At five past four I’m on my cushion. I am out of the room before the others are out of bed. I cross the wet grass in the starlight. As I walk between dormitory and hall, I try to be here, oh, really to be here, in the grounds of the Dasgupta Institute, to breathe the damp beauty of this place, to watch the rabbits hop off into the bushes. I love rabbits. I love their nibbliness, their twitchiness. I surrender to the rabbits, willingly, totally. I try to be here now, on the wet grass under the starlight before the dawn. Not on the beach, not in the surf. But I must hurry to reach my cushion before he comes. GH mustn’t see my face, my body. I mustn’t see him. GH isn’t Jonathan, but if I went to his room and said, Hey, Garry, Hey, Graham, let’s get the fuck out of here, he would say yes at once. What red-blooded man wouldn’t? Two flaming Ferraris. He would grab his stuff at once. He would grab me. At once we would be a couple, he would adore me, then go back to his wife and daughter and pregnant girlfriend married to someone else. He wouldn’t fight for me. I envy his girlfriend. I envy any woman who is with child. With child. There’s one in the row behind me, a woman in her fourth or fifth month. I envy her, I envy the curve of her belly, I envy her complacency, why are pregnant women so complacent, so piously pleased with themselves, so invulnerable? A tall woman, overweight, plain, pregnant, and so pleased with the curve of her belly. And I envy a woman who can bury her dead child, yes, and go back to her rich husband. If only I’d had a child to bury. If only I was carrying a child, here at the Dasgupta. Like the woman behind me. Imagine. Swelling and filling out every day at the Dasgupta Institute. How everyone would envy me. Whose child? Jonathan’s, Carl’s? Who cares? How wonderful that would be. Giving birth at the Dasgupta. In the Metta Hall. Mrs Harper yanks the baby from between my legs, Mi Nu is watching over me, waiting until my question is ready, waiting for my surrender. When your question is ready, Elisabeth, then I will speak to you. I will explain everything. But my only question is, Why am I never ready, Mi Nu, why can I never think of my question? Why am I not carrying a child?
I’m first in the Metta Hall this morning. I love to be first. The whole hall is mine. The blankets and cushions stretch away in rows. The blankets are curled round the cushions where people dropped them from their backs. A wave of blanket curling behind every rocky cushion. I wade through them. ‘Beth! It’s too dark!’ The silence makes Carl’s voice louder. When I hear the sea I hear Carl’s voice, I hear my name. ‘Beth!’ And the voices of the French boys calling, ‘Come and swim with us, Beth. Come and swim naked.’ They want to see my tits and pussy. OK! I want to see that big French cock. ‘Beth, you’re drunk. You’ve smoked too much. It’s too late to swim. It’s too wild tonight.’
WHAT AM I DOING ON HOLIDAY WITH SOMEONE I DON’T LOVE? WHY AREN’T I WITH YOU, JONATHAN?
Text after text.
YOU CAN ALWAYS GO HOME, BETH. I’LL BE BACK IN A MONTH. GO HOME IF YOU’RE UNHAPPY.
I sit on my cushion in my loose T-shirt, my loose tracksuit pants. I don’t look at my body. Dressing and undressing, I don’t look. I don’t want to see my body.
WHAT ARE THESE TWO FERRARIS FOR, JONATHAN, IF NOT TO FEED A BABY?
WHOA, HIT THE BRAKES, BETH.
I CAN’T MAKE LOVE TO CARL. I CAN’T.
I’M SORRY, BETH.
HE’S SO TENDER. I SHUT MY EYES. YOU’VE TURNED ME INTO A WHORE.
BETH, GO HOME. GO HOME, LOVE.
Four in the morning in the Metta Hall. It is so peaceful, so silent. I sit on my cushion and look out across the sea. Then the door creaks. The others are arriving. Quick. I wrap my blanket round my shoulders, pull in my ankles, join my hands, close my eyes. The breath crossing the lip. The in-breath. The out-breath. Right effort. Right concentration. Right understanding. The breath will still these voices. They will fade. Eventually. Waking in starched sheets with the tick of the monitor and the smell of medication, their voices are already distant. Carl. The French boys. I love hospitals, I love anaesthetics. I could live in a hospital all my lifeless life. If only I was ill. I envy the sick, I envy the dying. Children find it easier. I could live dying. And the dead. ‘You’re so full of life, Beth. You’re bursting with life.’ What a curse.
Other meditators are shuffling to their places, clearing their throats, arranging their cushions, settling themselves. The gong sounds for the start of the session. Four thirty. I bet his eyes are on me now. He’s watching. I’m the kind of girl he wants. I’m stronger, though. I’m stronger than his eyes. I’ve shut him out. I won’t go back. I don’t care about his stupid diary. Day six. Day seven. Acceptance, blessing. Three days to go. I have escaped him. I have escaped my story with GH, the pompous diarist. When did you ever regret saying no, Beth? Never! I never regretted saying no to a man. But when did you ever regret saying yes? Ha ha. Never. I never regretted a fuck. No, not true. I regret it now. Now I do regret it. I regret saying yes. To every man I said yes to. I regret Carl. I do, I do. I regret Jonathan. From the bottom of my heart I regret him. And all the others. All the others. All the betrayals. I truly regret them truly regret them.
I BETRAYED YOU A MILLION TIMES, JONATHAN. I BETRAYED YOU EVERY CHANCE I GOT. EVERY SINGLE CHANCE.
I’M SURE YOU DID, BETH. I NEVER SUPPOSED OTHERWISE.
YOU’RE JUST AN OLD FART, JONATHAN. A FAILED FARTIST.
FAIR ENOUGH, BETH. I SUPPOSE I’M OLD ENOUGH TO BE YOUR FATHER.
Father. My disgraceful father. Sex is forbidden at the Dasgupta Institute. Sex is forbidden.
Sttart-tagain. Surrender again. There’s no guiding voice at the morning session, no Dasgupta. I mouth the words to myself. Sttartt-tagain. Eyes closed on my cushion above the surf, I’m happy. Oh, I’m deeply happy! I love the mornings, the dawn. I love the crows scrabbling on the roof. I love beginnings. Beginnings. If he’s watching me, that’s his look-out. I can’t feel them. I’m no slave to any man’s eyes.
‘Either you’ve got them eating out of your hands or you’re threatening to kill yourself,’ Zoë said.
Zoë kissed me.
I BETRAYED YOU WITH WOMEN AS WELL AS MEN, JONNIE.
I loved texting, loved getting him anxious. At all hours. Why should he be allowed to relax when I was away with the boyfriend I didn’t love, when I was suffering my betrayals?
I’M SURE YOU DID, BETH. I’M SURE YOU DO.
Out of the blue he wrote: I ADORE YOU. Out of the blue. I ADORE YOU, BETH. ADORE YOUR SKIN, ADORE YOUR HAIR, ADORE YOUR EYES, I ADORE YOU AND ADORE YOU.