The Other Side of Midnight. Sidney Sheldon
their sexual exploits, Catherine visualized herself in bed with a boy, having him make wild and frantic love to her. She would feel a physical ache in her groin and press her fists hard against her thighs, trying to hurt herself, to take her mind off the other pain. My God, she thought, I’m going to die a virgin. The only nineteen-year-old virgin at Northwestern. Northwestern, hell, maybe even the United States! The Virgin Catherine. The Church will make me a Saint and they’ll light candles to me once a year. What’s the matter with me? she thought. I’ll tell you, she answered herself. Nobody’s asked you and it takes two to play. I mean, if you want to do it right, it takes two to play.
The name that most frequently cropped up in the girls’ sexual conversations was Ron Peterson. He had enrolled at Northwestern on an athletic scholarship and was as popular here as he had been at Senn High School. He had been elected freshman class president. Catherine saw him in her Latin class the day the term began. He was even better looking than he had been in high school, his body had filled out, and his face had taken on a rugged devil-may-care maturity. After class, he walked towards her, and her heart began to pound.
Catherine Alexander!
Hello, Ron.
Are you in this class?
Yes.
What a break for me.
Why?
Why? Because I don’t know anything about Latin and you’re a genius. We’re going to make beautiful music. Are you doing anything tonight?
Nothing special. Do you want to study together?
Let’s go to the beach where we can be alone. We can study any time.
He was staring at her.
‘Hey! … er –?’ trying to think of her name.
She swallowed, trying desperately to remember, herself. ‘Catherine,’ she said quickly. ‘Catherine Alexander.’
‘Yeah. How about this place! It’s terrific, isn’t it?’
She tried to put eagerness in her voice to please him, agree with him, woo him. ‘Oh yes,’ she gushed, ‘it’s the most –’
He was looking at a stunning blond girl waiting at the door for him. ‘See you,’ he said, and moved away to join the girl.
And that was the end of the Cinderella and Prince Charming story, she thought. They lived happily ever after, he in his harem and she in a windswept cave in Tibet.
From time to time Catherine would see Ron walking along the campus, always with a different girl and sometimes two or three. My God, doesn’t he ever get tired? she wondered. She still had visions that one day he would come to her for help in Latin, but he never spoke to her again.
At night lying in her lonely bed, Catherine would think about all the other girls making love to their boyfriends, and the boy who would always come to her was Ron Peterson. In her mind he would undress her and then she would slowly undress him, the way they always did it in romantic novels, taking off his shirt and gently running her fingers over his chest, then undoing his trousers and pulling down his shorts. He would pick her up and carry her towards the bed. At that point Catherine’s comic sense would get the better of her and he would sprain his back and fall to the floor, moaning and groaning with pain. Idiot, she told herself, you can’t even do it right in your fantasies. Maybe she should enter a nunnery. She wondered if nuns had sexual fantasies and if it was a sin for them to masturbate. She wondered if priests ever had sexual intercourse.
She was sitting in a cool, tree-shaded courtyard in a lovely old abbey outside Rome, trailing her fingers in the sun-warmed water of an ancient fish pond. The gate opened, and a tall priest entered the courtyard. He wore a wide-brimmed hat and a long black cassock and he looked exactly like Ron Peterson.
Ah, scusi, signorina, he murmured, I did not know I had a visitor.
Catherine quickly sprang to her feet. I shouldn’t be here, she apologized. It was just so beautiful I had to sit here and drink it in.
You are most welcome. He moved towards her, his eyes dark and blazing. Mia cara … I lied to you.
Lied to me?
Yes. His eyes were boring into hers. I knew you were here because I followed you.
She felt a thrill go through her. But – but you are a priest.
Bella signorina, I am a man first and a priest afterwards. He lurched forwards to take her in his arms, and he stumbled on the hem of his cassock and fell into the fish pond.
Shit!
Ron Peterson came into the Roost every day after school and would take a seat at the booth in the far corner. The booth would quickly fill up with his friends and become the centre of boisterous conversation. Catherine stood behind the counter near the cash register and when Ron entered, he would give her a pleasant, absent nod and move on. He never addressed her by name. He’s forgotten it, Catherine mused.
But each day when he walked in, she gave him a big smile and waited for him to say hello, ask her for a date, a glass of water, her virginity, anything. She might as well have been a piece of furniture. Examining the girls in the room with complete objectivity she decided she was prettier than all but one girl, the fantastic looking Jean-Anne, the Southern blonde with whom Ron was most often seen, and she was certainly brighter than all of them put together. What in God’s name then was wrong with her? Why was it that not one single boy asked her for a date? She learned the answer the next day.
She was hurrying south along the campus headed for the Roost when she saw Jean-Anne and a brunette whom she did not know, walking across the green lawn towards her.
‘Well, it’s Miss Big Brain,’ Jean-Anne said.
And Miss Big Boobs, Catherine thought enviously. Aloud she said, ‘That was a murderous Lit quiz, wasn’t it?’
‘Don’t be condescending,’ Jean-Anne said coldly. ‘You know enough to teach the Lit course. And that’s not all you could teach us, is it, honey?’
Something in her tone made Catherine’s face begin to redden.
‘I – I don’t understand.’
‘Leave her alone,’ the brunette said.
‘Why should I?’ Jean-Anne asked. ‘Who the hell does she think she is?’ She turned to Catherine. ‘Do you want to know what everyone says about you?’
God, no. ‘Yes.’
‘You’re a lesbo.’
Catherine stared at her, unbelievingly. ‘I’m a what?’
‘A lesbian, baby. You’re not fooling anybody with that holier-than-thou act.’
‘Th – that’s ridiculous,’ Catherine stammered.
‘Did you really think you could fool people?’ Jean-Anne asked. ‘You’re doing everything but carrying a sign.’
‘But I – I never –’
‘The boys get it up for you, but you never let them put it in.’
‘Really –’ Catherine blurted.
‘Fuck off,’ Jean-Anne said. ‘You’re not our type.’
They walked away, leaving her standing there, numbly staring after them.
That night, Catherine lay in bed, unable to sleep.
How old are you, Miss Alexander?
Nineteen.