Who I Am Read online

  I arrive at Waverley Station at 07.00, immediately losing myself in a stream of people, swimming through pinstriped suits, blithely clad students and those who appear to have sauntered down from the clubs in Old Town on a high. The bouquet of alcohol and weed is all too much, feeling my stomach roll in response I make my way to the portable looking coffee stand with twenty-five minutes to wait. Anticipation has got me here way too early, especially since I’ve a reserved seat. I order strong coffee and treat myself to a cranberry and oat muffin with a voracious need for sugar to balance out the caffeine and lack of a night’s sleep. Hypoglycemic outlooks not helping my state of mind. I toddle off to find a quiet bench in the old glass domed booking hall to indulge and people watch.

  A group of Italian students laden with rucksack supplies and rain macs block my view. A young couple saunter in front of me, she’s clearly unhappy with her counterpart and from the expression on his face, he doesn’t comprehend – why. He mutters something, apparently underhand, she scowls before spitting retaliatory words at him. He attempts to touch her hand, she slaps it away, then he strides off with his exasperated stance. This is one of the reasons why I’ve stayed single, independence, freedom, without the need to explain myself. The other, the real reason, is not so simple. I catch my breath, please let me doing the right thing here.

  The train journey passes relatively quickly, or it would have but for the car salesman looking guy opposite, who’s done his best to distract me and everyone within a fifteen foot radius with every conceivable ploy. Stretching his legs out into my territory until reaching my retreating foot. Schmoozing with his mobile in an overly loud, abhorrent manner, snorting brashly at the white iPhone, guffawing in to its screen. Then, insisting on eating like a camel with dental issues. I clenched my teeth and hummed in my mind to distract myself from the repellent sounds chewing at my earlobes. Why do they always sit opposite me? Am I a magnet for weirdos and generally offensive beings, is this always going to be the story of my life?

  Finally, I put away my book as the nasal voice declares we are approaching Kings Cross Station. The car sales guy is ironically now asleep, his mouth ajar, should I wake him, advise him he’s arrived at his destination? He’s a meeting to rush to, the whole carriage appreciates this. Instead, I do the world a favour, allowing him to sleep on. I scurry along the platform, dodging the mass of oncoming faces, jostling my way down to the ground floor. I’ve no time to spare but need to freshen up, first impressions last, I owe it to myself to make this work and follow the sign to the ladies.

  Fifteen minutes later, I’m swinging from the handle like a monkey on the tube, a fluttering deep in my tummy, trying my hardest not to look conspicuous, it’s been a while since I’ve been to London, I passed through for a few days after Cornwall all those years ago, why – I’ve no idea, a rabbit caught in headlights maybe. Now, I’m half excited, half scared, appreciating that if it all goes to plan – this is the beginning of the rest of my life. I tense my leg muscles to stop them from walking off all on their own as the train pulls into Holborn Station, one more stop to go. Apologising as I jolt into the trendy looking, thirty something, model like man next to me, aware of the natural blush caressing my cheeks. Why does it matter? I don’t know these people but all the same, I feel my confidence sliding away, as if somehow if I make a fool of myself on the tube, the rest of my day will be doomed. Finally, I step precariously over the gap on to the platform at Covent Garden, scampering away in pursuit of time.

  Breathing in the scent of warm, clammy buildings and tar out on the street, I begin scrambling for the mobile in the depths of my bag. I need the maps app. Last night, I found the modestly, impressive venue on Google, grandiose pillars standing either side of the entrance as latent doormen. Opposite the entrance, there should be a Costa and if my research has served me well, with windows overseeing the front steps to the building. Then, if luck is with me, I’ll be able to slide nicely onto a barstool in this window and wait. It’s all been so easy, why hadn’t I done this before? Because, I hadn’t discovered the truth before, or hadn’t wanted to see what now appears obvious. There was me thinking it was me who’d got what I wanted, when it was her… all along.

  Moments later, I shove myself through the glass door of Costa, rudely jumping in front of an approaching woman laden with bags and some kind of panini. She glares at me, both of us understanding, I’ve no way of purchasing a drink without losing my seat. I can’t take the chance in case he slips by while I’m at the counter. Perching myself on the edge of the hard seat, I sit waiting to pounce, the class begins in six minutes, any time now I’ll see him, I’m sure. Scanning the trails of swarming for the familiar face, realising I’m squinting and frowning, I slouch back against the hard back of the chair. I’ve obviously missed him, he probably arrived earlier, maybe I passed him in a stupor to get to the window seat.

  Sliding off the upright chair, I nod to an approaching chair stalker, I’m leaving, yes, I’ve missed my chance, fill your boots. It’s only as I swivel towards the doorway in defeat that I notice him, peering closer through the glass, I check off his features, it’s definitely him. Go. Not taking my eyes off him, bustling out on to the street, noting the direction he came from to add to my file of information. He is, as I’d envisaged, in work attire, has he walked? Tubed? Taxi? At least I know which street I need to loiter along now. One discreet step at a time, I’ll get to the roots of his daily routines, his life. Funny, from the photos I unearthed and the images stored tightly in my mind’s eye, he even walks in the manner I expected. Whoever said the internet was a dangerous place in the wrong hands? I flick my hair behind my shoulders, dodging beeping traffic to cross the road, my cheeks feeling a little flushed but it’s a small price to pay. Rehearsing my story as I go, I’m running late, cannot recall the allocated room, floor or anything else class related. Perchance he will be able to advise me?

  Something tells me – he will, quite the gentleman it seems. I take a deep breath in through my nose, out through my nose, and repeat as I approach my target from behind.

  19

  Funny, how life slaps you in the face. I used to believe I belonged. Turns out, I didn’t, I don’t. Always knew something about me was different, missing. I didn’t get to choose, sometimes, you can’t choose, can you. Some things are dealt to you, served on you like a prison sentence. But why did they have to lie? Why couldn’t they have told the truth, at least then, my life would have made some sense.

  Did they really believe me so stupid as to not realise I was different? Unwanted. Cast away like a read newspaper. Maybe if I’d known, things could have been different.

  I may have been someone.

  Like her. She’s someone, always has been.

  20

  Cornwall 2000

  Camilla

  We arrive, I have arrived. It pained me not to groan out loud at the pure magnificence as we swept along the road, not so much a road as a private driveway. My eyes wandering over colossal wrought iron or wooden gates, elusive properties posturing behind each border. Now, we’re crunching our way over manicured stones, swirling along a driveway not much shorter than the entire length of the street where we used to live. Not so much lived, more – squatted, I shiver at the ingrained thought of it before pushing it away again. That, dull, distant, remote existence, I think as we pass a brick built stone building, I assume to be the garage, being larger and more elaborate than the houses of most.

  Andi’s father collected us from Newquay airport, a strong, steadfast kind of father who chatted affably whilst puffing on his pipe for the distance home, the scent of sweet, woody tobacco bouncing off the leather interior. I noted to myself, he wasn’t a man I’d want to cross, with a Winston Churchill air about him, openly idolising his precious daughter. Resolute eyes almost glimmering, pulling her close for a possessive embrace at the airport. I couldn’t help but think – no one ever held me in that way, never mind my mam and dad. I also appreciate it’s not possible to have all this s
uccess without an element of the unscrupulous lurking in the shadows? I need to keep my eye on the ball this week, he’s not one to suffer fools gladly.

  Luckily, I am no fool.

  A cloud of white dust smears my window as we draw to a stop and I attempt to close my drooling mouth. Bloody hell! Mind blowing! And this is home number two, I can’t wait to discover home number one, all in good time. ‘Welcome to Cornwall, Camilla,’ the white haired man turns, a fixed smile on his face, ‘make yourself at home whilst you’re here.’ He releases his seatbelt. ‘Now, I’m sure Andi will show you around, tell you what’s what.’ He draws deeply on his pipe before opening the door and easing himself out. Andi and I climb out at the same time as a soupçon of unpolluted air smacks against my chest, a cool breeze catching my bare legs. I need to take a moment to absorb and appreciate this gargantuan white construction in front of me.

  Seconds later, following the father, we step inside the doorway to the aroma of fresh pine, there’s a candle burning on an antique looking dresser gracing the reception hall. A reception hall! Who has a flipping reception hall? A room larger than the entire square footage of Mam and Dads. The sound of ticking seeping through my humming earlobes as my eyes locate a grandfather clock. Who even owns a grandfather clock these days? A family heirloom, no doubt. I’m gawping around when I hear the sound of clapping, the urgent clitter clatter of feet approaching, breaking my moment of wonder. Andi’s father retreats to a closed door room as further footsteps quicken, becoming louder.

  ‘Andi? Andi, where are you?’ she calls.

  A vision of bold, contrasting colours appears, me watching on as Andi is engulfed in podgy, sun beaten, aging arms, her face kissed enthusiastically. It seems to take forever for Andi to re-emerge, hair ruffled, cheeks flushed. ‘This is Cam, Mummy,’ she advises the weather lined face, though not unpleasant at all. She’d have been extremely attractive in her day. I hold out my hand before I’m pulled into an embrace, voluntary or not, I hold my breath, a small price to pay. Silently suffocating, clenching my jaw. ‘Cam, so lovely to have you here, I was delighted to hear you were coming.’ I smile as she holds me at arm’s length. ‘My goodness – look at the two of you. Like peas in a pod,’ she says. ‘You could be sisters.’

  ‘Mrs Johnson, it’s lovely to meet you at last,’ I manage to recover myself from her assault, ‘Andi speaks of you lots.’

  She laughs at this and pulls her indulged daughter in for a further hug, squashing us both together. ‘Oh please, call me Francis, Fran,’ she corrects, ‘come on through to the kitchen, you must be parched and ravenous. I’ve some chicken casserole over from last night. Your favourite, darling.’ She wanders off like a mother goose towards what I assume to be the kitchen area. ‘And I won’t take no for an answer,’ she calls.

  Andi smiles at me and we dutifully follow, with not a single hint of pot or stale alcohol roaming in the air. Only the pure bouquet of wealth. I inhale deeply, not wanting to ever let it go.

  21

  Cornwall 2017

  Andi

  By the time I pull into the St Mawes car park, Carol has already parked and gone in, she insisted we meet for lunch today after the appointment, on the estuary front. She was in full support of me seeing someone, I obviously haven’t been outwardly coping as well as I’d thought. Then it occurred to me, maybe she was in on this concept of a therapist with Kyle. Maybe it was her suggestion? Her recommendation? With two of my closest allies urging me to seek help, who needs enemies? We’ll meet for lunch afterwards; help you feel a little more normal – whatever this was supposed to mean. They didn’t think I was normal? I’m not sure how I feel after my appointment with Eve. How is anyone supposed to feel? Exposed? A failure? Better? Heavy and drained, burned out from the temporary adrenaline rush as Eve sauntered so near to the edges of my deeply buried past. I almost trusted her but then pulled myself together.

  Entering the hotel reception, I steal a sideways glance towards the bar area, a magnetic like pull beckoning me, I turn away from its curling, suggestive finger attempting to reel me in. I pass through the lounge area opening out on to the balcony where Carol sits under a parasol, lost in her gaze out to sea, where a small passenger ferry is re-loading passengers to return them to Falmouth harbour. A waiter passes me with a tray of glasses filled with rich, amber wine, my mouth responds, salivating at the thought. Something tells me it will be coffee or other non-alcoholic equivalents today, at least until I’m alone again. A feeling of warmth floods through me at the promise of a little treat later on.

  I creep up, kissing Carol on the cheek from behind, making her jump. ‘Christ! Andi, don’t do that,’ she gently slaps my arm.

  I pull the chair out next to her. ‘Nice to see you too, Carol,’ I laugh, ‘anyway – what do you have to be so jumpy about, been up to no good? Plotting a murder, your poor husband? Having an affair?’

  ‘I wish,’ she sighs.

  ‘Oh, I was only kidding – it’s not really so bad is it?’

  She avoids my question, because it’s not worth crediting with an answer or because things are so bad at the moment? But mostly because today she wants to talk about me. I position myself next to her to benefit from the view and share some shade from the midday sun. We order drinks, surprisingly, I was allowed a white wine with soda, seriously it makes me cross, it’s not like I am an alcoholic. Both her and Kyle are increasingly treating me like a delicate child. We also order a sharing seafood tapas platter with a basket of locally baked bread. I probably won’t eat again today, by the time I’ve sorted the children, I really can’t be bothered most nights, I end up picking instead. A bowl of nuts for protein with a large glass of adult grape juice for the carbs.

  ‘So how are you doing?’ Carol raises her sunglasses, studying me for signs of something or other. Wondering if I’ve an air of something different, something lighter about me, no doubt.

  I smile warmly at her. ‘Great. You?’

  She cocks her head to one side. ‘Really? You’re not feeling too drained or… anything?’

  ‘Drained? No, why would I be?’

  ‘I just thought what with the… the you know,’ she glances around, concerned about announcing my taboo subject, ‘you might be feeling a little, you know.’

  ‘I’m not helping you out with this one, you’re going to have to spit it out.’ I tell her.

  She sighs as our drinks are placed on the table. The poor lad looking between us wondering if our silence is something to do with him. ‘Thank you, perfect timing,’ I tell him, taking a long sip, attempting to squeeze out the special effects of the wine, it being smothered in pointless fizzy liquid. I manage to steer the conversation away to children matters, the strain of mundane routines, deciding on meals to cook each and every night and so on. Carol has some new gossip about one of the parents who has literally run away with a visiting music tutor in a Shirley Valentine fashion. Then our platter arrives, a large rectangular red and orange plate of fishy wonders, a delicate scent of burned butter, fennel and basil. Doing the honours, I squeeze plump lemon over to compliment.

  I delicately pull the head and ugly parts away from the langoustine, finding it strangely satisfying, allowing buttery juices to run through my fingers. I feel Carol watching me, almost waiting to pounce as I pop white tender flesh into my mouth and float away for a moment or two.

  ‘So? How was it? How did it go?’

  ‘What?’ Next is a large blue shelled Porthilly mussel. Picking up an empty shell, I ease out the juicy insides from the inside of the other. ‘These are delicious, you not sharing?’

  ‘Stop it. You know what, your meeting with the… the nut doctor.’

  Swallowing the ugly looking salty treasure, washing it down with another monitored sip of wine. ‘Actually, it was fine, not too bad at all in fact. Not what I expected, whatever that was. No touchy feely stuff anyway.’

  ‘What was she like then?’

  ‘Not what I’d expected either.’

  ‘Oh? Do tell
me more.’ She edges her chair ever so slightly closer, enjoying the moment immensely. Perhaps, it is her who needs the therapist more than me, so she’s recommended my visit to Kyle, only to test the waters for herself. Or perhaps, I observe the slight frown across her forehead, perhaps she actually cares about me. And not just Kyle. I metaphorically slap my face – stop it Andi, for Christ sake, not everyone is like, me, some people care, are nice. Let the past go.

  I lick the butter from my fingers. ‘If you think about what a typical psychologist would be like.’

  She skillfully handles a Porthilly mussel between her fingers, ‘yes?’

  ‘Well nothing like that.’

  ‘Andi,’ she slaps my hand, ‘you’re making this really hard work, it’s like talking to one of the kids after school. Stop it.’

  I tear a piece of bread, soaking it into the lemony basil and pop it in my mouth. The expression on Carol’s face makes me laugh. ‘She was nice, like one of us, attractive, gorgeous shoes. Anything but… well, like a psychologist. Quite normal actually.’

  ‘That’s more like it.’ Carol bites off a chunk of bread. ‘Go on. What else? What did you talk about? How did it go?’

  ‘Everything really,’ This isn’t the case but Carol needn’t know this. ‘It wasn’t what I was expecting. The thing is – I don’t really know what I was expecting but, if anything, it felt more like a chat. Interesting too.’