Love You Madly. Alex George
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the pair of them. They were shagging as if it were the end of the world, with wanton, lustful, pornographic abandon. I just knew it.
It was around this time that I started to write seriously, and I suppose in a way I have Jean-Philippe to thank for it. I sat down one afternoon, intending to compose a tragic love poem to Anna. The idea was that when she read it she would realise just how sensitive I was; she would then dump Jean-Philippe, pledge her heart to me for eternity, and we would live happily ever after. After thirty minutes of doodling I gave up on that idea and instead wrote a terrible and rather bleak short story which culminated in the grisly death of every single character, all of whom happened to be French.
I showed the story to Ian. He sat on my bed and read it in silence.
‘What do you think?’ I asked.
‘I think it’s quite good,’ replied Ian.
‘Thanks,’ I said.
‘I also think,’ he continued, ‘that you need help.’
I nodded. ‘It’s just a first draft.’
‘No.’ Ian shook his head. ‘Not with the writing. With you.’ He waved my story at me and tapped his finger against the side of his head. ‘You are one sick puppy.’
Encouraged, I began to write in earnest. The one leitmotif in all my work at that time was the gruesome demise of a good-looking Frenchman at the end of each story. In this way I killed Jean-Philippe Durand off several times, exacting revenge for the misery he had unwittingly heaped upon me. He was crushed, poisoned, shot, asphyxiated, garrotted, drowned, buried alive, exsanguinated, dismembered, hanged, electrocuted, cannibalised, starved to death, beheaded, pushed in front of an oncoming train, disembowelled, and crucified. As I reached the gory climax of each story, my handwriting would degenerate into an illegible scrawl as I rushed gleefully towards the coup de grâce, cackling maniacally as I did so.
Like Ian said, one sick puppy.
It wasn’t a good year.
I spent unhealthy amounts of time hanging around the college quads, waiting for a sighting of the happy couple. I would gaze at them wordlessly, my heart beating blackly as my envy of Jean-Philippe flourished and developed into fully-fledged hatred. Looking back on it now, I can see that he wasn’t really doing anything wrong. But that was irrelevant. He was having sex with the woman I loved. That was quite enough.
I couldn’t bring myself to approach either of them. Occasionally I would pass Anna as I scuttled through college, but she showed no signs of recognising me after my artless overtures in the college bar. The obvious thing to do was to stay away, but I couldn’t help myself. I kept going back for more, quietly crucifying myself.
Finally, the summer holidays arrived. I escaped back home, and spent three months lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the summer to end. I was unable to think of anything but my return to Oxford, and the chance to see Anna again. I couldn’t wait to inflict more pain on myself.
When we reconvened for the new academic year, Jean-Philippe Durand had returned to Paris, leaving the way open for me to try my luck with Anna again. It took several false starts before I summoned up enough courage to speak to her. Thankfully she didn’t remember our earlier encounter. I did, though. Remembering Truffaut and Carol Reed, I started chatting to her about movies, hoping to catch her interest. It worked. After our trip to see Citizen Kane and a successful dinner date a few days later, we began to see each other regularly. Every time we arranged to meet, I blinked in amazement when Anna actually appeared, clutching her thick, brightly coloured legal textbooks. This was really happening; Anna was walking down the narrow Oxford streets on her way back from the law faculty, thinking about me. Her smiles as we shyly greeted each other stunned me into delirious, weak-kneed awe. I spun with happiness, fizzing with the ceaseless, internal momentum of my raging ardour. My arm was blue from disbelieving pinches.
Unfortunately, though, the damage had already been done.
Long after Jean-Philippe Durand had waltzed out of my life, I found myself unable to stop thinking about him, even once Anna and I had begun our own romantic adventure. A year of all-consuming jealousy proved difficult to shake off. His presence lingered on, casting a pall over my happiness. Those perfect teeth haunted me. That alluring French accent kept whispering in my ear: She could have been mine. His mesmerising eyes twinkled on in my memory, tormenting me. I couldn’t shake the ghastly suspicion that I was merely Anna’s compromise candidate. Jean-Philippe had gone, and I was the runner’s-up prize, second best.
In this way the Frenchman left an indelible stain on the crisp white sheet of our romance, an ineradicable reminder of our lives before Anna and I came together. Our fairy tale had been tarnished before it had even begun. That is why, one day, I will wreak my terrible revenge on him.
Of course, Anna knows nothing of all this, even now. I couldn’t bring myself to admit my disquiet to her at the time, terrified that if I even mentioned Jean-Philippe’s name, she would suddenly realise that I was second best, and go straight back to him. Instead I suffered in silence, and the more my suspicions festered, the more impossible it became to broach the subject. Finally I understood that if I was ever to escape Jean-Philippe Durand’s insidious clutches, I would have to do it on my own.
And, who knows? Perhaps, one day, I will.
So, it has been decided. Anna is off to France. She leaves tomorrow morning.
After supper, she spends the rest of the evening packing, unpacking, and repacking. I sit on the end of the bed, watching. As she folds her clothes carefully into the suitcase, she tells me that she will be staying at the Hotel Léon, near the Louvre. She is travelling to Paris with three of her colleagues, Andy, Graham and Richard. They are, she says, all lovely chaps. They enjoy a laugh, good food, that sort of thing, so I mustn’t worry that she will be spending the evenings sitting alone and bored in her hotel room. Far from it. They will, she informs me with a grin, be painting the town a fabulous shade of rouge. I nod, blinking.
A taxi to Waterloo is ordered for the morning; we have a final glass of wine and go to bed. Anna wordlessly turns out her bedside light and pulls the duvet over her, leaving me propped up on an expectant elbow. So. There will be no drink before the war. She leans over and kisses me on the forehead as I slump into my pillow.
‘Sorry. Early start tomorrow.’
‘Not for me.’
‘Well, count yourself lucky,’ she replies, wriggling into a comfortable position, her back towards me.
‘Will you wake me up before you go?’ I ask.
‘Why?’
‘Because I’m not going to see you for the rest of the week. I’d like to say goodbye properly.’
With a sigh, Anna rolls back over to face me. She looks sleepy and adorable. ‘But the cab’s coming at a quarter to six,’ she says. ‘It’s inhuman. There’s no need to ruin your day.’
I shrug. ‘I’d like to ruin my day, if it’s all the same to you.’
Anna softens. ‘You’re mad,’ she says. ‘Sweet, but mad.’ She smiles. Her hand strokes my cheek.
‘So you’ll wake me?’ I persist.
She rolls away from me again. ‘All right,’ comes the muffled reply. I sense her body relaxing for sleep.
A pause. ‘Goodnight, then.’
‘Night, sweetheart,’ yawns Anna.
She shifts again, and then remains still. Her gentle, sleep-heavy breath soon becomes rhythmic and smooth. I stare at the blackness around me.
I do not sleep well. When I finally wake, pummelled by a bruising sequence of unremembered dreams, I glance at my clock. It is eight o’clock. Anna is long gone.
In the kitchen is a note.
Sorry I didn’t