I come to a standstill before a pond that is almost luminescent with green algae. All around me, people are taking photographs, posing next to the statues or trying to entice some of the local monkeys down from the trees. I take off my sandals and dip my toes into the wet, thinking of days spent on the river, drinking Pimm’s and believing we would be friends forever. And another day, when a boy took a girl out for a punt, bringing with him bottles of Guinness (because she was Irish, so clearly that’s the only thing she ever drank) and the promise of something more.
We used to tell one another everything, even though one look at her face gave away how she felt about that boy. When did it stop? At what point did we ease apart?
I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve started to Google them, then changed my mind. Not knowing is somehow easier, less painful than the imaginary lives I have conjured for them. But still, every time I catch sight of a boy with dark curls, or hear a voice with that oh-so familiar lilt, my heart skips a beat and for a split second I’m torn between wanting it to be them and not wanting it to be them. It’s more than that, though; it’s the fear they wouldn’t want to see me, even after all this time.
Looking down into the water, I’m overcome with the sense that there is someone else, another version of me, hovering below the surface.
‘I don’t think you should throw that in.’
I turn to find someone watching, then glance down at my hand, surprised to discover that I’m holding one of the golden monkeys.
‘I wasn’t going to,’ I reply, yet I have no memory of taking the statue out of my bag in the first place.
‘They’re supposed to be good luck.’ Hector points at the statue then to the treetops above. ‘I guess that’s why they’re allowed to live here.’
If he is surprised at seeing me, he isn’t showing it. He looks good, with hair cropped short and darkly tanned skin that make the two different colours of his eyes all the more obvious.
Layla would say it was the universe playing tricks on us or, more likely, shouting as loudly as possible that there has to be a reason we keep finding one another.
‘I was going to leave it at one of the shrines.’ I drop my hand to my side as I look around, waiting for my heart to return to a more normal rhythm. The nearness of him is unsettling, but I can’t quite decide if it’s because I want him there or not. ‘What are you doing here, Hector?’
‘I could claim it’s just a coincidence.’
‘Or you could just tell me.’
He smiles, which pretty much ends all my resolve to try and pretend that I haven’t missed him, or thought about him during the loneliest of nights.
‘Are you with the tour?’ he asks, and I shake my head to avoid the necessity of forming words with a mouth that wants nothing more than to kiss him. ‘Didn’t think so, you don’t look quite so out of place.’
I look from him to the rest of the group, with their pristine trainers, sunburnt cheeks and every single one of them holding a phone aloft.
‘Shameless, isn’t it,’ he says as he points at a sea of faces, all smiling towards a rectangular screen. ‘No doubt the ancestors are turning in their graves at how ridiculous we’ve become.’
The sound of a ringtone emerges from the pocket of his cargo shorts and he has the decency to look embarrassed.
‘Sorry,’ he says as he checks the screen. ‘Escaping from the daily grind is easier said than done.’
‘It’s fine,’ I say as he turns to look at me and I let him take his time so that I too can re-examine every detail of his face. It’s the same face, the same look, as the very first time we met and it is just as disconcerting now as every single time he has looked at me. Because I’ve only ever seen that look between two people once before – in a turreted room guarded by gargoyles, with the sound of Stevie Nicks accompanying the kiss that almost was.
Is that what I’ve been searching for? But Hector isn’t Leo, so what is it that I’m still so bloody terrified of?
It feels like the world has stopped, just for a second, to allow us to consider and appreciate what has happened. Which as yet is nothing more than two old lovers making banal conversation at a holy site. But it seems as if more is about to happen, or at least could happen, if either one of us would dare to step up to the plate.
‘Layla posted a photo of you,’ he says, his eyes never leaving my own. ‘On Facebook.’
‘How sweet of her to not tell me.’ And it is sweet, because she has somehow reached through the continuum of time and space and pulled together the two strands that are Hector and me. I love him, I’ve always loved him, but have never had the guts to believe it could last.
‘She’s posted quite a few,’ he says, which makes my heart sing, just a little, because it means he’s been checking up on me. ‘I think it’s her way of staying connected to you.’
‘This still doesn’t explain what you’re doing here.’
‘Research trip. For the next book.’
Now I’m not so much of a technological outcast that I haven’t been keeping tabs on him. Which means I know all about his bestseller, a book about love, loss and bucket-loads of despair. I’d like to say I provided some of the inspiration, gave him at least some sort of recompense for breaking his heart (again) by inadvertently rewarding him with literary acclaim.
‘And you just so happened to be visiting the temples at the same time as me?’
‘Not exactly. Layla might have mentioned something in her last post.’
Two days ago I emailed her, giving all the details of the cockroach-infested hostel where I was staying, as well as wishing I could luxuriate in a bubble bath instead of standing under a shower that dribbled rather than flowed. I’d also said it didn’t matter, that it was worth it due to the incredible temples – ones that I’d bought a three-day pass to because once was never enough. Still, the chances of him being close enough to come and find me were pretty much slim to none.
‘Are you stalking me?’
‘In the nicest possible way.’ He grins at me, mopping at the back of his neck with a scrap of material. As he does so, I catch a glimpse of the Celtic tattoo that snakes its way up and around his bicep and my insides do a little dance of delight.
A week later and I’m still living in his hotel room, which is in a much more exclusive part of Siem Reap than my dodgy hostel. Twice he’s cancelled his flight, claiming food poisoning when his agent kept calling to ask if inspiration had finally struck. He’s also refusing to even consider going home unless I promise to go with him. But I don’t know if I’m ready to make any big decisions, especially when my heart is urging me to let him in.
He’s been writing all morning. When I woke, he was sitting out by the pool with a silver coffee pot and two cups laid on the table and his glasses pushed back on to his head. I kiss his back, but he is engrossed in the story, completely overtaken by his inner muse.
‘How’s it going?’ I ask as I sit down next to him. ‘Did you figure out the issue with perspective?’
He nods and murmurs his response, then grabs my hand, using the other to point across the pool.
‘Over there.’ He grins back at me like a schoolboy, turning his head to watch as a monkey with a baby clinging to its back emerges from the undergrowth. She trots across the tiles, pausing only to give us a suspicious look before climbing on to a table and helping herself to a leftover sandwich.
‘I’m scared, Hector.’
‘Of the monkey?’
‘No, you idiot, of going home.’
‘Why would you be scared?’
‘I left for a reason.’ There’s always a reason, but I’m starting to realise that they are all linked.
‘So? You are allowed to try something different.’
‘Like what? I’ve never done anything other than banking.’ I can’t remember ever considering a different career, because banking meant money, which meant independence. It’s why I went to that recruitment fair, met with the right people, sat through
countless interviews and spent two months training in a foreign city. I thought I knew what I was doing. Now I’m not so sure.
‘Take a leap of faith, just this once. I’ll always be there to catch you.’
‘I won’t take money from you.’ Not that I’ve got a huge amount to spare. Most of it is tied up in the house or investments, and I lost a chunk of shares when I quit my job and ran away to Goa without giving my boss any notice. He was livid, so much so that he refused to even consider giving me what I was owed. I never pushed him on it, despite Layla telling me I needed to stand up to the misogynistic pig, because I was so determined to cut all ties, to start again without anything hanging over me.
Now, however, that extra cash would actually be useful. A cushion of sorts to allow me to return home and take my time figuring out what to do. My lifestyle over the past year hasn’t exactly been frivolous, but the piggy bank is most definitely no longer full.
‘Who says I’d give you any?’ His tone is light, but we both know there’s an undercurrent of frustration, because money has always been such a touchy subject between us.
‘But maybe this time,’ Hector says as he runs a hand up and down my leg, ‘you could let me take care of you.’
‘I can take care of myself.’
‘I know.’ He places a kiss on my shoulder, then behind my ear, sending ripples of desire all over my skin. ‘But won’t you at least consider it?’
‘It’s weak.’ I let out a sigh as he turns his attention to the sweet spot where my neck meets collarbone. Trying to have an argument is impossible when he’s distracting me in such a delicious way.
‘It’s not weak to compromise.’
Layla compromised once. She gave up everything for the man she completely and utterly adored, only to have him take her love for granted. I’m amazed at how she’s managed to stay so positive, so hopeful for the future, rather than turn into a bitter, twisted mess of a person who never trusts anyone enough to let them in.
‘Women are always compromising for men,’ I say, pushing him away as a waiter walks past, holding aloft a tray of chattering glasses. ‘But men so very rarely do the same in return.’
Hector looks at me and I can almost hear the words inside his head telling me to stop being so bloody stubborn. Not to mention the fact I’m sure he would change his entire world for me, if only I actually asked him to.
‘I have a surprise for you,’ he says, reaching down to take something out of a paper bag. ‘I saw it in the gift shop.’
It’s a bowl. A small, porcelain bowl with blue crackled glaze and a silver rim. There’s a jagged line filled with speckled gold on one side, an imperfection made good.
‘Wabi-sabi,’ I say as I pick it up and turn it upside down, noticing how the repair goes all the way through.
It’s a Buddhist way of looking at the world centred around the acceptance that beauty is both transient and imperfect. I first saw it during a tea ceremony in Japan when I was poured a stream of matcha tea from a pot that had subtle fractures in the glaze. The host told me that Japanese artists left them there on purpose as a reminder of the wabi-sabi nature of life.
‘There’s a certain beauty in imperfection, don’t you think?’
He’s teasing me, making it abundantly clear that I am the one who has to change, to stop chasing the impossible idea of perfection.
NIAMH
Cathect (v.) – to invest emotion or feeling in an idea, object or person
Oxford, 1995
The note must have been slipped under her door at some point during the afternoon. It wasn’t there when she left for the library, but when she returned, a corner of white was peeping out at her.
Niamh bent down to pick it up before unlocking the door, turning the single piece of folded, lined paper over in her hand as she dropped her bag on to the sofa. Perching on the end, she eased the edges apart and skimmed over the few lines that were written in messy script.
Fancy going for a punt? it read, and she had to look twice to check whether the ‘u’ was in fact an ‘i’.
If so, meet me tomorrow at noon by The Folly. The location still didn’t make clear whether he was asking her to go for a drink or a trip down the river, and the idea of both made the pit of her stomach draw tight.
If it’s a no, the note went on, let me down gently via Pigeon Post. A packet of biscuits (preferably chocolate Hobnobs) should help heal my bruised ego.
Niamh smiled to herself, enjoying the melting sensation inside her. For hours beforehand she had walked around with an annoying knot in her belly. It had appeared the very moment Erika interrupted her and Leo and whatever it was they were about to do. The knot had persisted as Niamh mumbled some kind of excuse about Leo needing to leave, checking the corridor for signs of Erika before shoving him out the door.
The knot had wriggled and complained when only minutes later Erika reappeared and proceeded to ask all manner of questions about Leo. She kept giving off little puffs of annoyance whenever Niamh admitted to not knowing the answer.
‘I don’t trust him,’ she announced when Niamh said that his room-mate was a bit of a twat.
‘Clearly,’ Niamh replied, picking up Leo’s mug of tea and tipping the contents down the sink.
‘He has chosen to share a room with somebody who you have just said is repressive.’
‘Repugnant.’
‘I agree, but you get my point.’
‘Stop acting like my mother.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Erika said as she helped herself to a couple of fig rolls and flicked the switch on the kettle. ‘I care about you so much more than she does.’
Niamh didn’t reply, instead emptying the contents of her bag on to the floor and replacing them with a sheaf of papers from her desk. Picking up her coat and keys, she glanced around the room, not really aware of what she was looking for, then headed to the stairs.
‘All I’m saying is be careful.’ Erika licked her fingers clean as she followed, her voice echoing off the thick stone walls. ‘Boys like the chase more than anything, and I worry for your innocent little heart.’
‘I’ll probably never see him again,’ Niamh called out as she traipsed down two more flights of stairs. She could still remember the absolute terror she felt in the moment before he was about to kiss her. She could still remember what it might have felt like, what could have happened next, if Erika hadn’t inadvertently scared him away.
‘Why are you so against him?’ Niamh asked as she walked across Main Quad and out to the High Street. She turned back to face Erika and was struck by an irritating sense of déjà vu. Because it had happened before, only last term. Niamh had started a flirtation of sorts with a boy who sat in the same seat in the Bodleian Library every day, next to the window and diagonally opposite Niamh’s preferred spot. For about a week there had been nothing more than sideways glances or half a smile, until Niamh had, quite literally, bumped into him coming around one of the book stacks and an awkward but highly charged conversation had followed.
‘I don’t even know him,’ Erika said, seemingly oblivious to the fact she was standing barefoot on the pavement.
‘You didn’t know Sam, either.’
‘That was different.’ Erika looked away and down, which told Niamh that it probably wasn’t so different at all.
‘Different how?’
Erika lifted her gaze, studying Niamh’s face for a moment before speaking. ‘Because he came on to me.’
‘Of course he did.’ Niamh bit down on her back teeth, trying to rid herself of the knowledge that the one time she’d thought she might have a chance at a relationship it had, unintentionally, been destroyed by her beautiful friend.
‘He simply wasn’t good enough,’ Erika said.
‘For you?’
‘No, for you, my älskling.’ Erika reached out her hand towards Niamh’s face, but she swatted her away.
‘Are you OK?’
‘I’m grand,’ Niamh replied, holding aloft a sheet of pa
per adorned with typed lines of black. ‘Need to crack on.’
‘Let’s go out later,’ Erika said as she bent to place a kiss on Niamh’s cheek. ‘We can forget about boys and get absolutely bubbled.’
Niamh didn’t bother to correct her, instead offering up a half-hearted smile and setting off in the direction of the Bodleian. At the pedestrian crossing she glanced back along the road, making sure that Erika was no longer there, then turned down a narrow alleyway. At the end, she hopped across the road, through a cast-iron gate and down a path towards Christ Church Meadows.
The expanse of green stretched out before her, flanked on all sides by row upon row of trees. She walked at a pace, taking in great lungfuls of air and telling herself to stop being so ridiculous; he was just a boy. She kept going until she reached the river, the far bank of which was lined with houseboats; the water was calm and long since empty of any early-morning rowers.
It was there that she stopped, peeling off her boots and socks then dipping her toes into the water. She blanched as the chill shot up her legs and made her whole body shiver, but the shock was exactly what she needed to try to reset her mind.
‘He’s just a boy,’ she repeated to herself as she moved her feet through the current and watched the rippling reflection of the clouds overhead.
The problem was, he wasn’t just a boy. He had so easily opened up a piece of her heart and whispered all the possibilities that had yet to occur. She had never been in love, choosing long ago not to believe that one person could have such an effect on her. But how else could she explain what was happening, what had already happened, as a result of pretty much nothing at all?
He hadn’t done anything; they had barely said more than a few words to one another and yet she couldn’t quite put aside the idea that it was meant to be.
Searching through her bag, she took out her beloved Walkman and opened it to check the label on the mix-tape inside. Pressing down on the well-worn play button, she allowed her thoughts to be covered by the sound of someone singing about a gold dust woman and persuading her heart that all would be OK in the end.
The Love We Left Behind Page 8