Can’t Get You Out Of My Head

Wednesday 1st Jan 1986

This term, I am not going to even think about Tom Jennings.

I will not go to his room when I’m feeling lonely or insecure.

I will not go to his room when I’ve had a couple of drinks in the bar – not orange juice, that pink fizzy one that Fiona got me to try. It doesn’t taste like alcohol but it makes my head feel fuzzy and that’s definitely not a good thing.

I will go to every one of my lectures.

I will complete all of Dr Pickup’s translation homeworks and hand them in on time.

I will try not to get embarrassed when Paul Conwood says he likes the smell of my shampoo, or tells me that he likes my dress/skirt/jacket.

Thursday 2nd Jan

An excellent start. Yesterday, I did not go to Tom’s room, I did not drink any Coral (the name came back to me when I spotted it in an ad on TV), and I did not get embarrassed by Paul acting as if he likes me. I didn’t go to any lectures, but I can let that one slide because I’m still at home for the Christmas holidays. I don’t go back to university until the 12th. And since I’ve been at home since Dec 14th, I’ve actually managed almost three weeks of not going to Tom’s room and not drinking alcohol and not over-reacting to Paul. Which is halfway to breaking the habit, when you think about it, because it’s supposed to take forty days - or am I getting that confused with giving up something for Lent? Anyway, I’m getting Tom out of my system so that when I go back to Hopwood Hall in 10 days’ time, he won’t feel like a habit anymore. I’ve gone cold turkey (which is ironic since Mum’s still got tons of leftover turkey in the fridge a week after Christmas and we’re all sick of the sight of it now).

Friday 3rd Jan

A letter arrived today from Laura. She said Tom was only after one thing and that I should try to avoid him next term. I felt like pointing out that I’ve given him up, but I didn’t want her to think she’d influenced me in any way. Sometimes, she gets a bit smug about her and Geoff being together since they were fifteen and choosing the same university so they can spend all their time together. Tom’s been going out with Amanda for nearly as long as Laura and Geoff, but it didn’t stop him…

Bother! I’m thinking about Tom now and how none of this would have happened if I’d known about Amanda. Boys with girlfriends should wear tee-shirts that say they’re attached, and then single girls like me wouldn’t get confused and end up making a mess of things. It’s not my fault that he didn’t tell me he was already spoken for.

I had a letter from Paul too. He’s got very neat handwriting for a boy. He said he hoped I’d had a good Christmas and that I wasn’t too bogged down with Paradise Lost. I didn’t realise I’d told him I had to read it over the holidays – it’s my main text for Dr Warwick’s seminars. Anyway, he said he did Book 1 for O level literature and couldn’t remember much about it apart from finding it difficult. I’m not sure whether to write back – I don’t want to encourage him.

Sat 4th Jan

I can’t stop thinking about Tom and Paul. I know that makes it sound like I’m breaking the first resolution on my list, but I’ve changed it to ‘I will not daydream about Tom Jennings.’ As in, I won’t sit and fantasise about him breaking up with Amanda and telling me he’s madly in love with me. I know I was… unwise to get involved with him when I did, but I’m not naïve enough to think that it meant anything. I won’t let myself fall for someone who cheats on his girlfriend.

Sun 5th Jan

Reading Paradise Lost to stop myself thinking about Tom. It’s Paul’s fault really that I met Tom in the first place. I had tickets for the English pantomime – Laura and I were going together, and then she ended up being invited to a Senior Common Room dinner on the same night, so obviously that had to take precedence. (I still think she could have rescheduled, but she chose not to.) In the end, I asked Paul because I knew we both had a big French test the next day and so neither one of us would want to stay out late as we’d both need to revise. The panto was from 6-8 so we could go along to that and still be back in Hall by half-eight, ready to go through all of Dr Burns’ notes on phonetics; and since we were two of the five people who’d actually stuck it out for every phonetics lecture, I felt reasonably confident that we’d do okay in the test anyway.

The show was great – extremely funny and more than a little bit rude – and we both laughed a lot, although sometimes it felt like Paul was laughing because I was. He was trying too hard on the walk back to Hall as well – saying things that might be romantic from someone else, but he always starts stuttering when he’s trying to talk about his feelings. I blame it on the public school system – all these boys are stuffed so full of Latin, Greek and rugby that there isn’t any room left in their brains for normal conversation. At one point he said he could smell something fragrant and asked me if I’d just washed my hair. I panicked and said it was probably the smell of kebabs wafting over from the nearby chip shop. Anyway, we got back to Hall and said our goodbyes, and then I realised I’d forgotten the key to my room, so I went to the Hall bar to find Amy, my roommate, so I could borrow her key to let myself in, and she just happened to be sitting with some other people on the German course…

I realised later that I must have seen Tom in French lectures because he’s Combined Honours like me, only French and German, not French and English, but for whatever reason, he hadn’t made much of an impact on me then. Now, though… I don’t know what it was, but that evening, we just clicked. We were still talking to each other about everything and nothing when Amy stood up and said she was going back to our room. She said it rather pointedly – as if she thought I needed to know what she was doing. Then, when I didn’t move, she made some sort of comment about me not having my key and needing to go back with her. And she looked really fed up when I asked her if she couldn’t just go and get my key for me and bring it back to the bar. (Well, Tom was halfway through a story about him and his friends hitch-hiking around Europe last summer, and I didn’t want to miss any of it.)

Eventually, Tom said he’d wait for me in the bar while I fetched my key. I followed Amy down the corridor, and as soon as we were out of everybody else’s earshot, she warned me not to go back to see Tom. Of course, it was too late for that: by now, I’d forgotten all about the big French test and all I could think about was the fact that Tom had incredible cheekbones and that his eyes had an almost hypnotic effect on me.

Bother! I’m daydreaming about Tom’s eyes now, and how looking into them is like falling into a river of desire. I know I should try swimming to safety, but a part of me would rather drown.

Mon, 6th Jan

I’m not daydreaming about a future with Tom: I’m looking back on the past. That’s okay, isn’t it? It’s not like I’m yearning for him: I’m just remembering. I think that’s allowed.

I told him Amy had warned me about him, and he laughed. He said she was annoyed with him because she’d caught him and another boy making a list of all the girls in the Languages faculty and ranking them in order of desirability. I know I should have been disgusted by their sexist behaviour, but when he told me he’d put me at the top of his list…

I will not think about Tom wanting to sleep with me.

I will not think about what it might be like to sleep with Tom.

When the bar started closing, Tom asked me if I’d like to go back to his room for a coffee. I actually thought he meant coffee. (No one had told me it was code for something else.) Anyway, I walked with him to the door to the men’s hall and we took the lift to the eleventh floor. I remember thinking Mum would have a fit if she could see me going to a strange man’s room. She’d made me take a room in a girls-only hall of residence to make sure I could keep my virtue intact. And my virtue was still intact. Before Tom, I’d never liked anyone enough to think about getting physical with them.

His room was tiny, but mine wasn’t much bigger and I was sharing with Amy. I remember looking at his desk and thinking it was a lot neater than mine; and then my gaze took in his bookshelf and I was suddenly smitten. Sons and Lovers. Jude the Obscure. Slaughterhouse 5.

I told him I’d just read the Vonnegut as part of that term’s literature seminars. His face lit up. “I love that book. What did you think?”

I said I’d liked the part where Billy Pilgrim was taken to the planet Tralfalmadore and kept as a zoo exhibit.

“Me too,” he said, grinning. “Him and Montana Wildhack.”

“She was a sensational invitation to make babies,” I quoted.

“I think that’s a pretty accurate description of you too,” he said.

His lips were on mine before I knew what was happening.

I will not think about that kiss.

I will not remember how it felt when he edged me closer to the bed and somehow manoeuvred us into a far more interesting position.

I am trying hard not to remember the blood singing in my veins and my bones turning to water. How right everything felt. How I didn’t want him to stop.

And I will picture his face when I stopped his hand as it strayed to the zipper of my jeans. I will remind myself that he asked me what I wanted; that he gave me a choice.

“It wouldn’t mean anything, would it?” I said, knowing the answer already.

And I will not let myself forget his reply. “Maybe not in the long run – but it would be pretty special at the time.”

I will remind myself that I did the right thing; that I chose not to take a gamble on a boy who didn’t love me.

Wednesday, 8th Jan

I spent all day yesterday thinking about Tom and imagining what would have happened if I’d let him make love to me.

Later…

When we read Catch 22 last term, I was struck by Yossarian’s creativity when he worked in the censorship office at the army base. My favourite incident was when he blacked out all the words in one of the letters and then added, ‘Dear Mary, I yearn for you tragically. R.O. Shipman, US Army Chaplain.’

Dear Tom, I yearn for you tragically.

I went back to see him the following night. I knew I wouldn’t sleep with him: I just wanted to see him, spend time with him, remind myself of what his kisses were like. After we’d commiserated with each other about failing the French test (because we’d spent hours studying each other’s bodies and not enough time revising phonetics), he offered me a coffee. When I realised he didn’t have milk, he went off to get me a tap water, and so of course I decided to peep inside his desk drawers and discover some of his deep, dark secrets.

She was called Amanda. He was quite open about her when I asked. (Although not as open as their relationship seems to have been.)

I will not cry when I think about him going home to be with her over the Christmas holidays.

I will not wonder if he was thinking about her when he was kissing me.

That was when I knew I couldn’t see him again.

I have to stop thinking about him too.

Thursday, 9th Jan

Paradise Lost has never seemed so apt. (The title, not the poem. Although possibly a war between Heaven and Hell would be preferable to the current war between my raging hormones and my desire for self-preservation.)

Friday, 10th Jan

Days spent thinking about Tom Jennings: 10.

Number of times I have been to his room: 0. (But it’s back to Hall tomorrow.)

Sunday, 12th Jan

Have just spent three hours with Tom.

Number of deep meaningful conversations: 1

Number of snogfests: 0

Number of chaste kisses to say goodbye: 1

From now on, my yearning will be at a distance.

Wednesday 15th Jan

Paul tried asking me out today. At least, I think he was trying to ask me out. There were a lot of awkward pauses and possibly a mention of dinner at a place called The American Food Factory.

I have a horrible feeling that Paul is yearning tragically for me.

Thursday 16th Jan

Bumped into Tom at the French lit lecture (17th century drama). He asked me if I wanted a coffee afterwards, so we went to the Arts Faculty and had filter coffee in plastic cups with Bourbon biscuits (10 pence each – you can buy a whole packet for 46p). Somehow, we seem to have become friends. I’m not sure if this is helping the trying-not-to-yearn-for-him situation or making it worse. He said he missed the first Racine lecture this week, so I’ve said I’ll look out my notes and take them round to him tonight.

I don’t think either of us is buying that excuse.

Later…

Why are all of Racine’s plays tragedies? Okay, so I’ve only read two – Iphegénie and Phèdre – but neither of those end happily. Phèdre is married to Thésée (Theseus – you know, the labyrinth guy. Killed the minotaur.) but is yearning tragically for her stepson, Hippolyte (Hippolytus). ‘Je brûle pour Thésée,’ she says, trying to convince herself that she’s in lust with her husband and not his son.

Moi, je brûle pour Tom.

Going round now with my notes.

Friday, 17th Jan

Missed my 9am lecture (Anglo Saxon).

Failed to hand in Dr Pickup’s translation on time.

No longer burning with lust but burning with shame.

It started off innocently enough. I went to see Tom at 9.30pm, telling myself that I would hand over the notes and go straight back to my room. He offered me a coffee and I started to say no, then realised he’d bought half a pint of milk. For some reason, that gesture touched me. I decided to stay for ten minutes – just long enough to drink one cup of coffee.

I will not think about Tom’s fingers grazing mine as he hands me the coffee. I will ignore the fact that my hand trembles and my heart thumps. When I inadvertently spill coffee on his shirt, he simply takes the mug away and pulls me into his arms. I pretend not to hear him when he tells me he’s missed me. I think about Amanda and I will myself not to melt into a puddle of desire.

And then he kisses me.

I choose to forget about Amanda as I kiss him back.

Later…

“You slept with him!” Laura is scandalised.

I try to explain. “I slept with him, but I didn’t sleep with him.”

She’s still giving me a disapproving look. I try again.

“We were kissing – lying down and kissing. And then we fell asleep.”

We spent the night in each other’s arms, fully clothed. It was the most intimate thing I have ever done.

“You know he doesn’t love you.”

Her words are brutal but true. Tom doesn’t love me. I know that.

But these feelings I have inside aren’t logical or sensible. Yearning is by definition fated to be hopeless. It’s a powerful emotional pull; a longing for something unattainable.

I love him; he loves me not.

Would I still feel this way if he loved me back?

Sunday, 19th Jan

I let Paul kiss me tonight.

I knew it was a mistake as soon as it happened. I’m not attracted to him, but I kept thinking about how desperately he follows me around, about the longing looks he sends in my direction across the French lecture theatre, about the way he’s so tongue-tied in my presence that he can barely string a sentence together. I thought if I let him kiss me, it would somehow burst the bubble of longing; that if he finally had me, he’d stop wanting me so much.

I was wrong.

If this were a made-up story, the kiss would have changed everything. I’d find myself head-over-heels in love with Paul, already planning the wedding and choosing names for our children.

I will not think about the way he pecked at my mouth like an over-anxious bird. I will choose to forget his awkward attempt to put his arms around me; the way he bumped my mouth as he tried to find the right angle.

He loves me; I love him not.

Monday, 20th Jan

From now on, I will not even think about Tom Jennings.