Who I Am Page 8

  ‘Yes, it must be super tough, only having yourself to think about at night? That and your clients, where you’ll be dining for the evening, which delicacy to select off the pre-made menu. Sounds really tough to me.’ I said these cutting words without feeling them, without being able to put the brakes on. My words didn’t reflect how I felt, Kyle is a good husband, when he’s here. But what about what Carol insinuated? My heart was hammering and any rationale had been shoved out of reach. And I was backed up the corner, shamed into fighting myself out of it.

  Then followed a long silence. Me, gazing at the picture-perfect crescent moon casting imperfect images on soft lapping, tranquil waters, wondering if he could see it too, above the high illuminated concrete rises of London. Something at least joining us together. I took a deep breath, ‘I’m sorry, I snapped at you.’

  Kyle exhaled. ‘And, please don’t take this the wrong way,’ he paused for me to jump in but all I felt was tearful, defeated. ‘I think maybe you should see someone, correct me if I’m wrong, but from where I’m looking in, you’re struggling at the moment.’

  See someone? Christ he thinks I’m losing my mind. When people suggest you should, see someone, what they really mean is they believe you’re losing the plot. Have I been so bad? Or is he feeling guilty for being away, as we drift apart. Staring up at the moon, I said. ‘Someone? See someone?’ A rogue tear escaped, sliding its way down, rolling over my cheek. I didn’t wipe it away, it felt real, honest, as it dripped onto my cream silk pyjama top, before dispersing into a jagged shape.

  ‘You know; someone you can talk to.’

  ‘Talk to a complete stranger, about what exactly? What do you propose I talk to them about?’

  ‘Anything, And. Anything you feel would help, anything you need to. That’s the point. To get things off your chest.’ His voice softened as my chest tightened, gripping each miserable breath. ‘You do spend so much time alone. I was thinking it could help to talk to someone, someone completely objective. Someone… not me.’

  I heard myself sniff loudly. ‘That’s not what this is really about though is it? It’s not what you’re suggesting here, is it Kyle? We both know what you really mean is – talk to them about the fact that my husband thinks I drink too much. I do wish you’d be honest with me. Stop skirting around the bleeding obvious.’

  He sighed loudly, I imagined his head sinking into his hands, generous dark hair pushed out at all angles. ‘I’m trying to help you, but I always seem to get it wrong these days,’ he told me, though he’s wrong because he’s actually spot on – I do have issues, problems, whatever the current word is.

  ‘And,’ he persisted. ‘There’s no shame in talking to someone, everyone needs a little help from time to time. I can’t be there as often as I’d like to be, so I thought, maybe this could help ease your pressure, if only a little, that’s all. It’s a suggestion. Nothing more.’

  ‘Maybe,’ is all I could manage.

  ‘It’s your decision, but look, please don’t shoot the idea down straight away, especially out of petulance.’ He quickly added, chuckling fondly, ‘I mean, you’re normally so strong and the thought of reaching for help doesn’t come easy for you, I get it. I only want to help, if you’ll let me, don’t shut me out, And, please.’

  The desperation in his voice didn’t go unnoticed, softening my sharp feelings, ‘okay,’ I recovered. ‘I’ll give it some consideration. But I’m not agreeing to anything yet.’

  He knew not to push, how much I hated people calling the shots, making decisions on my behalf. But I’m not sufficiently stubborn to not see the sense in his suggestion, even so, it still felt like a punch in the stomach when he then promised to email me a link to someone in Truro, someone he’d already researched? When? How along ago? How long has he been thinking I’m on the edge of tumbling down some pit?

  It’s still only 09.20, Dotty and Trey are at school and another day has rolled in, the day after last night. A new deadline has been handed down from work. I feel kind of numb, simply moving through the motions of a demanding life without being part of it. Daily established routines, I know off by heart but can’t fully engage with, operating on autopilot. My mind drifts back to an achingly similar time in my past, I can’t allow life to suck me under in the way it did then. The first few months following my escape to Cornwall, then again, after the birth of Dotty. It was only because of Trey coming along so quickly after her that I was hurled from my emotional state like a ball from a cannon. I’m ashamed to admit, it took a while for me to bond with Dotty after the initial elation of her birth, I felt so completely flat. So incredibly exhausted. Something missing. Scared. Guilty about feeling this way. Different to all other mums. What was wrong with me? It got worse and worse, I became lower then lower, my thoughts darker, more anxious and always so desperately sad. My past, haunting every moment, stealing the maternal bond I should have felt. How could I ever be normal again? What was I ever thinking of?

  I pull out the chair in the kitchen, staring out across the estuary, my eyes searching for the end of the horizon. Now, I’m no more than ticking off a list each day and I’m not even achieving this. My list is growing bigger, longer, more intimidating. I’ve become a saturated sponge incapable of absorbing any more. Clutching the warm coffee mug against my cheek, feeling the heat penetrate through layers of skin, relieved I still feel discomfort, I open my laptop, hover over the keyboard, over the blue bird, hold my breath and click. Thank God – no surprises, no little reminders. Next, I open and review the email link sent by Kyle, it can’t harm can it, to seek help? For once, to accept some genuine help?

  I think of Carol, she’s been a dependable friend, I think, or has she? Isn’t there a constant something underlying her every word to me? The other day, she made me feel uncomfortable and again yesterday morning, asking if everything was okay between me and Kyle. Has she ever really been my friend? Has she only ever tolerated me as Kyle’s wife? Thinking about it, our friendship has only ever been superficial to some extent. Would we be friends if it wasn’t for Kyle? Is it me or her? Waking my mobile up, I type in the number from the email, before I change my mind.

  Who knows, maybe this mysterious woman is my answer. Maybe, even with the limited detail I’m willing to share, she can help me come to terms with my life all over again?

  14

  Edinburgh 2000

  Andi

  I jog up the slippery tiled steps to the old fashioned student filled café on Princes Street, a soaked through leather rucksack bouncing on my back. Carefully waved hair this morning, now fixed Lego-man flat to my head. Droplets of rain dripping from my long fringe, trickling down my neck. I didn’t dare glimpse at my watch dashing down through the crowds, but I must be late and I’m pretty certain Camilla mentioned she only had the hour before the start of her next lecture. Now reaching the top of the steps, in squelchy plimsolls, I tug at my semi-dry jumper sleeve from under my jacket, wiping under my eyes for fear of black mascara hanging in horror film fashion.

  Scanning the large open plan room all beige and taupe, I spot her, she’s bagged the table in front of the huge leaded ceiling to floor windows, the view over the street towards the protuberant castle. The gold dust seats, has she a hidden talent for physically removing people who are in her way? Not only that, she looks as though she’s been chilling there in residence for the entire morning, all perfectly dry and immaculate. How come she didn’t get caught in the rain between lectures? I squish my way over thinking of how the other day we were mistaken for sisters, today – there is no resemblance whatsoever. With her groomed, almost perfect aura and my bedraggled, drowned city rat appearance.

  ‘Hi you,’ she beams, all bright eyed.

  Staring down at her, treading on the spot, squelching as I do to indicate my state, I can’t help but be in awe, something about her. Sometimes, I wish I could step into her shoes, experience her direct, no nonsense manners. Her life so void of shoulds and musts, what perfect freedom. Other than the trauma with
her dad, whatever that was, nothing fazes her. ‘Sorry I’m late, if I am?’ I say, ‘I’m a little wet as you can see.’ I shake my fringe, lowering my head, to avert any more trickles down my face.

  Camilla jumps up to manoeuvre a hardback chair from another vacant table. ‘Here, put your wet stuff on here, we’ll push it up against the radiator.’ I begin to strip off outer layers. ‘I’ll grab us coffee now you’re here,’ she nods towards the queue at the service counter, ‘I’d have already ordered but didn’t want to lose our table. Students everywhere, giving me the evils for bagging the best seat in the house without a drink or sarni in sight,’ she giggles, squeezing past me, ‘ugh… you really are wet, aren’t you?’

  ‘Hmm. A little. Soya milk for me please, if they’ve any left,’ I call after her.

  ‘I know.’

  I balance on the edge of the chair, rubbing at the back of my pale green chinos, now dotted with city pavement splash marks. I begin to empty the top of my rucksack of soggy covered books and unrecognisable sheets of A4 paper, then decorate the low level coffee table with them. Lifting and placing the book Camilla was engrossed in when I arrived on to her dry seat. Jamaica Inn, by Daphne de Maurier! Wow, you do surprise me, Cam, I’d never have considered this your kind of read but the overturned corner is near the end. Perhaps she feels a kind of affinity to Mary, the main protagonist? She was an orphan; I mean; Camilla isn’t exactly an orphan but she kind of is. No-one looking out for her. I feel wicked for thinking it but, oh how this would have obvious benefits. Still, smuggling, murder and gothic darkness? I’d have had her down as a chick-lit lover all day. Just shows how wrong we can be.

  I jump with the tap on my shoulder from behind. ‘Hey, stealing my book, are we?’ She places warm drinks in-between sodden papers.

  I laugh. ‘I was only thinking, I didn’t realise you were into your books. Really didn’t think this would be your thing for sure,’ I nod at the book. ‘Thought it would be a little heavy and dark for you. You’re such a dark horse.’

  ‘Moi?’ she exclaims, flicking back bone dry hair. ‘I love it,’ she shrugs, ‘but you’re right – if I’m honest, it’s not my usual thing, I’m only persevering because of where it’s set. Thing is, I’ve always dreamed of a holiday in Cornwall. A childhood fantasy, there was someone at school who used to holiday in St Ives for two weeks each summer, dead posh, she thought she was. But then she probably was compared to me but that didn’t take a lot, did it?’ She slurps the froth from the top of her mug. ‘I tend to read anything set in Cornwall, this one mentions Bodmin Moor, sounds amazing.’ Her face takes on a look of longing. ‘One day, I’ll visit! When I’ve saved something up and the pennies allow for it, that is.’ Her eyes slightly glaze, before returning her attention to the coffee and the view of the castle. ‘It was somewhere my dad always wanted to go, you know. I’ve kinda promised him, I’ll go for him. One day. He won’t ever get the chance now. Feels a bit like – I owe him, to go, you know.’

  ‘Oh, so sad,’ I tell her. ‘I wish he’d made it there, Cam.’

  ‘Hmm. Anyway, one day I’ll go, hopefully before he, you know, before I lose him. Then I’ll show him the photos. He’d be happy with that. The next best thing I guess.’

  She swallows to push away her moment of vulnerability, I’m not sure what to say, so much of my life has been taken for granted, completely sheltered from the financial hardships others face. Moseying here and there between two homes. ‘Just a thought,’ my heart beat quickens, ‘I may be able to help you here,’ candid eyes return to me.

  She cocks her head to one side, reminding me of our old childhood chocolate Labrador. ‘How d’you mean?’ she asks.

  ‘Did I not mention we have a home in Cornwall? I did, I’m sure I told you, where we spent last Christmas.’ She regards me, vagueness in her eyes, slightly shaking her head, stretching her lips. ‘Yes, we were chatting about it the other night, at the table? Discussing where we all are for reading week,’ but then, when I think about it, Camilla was exceptionally quiet at the table, her thoughts somewhere outside the room. Perhaps she wasn’t taking any notice.

  She gently shrugs petite shoulders. ‘Did you? Not sure now, you may have done. But, before Christmas, we’d only just met, I’d probably assume you were holidaying there for the festive season. The other night, to be honest, I was thinking about Dad, feeling guilt mostly. Don’t think I was really paying attention, sorry.’

  I touch her hand and nod, I wish I could convince her, she has no reason to feel guilty, she’s cared and sacrificed all she possibly can for her father already. He’s lucky to have someone who cares so obviously, who’s willing to sacrifice so much to help him. Perhaps I should be more like this. ‘Come on,’ I squeeze her angular hand, ‘don’t be so hard on yourself, anyway, let’s get back to talking about the good things.’

  She nods, shifting in her seat, ‘you’re kidding though, right? You don’t really have a place in Cornwall, I thought you lived in Broadway, Oxfordshire or somewhere?’

  ‘We do, yes, Broadway. But that’s our main home, our,’ can I really say this, our second home, given she doesn’t have a home, as such. She’s told me when her father was taken into care, her family home was taken by the local authorities, it was too large for one person, they had a waiting list for such properties. People with families. It seems iniquitous, she doesn’t have a home, we have two. ‘It’s our other home, kind of holiday home, think it was passed down through generations, something like that. Property down there wasn’t as sought after as it is today.’ I sip my coffee to stop my mouth from blundering on all by itself. Life is unfair, I can’t change it all by myself. I should know.

  ‘Wow. Amazing. How lucky are you? Is it near here this place?’ She flashes her book at me. ‘I mean, I know I’ll get there anyway soon, maybe when I finish Uni. It’s not exactly like we’re talking about Barbados is it? I’ll get the funds together, eventually…’ She shrugs, looking back to the castle for support, ‘soon.’

  I nudge her knee with mine. ‘It’s fine Cam, you don’t need to explain yourself. We’re further down from Bodmin Moor, quite a bit further down, on the coast, a town called Fowey.’ I tell her. ‘It’s a sailing based town really, so pretty, sitting on the Estuary. It’s also where this writer lived.’

  ‘Oh my God, amazing! You’re so lucky.’

  ‘Look,’ I lean closer into her, ‘I appreciate this is extremely short notice but I’m spending reading week there, flying to Newquay first. Cam, why don’t you come with me? It would be great to have some company to be honest, and you’d be very welcome.’ I see her mind ticking over, have I insulted her? ‘Promise, I won’t be at all offended if you need the time to see your dad, or whatever. We can easily go another time.’ Then her perfectly painted lips turn upwards. ‘We could borrow one of daddy’s cars and go on a Daphne de Maurier tour. That pub, the Jamaica Inn, we could go there for lunch.’

  ‘You’re kidding, it properly exists? For real?’ She puts her coffee down and jumps up, throwing her arms around my neck, hugging me tight. ‘Do I want to come? Do I? And, it will be amazing, thank you so much.’ She falls back into her chair, as a flicker of a cloud crosses her brow.

  ‘Perfect, sorted, I’ll book you a flight when I get back to the apartment tonight,’ I say, she raises her hand and attempts to speak, now appreciating what clouded her expression. ‘No, I am paying. You’re my guest, my parents wouldn’t have it any other way.’ I glance at my watch, ‘by the way, aren’t you going to be late?’ She tilts her head to the other side, a look of confusion running through dark eyes. ‘Your lecture, Cam, from my reckoning you should have been gone from here ten minutes ago?’

  She jumps up. ‘Shit! I’ll be late. Got to go.’ Grabbing her bag, not forgetting her book, kisses me on the cheek, then scampers away. ‘See you back at the flat,’ she calls over her shoulder. ‘I’m late tonight, so carry on and eat.’

  I call after her, ‘I was thinking, why don’t you invite Elliott, I thought…’r />
  Quickly turning on her toes she’s back whispering in my ear, ‘I know what you’re trying to do, And.’

  ‘Well, it’s such a shame, clearly you both…’

  ‘It’s complicated and can never be.’ Thinking over her next words a look of hurt in her eyes. ‘He’s great but it can’t ever be. Trust me. So no. No inviting him over, not for me anyway. I mean yes you can, obviously, just not for me.’

  Then she vanishes. I sit for a while longer studying the ornate metal beaded windows. How sad, he clearly thinks the world of her and it’s so obvious even if she doesn’t admit it, she adores him too. Why would she be so resistant? I can’t work it out and neither can he, I’ve seen them together a few times, there couldn’t be a more perfect match. It doesn’t make sense. That’s the thing about Camilla, there’s always the unknown factor.

  15

  I hate people who hide behind facades. What they say being different to what they think, what we get. Two faced eejits. Can’t decide which is worse, them doing it or them thinking that I’m too stupid to be able to tell the difference. Say one thing, mean something else entirely. The eyes giving away the tongue. Words on a manufactured conveyor belt.

  Why would you do that?

  More coats than a flipping chameleon, some have. Blending, disguising, talking the talk but not walking the walk.

  Why, how could you be bothered? Hate it, hate them. Always something bubbling under the surface. A toxic undercurrent. That’s her.

  16

  Cornwall 2017

  Andi

  Trudging up the cobbles catching my reflection in seasonally quiet shop fronts, Truro is often low profile in the summer, except on rainy days, most people opting for coastal resorts. Feeling a bit of a fraud for making the appointment last week. It’s not as though I can tell her anything. I hadn’t expected to get booked in so quickly given her apparent reputation. But then a youngish sounding guy informed me that the therapist hasn’t long reopened to taking appointments. Declaring her as having been, out of the clinic for some months, he said. I’m hoping it wasn’t a sign, a bad omen, she’s been in drug rehabilitation or something worse still. Since booking it, my Twitter account hasn’t thrown up any more surprises. I’m beginning to wonder if it happened at all, the mind can play funny tricks under the influence of stress.