A Version of the Truth. B P Walter

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      Being likened to someone so close, at least biologically, to Ally must, I decided, be a positive thing, so I smiled and peered around awkwardly at the untidy room.

      ‘Oh, please, Holly, sit down. You’re making me tense just standing there.’ She gave one of her bark-like laughs.

      I started to think about what it would be like to lie down next to Ally in the same way Ernest and James did. Our bodies touching, the strands of our hair intermingling. The thought didn’t repulse me, but at the same time I felt there were other people I’d rather do that with. Wondering whether this might be the harbinger of a lesbian experimentation phase – a rather candid art teacher at my school had once implied all girls went through something of this nature at university – I opted to sit in a restrained fashion at the edge of Ally’s bed, careful not to let my body touch hers.

      ‘Let’s talk about sex, Holly.’

      Ally’s words sent a jolt of concern through me. I didn’t believe in mind-reading, but it was amazing how sometimes people could hit the mark. I must have jumped, because she laid a hand on my arm and said, ‘Don’t flinch. Oh goodness, anyone would think I’d offered you heroin.’ She was smiling and looked relaxed, so I nodded.

      ‘Holly, you seem, well, I hate to say this, but … quite innocent.’

      ‘I am innocent,’ I said. Then, worried this might sound a little strange, I added, ‘I mean, I’ve had limited experience.’

      Another laugh. ‘That’s not so unusual. You’re only eighteen.’

      ‘Nineteen in five months,’ I murmured.

      ‘Does it bother you, being a virgin?’

      Though she was clearly trying to be kind, it sounded as if she was actually asking, Do you mind being disabled?

      ‘I … I don’t really know.’ I tried to choose my words carefully, but I felt my heart beating a loud, relentless chant in my chest and was keen to drown out the noise of it. ‘I’ve done some stuff. But not everything. There was a party once. And then another time at a picnic. But I had hayfever and needed an antihistamine.’ I doubted this added detail was necessary, but it seemed like a legitimate mitigating factor. Who’d want to have sex while being plagued by three-minute-long sneezing fits and streaming eyes?

      ‘Oh, poor you. That must have been awkward. Did you not have any male friends you could, you know, experiment with? A few of Ernest’s school chums came in handy for me. So to speak.’ She winked.

      ‘I did have friends who were boys. I was very close to one of them: George. We did everything together, for a bit.’ Ally’s eyes widened, and I rushed to clarify. ‘Everything school-wise. Nothing like that. That would have been weird.’

      ‘Would it? Sometimes friends can be good. Stops it getting too romantic. It’s like a barrier, a prearranged stop sign that helps you both stay on the same page. Although my first time – well, first sexual experience – was a sort of date, at the opera of all places. Tosca. I was fifteen. We were in a box watching the performance and my mother was keen for me to sit next to this boy called Archibald. Well, he liked to be called Archie but his parents thought that common. So, anyway, Archibald is an aristrocrat, which explains my mother’s reason for wanting us to be close. We were just getting to the torture scene when I felt his hand creeping up my thigh. We were slightly to the side, hidden – or at least I hope we were – from the view of my parents and his parents. I didn’t stop him. He kept on and I felt my knickers getting wet. He slid in so easily. God, it felt good. I came incredibly quickly, much faster than I had ever done by myself. I had to keep silent, though. To this day I’ve been rather proud of how I did that. A little concentration and the odd well-placed yawn go a long way.’

      I felt slightly dazed by this level of oversharing, completely at a loss as to how to respond. If that had been me (which was unlikely, since my parents were always commenting on how pricey tickets to the local am-dram performances were), I think I’d probably have been too shocked and embarrassed to ever tell anyone. But Ally said it so coolly, in her no-nonsense, matter-of-fact way. I was quietly in awe of her.

      ‘James would probably fuck you, you know. If I asked him to. Do you want me to mention it?’

      I gasped. ‘What?’

      Ally laughed again, and this time I felt a prickle of annoyance. Was she playing with me? Trying to make me feel uncomfortable?

      ‘Oh, come on, Holly. You’ve got to lose the big V at some point. It might as well be to a man you clearly have the major hots for. So many girls fancy James. Many would kill – literally kill – for the chance. I swear some have got close to murder in the past. He’s left a trail of broken hearts in his wake. And broken hearts can be a dangerous thing. I’m sure you’ve read enough tragic love stories to know that.’

      I was feeling very awkward now. ‘I think … I think I should go back to my room now.’ I made no immediate move to go, but Ally looked alarmed.

      ‘Oh goodness, I’ve upset you.’

      ‘You haven’t. I’m just not used to talking about this stuff.’

      Ally surveyed me, as if thinking deeply about something. ‘Yes, I can see that.’

      We sat in silence for a few seconds, her looking at me while twisting one of her locks of blonde hair around an index finger.

      ‘Bedtime,’ I said, and gave Ally a smile in case she thought I was offended. ‘I know it’s early but …’

      ‘It’s time.’ She nodded, returned the smile, and sat up on her bed. She gave me a hug at the door. There was something strange about the hug that I couldn’t quite work out. A mixture of comfort and acceptance. I felt I had passed a test in some way. Proved I was interesting enough to warrant her attention, perhaps? Or maybe the opposite. That I was innocuous and plain and wouldn’t change their equilibrium too much, so hey, they might as well have this boring poor girl as a friend. Or maybe I was just overthinking it. I said goodnight to Ally and went next door to my room.

       Chapter 7

      Julianne

      Knightsbridge, 2019

      Dinner isn’t going well. If I were being honest with myself, I would admit I’d made a pasta bake partly to piss my mother off a little, as I knew she’d regard it as unsophisticated. But as I carved a chunk of the slightly overcooked congealed mass out of the bowl and a flap of solid cheese flopped onto her plate, I wished I’d gone with oysters.

      ‘My, you’ve certainly been busy,’ Diane says, moving a few tough bits of pasta to the side with her fork. ‘Every room looks as festive as could be. Must have taken you a lot of time and energy.’

      ‘A bit,’ I say, then turn round as I hear a noise behind me.

      ‘Ah, it’s my favourite grandson.’ She stands up to embrace Stephen as he walks into the room.

      ‘We started because we didn’t know if you were coming,’ James says in a voice that makes it clear he doesn’t approve.

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