Who I Am Page 11

  ‘Interesting?’ She begins to dissect the crab claw, flicking sweet juices into her hair.

  ‘She explained about the mind, the brain and its physicality, how our imagination works. Differences between right and left hemispheres and what happens if one side is substantially dominant. It was thought provoking, I guess.’

  ‘Sounds it. But did you talk about you, and dare I say, how you’ve been feeling lately?’ she asks.

  Strange, because she has no real idea of how I’ve been feeling lately and certainly not why. ‘A little,’ I tell her. ‘But it was more of an assessment today, I think we’ll dig deeper next time.’

  ‘Good – so you’re considering a next time at least, then?’ Kyle will be pleased.’

  I hadn’t realised I was until now. ‘I am. How do you mean, Kyle will be pleased?’

  ‘Well, he’s worried about you, of course. Think he feels a little isolated from you at the moment… doesn’t know how best to handle you.’

  ‘Handle me?’

  ‘Wrong choice of words probably.’

  Just how many secret conversations do those two have, she seems to know more about how Kyle feels than I do, I bite down on my lip so not to respond.

  ‘Be careful, you know, with how you are with Kyle, what with him being away so often.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Nothing, And. We’re just concerned, nothing more. Forget I mentioned Kyle.’ She taps my leg, ‘I’m pleased you’re going to give it another go, found it helpful.’

  ‘Yes, well, it was nice to talk to someone with no expectations. Although, I didn’t tell her about…’ I stop myself, sometimes my mouth is not connected to my brain. I pretend to choke on the bread, to gather my thoughts, spluttering into my cloth napkin. Carol pushes a glass of water at me, tapping me not so gently on my back. ‘Bitten off more than I can chew,’ I attempt to laugh.

  ‘So it seems. You were saying, you didn’t tell her about the…?’

  Jesus, Carol, let it go. ‘Was I? I’ve no idea where I was going with that. Oh, yes, you asked if I told her about my current issues?’

  ‘Did I?’ She frowns.

  ‘Words to that effect, yes, feeling I think you said. The thing is, she did ask some personal questions, why I was there for one, what I felt wasn’t working in my life and so on. But, oh, I don’t know, Carol, what’s the point? I’m okay, there’s nothing terribly wrong.’ At least nothing I can open up about.

  ‘That’s not quite true, And, is it. What is it with you?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, it’s almost as if, how shall I put it, almost as if you never say what you’re really thinking. Until I spoke to Kyle, you know, you’ve hardly been really open about things. I wouldn’t have known you were struggling as much as he said. I mean, yes, I’ve noticed, clearly you’re struggling at the moment, a little distant, vague is perhaps the best way to describe it. But you’re like a closed shop most of the time.’

  I bite down on my teeth, what the hell?

  ‘I mean, maybe you wouldn’t have needed to see her at all, if you spoke up a little, talked to me about how you’ve been feeling.’ She nods towards my glass, ‘and you certainly won’t find the answer in there.’

  ‘Carol.’ I snap. ‘Please don’t. You’re not helping. I understand you think you are but you’re really not.’ I count to ten, don’t react, don’t react. She’s fishing. ‘I’m sorry you feel like this but it’s so much easier talking to someone who doesn’t know you, someone who doesn’t make judgements.’

  ‘Well, I certainly wouldn’t make judgements about you.’

  Is this me or Carol, I’ve always found her to be opinionated and judgemental, it’s part of who she is. ‘Eve seemed to understand more than I told her,’ I continued, ‘she respected where I was coming from, without prying.’

  ‘Creepy.’

  ‘No, she wasn’t, to be fair. The time flew by. I will go back, you never know it may help.’ We sit in silence for a few stretched out moments, me imagining her on the phone to Kyle before I even fasten my seatbelt.

  ‘Good. I’m pleased.’ She said eventually. ‘So, did she attempt to blame everything on your dark past?’

  Where has this come from, Carol? I feel my stomach roll. ‘What do you mean?’ I ask.

  ‘I thought that’s what they do, try and blame everything on some childhood trauma, lack of parental attachment? What’s that… you know, what’s her names,’ she clicks her fingers, ‘Bowlby, that’s it Bowlby’s attachment theory and all that stuff.’

  Feeling my eyebrows rise, she waves her hand at me. ‘Psychology A ‘Level student – I was.’

  I laugh, as relief floods through me, ‘I see what you mean, no, but she did mention something about looking for behavioural patterns, but nothing any deeper than that.’

  She nods, then we watch the ferry disappearing around the old harbour wall, curving to the right. A swan like sailing boat glides her way towards us with small figures gracefully dropping, then folding the main sail onto the boom. Kyle and the children are all keen sailors, it goes with the territory of living on this particular coast in Cornwall, the North coast is more for surfing the Atlantic waves, with miles of white sand beaches. They’re all members of the Falmouth sailing school so God knows why Kyle keeps insisting we go to Mylor harbour. Sometimes, I wonder, does he know? Do they both know, him and Carol? Pushing me towards places with bad associations.

  ‘I don’t think you’ve ever discussed your past with me, And, have you?’ Carol breaks my thoughts.

  Someone fetch me a drink, please. ‘No, probably not.’ By the way she’s stopped tucking into her king prawns, she won’t be satisfied with this response. ‘There’s a reason for this,’ I attempt, ‘there’s really not much to tell. Ordinary, boring really.’ I catch the young waiter’s attention and call him over, ‘could we have the same again for the drinks please,’ Carol is now glaring at me in a – really? We’re both driving you know, manner. Or more to be precise – what about your drink problem? manner. ‘Actually, on second thoughts, can you make that two coffees instead, please.’

  ‘What about your parents? Did you get on with them, were they nice? You’ve never really mentioned them.’

  For a moment, I think back, picturing my parents, a slight frown creeps across Carol’s face, wondering why I’m so guarded, no doubt. ‘My parents?’ I shrug. ‘They were lovely. David and Francis. My mum was half Greek, hence our names.’

  ‘What David, Francis and Andi?’

  ‘No. Andriana and Leo, my brother.’

  ‘Andriana? What an exquisite name, Andriana, Andriana,’ she repeats. I never knew your name was short for Andriana. Do I even know you?’ Another jibe at me. ‘If I was called Andriana, I wouldn’t go by any other name. Andi or Andriana? No, definitely Andriana. Sounds so incredibly exotic, a goddess.’ She smiles, but I can’t help but wonder if it’s sincere. ‘Did you lose them long ago?’

  More recently, I’ve become to wonder how much of Carol’s questioning is normal conversation and how much is nothing short of interrogation. ‘They emigrated to Florida to be with my brother,’ I explain. ‘I lost them before they died in all honesty. They both died relatively close together. I planned to visit them the following year but left it all too late. It was…’ how do I put this to satisfy her, ‘complicated. And something, if you don’t mind, something I prefer not to talk about. Especially today. There’s already been far too much conversation regarding me.’

  ‘Oh, Andi,’ Carol exhales, ‘how sad?’

  Life is sad. It hadn’t used to be or at least it wasn’t how I perceived it to be, it used to be full of hope, promises and dreams. But it’s never been the same since that awful night. I’ve struggled on and made the best of the situation. I achieved what I set out to do, a beautiful family, living in a beautiful home with a promising career on the back of many hours of hard work? I make my own decisions, not really responsible to anyone other than Kyle and t
he children and now it seems, Carol. But there’s always that ache, an underlying anxiety. ‘Make the most of each and every moment, eh?’ I tell Carol. ‘None of us appreciate what’s skulking round the corner. Do we?’

  ‘No, we don’t. To be honest, do we ever know what’s right in front of us, in plain sight?’

  ‘Sorry?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh nothing, ignore me.’

  There we go again, another loaded comment.

  22

  Cornwall 2000

  Andi

  I’ve taken the spare car from Daddy’s collection, polished and dispersed across the country, for some prodigal reason. Still, I really want to show off the Cornish county to Camilla, without much time to achieve it, though something tells me this is the first of many visits for her. It’s not passed me by that Camilla, despite the outward poise, is deceptively lonely. Deceptively, because at first glance she is assured, an upright stance, an air of insightful knowing, someone who may have been graced with a fulfilled life – you could miss the obvious. It’s only when you poke beyond this surface, vulnerabilities begin to seep through. We had breakfast in the orangery this morning, overlooking the Fal estuary. The brilliant sun rays warming the old slate flags. A couple of times, I’m not mistaken, I noticed a glimmer of something almost longing in her eyes. Then, each time I wander near her past, a practiced tongue effectively steers me away again.

  I like her, more than like her – she’s fun, so different to my other friends, so different to me. So free. She can be whoever she wants to be with no one to question her. We’ve cried tears with laughter these last couple of days with her clamorous honesty and almost twisted angle on life and people. Every so often, as at breakfast, when my parents approached, she switches to a more refined version of herself, mindful of her tongue’s sharp, intuitive speech but it’s not who she really is. I fell asleep last night wondering how many people will ever get to meet the true Camilla? She’s an ingenious chameleon, with so many tints and guises. Yesterday, sitting with our feet at the edge of the sea on the grainy beach, I attempted to delve a little into this and was met with sparkly chocolate eyes, ‘do any of us ever truly show who we are? Know who we are?’ she asked me. I picked up a pebble and threw it in the water, couldn’t help thinking probably not, we all have facades to a degree. But I’m not sure anyone really knows who you are, Camilla. But then, look at me, my own family don’t even know who I am, only seeing the Andi they choose to see. Maybe we’re not so different after all.

  Away from the main roads, we sweep through coiling lanes with Tarzan like trees entwined into ceremonial archways. Stealing intermittent glimpses of the calm channel waters, lurking surreptitiously in the background. Before too long we arrive in one of my favourite spots, Mylor Harbour, where hundreds of boats of all forms bob alongside pontoons or are tied to steadfast buoys floating further offshore. The giant secluded bay of turquoise waters offering sanctuary to sailors from across the world offers a peaceful serenity to whoever visits. I sense my shoulders shirking off residual tension as I sigh out through my nose. I love Mylor Harbour.

  ‘I’ve spent many blissful days here,’ I turn to Camilla as we drive down past the dry dock area. Huge boats towering above us, precariously balanced on insufficient wooden stilts. Like enormous bodied Herring gulls on stick legs, something eerie about them all the same. ‘It hasn’t really changed so much either,’ I say, ‘minor signs of modernisation but it’s pretty much always been the same.’

  ‘It’s amazing,’ Camilla says, peering up at the algae clad belly of a boat. Parked up, we climb from the car, simultaneously drawing a deep breath in. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been anywhere quite like it,’ she says, wrapping her lightweight cardigan around her. She then threads her arm through mine as we wander past the boat maintenance workshops and chandlery. ‘Please, don’t tell me you’ve a boat too,’ she laughs. ‘Some enormous yacht, parked up over there,’ she nods towards the pontoons.

  ‘Moored,’ I say.

  ‘What?’

  ‘A boat is moored, not parked,’ I laugh gently.

  ‘Same thing,’ she says. But I know she’s absorbed and stored this information somewhere. She will always say moored from here on.

  ‘We don’t, no.’ I tell her. ‘Sorry to disappoint but there’s no boat, not even of the rowing variety.’

  ‘So why did you come here then, it’s all about the boating stuff, isn’t it?’

  I nudge Camilla to her left around the side of the yacht club. ‘Just because I can, I love it here, always have, there’s something so, almost surreal about it, don’t you think? Other worldly.’

  Camilla nods, taking in her surroundings.

  ‘Also, Leo used to be a sailing instructor here, in his summer holidays.’ Now that horrible ache again. Remembering the upset over Leo offering after hours tuition to a girl working as a waitress in the yacht club. She was younger than him but my parent’s reaction had been over the top. It was ages before I made the connection. That period of rows and tears, my father’s absent hours… the perfect family? We step into the café underneath the yacht club, overlooking the marina. ‘With a book, I’d sit here for hours, watching the boats and people come and go.’

  ‘Did you not get fed up after a while, lonely?’ she asks.

  ‘No, not at all. Over here,’ I indicate to a table with a view, ‘I’ll fetch the drinks, coffee? Tea? Or anything else?’

  ‘Whatever you’re having is good,’ she says.

  As I stand at the counter waiting to be served, I glance back at Camilla who has repositioned herself a few times before deciding on the best seat and angle. I’ve noticed, when she’s somewhere unfamiliar she takes a few moments to examine her environment. Almost as if she’s photographing each detail. She skims around her audience, before seemingly checking for exit routes in case she needs to make a quick getaway. Jo from uni does this too, she explains it as a hang on from the days she suffered from agoraphobia, an extension of her anxiety, apparently. She almost didn’t join us, touch and go if she should begin her course, the bouts of depression and anxiety were so prevalent. I remember, she’d always identify all potential escape routes before settling.

  Moments later I place our chamomile and honey tea on the high table set into the window. Camilla hides away the mobile she was tapping away at.

  ‘We’re quite different aren’t we,’ she says before I’ve even sat down.

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Just thinking of you, sitting here with a book. Nothing else, no shops, nowhere to wander, just the one café,’ she remarks.

  ‘And a pub,’ I point across the way.

  ‘Okay and a pub. But still – no shops?’

  ‘There’s a chandlery,’ I object.

  She tuts, laughing, throwing back her hair, ‘you know what I mean, no proper shops, nowhere to, you know, walk around.’

  ‘I’ve never been much of a shopper really, more a people watcher. I guess, we are different, yes. But that’s a good thing probably. Opposites attract and all that.’

  ‘Definitely,’ she says, taking a tentative sip from the steaming mug.

  A crowd of wet looking sailors saunter through the door, proceeding to order numerous full English breakfasts with mugs of hot chocolate. An air of wind battered weariness consuming them.

  ‘Camilla,’ I say softly, ‘how is your dad?’ I’ve been reluctant to ask, but then, I can’t not, that would make me appear thoughtless.

  As her eyes roll downwards, I slightly regret asking. ‘He’s the same. A mess.’ She says, ‘I felt a little bad for leaving him really but he wouldn’t have wanted me to turn down the opportunity of visiting Cornwall. I’m sure of this.’

  ‘No, of course he wouldn’t,’ I touch her arm, ‘it must be so heartbreaking for you, seeing him so poorly, not being able to help.’

  ‘It is,’ she nods. ‘That’s exactly how it is, literally heartbreaking,’ she says as her eyes glaze.

  I squeeze her delicate hand. ‘But, h
e’s very lucky to have you. I mean that. You haven’t walked away and left him, despite how difficult it must be. I’m guessing he has some days worse than others, does he?’

  ‘Ah huh. Some days, he doesn’t even know me. Tells me his daughter doesn’t bother to visit him, doesn’t know where she’s got to. Then, the next minute he’s asking me why I’m skiving off school, tells me I’ll be good for nothing if I keep doing it.’

  ‘Oh, bless him. The mind can be so unbelievably cruel.’

  ‘It’s not getting any easier, for sure.’

  ‘Are the carers nice, who look after him?’ I ask.

  ‘The…? Oh, you mean at the home? Kind of, nice enough for me to agree to leave him in their hands anyway. I’m not stupid, you hear vile things about some of these places, don’t you? But, overall yeah, it’s a nice place, home. Mam would have liked him being there too, God rest her soul.’

  I nod. ‘Bet you miss her, don’t you?’

  ‘I really do. She was my best friend, my only real friend. Times were hard, as you’ve probably guessed. She was all I had against the world.’ She flutters her hand in front of her face, fighting back the tears, ‘sorry,’ she says.

  Rummaging for a tissue in my bag to give her, I tell her, ‘don’t be. You haven’t had anyone to talk to about any of this, have you?’ She shakes her head. ‘I’m here, if you need to, but I won’t ask any more questions if you’d rather not talk about it. It’s so tough to be dealing with this alone, and you needn’t always, that’s all I’m saying.’

  She sniffs. ‘Thanks. Perhaps it’s time I did talk, maybe I do need to. You see, it still wakes me in the night, I dream about it. About the time I found Mam, dead.’

  ‘Oh my God. Camilla. I didn’t know that,’ I tell her.

  ‘I still see it all the time – coming home from school. It was a Monday, do you know, by the way, there are a third more deaths in Scotland on a Monday than on a Friday?’

  ‘Gosh, no, I didn’t. That’s a great deal more. How odd. Horrible. Something about unable to face another week maybe?’