Who I Am Read online

  12

  Edinburgh 2000

  Camilla

  I couldn’t believe my luck when Andi texted me, Christmas evening, sounding like she was feeling as fed up as I was. In all honesty, at the time, this annoyed me, how dare she be fed up in her life, I would literally kill to have a life like hers, unappreciative, selfish madam. I didn’t tell her this, of course. I told her, she sounded down, I’m good at reading through the narrative, looking beyond the words, I offered my ear, if she needed to talk to anyone, I could make myself available. It wasn’t as if I had anything better to do, other than listen to my slob of a father snoring, binge eating on supermarket value crisps, sausage rolls and out-of-date Chinese selection boxes. It was a relief when the blasted day was over and done with, if Dad hadn’t guzzled all the whisky, I’d have necked the lot, to anaesthetise myself until the morning. I didn’t bother getting dressed, couldn’t see the point. That’s what happens when you live in streets like I did, the toxic air numbs you, sucks you under, disarms you. You lose your freedom to run. Your hope to run.

  We didn’t text chat for long but she did tell me how trapped she felt in her life. I nearly choked, I mean – what a life to be trapped in. She didn’t have a voice, apparently. Who would care? She also hinted at things not always being as they seem, not as sugar coated as they first appear. So the Johnson household hasn’t always been as together as it appears on the surface? I still wouldn’t care. Look at what she has, it’s some payoff. But still, it was a worthwhile chat and I gained further insights.

  Now – here I am, check me out.

  In Morningside, would you believe, in a plush apartment, nonetheless. No sign of battered doors hanging off hinges, no broken down jazzed up cars with rusting paintwork, no slanging matches in the middle of the street, no dense clouds whiffing of weed. No sign of my roots. I’ve severed them. Well, nearly, Dad’s moving to a home in a couple of weeks, then he’ll be dead in no time, no doubt. Talk about leaving it until the last minute to re-house him, what’s the point? Annoyingly, I’ll need to keep visiting him, keep up appearances, not that anyone cares in the services. They’re all the same as far as I’m concerned. You’d think he was my responsibility not theirs. I didn’t ask for him to be my dad, did I? Not long after Christmas he was appointed dedicated carers. I informed them I couldn’t continue to look after him, not when I’d be away at University in Bristol, Bristol being the slip of the tongue version of Edinburgh, Edinburgh being the slip of the tongue version of the study of life. I’ve served my sentence, several times over, now it’s their turn.

  It’s difficult to pull myself away from the enormous floor to ceiling windows looking out on to the suburban street, cool natural wood under my delicate tread, I’ve the place to myself, nothing as such to do, not until I get ready for my shift at work. Only research. I’ve become a dab hand at this, investing time in my future, is what I do best. Everything’s beginning to come together, I’ve also landed a waitressing job at the wine bar underneath a prestigious hotel on the Royal Mile. Waitressing definitely isn’t me but a necessary step for the next stage of my plan. I can learn there, pick up invaluable information and you never know who I may meet, someone useful, someone who is someone. And, it allows me time away from the silly girly talk about frivolous things or intellectual academic ponderings, there’s only so much I can take.

  I reach for a china mug, not a chip in sight, no glued-on handles, to make a coffee. Flicking on the kettle, I remember the coffee machine sent up by Andi’s father, to brew proper coffee can you believe? I thought instant coffee was proper coffee but apparently not, we need to extract it ourselves from the bean, for people like Andi and her friends to believe it’s proper coffee. So this is what I must do, so much to learn. I’ve been working on my accent too, smoothing it over, slowing my speech, watching how these girls move their mouths, use their lips, it’s all work in progress, time spent at the bathroom mirror, manipulating appropriate facial expressions. Then more, listening, observing, recording every little detail and the reasoning behind it, details tell stories. Andi – has a significant scar on her inner left calf, apparently a scalding from when she was a child. Jo – has an inch long scar on her forehead from falling from her horse. Clara – has a phobia of clowns, so she obviously doesn’t look in the mirror very often. Everyone has their blemishes, their own story.

  I run through the overly complicated procedure at the coffee machine, wondering why the flip you’d bother when you can simply use a spoon in a jar. Eventually, I give up, opt for instant anyway, and saunter back to the sitting room for the oversized sofa. Oops, nearly forgot to use the coaster to protect the wooden floor, God, this new life is unnecessarily convoluted. Convoluted being a word you’d never have heard fall from my lips before this new life. Still, there’s something to be said for sticky and stained beige carpets. We didn’t have anything on our stairs back there, not since a couple of weeks after moving in, me being a small child, thought this was normal, or to have large sections of carpet missing. Curling my legs underneath me, balancing, I now open the laptop and boot up.

  Where to start? I take my mind back to last night in the kitchen. Andi, hovering at the oven, making some vegan vegetable type blend. Vegan! Jo is vegan, Clara is pescetarian with a nut allergy and Andi is dairy free, you couldn’t make it up. I opted for – I eat anything but don’t cook. Learning to cook, it’s on my list to do, after weighing up between why would you bother and all classy people cook. It was Andi’s turn to cook last night, she’s good, courtesy of her mam being an excellent chef she informed us. My mam didn’t even understand how to turn the oven on, she used to threaten us she was going to stick her head in the gas oven, kill herself, on occasion. It didn’t concern me because firstly – I didn’t care and secondly – I knew she didn’t know how to turn it on, so she’d have a job.

  Jo was sitting opposite me with an enormous glass of Pinot Grigio with Clara leaning up against white, high gloss units. I’ve learned Jo is from somewhere in Surrey, Guildford, I think and Clara, she’s from Oxfordshire like Andi. None of them live in social housing and they all have families supporting them, although Clara’s parents are divorced and apparently she used to have a twin sister, I need to find out more about this. Their families send them packages from time to time with personal offerings, parcels of love. My time will come, I’m not concerned. Who needs a family right now?

  Clara sipped disapprovingly from her glass, I didn’t miss her sideways glances at me, she doesn’t like me, clearly. She hasn’t said so, yet, it’s how she speaks around me or through me, rather than to me, she can’t get around the fact I don’t belong in their club. I sense she’s slightly nervous of me, maybe I’ll turn all psycho, sneak up on her in the shower with a knife. She speaks to me politely on a when-need-to only basis, keeping me at an arms distance whilst pinching her nose. I don’t care, I don’t like her either. I could easily hate her. I wonder why she’s even bothering to educate herself, she’ll marry a family heirloom and spend her life at tennis clubs, ladies’ days, coffee mornings and charity events. ‘What are you up to for reading week, And?’ She leant over to Andi.

  Andi ground black pepper into the le creuset orange pan and stirred, ‘reading week?’

  Clara frowned and was about to answer but Jo jumped in first, which was unusual, must have been the drink. ‘In February? Do you not have one? You sure?’ I don’t mind Jo, she’s a bit dreary but she isn’t concerned by me, she chats to me the same as she does anyone else. ‘Thought everyone had reading week.’ She has, dark days, as Andi refers to them and seemingly disappears. Apparently, she’s prone to bouts of depression and anxiety, only rich people can afford to have both conditions. She’s up and down, sometimes shuts herself away in her room with the curtains drawn but completely bearable, at least for the time being.

  Andi fetched five china pasta bowls to ladle in the red and orange stuff. We eat far too many red and orange mixtures. I always have I suppose, but back then it was on top of
pizza dough and more often than not, that was on top of a white half melted plastic type bottom. Or, it was orange breadcrumb covered rubber for a treat. ‘I do, yes, God it’s nearly here isn’t it,’ she continues with her ladle. ‘I’m off home on the Friday, can’t wait. Can someone fetch the cutlery please? Supper is ready, my lovelies.’ Andi told us.

  Jo leapt up, being the humblest in the house, also a musician or in my world – she plays an instrument. Saved from poverty for the rest of her life, unlike other artists, because daddy is loaded. He also pays for her to see a private psychiatrist who dishes out more pills than the local drug dealer. I want to tell her she’s no different from the other users, but I’ve learned to hold back. She needs to wise up, spend some time outside her bubble. I could teach her a thing or two.

  We sat around the glass table, me studying how they eat, how they hold their cutlery, the expressions they use, their opinions and use of them. Who said I wasn’t in education any more. Each day is a school day, I’m learning quickly, progressing each day.

  ‘When you say you’re off home for the hols, And, you mean Oxfordshire I assume? We’ll travel together shall we? I’ll start making plans.’ Clara boomed. My ears perked up, this sounded interesting, so there’s an alternative option? Slowing my munching on soft beans, red pointless lentil type things and green field leaves so not to miss anything useful.

  Andi chewed thoughtfully, emptying her entire mouth before responding, no food on show, shaking her head. ‘No. Fowey, Cornwall.’ She informed us before taking another minute mouthful. My skin was physically itching, was she not going to expand on this? I sipped at my wine and waited, biting down on my teeth.

  Thank God for gobby Clara, who couldn’t help herself. ‘Really! Surely not. It’s an awfully long way for the week. What is it, ten hours by train? Or worse still? Rather you than me. Oh don’t be a bore, come home with me. It will be fun.’

  Andi waved her finger, ‘I’m flying,’ she explained, ‘Edinburgh to Newquay. Daddy’s collecting me from the airport.’ Clara’s face was a picture, you’d think she’d been slapped. God, she’s so unbelievably, annoyingly clingy with Andi. For me, this was all positive news, food for thought. Round and round my mind circled, so, Andi has two homes? Desperate to affirm but extremely conscious not to ask too many questions. I gazed towards the window.

  Now, I open up the Google search engine, and type in Fowey, Cornwall. A small town in south Cornwall sitting on the Fowey Estuary. Once home to Daphne de Maurier, a writer, I open a separate webpage and investigate this person further, perfect. Perfect. She appears to be my kind of writer; I scribble down some titles. Now to the really important stuff, in the search bar I type – average house prices, Fowey? Impressive, very impressive. I then look at the local agents and begin to fantasise over the magnificent dwellings, imagining people like Andi’s parents own them. This information I need, so I can infer, hint, wheedle my way a little further in. She’s a good girl, Andi, I trust her. I don’t trust many people, I think, snuggling back into the lavish sofa but Andi is sound. Everything is going to be just fine. Information is power. I’ve heard this before somewhere. Always wondered how so, and now I totally get it.

  13

  Falmouth 2017

  Andi

  A couple of glasses of wine, no more, not really, and for a blissful hour everything was bright again. The dancing butterflies, the quickening pulse, all of it reduced to a serene calmness as I reclined into the sun lounger overlooking the bay. Nothing I couldn’t deal with, what had I needlessly been worrying about? Silly coincidences, the unknown Twitter follower, so what? All it took was a medicinal fix, Kyle would see it as half a bottle but he’s always been the sensible one. Something I used to love about him. Now I find it more judgemental, annoying. Why can’t he see I only use alcohol from time to time to re-establish some perspective, to relax when it all begins to feel too much to contemplate. This afternoon, I even managed to complete one of my articles and hit send, it will suffice. We have an excellent team of editors; they’ll iron out any imperfections. We also had a lovely evening, the three of us after school at the beach, then later swimming in the pool, barbecued sausages, melting chocolate fingers, then on to the whirlpool. I managed to forget.

  It wasn’t until after they were both snugly tucked up in bed, despite them chilling their rooms to arctic conditions and complaining about the night heat, when it all began to flood back. The urge to hit the wine, to return to the tranquil space of earlier, was overwhelming. I resisted initially. But Kyle tipped the balance when his text finally reached my mobile, sometime after it was sent. He needed to stay in London this weekend, working on a project which had become a smudge pear shaped. He’d stay on late and most possibly miss the last train to Cornwall, which isn’t very late at all. Anyway, he really needed to work on Saturday too, with the rest of the team, ahead of the all-important product launch. He hoped I understood, he looked forward to speaking with me as soon as he was free. By the time he called me, I was not at my best.

  ‘Hey,’ he said delicately testing the water, ‘how you doing tonight?’ It felt more like an insinuation for some reason.

  On cue my muscles tensed. ‘How am I doing tonight? What are you inferring?’ I questioned. Unnecessarily but I couldn’t stop myself.

  ‘It’s merely a question, And, I wasn’t conjecturing. What’s up? Why are you so jumpy tonight, had another bad day?’ I closed my eyes, pushing back a surge of resentment, biting my tongue. ‘I’m sorry,’ he continued. ‘About tonight, I mean. So gutted, I couldn’t get away,’ he sighed heavily, ‘I really didn’t have a choice you know. What an absolute total balls up, this bloody project.’ The empathic words I knew I should say, jarred in my throat. ‘Come on, And, don’t be off with me.’ His voice with a weary edge to it.

  I counted to ten, ‘I’m sorry too,’ I said.

  ‘So, bad day too?’

  Dreadful, absolutely horrible, my past in my face. ‘Not particularly,’ I said, ‘I’m tired that’s all.’ I quietly took a long thoughtful swig. ‘Another protracted day, without achieving anything.’

  ‘Yeah? Same here,’ he said. ‘Like you, I’m knackered. It’s been like bloody groundhog day today. Backwards and forwards with the product design team, thinking we’d given them what they asked for. We’ve all worked so blinking hard on this campaign. We were all systems go. But then came a last minute shift in the angle, based on new feedback from ludicrously, last minute focus groups, would you believe. Had to rip the whole damn thing up, start again, pretty much.’

  ‘Oh rubbish. Must have been a nightmare for you,’ I offered.

  He sighed heartily down the line. ‘It wasn’t great.’

  I should be there for him more. If only I wasn’t always so preoccupied myself. It’s not as if I don’t care, it’s more I can’t untangle my mind, I’ve no spare capacity to offer.

  ‘You there, And? You still with me?’

  ‘I’m here, yes. Thinking about what you’re saying. Go on.’

  ‘Nothing more to say really, just need to crack on with it.’

  We chatted for a little longer, me sipping discreetly, my eyelids threatening to close. Rolling down shutters of a closed up shop. ‘Can you take the horrors sailing at Mylor in the morning? The thing is, I kind of promised them Mylor, for a change.’ Mylor? I don’t think so.

  ‘You’ve not been properly have you, you’ll love it, you know.’

  ‘Hmm, not sure I can, maybe Carol…’ I managed, each word feeling like a huge effort, Kyle’s voice murmuring somewhere in the dark, talking about the sailing school, and something about us going for breakfast the following weekend at the café below the yacht club. Then I must have let go.

  ‘And? Andi?’ I heard in the distance. ‘Andi?’

  I start, attempting to sit myself up, muscles so heavy. ‘Yes Kyle, I’m listening,’ I lied.

  ‘I was saying, not to worry about the sailing, we’ll go next week, tell them.’

  ‘Fine.’


  ‘Sure you’re okay?’ he asked.

  I could hear him but I was shutting down, I couldn’t muster the energy to open and close my mouth even. I answered him at the back of my mind instead.

  ‘And…? And…? Have you been drinking tonight?’ He asked as if worried I might throw something at him.

  ‘Drinking?’ I spat. ‘What do you mean? Have I dared treat myself to a glass of wine on another lonely evening? What with me being an adult and everything?’ He was right but I hated him for suggesting it. The moment you realise you don’t merely enjoy a glass of wine, but you – drink, there’s a difference apparently.

  He didn’t respond immediately; I sensed him sensitively sieving his mind for tactful words. Rubbing a fatigued hand through thick hair. I could have helped him out, I knew what he wanted to say, what he wanted to ask. But something inside encouraged me to make it uncomfortable for him. Resentment for not understanding, because I couldn’t tell him. Not ever. Why I drink. Guilt. ‘Maybe if my husband was home more, I wouldn’t feel the need to drink as you so gauchely put it,’ immediately re-filling my glass. ‘Perhaps if I wasn’t always home alone in the evenings…’

  ‘Come on, And, this isn’t fair. It’s tough for me, too. I miss you all terribly. At least you have home comforts, Dotty and Trey at night. I’m properly alone.’