Goywonder

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Hannah was my first real university relationship. Up until then I’d made do with casual flings, the most recent of which had been with Claudia Ellis, an exchange student from New York. As a lover of English literature, she’d happily shelled out nine thousand dollars to study at a university that had reared the likes of Ian McEwan and Malcom Bradbury.

Like any New Yorker relocated to Norwich, Claudia seemed restless and inpatient. She was always complaining about the pace of Norfolk. And who could blame her when our local accent was characterised by loose, hanging vowels, sometimes taking up a whole half second? On the phone to her Manhattan friends, Claudia could be half way through a sentence in that time.

She was an ambitious writer, always looking for new ways to get her writing under England’s most influential noses. At parties and drinks receptions you’d see her on the prowl, hunting down anyone with links to newspaper editors, publishers or literary magazines. Despite coming from one of the most thrilling media cities, she was utterly romanced with the English press. After three months in the UK, she was still asking paper sellers for the ‘London Times’. You could just tell she couldn’t wait to add the paper to her CV; she’d probably saved a sacred space for it.

At the time I was writing for the local BBC – just on a voluntary basis, mind you. But, when I first noticed Claudia at a Waterstones drinks reception, I thought this might be enough to get her attention. I knew the power of the BBC: it was one of those little acronyms (like OBE and SW1) that took on the power of a magic spell when they reached the ears of Anglophiles. Feeling assure, I confidently approached her.

“So you’re a writer too?” I began, trying to tag on to her conversation. I wasn’t expecting to get very far: establishing I wrote was never going to impress. Like most media types, Claudia viewed an unpublished writer as little more use than an unlicensed GP. I was keen to mention my BBC links as soon as I could.

“Yeah, I can’t stand deadlines either. On Monday night I had to review Pendulum for the BBC. The deadline was 10AM the next morning. 10AM! My ears had hardly stopped ringing from the gig – how was I meant to concentrate?”

It didn’t go as well as I hoped. She showed interest at first, but, the more I disclosed (it was just the local BBC; I wasn’t paid), the more this waned. You don’t have to be a body language expert to notice that, when someone’s eyes are drifting over your shoulders and beyond, things aren’t going too well.

So I started to exaggerate a few things. I don’t remember what I said exactly, which is probably where I went wrong. I’d failed to take the advice of a cynical law tutor, who told me that, if you must lie, just make damn sure you remember exactly what you said. I think I told Claudia that I reviewed books for the Spectator – and that I had friends who blogged for the Guardian. Whatever I said, it worked, and I soon became the latest name in her address book.

I quickly became very keen on Claudia. She just made fantastic conversation. That might not seem like the biggest compliment, but I really do mean it to be. Sometimes you meet someone who makes you realise the amazing potential of conversation. Claudia was one of those people. Her anecdotes were lively and passionate, with a sharp satirical jolt never more than a minute away. She made the most wonderful remarks, constantly throwing curveball references to politics, literature and popular culture. She had that brilliant combination of being brilliantly intelligent yet utterly reckless: it was like she completely understood the world around her but just wanted to make a joke out of the whole thing.

But after a few evenings together, Claudia broke the whole thing off, with a frankness I’d never experienced before (and, thankfully, haven’t since). I’ve always been a lover the American directness, but it certainly stings when you’re on the receiving end of it. One night she came to my flat, and – before she’d even taken off her coat – accused me of lying to her. And I had been. Things had cascaded since the Spectator lie. And she’d just worked that out.

“You’ve been lying to me since we first met,” she scowled. “It’s absolutely pathetic. Why on earth couldn’t you just bring yourself to tell the truth?”

There was a glare in Claudia’s eye that made it clear this question wasn’t rhetorical. She began to list some of the lies I’d told: that I regularly presented reports for BBC’s Politics Show (in truth, I was commissioned to write a short feature about student grants, but the BBC hadn’t followed up on it); that I’d interviewed Lily Allen (I had reviewed her show – what’s the difference?) and that I was friends with Guardian golden-girl Hadley Freeman (I was her Facebook friend – why did it matter if she had over six-thousand of them?).

“So why did you lie to me?” she demanded. Claudia did anger very well: unlike a lot of New Yorkers she didn’t need to add ‘asshole’ on the end of her attacks.

“You’re a literature exchange student. You came here for some good fiction: I was only obliging,” I joked. Claudia’s sense of humour didn’t show up on this occasion. Instead she slapped me round the face.

Well, Claudia, if this makes it any better, I’ve always been more honest on page than in person. And it’s true: I did think you were fantastic. You were one of the funniest and most exciting people I’ve met. And that slap stung in ways you probably never meant it to.

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Goy Wonder, 2009

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