Who I Am Page 12

  She shrugs. ‘No idea. Anyhow, I knew, as soon as I opened the front door, she was dead. It was strange, I felt a chill, I swear I could smell death. Then, I found her, slumped in her favourite armchair, I ran to her, hoping she was asleep. No, that’s a lie, I’m ashamed to say, I ran to her hoping she’d passed out again in one of her drunken aftermaths. But, deep down, I knew she was already dead.’

  I clasp my hand to my mouth. ‘Oh God, how awful, Cam, how horrible for you. Where was your dad?’

  ‘Would you believe upstairs, he’d left her to go and have a lie down, then fell asleep on the bed. That’s when she must have done it…’

  ‘Done it?’

  ‘I kept shaking her, even though I knew it was too late. Then, I called our doctor, didn’t know what else to do, he told me he was on his way and to call an ambulance. She’s not breathing, I told him. Still, call an ambulance, he said. He knew too. He’d been treating her you see, helping her to come off her… her heroin addiction. Two weeks of stomach pain, muscle cramps and basically throwing up. Mood swings, like you wouldn’t believe. She’d obviously decided she couldn’t take any more and gave in to the withdrawal symptoms, she topped the lethal dose up with whisky and a bottle of seriously strong anti-depressants she’d been prescribed. It wasn’t a cry for help, she wanted to die. No doubt about it.’

  I am without words, completely useless, how can anyone cope with this, never mind a school child. I take her hand in mine, ‘I don’t know what to say, Cam, however did you cope with something so unbelievably tragic?’

  She shrugs. ‘What choice did I have, Dad was next to useless at the time. He turned to drink even more, took all I had to get him to the blinking funeral, never mind help organise it. The doctor, he helped, arranged for people to help me sort it all out. Swore to God at the time, never would I do drugs, never would I drink booze.’

  ‘I bet. There’s no one else then, no other family, close friends?’

  ‘No,’ she says, ‘only Dad and me attended the funeral, no one else came.’

  ‘God. How sad, how utterly sad.’

  ‘It’s okay, it’s in the past, and at least now,’ she smiles, ‘I have you.’

  She bounces back admirably, in a way I’m not convinced I could, she’s so much stronger than me in so many ways. ‘Absolutely, you do.’ I say, ‘and no more keeping things like this to yourself, promise?’

  ‘Promise,’ she says. She peers into her empty mug, ‘Okay, where are we off to now?’ We leave the café and wander back to the car, to travel further along the coast, stopping at a local pub for lunch on our way.

  As we mosey along the lanes, I’m mulling over the consequences of family behaviour. This is my first time home since Christmas, as yet I haven’t broached the Christmas present given to me with genuine intentions from Leo and my parents. I spent the entire banquet style meal on a cloud of my own. Wishing to God they hadn’t placed me in such a position. My parents were so animated with the prospect of relocating to the sunshine state of Florida to join Leo and his wife, I hadn’t the heart to speak the truth. I don’t feel the same, I don’t want to go. The placement Leo has secured for me is without doubt extremely prestigious, a marvellous opportunity, according to my parents. But there lies the issue, it’s their dream, their opportunity. I haven’t quite worked out yet, how I articulate I am very different to them. Making my own way, my own decisions, is what I wish for most. Back in Edinburgh, I managed to push it all to the far corner of my mind. But now, here in Cornwall, it’s keeping me awake at night, wondering how to escape the cage I’m being backed into. The words sit on the very tip of my tongue but I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to speak them, and my time to do so is quickly running out. Before a blink of the eye, they will be packing my life history, present and future into boxes destined for Miami.

  But what about me, what about what I want? Why doesn’t anyone ask me? How can I feel so ridiculously lonely with so many people to turn to?

  23

  Cornwall 2017

  Andi

  I swing through the gates and grind to a halt, spotting a car parked to the left of the house, how did it get through the gates? Without a code or remote control? A few weeks ago, I’d have thought it a little odd but now with everything else, my stomach is churning like a washing machine. I let the engine tick over, should I pull down to investigate or reverse up and leave? I decide on the latter, putting the car into reverse gear, peering in my rear view mirror, my legs involuntarily shaking, I roll backwards as the familiar figure of Paul saunters out from the garage next to the gates. I sigh heavily, releasing the breath I was holding, what’s blinking wrong with me? Who else would it have been?

  ‘Paul, hi, a new car?’ I call out of the window, nodding to the cause of my heart rate acceleration.

  ‘Mine’s in for its MOT,’ he affirms without disturbing the cigarette hanging from weather beaten lips, ‘lent this one, but I’ve bloody well left me shears in the boot, haven’t I,’ he shakes his head, ‘remembered you had some up here in the little house,’ as he refers to it.

  ‘Sure,’ I smile, ‘coffee, tea?’

  ‘Tea, be smashing,’ he sways on past, then turns back again, ‘you had a visitor earlier, followed me through the gates she did.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yeah, some woman, asking for you. Said you had an appointment with her at 11.30. Said nothing else, I told her, obviously you weren’t here, were you. Said she’d leave a card, tucked it into the front door I think,’ he nods at the house. ‘Didn’t seem very happy, she didn’t. Started wandering round the back of the house, I told her, perhaps better wait for the lady of the house before she went nosing. Didn’t like that, neither. But you can’t be too careful, can you? Could have been someone sussing the joint out, know what I mean. Never know these days. These are the kind of houses they hit.’ He stamps out his cigarette and wanders off muttering.

  I leaf through the pages in my mind, resembling more a haphazard dropped file than a bound book, I can’t recall making an appointment with anyone for today, for what anyway, where could she be from? ‘Strange,’ I tell his retreating back, ‘I’ll take a look. Then I’ll do your coffee.’

  ‘Tea, please,’ he calls back, the hearing of a bat.

  ‘Tea, yes of course, you said tea didn’t you,’ my memory is like a cavernous bucket with holes. Seconds later, I’m slinking towards the front door, I spot the business card, squeezed in near the hinges. I pull it out, purposely avoiding looking at it until I’ve shut the front door behind me, safely locked inside, it’s just a business card but it doesn’t feel like it. Once inside, I turn it over to reveal decadent gold script. The familiar title and lettering of Frankie and Saunders, a well known, prestigious estate agency based in Falmouth. The name Joanna Hemmingway, underlined, twice. Who is this person, and why was she calling to see me? I cross through the hall into the kitchen, carelessly casting my bag on to the worktop to dig out my mobile. I dial the number from the card.

  ‘Frankie and Saunders?’ A voice confronts me.

  ‘Hi, can I speak to a… Joanna Hemmingway, please?’ I read from the card.

  ‘Yes, speaking,’ she says.

  The image described by Paul of an irate women scampers through my mind. ‘It’s Andi Chapman, from Tides Reach House. You dropped a card in this morning?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Chapman. I did.’ she says.

  No need for the terseness. ‘Right,’ I say, ‘I don’t understand why?’

  'Mrs Chapman. I dropped the card as you were not in, as we’d arranged last week. I would have waited a little longer, only I’m extremely busy today. So much to get through here.’

  ‘As we’d arranged?’

  ‘Yes. We had an appointment booked for this morning. I thought maybe I’d got the wrong day when you were not in. But I’ve now checked my diary, it was definitely today. Anyhow, not to worry, shall we re-schedule?’

  ‘I’m afraid there must be some kind of mistake, an appointment for what exactly?
’ I ask.

  ‘The valuation?’ Her voice rises at the end as if to say hello, are you stupid?

  ‘A valuation?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Chapman, of your house, with a view to us marketing its imminent sale. We do need to value it… before we can set the cogs in motion. You mentioned you were seeking a quick sale due to unforeseen personal circumstances. But of course, we still must value the property first, measure up, for the marketing literature et cetera.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I’m afraid you must have the wrong property, our home is not going on the market. It isn’t for sale and nor do we have any plans to sell it either.’

  There’s a moment’s silence as I hear her tapping on a keyboard. ‘No,’ she drawls out, as if she understands more about my life than I do. ‘Tides Reach House – Mrs Chapman. It’s definitely the correct house.’ I feel irritation bubbling deep inside, does she think I’m stupid? ‘Mrs Chapman, I do not wish to appear… impolite, but, it was in fact yourself I spoke to, only last week?’

  Is she asking me or telling me? I may be slipping, a little stressed but I haven’t completely misplaced my mind. ‘Look, I’m sorry, I don’t know who called you or why, or who you believe you spoke with, but it certainly was not me. I think perhaps I should know.’ I am trying my best to quash the annoyance from my words, but who does she think she is? It’s my home. I should know. ‘Please understand, our home, is not… on the market and I made no such appointment.’

  ‘I see,’ she says, ‘how perplexing. Fine, well, in that case, I’m very sorry to have troubled you.’ In her voice, I hear the undertones of this woman is clearly completely insane.

  ‘Not a problem,’ I say, though it’s truly unnerved me, it’s very much a problem. She had my name, my address and is so obviously convinced this appointment was arranged. ‘Before you go, may I ask please – do you have a number for the person you say called you?’

  ‘Of course,’ she says, ‘just one minute, it will be on your file.’ I have a file? The line is temporarily silent, I hear her sigh out loud before returning to me. ‘Okay, the number I have is…’ she reels off the mobile number and although it sounds different as she articulates it differently to my practiced one, a shiver bumps down my spine.

  ‘It is my number,’ I tell her, ‘please delete it from your records. I have no idea who called you but it certainly wasn’t me.’

  ‘Of course,’ she relents, ‘Mrs Chapman, please don’t take this the wrong way but perhaps your husband may have set this up. It wouldn’t be the first time where, shall we say – marital difficulties necessitate the selling of the family home. What I’m saying is maybe he…’ she is clearly unconvinced of my stability, how dare she insinuate I have marital problems.

  ‘I know exactly what you’re suggesting, you don’t need to spell it out and I can assure you – you are very wrong, not to mention insulting.’

  I ring off, placing my mobile on the worktop, before jumping at a knock on the patio door, my heart hammering. Paul. Bloody hell. He’s moving his hand, back and forth to his mouth, then forms his fingers into the shape of a T. I nod, yes, I haven’t forgotten, tea, not coffee. I turn away, snatching up my mobile and dial Kyle’s number, surely he wouldn’t have done this, she said it was me who called but maybe he asked his secretary to book the appointment and he’s forgotten to mention it to me? Surely not. My breathing rises up to the very top of my diaphragm. But given that these days we are merely the metaphorical ships passing in the night, even our telephone conversations are stilted and strained, I can’t completely rule this prospect out.

  He picks up after a couple of rings. ‘And, hi, everything okay?’ he asks, has he always asked this when I call?

  ‘I don’t know,’ I’m too cross for niceties, ‘have you arranged to have our home valued? Without speaking to me about it? Is there something you want to tell me?’

  ‘What? What the hell? Where’s this come from?’ He sounds genuinely surprised.

  ‘I’ve just had some snotty estate agent on the phone, declaring I had an appointment with her, with a view to putting our house on the market. Did you arrange this? She came here earlier, whilst I was out.’

  ‘What? No, of course I haven’t.’

  ‘Promise me, Kyle.’

  ‘Of course. Why would I do that without speaking to you first, it would be a joint decision anyway, wouldn’t it? Selling the house. Why are we even having this conversation, the house isn’t for sale? Come on, And, she must have made a mistake.’

  I’m conflicted between feeling relieved and feeling completely on edge, ‘so who made the appointment then, if it wasn’t you and it definitely wasn’t me?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. It has to be a slip-up, nothing more. Look, I’m in the middle of something, can we discuss this later?’ he asks. ‘Forget about it for now. I’ll call you tonight, okay.’

  ‘Right,’ I say, but it’s not a mistake, whoever it was who gave my name, said they were me, they had my mobile number. It’s anything but okay. Why would anyone do such a thing? For what purpose?

  As I’m handing over Paul’s mug of tea, my mind distant and confused, he asks. ‘By the way, those ladders…’

  ‘Yes, in the garage, same place as the shears, I checked after you mentioned them the other day.’ He takes a loud slurp from his mug, then shakes his head. 'Nope. Not there, not any more anyway.’

  God, what’s wrong with everyone today. ‘Yes they are, Paul, I definitely saw them there.’

  He points somewhere over my shoulder, mouthful of tea threatening, ‘There.’ He says. I turn to see what he’s intimating as a fist grabs my throat and squeezes. There, up against the house wall, leaning against the Juliette balcony of our bedroom is the ladder. ‘Told you to wait,’ I hear muffled in the background, ‘gonna do yourself harm, you.’ Beneath my window is a fig tree. Did I do this? I didn’t, I’d remember, surely. Vaguely, at the back of my mind, I recall a thought about figs, and having some for dinner when Kyle returned. Did I take the next step? I simply can’t untangle my thoughts from the events. Maybe I did call the agent? Cross with Kyle? Struggling with life? Figs as a peace offering? A ladder leading up to my bedroom windows? The metal clanking I heard in the early hours the other day? I feel sick. I need a drink.

  24

  Taking things for granted is another pet hate of mine. All comes too easy for some of you, doesn’t it? I want, I get. I need, I have. I take.

  Take, take, take.

  Me, me, me and then a bit more, me.

  Ignorant, arrogant, selfish idiots, can’t stand them. No regard at all for how others might feel, how others have to live. Don’t even notice what’s before their own eyes half the time. Well, they wouldn’t, would they? Not when they’re so flipping self-obsessed. Blinded by gluttony and overindulgence.

  We don’t even exist do we, the rest of us?

  Can’t see what’s right in front of you.

  25

  Cornwall 2017

  Eve

  It’s been over six months since the sinister events in Eve’s life. When she was forced to close down her clinic, allowing her time to come to terms with the hand dealt to her. During this time, her mind felt like little more than a mass of cotton wool but she had to keep going, despite the overwhelming urge to let go. She had Jack, her son to consider, heading into his GCSE years, his whole tainted life ahead of him. For the first few months, Eve slipped, then tumbled into a dark void place, each day being a battle of wills, only leaving the comfort of her home for Jack. All the tools in her clinician’s box felt inadequate, futile. Forcing herself through the necessary tasks of life, only doing what was needed to function on some rudimentary level. Gradually, she began to turn up at Jack’s football matches, have close friends over, to walk the beaches, the rugged coasts. Then she decided, enough was enough, she was at the very crossroads she had ironically visited so many times with countless clients, needing to turn one way or the other. Two weeks ago, she returned to her clinic in Lemon Street.

/>   Eve wanders from her kitchen, the back door checked, collects her briefcase and locks up the cottage. Patters the short distance down the path towards her car parked along the Cornish slate wall of the postcard pretty village of St Agnes. She’s fighting the urge to go back and check, did she properly lock the doors? She needs more time; battered memory templates leave scar tissue. A lifelong tattoo. She leaves the village, heading for Truro, fighting the urge to glance at the dashboard clock. It’s 08.09, she’s not concerned about being late, she’s always late, even when she’s running on time, some magnetic force drags her back to being late. She’s unable to resist the dashboard clock because in one minute, her stomach will perform its daily somersault. At 08.10, her mobile used to trill out. On the dot, each and every day. Until the day, the caller, her ex-husband, was no more. How is it possible to ever undo such evil, when she’s needed to play the game for as long as she can remember? Once you’ve known evil, you can never unknow it. 08.10 turns to 08.11 and she releases her breath. He’s gone, dead, she’s alive and so is Jack.

  She crawls up to the Chiverton roundabout, thinking about her client, Andi Chapman, who’s been sitting heavily on her mind since their appointment. Something not quite right about her. How her eyes toiled, her haunted expression in reception, when Eve clearly startled her, the disconcerted reaction. Diminutive contradictions, assembling an orderly queue behind her comments. Only towards the end of the appointment did she mention how three of her friends had tragically died some years ago. Two of them drowned in some freak accident on the beach. The other, a week later, committed suicide, not being able to cope with the loss. Jo, according to Andi, she was a good, gentle soul, who was unable to cope with the tragic events of that night, apparently one of the girls who died had always been such a support to Jo. There were little inconsistences in what she relayed, her mannerisms not in sync with her words. Hiding, covering trying to forget something.