Below Deck, page 14
He laughs.
‘What?’
‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘It’s stupid.’
I smile, watching his cheeks flush pink. ‘Tell me.’
‘You’re just, like, the coolest thing that’s ever happened to me.’
And now I’m laughing too. For a moment, forgetting the part of me that wants to say, If only you knew.
Outside my bedroom window, tiny yellow buds open into stars. Every morning when I wake, there are more of them, these flowers. And I notice that with each new bloom, I show more of myself. I leave the door open to the bathroom when I get changed so that he can keep talking to me. Eventually, I stop getting changed in the bathroom at all.
I peel off my top, wriggle out of my trousers, and unhook my bra, letting it fall on the floor. Slowly, I slide off my underwear and, as it lands at my ankles, I look up at him. Hugo’s lying on my bed in sweatpants. Propped up on a pillow, he looks at me with smiling eyes. His gaze drifting across my skin like clouds across the sky.
Looking down at my body, I remember that someone told me once, You’re not that thin. And how, with my bones jutting out at sharp angles, I’d harboured those words. Believing in them. Always returning to them like a prayer before sleep.
Then I think of arriving here in London with Maggie, after I’d spent a month in her bed in Sydney, unable to move, unable to speak. How viciously the cold had seized me when we stepped off the plane. How much it all had hurt. And how when Maggie and Lindy finally got me eating again, I’d gradually gained weight. How, for the first time in my life, I didn’t mind that the gap between my thighs was closing, or that my belly was rounding, or that my arms were thickening. Because this extra weight became a fleshy armour that protected me, protected my secret. My flesh made me feel safe.
Still, I avoided mirrors. And because no one ever saw me in this body, I could exist in it. Until no one became Hugo. And, suddenly, my flesh felt overwhelming.
‘Come here,’ he says.
I step forwards, leaving my underwear on the floor. He rolls onto his back, arms outstretched. I climb onto the bed, my breath shallow to hold in my belly. He whispers, ‘You’re incredible,’ and as my breath escapes, I relax my tummy muscles and lie down beside him. He brushes his fingers across my flesh, the curve of my hip, the pink of my thigh. His touch raises goosebumps on my skin. ‘I fucking adore you,’ he says. And there’s a lump in my throat. But then he’s kissing me, moving his body above mine. Kissing the hollow of my neck, my collarbones, my breasts, my belly. The insides of my thighs. His tongue. And then his fingers, slow and gentle. Touching me. Until I’m closing my eyes and sinking back. My thighs begin to quiver.
And soon, it’s as if he’s pouring liquid gold into me, because I can feel the warmth of it spreading through my abdomen, flowing down into my legs. My muscles clench around him, my body beginning to spasm. It’s a sensation I’ve never felt before. Like my entire body is filling now. Filling. Full.
But then a sound escapes me and my eyes burst open. And I see the shock on his face, his eyes wide, his mouth gaping. I cover my mouth with my hands, muffling my gasp. Hoping he didn’t hear. But he did. His face is twisting as he tries to suppress his laughter. ‘Don’t laugh at me!’ I cry.
‘I’m not!’ he says, and presses his lips together, trying so hard not to giggle.
‘You are!’ I turn over onto my side, unable to look at him.
‘It’s just a fart, Oli!’ he says, laughing out loud now. ‘I don’t care! Honestly!’
Mortified, I pull my knees up to my chest, curling into a ball. ‘I just want to roll into a hole and die,’ I mumble.
He curves his body around mine. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘make sure there’s room in there for two.’
And I realise that, like the yellow buds outside flowering into stars, it’s impossible not to open when someone loves every inch of you.
yellow sand
Summer arrives and the papers talk about the heatwave. All the parks have yellowed, flowers folding in on themselves. ‘Terrifying,’ says Hugo. Again, and again. ‘Just terrifying.’
We meet Natasha at Paddington one Saturday in June. We’re sipping black coffee at the station when she arrives. Hugo is holding my hand across the table. ‘Oh, you two!’ she says, approaching us. ‘My heart!’
I roll my eyes and Hugo laughs.
‘I didn’t know you had a heart,’ he says and she pinches his ear.
I look at my watch. ‘Better get moving.’
Hugo downs the rest of his coffee in one mouthful. He winces. Coughs. ‘Fuck,’ he says. ‘I should not have done that!’
Natasha laughs. ‘Your IQ baffles me.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ he says. ‘Come on, let’s go. Jules will kill us if we miss this train.’
On the train to Oxford, Hugo tells me again about his little sister’s work. I hear: lasers … gases … camera … atoms exploding! ‘It’s so cool,’ he says, glowing with pride. ‘Like, it’s completely new! No one’s ever done it before.’
I touch Hugo’s cheek, and he quietens. ‘Sorry,’ he says sheepishly. ‘Too much info?’
‘No, no,’ I say, giggling, ‘I just don’t get it.’
I think of the first time Hugo told me about his younger sister, how he’d said she was studying physical chemistry and I thought that meant she was studying love. I remember how hard he’d tried not to laugh.
‘Don’t worry,’ Natasha says, ‘it’s another language to me as well.’
‘Jules is definitely our mum’s favourite,’ says Hugo.
Natasha shoots him a sharp glance. ‘Only because she’s the youngest.’
Hugo whispers in my ear, ‘She’s just jealous.’
‘You’re not very good at whispering, Hugo,’ snaps Natasha.
I kiss Hugo and turn to face the window, pressing my cheek against the cool glass. Beyond, the fields are bleached, like bone coral.
Hugo is looking out as well now, but he doesn’t comment. He just sighs. The colour of the air leaving him is a painful yellow.
Julia meets us at the station. Hugo points her out, though he hardly needs to. She’s just like him. Tall and lanky with tortoiseshell glasses, a plaid miniskirt and a t-shirt that reads, There is no PLAN-et B. Period.
‘Oli!’ She throws her arms around me. ‘Finally!’ She steps back, smiling. ‘I’ve heard so much about you,’ she says, pointing to Hugo. ‘Oh my God. He literally won’t shut up about you! Oli, Oli, I love Oli sooo—’
Hugo reaches across and covers her mouth with his hand. ‘And this is Jules!’ he says, his face bright red.
I blow him a kiss.
‘I’m so happy you’re here!’ Jules says, hugging her siblings.
‘You’re looking well,’ Natasha says.
‘So what’s the plan?’ Hugo asks.
Jules looks at me; I’m fanning my face with the newspaper Hugo brought with us on the train. ‘Well, I was going to suggest we show Oli the colleges before lunch, but maybe we can go up to the river first? Do you have swimmers?’
‘I don’t swim,’ says Natasha.
Jules pokes her tongue out at her older sister. ‘Oli?’
I shake my head. ‘I’m keen to see the colleges, though.’
‘Okay, then!’ she says, clapping her hands together. ‘How about we see my college first?’
‘Perfect,’ I say.
Hugo touches my back, smoothing my shirt with the palm of his hand. I can feel the fabric dampening between my shoulderblades. ‘You okay?’
I nod.
‘Sure?’
I’m thinking of the water, the body of it, like a snake.
‘Yeah,’ I say, and feign a smile. ‘I’m fine.’
Hugo takes my hand as we follow Jules out of the station. ‘Worcester is only five minutes away,’ says Jules. Outside, the light is harsh. I hold Hugo’s hand a little tighter and he smiles. Jules points out the SAID Business School and explains that the university buildings are dotted all around the city. We turn a corner beneath a magnolia tree. The sun is sticky on my neck.
‘And here we are!’ she says, opening her arms out wide. ‘Ta-da!’
‘Wow,’ I say, gazing up. The clock on the wall above us is full and round. Opalescent like the moon.
We follow Jules through the front gates and into a quadrangle with perfectly mown grass. On the right is a mighty building with high arched windows and strings of ivy that spread out across the sandstone like veins beneath skin. Flowers are in full bloom. Tangles of pink and blue.
On the left is a building with a grey, wrinkled face. Jules tells us it’s medieval as we walk through its tunnel, Hugo ducking his head to avoid bumping it on the low ceiling. The tunnel opens out onto a sprawling lawn rimmed with tulips and roses. In its centre are three oak trees, sunlight falling through the withered leaves. We pass beneath their canopy, walking through a shower of gold. Beyond them, the path widens at the edge of a lake. On the far bank I see two swans.
A laugh escapes me. ‘I cannot believe this is your backyard … It’s stunning!’
‘I know,’ says Jules. ‘I’m so lucky.’
‘Don’t say that,’ says Hugo. ‘You worked your butt off to get here.’
‘I’m not saying I didn’t work hard,’ she says. ‘I mean, fuck, I’m the only woman in my group. But I’m also white, and this place was built for white people.’
Hugo says, ‘True,’ and we keep walking, passing beneath a stone archway laced with vines to a tree that overhangs the lake. There are two students sitting in its branches, reading.
I’m still thinking about what Jules has said about the place being built for white people and ask her what she meant by it.
‘Well, it’s not like the university says it only wants white people, or doesn’t want people of colour. Like, it’s not just someone standing at the front door saying you can come in and you can’t. It’s the thousand obstacles along the street that stop a person from even reaching the house.’
I try to imagine what obstacles might exist along the street, but find myself unable to picture the shape of something I haven’t seen. And in that absence of understanding, that inability to picture, I realise, my knowing is incomplete. The realisation of this beyond, of something outside my experience, is painfully obvious, and yet it still feels shocking.
I admit to Jules, ‘I’ve never really thought much about being white.’
Jules shrugs. ‘I guess that’s what privilege is.’
We have lunch at a market across the road from Jules’s college and then walk through the centre of the town, past the Bodleian Library to University Church. All around, students pedal bicycles, sailing casually around corners with summer ease.
Paying four pounds, we ascend the stairs of the church. The climb is steep and the walls tight, all the way up to a balcony so narrow we have to walk out single file. Hugo is gripping my hand so hard I can feel my blood pulsing in my fingertips. I look over my shoulder to see him with his eyes squeezed shut. I wedge myself between him and the edge of the balcony. ‘Hey,’ I say, resting my palm on his cheek. He opens one eye.
‘Just us,’ I say.
He smiles. And then I kiss him and feel his muscles relax. He hugs me close and I turn around in his arms so that I’m facing the sky. In the distance, beyond the spires and tiled roofs, is a string of clouds, lilac at the edges. Hugo rests his chin on my shoulder and whispers in my ear, ‘Just us.’
On the walk to Port Meadow, Jules grabs two swimsuits, towels and a picnic rug from her house. Heat from the sun is dense. Sweat gathers between my breasts. I can feel myself wilting.
When we reach the meadow, Jules says in her three years living in Oxford, she’s never seen it this colour. The field stretches far back to distant woods. Yellow, like desert sand. I notice a dead bird between tufts of grass. Its feathers are matted and dusty.
‘This is my home away from home,’ Jules says, as she unfolds the picnic rug and spreads it out on the riverbank. Natasha takes off her shoes and sits down on the rug. Before us is a small river, rimmed with wildflowers, that flows into the Thames downstream. A wooden bridge stretches across the water where the two rivers meet. Children climb up onto its railing, squealing and laughing when they jump off. On the far bank, older teenagers are sunbathing and smoking. Someone is playing music. I’m breathing in short, sharp breaths.
Beside me, Jules wraps a towel around her to change into her swimsuit. Hugo kicks off his shoes then takes off his shirt and his jeans, so that he’s standing there in his boxers and a pair of odd socks. Natasha smirks and looks away. Jules laughs and calls him a dork. But he doesn’t flinch. Catching my eye, he grins. And in this moment, the hard edges fray. I do love you, I think.
‘Oli,’ Jules says, waving a swimsuit in front of me.
‘Oh,’ I mutter. ‘Um …’
She passes it to me and I notice my hands are shaking. I hold the bathing suit against my torso, my gaze landing on the water.
The river. Like a wound opening up. Dark as an abyss.
I feel myself backing away from the bank.
‘Come on,’ Hugo says, teasing. ‘You’re not scared of the water, are you?’ He tugs on the swimsuit playfully.
‘Don’t,’ I tell him, pushing his hand away.
Jules steps towards me and asks in a hushed voice, ‘Can you swim, Oli?’
I shrug.
Hugo, softer now, touches my upper arm and whispers in my ear, ‘Just us …’ He smiles. ‘You don’t have to be embarrassed.’ ‘I’m not embarrassed!’ I snap.
Quietly, he says my name.
‘Don’t touch me.’
Hugo recoils, visibly hurt. And I want to say something. Anything. But my words are half-formed things. Like smoke changing shape. Suffocating.
‘Oli,’ says Natasha, tapping her hand on the ground beside her. ‘Here—sit down with me, okay?’
I collapse down onto the rug and pull my knees up to my chest, holding my legs together, squeezing them tight. Closing. Shutting. Shutting up.
Hugo crouches down beside me and Natasha waves him away.
‘Come on,’ says Jules, pulling on her brother’s arm.
He stares at me, into me, searching. I turn away.
‘Come on, Hugo,’ I hear Jules say again. ‘Just give her a minute.’
I close my eyes. He sighs, and then he walks away. His footsteps fading pale blue.
purple sand
We never talk about the river. Hugo assumes I can’t swim and that I’m deeply embarrassed about it, which is so much easier than anything else. Because how do you explain skin burning to someone who hasn’t known fire?
It rains. I keep quiet. Hours seep into days. Leaves discolour. I keep quiet. And the leaves begin to fall. Falling and falling until the ground is muddy purple. Darkness descends, and I can breathe.
In November, a cold snap moves in from the east. The wind is bitter grey, and as we walk out of the station at London Bridge, a gust of it grabs hold of me. Full-bodied. I let it. Let it hold me. Painfully tight. Because these edges are thin. And more and more often, I feel how porous my borders are. All those holes in my flesh. Like parts of me are seeping out. Into everything. Into nothing.
Above me, the sky is mottled with bruises. Hugo is walking a few feet ahead. He turns and asks, ‘What does he look like?’
I think of the last time I saw Will, the summer he finished high school. I’d been home for a few weeks before Christmas, packing up the rest of the apartment in Manly so my father could sell it. I’d been between yacht deliveries and, since my father was still furious that I’d given up an internship to pursue a life at sea, I’d spent Christmas morning with Will and Annie before lunch at Mac and Maggie’s. By New Year’s Eve I’d found work on another boat, King Tide, and was sailing out the heads.
I shrug. ‘It’s been so long.’ And for a moment, gazing out into the sea of faces, I think: He could be anyone. But then I spy him, across the road. Hand in hand with his love. And my lips curve into a smile.
I wave and he waves back. Beaming.
The green light for pedestrians flashes and Will hurries across the road. Reaching us, he lets go of his boyfriend’s hand and throws his arms around me. He’s even taller than I remember. Long and lean, with bleached hair, a gold earring and a tattoo of a rose on his neck. Our embrace is honest warmth and I can feel the years between us dissolving.
He steps back, and says, ‘Oli, this is Ramos.’
‘It’s so nice to finally meet you!’ I say, and then introduce Hugo.
‘Shall we head to the restaurant then?’ asks Hugo.
Will nods. ‘I’m freezing!’
As we walk, I ask Will and Ramos, ‘So how’s the trip going?’
‘Amazing,’ says Ramos.
‘I just loved Paris!’ adds Will.
They describe their stay in the eleventh arrondissement with a friend from art school. How they’d gone to galleries every day. Dressed themselves in vintage clothes from one-euro bins. Walked the Seine. Broken their budget on rosé and three-course meals. Had a picnic under the Eiffel Tower, the ground carpeted with orange leaves. Partied in a laneway.
‘It sounds wonderful,’ I say as we arrive at the restaurant. ‘I’m so happy for you.’
Inside the heating is on full bore. We strip off our top layers, hanging our coats on a rack, and Hugo comments that the heat is unnecessary.
The restaurant is walled with white tiles, black grout between. Plants hanging from the ceiling. Natasha is already at the table with a bottle of wine and five glasses. ‘This is my boss, Natasha.’
She rolls her eyes. ‘I’m not your boss right now.’
‘It’s so great to meet you,’ Will gushes. ‘We’ve been following your gallery for, well, like, ever.’
‘Oh,’ says Natasha. ‘Thank you. That’s nice to hear.’
