poetry. I had a thing about Keats at school. Read all his odes. Nightingale was wonderful. Depressing as hell, but wonderful. Think I’ve got a book of his poems upstairs. Do you want me to read you one?’
Pierce—‘That would be wonderful.’
I run upstairs and get the little black book John gave me as a present the first time we went away for a whole romantic weekend. I always keep it by my bedside. Wellthumbed, the pages fall open at Ode to a Nightingale naturally, and I read it as I walk down the stairs.
A drowsy numbness pains my sense, As though of hemlock I had drunk.
Wonderfully depressing. Keats was indeed the Dido of his time.
I recite the poem to Pierce. He listens quietly and patiently, sipping coffee, which should have been tea because I forgot what I’d suggested and made coffee anyway.
And then he recites poem after poem by Wordsworth. The most beautiful poetry, beautifully spoken. Probably word-perfect. Eloquent. He doesn’t lift his gaze from mine and his deep voice resonates over every vowel, every syllable, with just the right inflection. It’s magical. And then he stops.
Pierce—‘I have to go now.’
Sarah—‘Okay, then. That was wonderful. You are very talented, Pierce. Where did you learn that?’
Pierce—‘Oh, at school. The dregs of an expensive education. And I love poetry, too, which helps.’
Sarah—‘And I expect it helps to pull the sex kittens.’
Pierce—‘They’re not interested in poetry, Sarah. They’re interested in this.’
He grabs his crotch and jiggles his balls about as though they are worry beads.
Sarah—‘I wonder? I think if you recited more poetry you’d attract a different sort of pussycat.’
Pierce—‘Perhaps. Jane was the closest I’ve met to my match. She’s sexy and brilliant, and I love her energy and attitude.’
Sarah—‘But you couldn’t live with her.’
Pierce—‘No. Couldn’t live with her.’
Sarah—‘Do you know why?’
Pierce—‘Perhaps we’re too much alike. Perhaps. We went to counselling, but it didn’t help much.’
Sarah—‘Have you had much counselling?’
Pierce—‘Yes. It helps me. But it depends how open your mind is to it. And what you want to learn about yourself. You’ve got to make yourself very vulnerable.’
Sarah—‘What sort of things did you and Jane do?’
Pierce—‘Oh, we had to write a list of things we liked about each other. I think I got mine wrong about Jane.’
Sarah—‘How can you get it wrong?’
Pierce—‘Well, I put all stuff about how she made me look good, and what she did for me that was good, rather than anything about her in her own right. And the counsellor said that said a lot about me.’
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