And there it is. The subtle reminder that so much of what I took for granted no longer belongs to me. The family, the stories, the building of a life that will never be because I was too afraid to let Hector love me.
‘Let’s dance.’ Michelle tugs at my arm but I shake my head.
‘In a minute.’
‘I’ll go.’ Layla gets to her feet, fidgeting with the fabric gathered at her hip. I look past her to where a group of boys are standing at the bar. A particularly striking one, all tall, dark and handsome, has just raised his glass in toast, or rather invitation, to my best friend.
It is all so very different to Oxford. Even though I knew it would be. I chose LSE in part because of how easy it is to get lost in London, but also because the university is sleek and modern and not suffocated by centuries of tradition.
In only a few weeks I’m leaving for training in New York. The beginning of a new chapter, one that I’ve been thinking about and planning for years, but now I’m afraid that this too won’t work. Everything has left me feeling a little . . . I don’t really know what I’m feeling. All I do know is that I was happy here at LSE. But this life is no longer mine; it’s someone else’s turn to slot into the system and now I have to grow up all over again.
I loop the beaded strap of my bag over my wrist and make my way back to the cloakroom. As I move round the tables, I look across to the dance floor, where Michelle and Layla are shimmying to the sound of All Saints singing about pure shores. Directly behind Layla is a boy who looks rather like Mr DiCaprio himself, and I send up a silent prayer that he won’t end up breaking my friend’s optimistic heart.
I should be with them. I should be dancing and drinking and celebrating the moment instead of sneaking out the back door. But it’s all so reminiscent of another night, and the taste of regret is even worse than that sticky vol-au-vent.
The streets around Chalk Farm Tube are quiet, with only a few black cabs and the occasional cyclist daring to sprint through the city without any lights on. Heading over the bridge that leads back to Primrose Hill, I’m struck by the idea that I’m constantly moving in the same direction but never actually getting to where I need to be.
How impossible it was back in Oxford to imagine any life other than one that had all three of us in it together. Where are they now, and do they think of me the way I do them? Do they wonder if I’m happy or miss me so deeply it hurts to breathe when they picture my face? To know or not to know, it feels like a constant battle, and sometimes I find myself picking up the telephone even though I have no number to call. I miss their voices, their laughter, but most of all who I was when I was with them. And perhaps that’s why I made a promise never to look, because what I did changed me, and I’m no longer the person they once knew.
Staring up at the moon, I let my feet guide me along the pavement, aware but not really paying attention to the people gathered outside the Queen’s pub, or the person standing by the pillar box, shouting down his mobile at someone about a taxi. Nor do I notice the two men sitting on the pavement next to a couple of red phone boxes, iconic symbols that are dotted all over London, but slowly dying a death thanks to the likes of Samsung and Nokia.
‘Careful, love,’ one of them says as I stumble over his bag. That’s when I look, and I see that he’s wearing a hospital gown underneath a thin, patchwork coat.
‘Sorry,’ I say, looking at the other man, who is passed out, but still holding tight to a paper bag containing a lidless bottle. ‘Is he OK?’
‘He’s grand,’ the first man says with a crooked smile, drawing heavily on a cigarette and blowing rings into the night sky. ‘He’s me best pal. Smuggled me out so we could go to the pub, but they wouldn’t let me in.’ He gestures to his clothes with a low chuckle. ‘Said I wasn’t appropriately dressed.’
‘Shouldn’t you be in a hospital?’ I say, looking around as if this will magically procure an ambulance, or at least someone who might know what to do.
‘Here,’ the man says, beckoning me closer. He reaches into the pocket of his coat and hands me something, clasping his fingers tightly around my own. A slow warmth spreads over my skin, creeping upwards along my arm as I gaze into his eyes, unable to look away from the flecks of amber and gold.
‘Do you believe in God?’ He lets go of my hand and I open it to reveal a rough rectangle of palest stone encased by gold wire and hanging on a thin chain.
‘Not really.’ I hold the necklace between finger and thumb, seeing how the stone isn’t completely white but has shades of blue and green hidden inside.
‘But you do believe in something?’
‘I guess.’
‘You have a purple aura,’ he says. ‘It means you should be careful what you wish for.’
I used to wish all the time. Stare up at the stars in the hope that I might one day catch a falling one, put it in my pocket and carry the magic with me always.
‘That necklace once belonged to my fiancée,’ he says, using the butt of his cigarette to light another. ‘She said the stone was to help calm my mind, protect me when she wasn’t around.’
He leans closer and I don’t back away, or retreat from the lingering scent of antiseptic and alcohol that seems stitched into his skin. I don’t flinch when he opens my palm and picks up the necklace, nor do I shudder when he loops it around my neck and places a gentle kiss on my brow.
‘There’s nothing more powerful or dangerous than love,’ he says, sitting back and closing his eyes.
‘I can’t take this.’ I finger the stone around my neck and imagine someone else once doing the same.
‘I don’t need it any more,’ the man says with a wide yawn and pats his chest. ‘They gave me a new heart in the hospital. When I woke up after the op it was gone.’
‘What was?’
‘The pain of losing her.’ His words are hushed, his face a curious mixture of sorrow and relief. ‘You carry that same pain. It’s a burden not everyone understands.’
Don’t cry. You must not cry in the middle of the street in front of a stranger. No matter that he seems to understand you in a way that nobody else has since . . . oh God, I can’t even bring myself to think about it, so what hope is there of me ever being able to move on?
‘Whatever you think you’re running from will find you in the end.’ His eyes are closed, his body still but there is a gentle rise and fall to his chest.
If only that were true. Because even though I was the one to leave, I still can’t help but hope that one day he will come looking for me.
NIAMH
Kalopsia (n.) – the delusion of things being more beautiful than they really are
Oxford, 1996
It was one of those summer evenings that seemed too good to be true, as if someone had taken a brush to the sky and painted it the perfect shade of blue. Or thrown a rope around the moon and pulled it closer so that it cast an edifying glow over two hundred souls, all dressed in their finest for the New College summer ball.
‘You look . . .’ Leo couldn’t say anything more as he watched Niamh walk towards him. His eyes trailed the full length of her, from the pile of hair on her head, laced through with diamanté flowers, all the way down to the silver sandals on her feet.
As she moved, the fabric of her dress rippled in the fading light, flecks of gold hidden amongst the pale-blue pleats. The front dropped to a low V with a band of fabric that looped around her waist and then up behind her neck.
‘Hi,’ she whispered as she approached, drinking in the sight of him in a well-fitting tuxedo and oversized bow tie.
‘Goodness, aren’t you two just the most picture-perfect couple.’ Erika skipped over to them wearing the dress she’d tried on back in London. It was now paired with a bright red petticoat that made the skirt lift up to reveal more of her legs, black stilettoes and a diamond choker.
It was Erika who had gone back to the shop and bought the dress for Niamh. She said she couldn’t bear the idea of anyone other than her owning it. In return
, Niamh told Erika she loved her, which made Erika look at her in a strange but happy sort of way.
‘Hello, gorgeous,’ Duncan said with a smile, looking from Leo to Niamh in turn. He was wearing a white morning suit with tails, a frilled, baby-blue shirt and carrying a cane. Niamh half expected him to start tap-dancing, but despite the flamboyance of his outfit, he still looked ridiculously suave.
‘Come here.’ Duncan held out an arm to Niamh, then waved to a passing waiter who was tasked with documenting the evening on film. ‘Let’s take a photo. I want to remember this night when I’m old and senile.’
‘You’re already old and senile.’ Erika laughed, a little more shrill than was necessary, and Niamh looked up at her face, noting the dilated pupils and slightly manic smile.
Leo watched the three of them as they gathered together, posing for the camera. They were such an unlikely trio of misfits who had somehow managed to find one another and become the firmest of friends.
‘This one’s mine,’ Duncan said as he held the end of the Polaroid photo, flapping it about and blowing on the film as the picture came to life. ‘One day I can look at it and remember that you two used to be young and gorgeous.’
‘I have no intention of ever getting old,’ Erika said as she kissed Niamh on the cheek, leaving behind the shiny red outline of her lips.
‘Better start saving for all that surgery.’ Duncan kissed Niamh on the other cheek, then spun around and pointed his cane to the sky. ‘Let’s go explore,’ he announced and Erika trotted after him, glancing back over her shoulder to see if Niamh would follow.
‘Do you mind?’ Niamh asked Leo, looking from him to her friends and back again.
‘Go,’ he replied with a slow, soft kiss. ‘I’ll come find you later.’
The college had been transformed into something of a wonderland, with a raised dance floor covering the Main Quad, complete with a ten-piece band at one end and a bar at the other. The Master’s Garden had Chinese lanterns strung from every branch of every tree, acrobats cartwheeled around the lawn and there was even a fire-eater wearing nothing but a thong and blue body paint.
‘Here,’ Erika whispered in Niamh’s ear as she opened her palm to reveal a tiny white pill. ‘Take this.’
‘It’s perfectly safe,’ Duncan said as he picked up on Niamh’s hesitation. ‘We’ve both had one already.’
Niamh thought of Leo somewhere in amongst all that excess, waiting for her. Would he mind? She had no idea what he thought about drugs; the most he ever seemed to partake in was too many pints and some whiskey chasers after a rugby match. He’d never said anything about the omnipresent aroma of weed that hung around Duncan’s room. Nor did he ask how it was that both he and Erika found the energy to retain their status as scholars, despite their love of clubbing.
What she didn’t know was how he would feel about finding her high as a kite and quite possibly hallucinating.
‘Tell you what,’ Duncan said, reaching into the breast pocket of his jacket and taking out a coin. ‘Why don’t we let fate decide?’
Niamh watched as he tossed it in the air, heard herself call out ‘heads’ and wondered what it might be like to leave everything up to chance. To not worry about tomorrow or the next day, but choose to live in the moment and never have any regrets.
‘Tails,’ Duncan said as the three friends peered down at the circle of silver on the floor at their feet. ‘Well, that sucks.’
‘Ah, sod it,’ Niamh said, popping the Ecstasy tablet on her tongue and knocking it back with a glass of champagne that Erika thrust upon her. It was, after all, a night for excess and debauchery.
The main dining hall was not, as might be expected, set out for dinner, but rather transformed into a dimly lit casino, complete with bunny girls carrying trays of martini and champagne. Erika danced over to the craps table and proceeded to kiss the dice before each throw. It was a scene oddly reminiscent of every single Bond film Leo had forced Niamh to watch. Erika even threw her arms in the air every time she won (which was surprisingly often, given that Niamh wasn’t sure if she had a clue how to play), at one point flashing her boobs to the entire room.
Niamh wandered back outside, lured by the sound of a bass guitar dancing over the roof of the chapel towards her. She weaved through the crowds, aware of how her heart was beginning to race and her mouth was insisting on smiling at everyone she passed.
The back quad was bathed in rainbow lights that spun up and over the grass. On a small, raised stage set up by the far wall, a DJ stood behind some decks next to two enormous speakers. A few people were attempting to dance, swaying their arms to the music, but all the while looking around at who else was there.
Buoyed not only by illegal substances, but also the presence of someone who understood her kind of music, Niamh went over to the stage. Standing on tiptoe, she whispered her request to the middle-aged man who was wearing a Ramones t-shirt and smoking a fat joint.
He smiled down at her, his eyes sweeping over her face and choice of outfit, then nodded slowly as he flicked through one of several boxes of vinyl at his feet.
As the first chords echoed through the night, Niamh kicked off her shoes and made her way to the centre of the quad. Eyes closed, she breathed the music deep into her soul, letting it take over all other feelings. As soon as the bass kicked in, she stretched her hands to the sky and began to turn. Over and over she spun, oblivious to all the people who were watching. Singing at the top of her lungs, letting go of all the fears and frustrations, she gave thanks to the band, to the woman who had saved her again and again.
Leo sipped his beer, waiting for the build-up he knew was about to come and which made him think back to that afternoon in her bedroom, when he had come so close to kissing her for the very first time.
‘Isn’t that the song from Formula One?’
Leo reluctantly turned his head to find Robin smoking a cigar and staring at Niamh.
‘Something like that,’ he said with a chuckle as he looked back to see Erika and Duncan sprinting across the lawn. A moment later all three of them were bouncing around, completely oblivious to everyone else.
The song finished, swiftly replaced by the Bee Gees telling everyone they should be dancing. One by one, people let themselves be taken over by the music. Soon the quad became a throng of bodies and limbs, with feet pounding on the ground and hands reaching to the sky.
Leo made his way over to her, replicating the huge smile she had on her face as she saw him approach. She flung her arms around his neck and threw back her head as he picked her up and turned her around.
‘Aren’t stars just the most sublimely beautiful things you’ve ever seen?’ she said as she brought her gaze back down to him. ‘I wish I could dance right through them, then land on the moon and see if it really is made of cheese.’
He could tell she was high on more than champagne and music, but he didn’t care. It didn’t matter because she was here with him. How or why it came about wasn’t important. All that was still to come was lost as he kissed her to the sound of Blue Swede singing about being hooked on a feeling.
He didn’t want to have to share her with anyone else ever again. It didn’t seem possible that it was less than a year since they’d first met, since he’d phoned his mother and told her he’d met the woman he wanted to marry.
Nothing had changed; if anything his feelings for Niamh seemed to swell each time he saw her. So much so that his mother had somehow managed to persuade her husband to give Leo one last summer. To allow him the time to be young and in love before the corporate world took him prisoner. Despite a few grumbles about Leo already having had a gap year, Mr Bonfiglio had, as always, acquiesced to the better wisdom of his wife.
So it was that Leo and Niamh were going to spend the summer travelling across Europe and documenting all they discovered. The plan was to create a film about discovering who you are by loving someone else. A story that Leo hoped might be good enough to earn him a place at film school in New York
after graduation.
‘I can’t wait to get to Kefalonia,’ Leo said. ‘To go diving in the caves and eat oysters fresh off the boat.’ He also couldn’t wait to put it all on film – everything from the way she chewed on the inside of her cheek when she was concentrating, to the nonsensical mutterings she made whilst sleeping.
‘I want to go swimming with the mermaids,’ Niamh replied in a sing-song voice, wondering if she was dreaming. She closed her eyes and pictured herself in a turquoise sea with the sun smiling down from above. She could taste salt on her tongue, feel the soft slap of wet against her skin and hear the sound of laughter from someone nearby.
Eyes open, she looked across the lawn to where Erika and Duncan were standing, Erika’s head thrown back to expose the long line of her neck. Time was running out; in only a few days Niamh was supposed to be packing up and moving into Erika’s place in Chelsea. But she was also supposed to be getting on a boat with Leo and heading for Europe with only a handful of clothes in an old army backpack.
Niamh had never been one for confrontation, least of all when it involved telling your best friend that you had, in fact, chosen a boy instead of her. Just like Astrid, and look at what happened to her. It felt as if the whole word was floating up and away, and the only thing stopping Niamh from spinning into space was Leo’s arms around her waist.
Leo was still thinking about the concept of fate, of how one fraction of a moment can change a person’s entire life. He knew the moment that had changed his, but wanted to know if Niamh was aware of how important, how significant even the tiniest of details could be.
‘What made you come to the bar that night?’
‘Erika.’ Everything was always about Erika. And yet it was also so much more than her. Niamh could still remember standing in front of the mirror in her bedroom, contemplating what to wear. Then looking across at the pile of notes on her desk that she really should be concentrating on instead.
Leo too was thinking of that night. It had been his mother’s birthday and he’d forgotten to call, so he’d stopped off at a phone box on the way back to college. Which in turn meant he took the corner faster than he should have and had nearly run into that tourist. He had been in a hurry, but at the time put it down to nothing more than looking forward to the first sip of a cold pint after a week spent buried in books.
The Love We Left Behind Page 20