Who I Am Page 6

  Still, being unnoticed has its advantages. People so intent, too self-obsessed to see me. I’ve always wondered why people worry about what others think of them. Caring more about what others think, how others see them, than what they think of themselves. Handing over all their self-respect on a plate to total strangers, here – take it, you decide how I feel about myself because how I feel about myself, who I know myself to be, is so, not important.

  I had my self-respect stolen from me, I didn’t get to hand it over. Whipped away just like that. She knew, didn’t she, you all did. I’m also a bit of a mind reader, you see. A pathetic low self-esteemed, mind reader – always knowing what others think of me. How they see me. And it’s not good, is it, what you all think of me. But until recently, I’ve always wondered why.

  So, even if I’m still unnoticed, at least now I know who I am.

  10

  Edinburgh 2017

  Camilla

  Juggling hot, out of the oven ciabatta and focaccia from the Italian bakery-come-café in the old town, having pedaled through irritated traffic across Waverley Bridge, I’m now in the Grassmarket area. A medieval, thriving, chic pocket of life. Once a place where animals were traded and public executions were the norm, not the cosmopolitan civilisation I’ve grown to love. I’m battling with myself, can I resist a little Lavazza with its almond Bruttiboni sidekick? I mean, I’m already late so what the hell.

  As I wait to settle our weekly slate with Loui, my willpower tiptoes further away. He smiles with twinkly eyes at my obvious dilemma, removing the breads from my arm. Then ushers me out of the door, ordering me to take a seat at one of his tables on the pavement, he’ll fetch me coffee, he says. Life is too fast, too crazy, his Italian accent sings to me, if you’re not careful, you’ll miss it, he adds. You British, he shakes his head, swinging his way back inside. With no concept of just how much his words resonate. When I arrived back in Edinburgh with literally nothing, I vowed to start over, create and take chances. But I completely underestimated the impact of my past, I struggled, alone, I’d become used to having people around me more than I realised. But mostly, I struggled to come to terms with the betrayal of someone I believed to be genuine. Tainting my resolve, my decision making, and draining me of life. I thought it would be easier returning to Edinburgh, somewhere I knew so well but everywhere I went, she was there too, a ghostly, manipulative figure.

  I linger at my spot on the pavement for more time than I have, enjoying the warmth of the morning sun, watching the world go by, sipping liquorish thick coffee. A miscellany of students, tourists and locals, all preoccupied with something, some apparently more than others, wander past. I finish my coffee, wander back into the Italian café, kiss Loui on both warm cheeks and bid him, addio. I untie my bike, noticing the young lad I always see, huddled up on worn plaid blankets a couple of doors down, does he have family, anyone at all who cares? Digging deep into my chinos to locate some loose change, I pad over and tumble it into his tin.

  ‘Thank you,’ he says.

  ‘You’re very welcome,’ I tell his lost soul as I slip one of the ciabattas beside him, ‘they’re still warm, out of the oven. Enjoy.’ Drained of life eyes still manage to glimmer back. Walking away, I can’t help but wonder how he continues to wake each morning, when clearly it’s become so incredibly painful? Hope, my therapist would suggest, there’s always hope of change. Straddling my bike, I head off. Hasn’t hope of change been the bane of my life? As I make the journey back from the old town to the new, it occurs to me, I did kind of settle after a while, this feeling hasn’t always been there. Just six months ago, I didn’t want change, did I? My life wasn’t perfect by a long stretch but I wasn’t continually questioning it. Yes, I learned the hard way, it wasn’t exactly as I’d envisaged but in the end it had all pretty much ended up okay. Perhaps, this is all because my fortieth year is looming? Then the recent revelations of Drew, my business partner? His failing health. Who am I trying to kid? This is all down to that blasted magazine article. Six months ago, I didn’t sense the gaping hole attempting to swallow me now, tumbling around volatile soil, loosening assured steps.

  I cycle back over the bridge, dismount near the train station, continuing on foot across the road. My surroundings blurring into an abstract painting, before precariously turning left down Rose Street. More cobbles, more people and me, juggling my bike, balancing bakery goods in a now steam damp and collapsing bulky brown bag. The odour of fresh out the oven bread antagonising my almost empty stomach. Drawing level with the pale blue exterior of our establishment, I knock several times on the large glass window, before waving to Drew to come and unburden me.

  I secure my bike to the iron rails belonging to Shrimp and Co. My baby, our baby, after years of poorly paid, abusive banter and sweaty manic kitchen waitressing jobs, I met Drew. This is when life began to change again for the better. Drew chefs like a God, nothing extravagant, the finest raw ingredients need the most delicate and minimal of human interference, he proudly divulges to our customers. Together we have built Shrimp and Co. where we serve various local shellfish and frites, a wedge of lemon and the humblest of seasonal salads, a chunk of fresh bread. We’ve been successfully running this together for ten years, it’s been hard work, but neither of us are shy of this, and it’s paid off.

  ‘Hey, look at you,’ he rushes to relieve me, ‘I did say I’d go for the bread,’ large dark brown eyes laugh at me as I deliberately stagger with my load.

  ‘No, you didn’t! You big fat, whopping fibber. What you actually said was – see you later, don’t be long,’ I nudge him.

  ‘Did I? You quite sure about that? Doesn’t sound like me at all.’ I shove the bread into his open arms, delivering the mock smile he deserves. ‘By the way – I think your ticket’s arrived,’ he says, ‘you booked it then? Came with the post this morning, didn’t notice your name until I’d already half opened it. So I carried on and read it anyway.’

  ‘So you know for sure, my ticket’s arrived then, you don’t think it has!’ I say.

  ‘Hmm. Hey, thought you’d be pleased. You don’t look it, you’ve not changed your mind?’

  I touch my stomach, hoping the fluttering isn’t obvious. ‘No, course I haven’t. I’m surprised, didn’t expect it to be here so quickly.’

  ‘You sure you’re, okay?’ He studies my face, ‘you suddenly look a little, peely wally?’

  ‘I’m fine. Just, oh, you know what it’s like. Now the ticket’s actually here, it’s real, I’m really doing this. Feel a bit nervous now, it’s been a long time since I’ve done anything like this.’ In truth, I didn’t think I’d ever want to study again. I fasten the padlock for the bike, then make my way through the open door, allowing a gentle breeze to filter through. Drew trooping close behind me, almost licking the protruding batons.

  He plonks the parcel on the high reception counter and I rush to stop the imminent rolling of it onto the floor. ‘It will do you good, Cam,’ he continues, oblivious, a wide grin beginning to fill his face, ‘you never know you might meet someone too.’

  I turn perhaps a little too quickly, so he isn’t witness to the warm blush now caressing my cheeks. Does he know something, am I so obvious? ‘Why do you say that?’ I question, over my shoulder, messing with some napkins.

  He winks at me, so I look away, ‘just a thought. A bit edgy aren’t we, only a passing thought, nothing more,’ he sashays off, singing his way through to the kitchen.

  Stop being stupid, of course he doesn’t understand your reasons for the trip. How could he when I’m not even privy to my motives entirely. Not yet anyway, but it’s a start and notwithstanding my nerves it’s something I need to do. Technically, I’m alone in the world and fine with this mostly but there’s always been a guttural ache. Maybe it’s something to do with my age, hitting forty has urged me to question, put right the wrongs in my life. Begging me to question the issues I’ve pushed aside. Perhaps I’ve finally stopped telling lies to myself. The image of the guy
crouching in the doorway flashes by, do I have the right to question my life? I’ve made my bed, now I need to damn well get on with it. Lie in it. But did I really make my bed, didn’t she make it for me? Then forced me to lie in it?

  I busy myself, wiping down the mismatched wooden tables and chairs, sympathetically gathered one by one from car boot sales, house clearances and wannabe antique shops, nothing matching. Removing and replacing the single flower stems gracefully yet obediently standing to attention in earthy stone ampoules. I’ve woken a sleeping secret and it’s meddling with my mind, haunting my conscience Hours and hours of shameful research have stirred this further, stay away from the internet, my therapist advised, it’s a dangerous place for a troubled mind. But it’s too late, I’ve become an internet stalker and because of this, next week I travel to London to begin my photography course. I needn’t have ventured all the way to London, I could have easily joined a course here in Edinburgh but then this would have been missing the point.

  If it is possible to undo what has already been done, to put wrongs right, then things could still be very different, couldn’t they, finally I could go on and live the life I always intended. My happiness now relies on finding answers to the questions that plague me. Why did she do it? What did I miss? How was I fooled in such a cataclysmic way? I had a plan once, a naïve childish plan, it backfired and here I am. But maybe it’s not too late to recover some of it? Hope doesn’t cost anything and it’s perfectly private, no one need ever know. Not yet anyway.

  Just me and the internet, my new best friend.

  11

  Cornwall 2017

  Andi

  I tread back down the stairs and head for the kitchen, clutching my laptop, hoping to squash the memories of the early hours of this morning. Conjuring raw emotion tangled deeply in the veins of those memories – guilt. Guilt compels me to drink. Only when I drink, does the guilt ease. Even before this tweet from last night, guilt subsisted on raw flesh under my skin. In the kitchen the dinner plates, aside the breakfast bowls, are stacked on the side. Despite having remembered to put the dishwasher on before bedtime, after I’d passed out on the sofa, I neglected to load it first. How do I do this? I make my way around the free standing curved units to the coffee machine, to its left the glass refrigerated larder cupboard beckons my attention. What time is it? The honeyed, green bottles winking at me from the kitchen side. It’s still far too early, not enough time has passed since I last checked.

  On autopilot, I’m reaching over the coffee machine for a crystal glass, aware of the familiar, warm, don’t worry about anything feeling soothing me as I do. I wouldn’t normally be drinking this early but I’ve had a really nasty shock; this is simply to help steady myself. As I lift the glass, a shiver runs down my spine as a dark shadow emerges on the white tiled floor, eyes locked on the floor, I watch it crawl its way towards me, my heart in my mouth and holding my breath, I spin around, someone is behind me.

  ‘Bit early for that isn’t it?’ he nods at my glass suspended midair.

  ‘Gosh, Paul, you made me jump,’ I say. Feeling breathless.

  He grins, a tanned face, judging me? Leaning at the edge of the bi-fold doors, ‘just sayin’, bit early for that.’

  ‘What?’ I blush.

  He nods at my chest where I’m cradling my wine glass like a baby.

  Caught red handed. ‘You mean this?’ I hold it out.

  ‘Can’t say I blame you, working from home and all. Though, wouldn’t thank you for the grape stuff. Prefer the apple liquor myself. Or some of your old man’s whisky, that’s more like it.’ He nods somewhere behind me and I turn to see Kyle’s prize whisky.

  I laugh. ‘Silly,’ I over exclaim, ‘I’m emptying the dishwasher, putting it away, not getting it out.’ Why am I explaining myself? ‘Too early for me, I’ve an article to write, you should know, and a deadline for this afternoon.’ I couldn’t be any more defensive. My cheeks stinging with pure shame. Is this what I’ve resorted to. Secret drinking, lack of coping? Even more lying? I’m better than this, how long before I begin pouring vodka into water bottles? Who am I kidding, didn’t I do this a few weeks ago, off to see a film with the children. Still, it was an evening screening. I’m not an alcoholic, reverberates through my mind. Even imagining the word hurts. I place the glass back in the cupboard and reach for a coffee mug. ‘You off now, Paul, all done?’ Feeling his eyes still on me.

  ‘Certainly am, see you later in the week. I’ll be back to tidy those fig trees, need a ladder though. I’m thinking there’s one in the garage?’

  ‘Ah huh, there is, I’m sure.’

  ‘There’s gonna be a good crop of fruit this year, mind.’

  ‘Great stuff, make sure you help yourself, won’t you. There’s only so many figs a girl can eat,’ I call at his retreating back. He holds a hand up in the air as he disappears around the side of the house. Silence. I cross the room to locate the control for the stereo system, noticing the now limp looking salad I’d made earlier and forgotten about. I hate waste so it will have to do. I need to get away from the temptations of the kitchen.

  The breeze is still persisting so I abandon the parasol and lower the canopy over the back terrace instead, I’d still rather work outside, despite the distractions. Falling further under the grip of procrastination, with a looming deadline, I need to buckle down. My editor has been bending my ear, mostly via email as she hasn’t been able to get hold of me. My missed call list, growing on a daily basis. I look at my watch, I’ll need to leave at 15.15 for Dotty and Trey, packed up ready for the beach, it’s almost not worth me starting now. I’ve really not far to go with this piece, I’m writing up on our newest county Michelin star trained chef. A wonderful perk of my job, to be wined and dined at some stunning locations, then to be able to capture the experience with chosen words. I’ve always asked to keep a low profile so I wasn’t amused when the Cornish Lives magazine included my photo in the February article, apparently the new assistant editor thought she was doing the right thing. Careless.

  She has a dream of a job; Carol tells almost everyone we meet. What she doesn’t get is that it can feel lonely at times without Kyle. It’s rare for us to dine out these days. My occasional visits to London to stay at the apartment he rents from his company, always seem such an effort to organise. I should make more of an effort, more to feel guilty about. In the past, me and Kyle have wandered the favourite old haunts of Covent Garden and Leicester Square hand in hand. More often than not over indulging on a cheap Chinese in the quarter, leading to extreme thirst in the dawn of morning. Sadly, those days and evenings seem to be happening less and less. I haven’t ventured to London more than twice so far this year. Even the thought of going sets my stomach off. Given the choice, I wouldn’t leave the house. Or is it more, I wouldn’t come back to the house? After our marriage, I truly believed I’d finally move on, bury my conscience, but the past has been gradually creeping up on me, stealthily drip feeding my nervous system.

  Turning the brightness of my laptop screen to maximum I begin to research my chef. But all the time the little blue bird sitting at the edge of the screen is staring at me, willing me, challenging me to ignore it. Who will be the first to look away? Damn you, social media, feeding my paranoia. Or is this the alcohol? Unable to resist, in need of reassurance and because I can’t avoid it forever, I open my Twitter feed. Scrolling slowly through my followers, nothing, or at least – no one unusual. I check my posts, the one requesting fellow tweeters to vote for their favourite Cornish eatery. There have been over two hundred votes cast, a couple of the abodes named are in Truro but mostly it’s the popular coastal destinations. I read through some of the replies, pleased to see such a broad selection, not merely the obvious, well known celebrity chefs. Some moaning of extortionate pricing, some prefer to simply barbecue on the beach, some suggest a good old pasty or a bag of chips on the seafront, the whiff of vinegar and sea salt mingling.

  I’m about to log off when I notice it, the ph
otograph, a quaint garden with wicker chairs and frayed parasols, a patched shingle path running down to the outlook of turquoise waters. The smell of Cornish pasties, jacket potatoes rammed with prawns, an aroma of beer, cider and other lethal concoctions. The trodden path through grass, course heathers, the metal steps winding down steeply to one of most beautiful beaches I have ever seen. But I’ve not been back since. Huge stepping stones, more like apt colossal gravestones, hidden caves and giant rocks with peepholes, deep pockets of seawater cuddling slate grey rocks, our private bath tubs, we used to call them. Such a magnificent setting to allure its prey like a giant fly catching plant, then snap, the jawed gate closes and it’s too late. I touch my chest, catching my breath. Bedruthan Steps, and it’s only a vote for a café at a celebrated beauty spot. Nothing personal. Is it?

  I snap the laptop to without shutting it down properly, jump up and sway my way to the kitchen, I need a drink. A drink will help wash away the images, the sounds, the unspoken words, the screams. The loss. The encumbering guilt. Counting out loud, as I walk, a practiced tool to push away the images banging on the closed door in my mind, the hinges squeaking with the pressure. Threatening to blast open. The truth. Just the one drink, that’s all I’ll need. It can’t do any harm. I’ll not be able to settle without it.

  This wasn’t how it was supposed to end. Yes, my life back then wasn’t working on a few fronts, so I sought change but I never wanted this. Have I ever been happy, truly, since? With Kyle? I think back to our wedding day, with none of my family there and Kyle’s family being complicated to say the least – we married on a small private beach, witnessed only by a handful of friends, Carol and Allan too. I wore flip-flop style sandals, an ankle length, simple ivory dress, a circle of wild flowers picked on the dunes the same morning, entangled through my hair. After the marriage we sauntered barefoot in shallow tepid waters, the men built a barbecue, we ate chargrilled meats, giant skewered prawns and drank beer, watched the sun set before it disappeared magically into the sea. It was idyllic, different to how I may have imagined my big day, but beautiful. But for how long did that bubble last before it was popped by my conscience? Hours, days, weeks? A gaping, open, wound. Loss and guilt have ruined everything. I’ve never moved more than a few steps from the grasp of these consuming emotions.