to them and my sense of duty to make him look good in front of them, I feel helpless. Like a leaf being swept along the gully on the side of the road by the flow of rainwater, knowing that you are heading closer and closer to the drain and that once you fall in, there is no way back, yet also feeling powerless to stop the inevitable. I know Jeremy is falling in love with me. I now also feel the pressure of the expectations of his family and I’m not sure how to stop the whirlwind that continues to swirl on around me.
Jeremy gently pushes me back up against the hedgerow as he kisses me.
“Ouch. That prickles,” I say as the spikes from the hedgerow stab me in the back.
“Sorry, sweetheart. But I just can’t hold back anymore. I’ve been dying to get you to myself all day.” This time he pulls me into him. One hand escaping down my back to squeeze my bum as the other reaches round my waist holding me tightly. I return his affection with as much passion as I can muster, but his hands on my body or the touch of his lips on mine just don’t light any fireworks within me. I’m not expecting a New Year’s Eve-esque display but I keep waiting for the spark between my thighs to ignite. As he continues to kiss me passionately, a small groan escapes from him and I can feel his desire harden against my leg, I remind myself how perfect Jeremy is on paper. So when my lust doesn’t appear, and I have absolutely no clue why it’s missing, I resign myself to the fact that I must be the problem, not him.
“Well I told you, you’d charm the pants off everyone today,” he says, resting his head on my forehead, so we are nose to nose, breathing in and out in sync. “Everyone absolutely loves you, just as I knew they would.”
“You have a lovely family, Jeremy, and everyone has made me feel so welcome. It’s been a very special day.”
He looks deep into my eyes and takes a deep breath in.
Don’t say it, don’t say it, I think, my panic rising urgently as I sense this is the moment he’s been waiting for. The moment when he’s going to tell me he’s in love with me. In any other context and with a different person, this maybe be the perfect romantic moment, in the perfect romantic setting. A story to retell to the grandchildren in 50 years’ time.
“Grandpa, when did you know you were in love with Grandma?’
“Well, it was one sunny Saturday afternoon in late June. We were at Hampton Court, for your great-grandma’s 50th birthday. I whisked grandma off into the maze where I told her for the first time that I loved her… and I’ve never stopped loving her ever since.”
Perfection in every sense. Except I don’t want to hear it.
“I think we should find our seats. It’s only 15 minutes until the ballet starts, and I’d like to buy a programme.” I make an excuse to break the spell and snap us back to reality before he has the opportunity to say anything further.
“OK, let’s go,” he says reluctantly, as I hear him slowly release the air from his lungs and feel him loosen his grip around my waist. He reaches for my hand before we turn and retrace our steps out of the maze.
We’re here to see Sylvie Guillem perform two short ballets by the choreographer Maurice Béjart. Sylvie Guillem is an extraordinary ballerina, and this is the first time I’ve seen her perform live. She originally trained as a gymnast so is renowned for her impressive extensions and the extremely high insteps in her feet, meaning she can create the most beautiful lines with her body. Her développés and grand jetés often go beyond the 180-degree angle, giving the impression her joints are made of elastic. She joined the Paris Opera Ballet School when she was 11 years old, graduating into the company at only 16, where she became Rudolf Nureyev’s muse, as he was the artistic director of the company at that time. Not surprisingly she became the youngest ballerina ever in the company to play Odette/Odile in ‘Swan Lake’, at only 19 years of age.
She’s unique not only because of her athletic prowess and physical capability, but with her flaming red hair, cut with an unorthodox fringe (usually an absolute ‘no no’ in the ballet world, as any hair on the face spoils the line of the neck and head), her striking cheekbones and vivid interpretation of character, she can dance both the classics with an air of innocence and purity. But it’s her ability to stir her audiences through her perfect technique combined with her emotionally charged interpretation of music in the more modern pieces that have made her into a ballet superstar. I’m still dumbfounded that I’m actually here, about to see this legend of the dancing world perform.
Staged in a temporary outdoor arena within Base Court, the first act is a ballet called ‘Sissi’, which traces the life of the Empress Elisabeth of Austria, Queen of Hungary from her journey as a young princess renowned for her beauty, married to Franz Joseph of Austria, to her eventual decline into madness. It’s a powerful and compelling story which Guillem portrays with great sensitivity, initially portraying the innocence of a young woman coping with a preordained destiny, before expressing the violence of her final internal torment as she loses her mind and slips into a mad and uncontrollable paranoia.
I am captivated, my eyes never leaving the stage as I feel Jeremy shuffling in his seat beside me. It’s powerful stuff, but not an easy watch if you’re not really into the art form. I sense his almost relief when the interval arrives as he’s the first to jump up and offer to buy a round of drinks for our party.
The second act, is the one I’m most excited to see. Maurice Béjart’s ‘Boléro’ was originally choreographed in 1960 but has benefitted from a recent revival, in part, due to the popularity of the British ice-dancers Torvill and Dean who won the Sarajevo Winter Olympics ten years ago in 1984 with their interpretation of Ravel’s hypnotic score. Their success having made the music, at least, highly recognisable.
As the curtain rises on the second act, the stage is blacked out. In the centre, just visible, is a raised twelve-foot-wide table where the silhouette of a single dancer, presumably Guillen, on the top is poised and ready to perform. As the familiar drum beat begins to pulse from the snare drum, Guillem, still in silhouette, begins to pulsate her hips, moving ever so slightly from the flat of her front foot to the ball of her back foot, over and over again, gyrating her hips back and forth in time to the drum beat. Her waist-length red hair flowing freely, she’s dressed simply in black tights and a flesh coloured leotard which makes her appear half naked, all of which contrasts sharply against the bright shiny red surface of the table top upon which she’s dancing.
As the flute plays out the first 24 bars pianissimo of the hypnotic tune, a single spotlight shines initially on her right hand as it floats up through the air, before she slides it erotically down her own torso, repeating the same movement with her other hand as the spotlight now moves to her left hand. A pure and simple piece of choreography but accompanied by this music and with the undercurrent of the pulsating rhythm mirrored in Guillem’s hips, it transforms the movement. The whole performance is charged with sexual tension. And we are only 24 bars of music in, I think to myself, absolutely transfixed and leaning forward in my seat.
As the piece continues and the flute is replaced by the clarinet, the spotlight widens to reveal the whole of Guillem who is now using all of her body to reflect the contrasting textures in the music, the angularity and strength of her arm movements and leg extensions expressing the highlights in the tune, whilst the undercurrent of the constant and pulsating snare drum is reflected by the continuous rhythm in her hips. It’s almost as if she is inviting the audience in, leaning forward beckoning us to come on this journey with her. She’s in absolute control and we, her audience, are at her beck and call.
As the first trumpet now repeats the melody, giving the sound more depth and volume, Guillem’s movements atop her red table becoming wider and more pronounced, the spotlight widens still and reveals 34 bare-chested male dancers, kneeling in submission to the female at the centre. I gasp in anticipation of what is still to come, and after a few more bars of music, first one, then two male dancers join in with the choreography, dancing on the floor on either side of the table, mirroring the same movements as Guillem who is still raised up dancing in the middle of the red table top. Two become four. Four become eight and so on, until eventually as the entire orchestra is repeating the familiar tune having built up in a continuous crescendo to a full fortissimo and all 34 dancers are now on the floor, their bare chests, rippling with perfect six-packs and their strong, muscular arms and shoulders all making beautiful shapes in time to the music, worshipping the goddess at the centre of them. All the while their hips continue to pulsate to the rhythm of the constant snare drum. Meanwhile Guillem leaps and jumps in the centre, enticing them all to join in. Each new male dancer sequentially increasing the intensity and sexual tension of the piece.
Fifteen minutes later as the cymbals clash and every instrument in the orchestra plays out the final notes of the piece fortissimo in the climatic finale, on the last few notes, all the male dancers reach up skyward before falling prostrate in complete submission to the female at their centre. Guillem falling, seemingly disappearing, into their abyss.
I’ve never seen anything so equally hypnotic and sexually charged. Brilliantly choreographed, superbly danced. Not one dancer physically touched another, but the entire piece was filled with passion and sexual tension. This was a celebration of true femininity. The very definition of power in the female form which had the vigour to captivate both the audience as well as the male ensemble and I’ve never seen anything like it.
As the curtain falls, without any hesitation or any ounce of self-consciousness, I instinctively leap up out of my chair, the first person in the audience to do so, my hands clapping so hard it almost hurts my palms, whilst I simultaneously shout, “Bravo!” and “More! More!”. I don’t care if Jeremy or anyone else thinks I should be more reserved or show restraint. I’m completely moved by the performance and am compelled to show my gratitude to the ballet company as they take their curtain calls.
Later that evening, Jeremy and I are back in his childhood bedroom, still decorated with school trophies and House Awards from his time away at boarding school and he’s making love to me. I simply can’t stay in the moment. My thoughts drift back to the ballet from earlier in the evening. As much as Jeremy is doing his best to connect with me, I know I’m just going through the motions. I felt more alive watching the 34 male dancers worship their female heroine, than I do now, in bed with my boyfriend. Despite his attempts to turn me on which are at best, perfunctory and at worst, clumsy, I find myself not wanting to be here. Instead I’m imagining what it would be like to be the ballerina on top of the red table, commanding the male ensemble to my every whim.
I wonder what it must feel like to have such powerful femininity as that? To have such strength and belief in one’s own sexuality. Not purely for the purposes of commanding men as was the example from Guillem earlier, rather to be able to stand confidently in the centre of one’s own power. To know who you really are and to be totally comfortable and confident with that. That was what Guillem portrayed earlier in her performance. As she stood in her power, almost saying to the world, “Here I am, this is me, take it or leave it, but I’m a strong powerful confident and sexual women and I don’t care who or what you are, you can choose to enjoy my dancing or not - it will not change me because I know who I am.” It was truly inspiring.
I sense I have such a power lying dormant within me, a deep pool of still water surrounded by an eternal burning fire of desire, but I’ve not yet found the path to discover it for myself. So far, all of the men in my life who expressed any attraction to me, have ended up simply using me and therefore I’m becoming more and more detached from myself, from who I think I am inside. So much so that I fear I don’t know who I really am anymore, or where I belong. How can I be truthful with others, when I don’t know my own truth? Is this something I need to discover on my own or do I need another soul’s help to liberate me?
What I do know is that until I find the way to my own emancipation, I will always be living my life by someone else’s rules, to meet someone else’s expectations and I know that this will continue to affect me in every area of life, not just in my intimate relationships. But how do I change this? I’m at a complete loss.
It’s clear to me, now at least, that Jeremy simply doesn’t move me, he hasn’t found the way to unlock that pool of fire. He’s just another man, who as nice as he is, I’m allowing myself to be used by, to be swept along to fulfil his own needs, placated by flattery and pleasantries, and because I don’t know how to, I’m unable to guide him as to my own emotional and physical needs.
As Jeremy reaches his climax, he holds me close and leans forward to kiss the end of my nose, before looking deep into my eyes. He takes a deep breath in and says what I’ve been dreading hearing all day.
“I love you, Victoria.”
I close my eyes, in response to those most deeply profound words, giving him the false impression of my delight at hearing his devotion and commitment to me, when in fact by breaking eye contact I’m trying to detach myself from the moment.
“Me too,” I hear myself saying in return, still with my eyes closed.
And with that, I’ve just fallen down the drain, my leaf having been swept along by the rainwater in the gulley. I’ve reached the point of no return and I can’t see a way out of this situation. Not without someone getting deeply hurt.