Normal People(27)

Before term ended he had to give a class presentation on the Morte Darthur, and while he spoke his hands were shaking and he couldn’t look up from the printouts to see if anyone was actually listening to him. His voice wavered several times and he had the sense that if he hadn’t been seated, he would have fallen to the ground. Only later did he find out that this presentation was considered very impressive. One of his classmates actually called him ‘a genius’ to his face afterwards, in a dismissive tone of voice, like geniuses were slightly despicable people. It is generally known in their year group that Connell has received the highest grade in all but one module, and he finds he likes to be thought of as intelligent, if only because it makes his interactions with other people more legible. He likes when someone is struggling to remember the name of a book or an author, and he can provide it for them readily, not showing off, just remembering it. He likes when Marianne tells her friends – people whose fathers are judges and government ministers, people who went to inordinately expensive schools – that Connell is the smartest person they will ‘ever meet’.

What about you, Connell? says Peggy.

He has not been listening, and all he can say in response is: What?

Tempted by the idea of multiple partners? she says.

He looks at her. She has an arch expression on her face.

Uh, he says. I don’t know. What do you mean?

Do you not fantasise about having your own harem? says Peggy. I thought that was a universal thing for men.

Oh, right. No, not really.

Maybe just two, then, Peggy says.

Two what, two women?

Peggy looks at Marianne and makes a mischievous kind of giggling noise. Marianne sips her water calmly.

We can if you want to, says Peggy.

Wait, sorry, Connell says. We can what?

Well, whatever you call it, she says. A threesome or whatever.

Oh, he says. And he laughs at his own stupidity. Right, he says. Right, sorry. He folds the label over again, not knowing what else to say. I missed that, he adds. He can’t do it. He’s not indecisive on the question of whether he’d like to do it or not, he actually can’t do it. For some reason, and he can’t explain it to himself, he thinks maybe he could fuck Peggy in front of Marianne, although it would be awkward, and not necessarily enjoyable. But he could not, he’s immediately certain, ever do anything to Marianne with Peggy watching, or any of her friends watching, or anyone at all. He feels shameful and confused even to think about it. It’s something he doesn’t understand in himself. For the privacy between himself and Marianne to be invaded by Peggy, or by another person, would destroy something inside him, a part of his selfhood, which doesn’t seem to have a name and which he has never tried to identify before. He folds the damp beer label up one more time so it’s very small and tightly folded now. Hm, he says.

Oh no, says Marianne. I’m much too self-conscious. I’d die.

Peggy says: Really? She says this in a pleasant, interested tone of voice, like she’s just as happy discussing Marianne’s self-consciousness as she would be engaging in group sex. Connell tries not to display any outward relief.

I have all kinds of hang-ups, says Marianne. Very neurotic.

Peggy compliments Marianne’s appearance in a routine, effeminate way and asks what her hang-ups are about.

Marianne pinches her lower lip and then says: Well, I don’t feel lovable. I think I have an unlovable sort of … I have a coldness about me, I’m difficult to like. She gestures one of her long, thin hands in the air, like she’s only approximating what she means rather than really nailing it.

I don’t believe that, says Peggy. Is she cold with you?

Connell coughs and says: No.

She and Marianne continue talking and he rolls the folded label between his fingers, feeling anxious.

*



Marianne went home for a couple of days this week, and when she came back to Dublin last night she seemed quiet. They watched The Umbrellas of Cherbourg together in her apartment. At the end Marianne cried, but she turned her face away so it looked like she wasn’t crying. This unsettled Connell. The film had a pretty sad ending but he didn’t really see what there was to cry about. Are you okay? he said. She nodded, with her face turned, so he could see a white tendon in her neck pressing outwards.

Hey, he said. Is something upsetting you?

She shook her head but didn’t turn around. He went to make her a cup of tea and by the time he brought it to her she had stopped crying. He touched her hair and she smiled, weakly. The character in the film had become pregnant unexpectedly, and Connell was trying to remember when Marianne had last had her period. The longer he thought about it, the longer ago it seemed to have been. Eventually, in a panic, he said: Hey, you’re not pregnant or anything, are you? Marianne laughed. That settled his nerves.

No, she said. I got my period this morning.

Okay. Well, that’s good.

What would you do if I was?

He smiled, he inhaled through his mouth. Kind of depends on what you would want to do, he said.

I admit I would have a slight temptation to keep it. But I wouldn’t do that to you, don’t worry.

Really? What would the temptation be? Sorry if that’s insensitive to say.

I don’t know, she said. In a way I like the idea of something so dramatic happening to me. I would like to upset people’s expectations. Do you think I’d be a bad mother?