by Monica Ali
I must finish this diary and put it through the shredder. It has kept me going through these days that truly I have only been counting down. Its purpose has been served.
2 March 1998
I said good-bye to my sister, she returned to London this morning, and she could hardly keep back the tears. Nor could I. She is a good sort. We discussed arrangements for the funeral. She was kind enough not to ask about the book.
Six days to go.
I have to stop writing this. More and more memories. It is enough to keep them in my mind. What will become of Lydia? I wish I could answer that with confidence, work it out and write the answer down. The past is difficult enough to see clearly. An historian should know that. At the future we can only guess.
One thing I do know: if she is undone, it will be by a man. Is it inevitable? Given her uncontrollable passions, her headstrong, headlong tumbles into doomed relationships.
I cannot answer with certainty, but I know that I know her well, perhaps better than any of her relations, her lovers, her friends. (Others have fallen off the wagon of her favor while I remained, by virtue of my dogged devotion.) All those obsessions, those disordered and manic searches for comfort (in food, in therapies, in love) do not bear the indelible stamp of a flawed personality or a psychiatric basket case. I have observed them as the response to a life lived in a permanent state of crisis, conducted at an unbearable level of scrutiny, in the toxic and highly flammable stratosphere of fame.
Others have coped. That doesn’t convince me. Nobody else lived it at her level, with her constraints, in the nonstop multimedia age. There is no fair comparison that I can find.
I believe that she will make a life, because her desire is so strong. That’s what I want to believe.
3 March 1998
Today my headache is bad and my good eye is blurring on and off. I’m not too worried. It took a long time for my left eye to go completely. Still, I must rest. And tomorrow, the final installment.
Chapter Sixteen
3 July 1998
Dear Lawrence,
I hope you’re going to approve. Mr. Walker was willing to extend the lease for another six months ( just as you said) but I had to get away. I was suffocating in Gravelton. Honestly, I couldn’t take another minute.
Does that sound ungrateful? It’s the last thing I mean to be. You said I’d need somewhere quiet so I could catch my breath. I’m sure you were right. You’re always right. Anyway, I’m still in North Carolina and I’ve rented an apartment in Charlotte, in a big building right in the city center. And I have a feeling that I’ve turned a corner. I thought you’d want to know. This entire last week (I’ve been here for three and a half ) I haven’t cried once. Not a single time. There’s no one I can tell that to, apart from you. Lillian, I could say (she’s my neighbor across the hall), guess what, no tears from Monday to Sunday. She’s seventy-six years old and keeps three tortoises and plays mah-jongg with her cronies. The day I moved in, two suitcases, three boxes, she came round with a potted orchid and a bottle of disgusting sparkling wine, so sweet it made my teeth ache. We polished it off anyway, sitting on the balcony, while she told me about the Italian language course she’s doing. In November she’s going to Rome and Florence and she’s aiming to be reasonably fluent by then. I sat there thinking about what my aims are. Not crying for a whole day, that’s what I decided. And now I’ve gone a whole week. I wish you were here to tell me well done.
There’s such a lot I need to talk to you about. I tried to call you three times in March, but of course I knew there was only one possible reason. You’d never let me down. I’ve been alone all my life and I keep telling myself that this is nothing new. Alone when Mummy left, and Daddy had his head in the clouds. Alone at the palace, alone in my marriage, always and always alone.
No, don’t worry about me. I have my head above water. I’m not a lost cause. You didn’t waste your time. That’s all I wanted to say.
With my deepest affection,
Your Lydia
7 July 1998
Dear Lawrence,
I have a confession to make. I called the boys too. There was only the automated answer service. Then I tried to imagine what you would say about it. That’s how I’ve been stopping myself from doing it again. So, you see, you’re still here for me, I can still hear you when I concentrate.
Lydia
10 July 1998
Dear Lawrence,
That wasn’t all I wanted to say. I wanted to say thank you, but I still don’t know how. I do know that no other person on earth would have done for me what you did. No one else ever understood. I remember trying to say thank you, and I remember how silly it sounded. We laughed about that, didn’t we?
I’ve cursed you sometimes for not saying no to me. You could have said it would be impossible. Why didn’t you? You helped me lose everything. Is that the action of a true friend? Oh, Lawrence, what a dark heart I have. I’ve hated you for helping me. If only you’d turned your back and walked away.
No, I haven’t had the best of weeks, maybe you can tell, even though I haven’t said anything about it. Even so, this is a thank you letter. I don’t just mean for carrying through “our little plan.” I mean for standing beside me through the years. For seeing me at my very worst and never judging me.
Is it better late than never? Couldn’t I have opened my mouth when you were still around? I wonder if we could have been happy together. Did you ever wonder that? I know you did.
With fond memories,
Lydia
5 August 1998
Dear Lawrence,
I’ve tried a few times to write a diary. You said it would be good for me. But I’d rather talk to you than talk to myself.
I’m in trouble with Lillian. I don’t care. She can go to hell. Who does she think she is anyway? She’s in trouble with me. She opened her door just as my new gentleman visitor was leaving this morning. Still sticking her nose in. She watched him walk down the hall and when he’d got in the lift she said, Lydia, I’m really concerned about you. Utterly brazen, like that. I told her where to stick it, the old witch. I said, you have no idea what you’re talking about, and I’ve had enough interference for several lifetimes, thank you very much. I’d appreciate it if you’d leave me alone.
I absolutely will not stand for people telling me what I can and can’t do. I never let myself be pushed around, did I? God knows they all tried hard enough. If they didn’t break me, then some old lady in Sta-Prest slacks and penny loafers isn’t going to succeed where they failed. When she comes knocking on my door she’s going to find it closed.
She should have minded her own business. Sometimes I need a bit of company. You understand that, don’t you? I can’t make do with an old lady and three tortoises. I’m still a young woman and I haven’t joined a nunnery. What was the point in moving to the city if I’m not allowed to have my bit of fun? I’d be letting us both down, Lawrence, if I didn’t try to make the most of my life. I’m not putting up with lectures from anyone.
I’m going to get ready for my night out now.
Your ever-hopeful Lydia
25 August 1998
Dear Lawrence,
I’ve written you three letters now and you’ve replied, in your own way, to every one of them. Isn’t that strange? I found you a bit disapproving last time, which surprised me. That’s not like you. If you’re going to carry on being like that I’m not going to tell you anything anymore.
I shall live as I please. If I don’t, then what was the point of it all? Tell me that. I bet you don’t have an answer, do you?
I’ve made a new friend, Alicia. She works at Skin Deep, beauty and tanning salon, and she’s going to get me a job there. Don’t laugh. You know I did my own makeup on many occasions. And you said it would be good for me to work. Alicia says I can get trained up to give facials and do eyebrow shaping and waxing and it only takes a few weeks. I’m going to get paid for pulling hair out of people’s crotches. What’s wr
ong with that?
I’ve been going out a lot with Alicia. I’m not drinking to excess, if that’s what you’re thinking. She drinks more than I do. Before, I could never go out and have a few drinks, because how would that have looked? Now I’ve got some catching up to do. It does help. Lawrence, I’m not turning into a drunk. I’m careful not to drink in the day. Alicia mixes her drinks and I stick to only wine and vodka. If it was getting out of hand I’d tell you. I’ve never hidden anything from you.
I feel you watching me, Lawrence. Why so stern? I want you to smile a bit more often, please. I’m making a go of this. It’s not easy, you know.
Lydia
19 September 1998
Dear Lawrence,
Do you have the tiniest inkling what I’m going through? Did you think I could survive? Did you take that into consideration when you were making your ever-so-careful plans?
Did you just want me to yourself ?
Lydia
20 September 1998
Dear Lawrence,
I’m sorry I spoke to you like that. I’m ashamed. Every day is such a struggle, but what did I expect? I wanted to write to you about my life and tell you how much it has improved since I saw you last November. I had a sense then that it would be the last time we would be together and I should have said a proper good-bye. Still, I waited for you in March. I kept hoping. All the beds I have sat beside, and I couldn’t sit at yours. I’m sorry I wasn’t there. You know that if there was any way . . .
With love and gratitude,
Lydia
21 September 1998
Dear Lawrence,
I wanted to be able to tell you that the depression has lifted. I wanted to tell you that it’s all been worthwhile. At least that there is light at the end of the tunnel, or sometimes I think there is.
I have to acknowledge the progress that I’ve made and not beat myself up for the progress that is yet to come. That’s what my therapist always said. You’re my only therapist now. I listen to what you say, believe it or not. Perhaps more than I ever did when you were alive.
I’m cutting down on the drinking. And I’m starting my training at Skin Deep tomorrow. You’ll be proud of me in the end.
Now for an early night.
Love,
Lydia
22 September 1998
Dear Lawrence,
I have done my first day’s paid work since I was nineteen years old. Actually, that’s not quite true. I don’t get paid for the first month, while I learn how to sterilize tweezers and heat wax, but I do get free facials and manicures and two free massages. Alicia and I went to the diner for lunch and she told me all the gossip about the other girls. She has an ankle tattoo and a sense of humor and sassy five-inch heels. She grew up in a trailer park, but I’ve never had any difficulty mixing with ordinary folk. Also, her mother is an alcoholic, so we have that in common, don’t we? Not that Mummy would ever admit it.
We don’t have an actual uniform but we have to wear black trousers and black shirt and over the top of that a black tabard with Skin Deep embroidered in white letters. Also a name badge, but I’ll only get mine at the end of the month. What do you think? Can you believe I’ve found myself a job?
Kisses,
Lydia
25 September 1998
Dear Lawrence,
I think I might have found my absolute forte. Who knows, in a couple of years I might be doing makeup for celebrities. Maybe for some of my old friends! Wouldn’t that be a riot? Today, Alicia was doing makeup for a wedding and she was making a perfect dog’s dinner of it, so I stepped in. All my usual tact and diplomacy, of course. The bride was really very grateful. I also did my first facial, under supervision, but it was supremely easy. The reality is, having had more than my share in the past, I knew more about it than my so-called supervisor, Alicia.
Good night, my sweet savior.
Your Lydia
28 September 1998
Dear Lawrence,
You said it would get easier and, little by little, it has.
At first I was so scared of everything and everyone, I practically jumped out of my skin when anyone spoke to me. And you, you wise old owl, told me it wouldn’t be half as difficult as I thought. I mean the part about talking to people. No one gives me the third degree. I started telling Alicia how my husband always made me feel like a dunce, and I started thinking maybe now she’s going to ask all sorts of tricky questions. I was getting the answers ready in my head. She just said, yeah, my ex used to call me Dumbo. Then she used some ripe language. We were having a drink at our favorite bar and she had her eye on someone. It was a bit annoying, really, because I was quite in the mood for a heart-to-heart, and she was hardly listening. I wouldn’t say she’s a slut, but sometimes she comes close. It would be nice to find someone who’s a bit more on my own wavelength.
Just imagine, Lawrence, if she knew. She’d be singing to a different tune, wouldn’t she?
Kisses from your semiqualified beautician,
Lydia
2 October 1998
Dear Lawrence,
We’d talked a lot about all the “stages” I would go through. I tried to keep that in my mind but I didn’t always manage it. Despair is like a trump card. It wipes out everything else. I’m doing so much more now. In Brazil I lived the life of a slug. Two and a half months of lying on the sofa, and for the first couple of weeks, until you came back after the funeral, I didn’t even have a television! Somehow it was beyond me to go out and buy one. I was used to having everything done for me. I remember you’d left the fridge and the cupboards stocked and I stayed inside and ate tinned soup and lumps of cheese.
You’d told me that when people are tortured (how do you always know everything?) they get through it by dividing time into slices. So they breathe through the next thirty seconds. If they’ve made it through that, they can make it through the next thirty. You meant I should slice up the first year into months and weeks and days. Get through one “stage” at a time. But there were days when thirty seconds seemed about right.
I thought you were just trying to put me off. I should have known you never talk out of your hat.
Respectfully yours,
Lydia
3 October 1998
Dear Lawrence,
The mind plays tricks on us. Last night I was remembering those first weeks in Brazil as totally desolate. Mostly they were. But there were moments when I’d soar. I’d put the radio on and dance around the house, because I’d done something so huge. We’d done something so huge. I felt totally invincible. If I could do that, I’d be able to do anything. I was free. For the first time in my entire life I was free.
Then you came, with your bag of newspaper cuttings, and that was the most terrible and wonderful thing. A heart can’t actually burst, can it? I thought mine would. But there’s no limit to how much a person can feel.
When you’d gone, I think I went downhill. I hardly got out of bed and I don’t remember eating anything.
Eventually, I started setting myself little goals, like getting out of bed at a certain time, or showering and getting dressed before breakfast. Eating breakfast was another goal. Going to the shops before lunchtime. Rationing myself to a certain amount of television. I think the first ration was five hours. Doing some sort of cleaning task. Half an hour of practice with my voice tapes. Spending an hour in the garden topping up my tan. I know it doesn’t sound like a lot, but believe me, it was as much as I could do back then. If you thought you found me in a bad way in November when you came back again (I know, I saw the look on your face) you should have seen me before when I was hardly functioning.
And now I’m working. I’m actually going out to work! Another couple of weeks and I will even get paid for it.
Love from
Lydia
4 October 1998
Dear Lawrence,
I’ve just read the last couple of letters through, and I can really see how far I’ve come. Sometimes it has been
one step forward, two steps back. I think you told me to expect that. You do think of everything, don’t you?
When you left me in Gravelton that was another shock to the system. Once I was in the States, I was supposed to begin my life. You prodded me, gently as always, in the right direction. Go and talk to the neighbors. Look for jobs in the local newspaper. Get back to some sort of exercise. I’m afraid I didn’t do any of those things.
What did I do? I bought a load of novels (you know, my usual kind) and I read and read. I walked past the school gates, morning and afternoon, just to hear the chatter of children. In the evenings I watched television or stared in the mirror, trying to see if I was recognizable from any angle, in any light, with my hair a particular way.
One or two people came over and introduced themselves. When I heard the click of the garden gate I’d panic. As if I was about to be flushed out. We’d have a little chat and then they’d go and I wouldn’t be relieved, I’d be . . . flat.
I was invited to a Christmas party and everyone was very polite and friendly but they weren’t exactly queuing up to speak to me. My first party in my new life and I’m not even belle of the ball!
I did get quite friendly with a couple of women. Sometimes they invited me over for dinner with their husbands and children. I think they felt sorry for me.
In the local grocery store they were advertising for a sales assistant. I thought maybe I could do that. It can’t be hard to learn how to work a cash register. I decided I’d go in the next day and ask about the job, but when I got there I couldn’t summon the courage. I turned around and went home.