Forgotten Girl

by Naomi Jacobs

  Things started to change, slowly, subtly, quietly. Still, there was one last thing I had to do.

  Even though for Teen Nay the story had started the moment she woke up in the future – my future – what had happened before my memory loss was still haunting me. My story had started in Paris, from the moment I’d met Henri, the ‘French Dude’ with whom I had had a passionate, whirlwind romance. It was the break-up with him that had been the final push for me to stop caring about my life. In my despair, I’d yet again felt there was no point trying to make good things happen because no matter what, I always failed. Of course, his ex-girlfriend turning up at his flat to ‘talk’ to me at one o’clock in the morning and me realizing I had walked into a messy break-up had a lot to do with it. But the stomach virus and tonsillitis I contracted after this had happened obscured my judgement and I, as Teen Nay put it, blamed myself for ‘other people’s mental tosser issues’.

  So even after all I’d been through, I still thought about him. We were Facebook friends but our correspondence was polite, with the odd comment on each other’s status. We had gone from being in a short, intense relationship to being virtual strangers and as much as I pretended I was okay with it, I wasn’t . . . at first.

  Cue this conversation with Teen Nay while sitting at the computer one day:

  Her: (Sticking fingers down throat) Bluurrgh!!

  Me: But—

  Her: No, no, no, no! This is sooooo wack. He is, like, ignoring you!

  Me: But he is still watering my crops and feeding my chickens for me on my virtual farm.

  Her: Seriously?! Park up the combine harvester, get out and get over it!

  Me: But—

  Her: Erm, exsqueeze me! He’d rather milk your virtual cows than talk to you? Sad, sad, saddo, sad! Saaaaaddddddd!!

  I closed the laptop.

  She was right. If I wanted to let go of the old Naomi, I needed to let go of the ways I was used to relating to men – especially the unhealthy pattern I’d developed of looking for my self-worth in men who rescued me or fed my virtual pigs.

  So the universe answered Teen Nay’s prayers and when I reopened the laptop, I saw an email from my old friend Georgie! She was coming back!

  Georgina and I had met at university. As soon as she walked into the room, I noticed her. There was something about her. She was beautiful, yes, but there was something else, something intangible that others saw too. Some people hated her for it; others were intimidated by it or jealous. I loved it. Georgina had what I simply liked to call ‘It’.

  She was genuinely interested in others and made you feel like her focus was on you and only you, and that she saw into your soul and believed that you were a good person who deserved the best. I found when I watched her talk to people that this somehow morphed into a spirited, sexy, outspoken confidence and an air of erudition that would make the smartest man crumble into an insensible heap. She seemed to travel in her very own constellation and took her rightful place at the centre of it. The brightest star in the sky. Georgie could also kick butt on the Nintendo, bake lovely cakes, and make a mean Margarita.

  Fed up with the mundane nine-to-five routine after university, Georgie had decided to rent out her flat for several months and travel the world on a cruise ship. During my amnesia, she had been somewhere in the middle of the Pacific, partying in spectacular style with gorgeous-tasting cocktails and even more gorgeous-looking men. She’d been completely unaware of what I was going through, but as soon as she arrived home I was the first person she contacted. Leo was at home with Art and JJ so I drove over to her apartment, desperate to tell her everything.

  As soon as I saw Georgina standing there, as fabulous as always in her Jimmy Choo shoes, health radiating from every pore of her sun-kissed ochre-brown skin, I burst into tears of joy and hugged her until my arms ached. She was still gorgeous Georgie, with her adorable smile, and her oriental-shaped eyes still had that cheeky twinkle.

  It was great to have her back. I realized how much I had missed her and, to my delight, Teen Nay thought she was ‘top bananas’. Sitting at the table with a couple of bottles of Merlot, she entertained me with tales from her adventures at sea, giggling about the ‘adoring men’ who wanted to marry her and whisk her off into a life of champagne and yachts. She was fabulous and the one female friend (apart from Katie) that Teen Nay approved of. We had a truly synergetic relationship – protective of each other and able to confide in each other whenever we needed.

  And so it was within no time at all that she decided we needed a weekend away and that in order for me to get closure on the past and the amnesia, we should go to Paris, the place where the story had started for me.

  It was also a great excuse to go and see Beyoncé, one of her all-time favourite artists. She was not really my cup of tea – if I did crave music with soul, I turned to the greats, like Aretha, Al and Marvin – but I soon got into her songs. I found Georgina’s school of B’Day enlightening – although I did wonder about naming an album after an arse-washing sink – and I enjoyed singing along and dancing to her songs and revelling in America’s answer to girl-power-type music, with an R&B flavour.

  I was even more taken with Beyoncé and her vocal skills when I heard her rendition of ‘Ave Maria’. I definitely wanted to see her live, so made arrangements with Art to have Leo for the weekend and Georgie and I booked two concert tickets, two plane tickets, and hotel rooms for a weekend in Paris.

  Georgie and I missed our flight because we spent too long in the airport lounge eating noodles and drinking wine. We found this hilarious and rebooked ourselves on the next flight. But by the time I got on the next plane I wondered if it was a bad sign. From the bedroom window of the house of my mind, a watchful Teen Nay rolled her eyes.

  As soon as we reached Paris, everything came flooding back and I wasn’t sure if I was doing the right thing. On the Metro I saw me holding hands with Henri on a speeding train, listening to French love songs on his iPod. When we arrived at the hotel, I saw his small apartment with its wooden floors and rickety cast-iron lift, as if I were there again. I lay in bed wondering whether he was lying in his bed thinking about me. Teen Nay just rolled her eyes.

  The day of the concert was strange, like Twilight Zone strange. I had only one desire, to walk down the Champs-Élysées. Even though I’d been to the city a few times I had never stepped foot on the famous road, full of incredibly expensive boutiques. Georgie and I changed from one metro station to another and finally arrived in an arrondissement that we thought would take us there. A pretty French woman laughed at us when we asked her whether we were anywhere near. In broken English, she explained we had somehow managed to get ourselves over to the other side of the city. This reminded me of the last time I had been lost in Paris and how I’d needed a man (a policeman at that) to rescue me.

  ‘What is it with me, my internal GPS and Paris?’ I said to Georgie. ‘I’ve been all over the world and it’s the only place I seem to get lost in.’

  ‘Babe, it really doesn’t matter, we’re here!’ Georgie stuck her button nose in the air, ignoring the peremptoriness Paris seemed to possess. ‘Let’s go and eat canapés and drink champagne.’

  Admittedly, by then I was growing tired of looking over my shoulder all the time, worrying that I was going to bump into Henri on every street corner, so a glass of champagne sounded like heaven. This drink and several more afterwards made us late for the concert and we ended up in the middle of a large crowd made up of predominantly French teenagers waiting for Beyoncé to come on stage. Needless to say having just starred in my own version of My So-Called Life – having been fifteen TWICE! – I had little patience for sweating, hormonal, screaming adolescents.

  I was crushed into a very small space, grabbing hold of my bag furiously in case any one of the little thugs tried to rob my euros. It was taking a lot for me not to fall into a high-heeled sweaty heap on the floor. I eventually had no choice but to turn to Teen Nay, who was standing with arms folded and, yes, r
olling her eyes at me from the window of the house of my mind.

  Her: Are you, like, for real? You are not a victim; you need to get a grip, seriously!

  Me: I know. I’m just not comfortable; I want to go home.

  Her: Since when did not being comfortable ever stop us? Stop you? Why are you so bloody scared of everything? This is, like, beyond stale; this is . . . just who are you, woman? Get a life! Jeez!

  She was right; it had been nearly a year since the amnesia and she was watching me, and I was watching her watching me and still seeing everything from her eyes. It wasn’t good. I could feel myself slowly slipping into my debilitating fears again. I was beginning to use the fact that I still wasn’t speaking to Simone and Eve as a big red stamp on the contract of my failed life.

  Gosh, I was at a concert – a concert! – and I was freaking out because I was getting squashed. In writing to Teen Nay I had found parts of me that I had buried: the survivor, the fighter and the diva. She had made one thing clear to me: that no matter what I experienced in life, I could, and always would, survive and adapt. Now I took a deep breath and inhaled her thoughts, which provided me with a little push of courage. I threw off my heels and put on my spare flats. I grabbed a pop sock out of my bag, tied a knot in it and scraped back my hair. I took the scarf from around my neck, wiped my brow and tied the handles of my bag, securing it. I pushed to the left of me, to the right of me, in front of me and behind, letting the unsuspecting teens know that I was rightfully claiming my space and was willing to go down fighting – no, defending it. And then everything was forgotten as soon as Beyoncé glided across the stage all glittered and glamorous, belting out powerful songs about independent women and putting rings on it.

  She was incredible, beautiful, and mesmerizing. I hung off her every word and marvelled at every dance move. I swam in a sea of soulful cries, heartfelt laments and uplifting melodies, and listened to lyrics that spoke to my heart and helped take my own thoughts to a better, more peaceful place, no more so than when she walked onto the stage, dressed all in white, singing ‘Ave Maria’ with an azure blue sea in the background. The colours reminded me of Egypt and a flowing sense of freedom came to me.

  ‘Here’s your song, Nay,’ Georgie shouted to me across the crowd.

  As Beyoncé sang, her dancers surrounded her and covered her from head to toe in a silk and lace white wedding dress with a veil. I couldn’t help but think of all of the men I had tried to have relationships with while wounded and the tears flowed. I didn’t care who was watching me (although I’m sure not many were, considering an international pop star was on the stage). I sobbed to the operatic-esque song where she sang about a little girl being lost, hurt and lonely, and sometimes not fitting in, but knowing there was someone always watching over her. It made me think of my teenage self, splitting seventeen years ago but coming back to my future with a ferocious insistence that I mattered, that I deserved a good life.

  The image of this singer standing there, the virginal bride waiting for the one to come and take her hand, allowed me to weep for that same image I had always held of me, this little girl lost in the darkness waiting for some light to come and hold my hand. I cried deep healing tears the whole time she sang that song. I was letting go of the belief that I needed rescuing and releasing the need to base my identity on victimhood.

  As she floated across the stage and the dress moved with her soft steps, the blue spotlights illuminated it and bathed her in a cerulean glow. I realized it was I who had done the abandoning. I had disapproved of my true desires – and myself – giving in to what others wanted and expected of me and not what I wanted and needed. Naomi Jacobs had lost Naomi Jacobs and Teen Nay had come back to find her. To find me. She had whisked me away to my own blue skies and azure seas and taken me on a journey so deep inside myself that I could no longer deny my true self. Myself as soul. Myself as body. Myself as a precious and delicate broken mind that needed healing.

  The song reached a crescendo and the soprano notes vibrated across the silent crowd. I knew then that every man I had ever met in my adult life was the one for me, but only for the time he was supposed to be, and it was meant to end when it did. The pain came from me trying to hold on to something that was no longer meant for me. I wasn’t coming back to Paris to let go of Henri. I was coming back to Paris to let go of a twenty-seven-year-old belief that was no longer working for me: the belief that I was a victim and the only time I was worth something to anyone was when I was being rescued.

  As the dancers took Beyoncé’s hands and led her up the steps towards the great wall of baby blue sky and white clouds, I believed with a sudden clarity that when I did eventually meet another man, I wouldn’t feel like a victim and need rescuing. I would be brave and loving and would take care of myself. Our relationship wouldn’t start off with me playing damsel in distress and him pulling out his sword (ahem) and charging to the rescue. No, we would meet as equals, regardless of what we had been through and the scars we carried; we would see them as a testament of our strength and not as a weakness. We would celebrate that in each other, not fear it, label it, and hide from it. I knew I needed this in my friendships also.

  Just because someone had come along and unbalanced it all once didn’t mean that I, Naomi Jacobs, couldn’t find the balance again. Find the feminine, the woman in me, the child, the teenager and the mother all working together to heal me, complementing and providing me with the strength and love that I needed to nourish my self-worth and self-confidence.

  To nourish me.

  The last notes of ‘Ave Maria’ died away and the stage grew dark. Whilst standing there, wiping my tears, I knew that I also needed to embrace the dark side of myself. It was the part where fear came from but also the part of myself that put up a fight, defending my corner. I needed to accept the shadows that had hidden the destructive side, to overcome the voice that told me I couldn’t cope without some mind-altering substance. If I could accept the shadow, then maybe I could let it go. Stop its power over me.

  While the crowd cheered and screamed for more I thought back to a few hours earlier in the hotel room where I had whinged about the excess weight I’d put on since quitting smoking and falling into a vat of Green & Black’s chocolate. Georgie did everything to convince me that with my small breasts, slim waist and curvy hips and thighs, I still looked great. I’d stood in front of the mirror, glaring at my body, disgusted that I had let myself go.

  She had jumped off the bed and grabbed my arms. ‘Right, put your hands here.’ I put my hands at the side of my body by my breasts. ‘Now,’ she continued. ‘With your hands still attached to your body, slide them down as far as they can go.’ I’d giggled nervously as I traced my body shape and pulled my hands away when I reached my waist.

  ‘No, no, I can’t; this is daft.’ I’d felt stupid and turned away from the mirror, closing my eyes in shame. Georgie grabbed my shoulders and turned me back to the mirror.

  ‘No, look, you have to embrace your body, your shape. You’re not unhealthy or obese. You’re gorgeous, babe. You are sexy. But only you can tell yourself this.’ She put my hands on my waist. ‘Carry on,’ she commanded. I did and took a deep breath, nodding in agreement. After all, some women did this every day; what was the big deal in moving your hands across your body in appreciation of your figure? I had done it before many times on my own. However, I hadn’t realized that doing it fully clothed in front of a mirror, in front of my best friend, would bring up so many feelings of shame and embarrassment. When my hands reached my hips, I burst into tears and hung my head down in shame. ‘I can’t. I’m sorry. I don’t think I’m sexy. It doesn’t look sexy to me. I don’t feel sexy; I feel fat,’ I sobbed.

  Georgie rushed over and gave me a big hug. ‘It’s okay, Nay. But seriously, you’ve got to find a way to love your body. Do you know how sad it is that so many women and young girls hate their bodies because we all think we are supposed to live up to this unrealistic ideal? No matter what shape you ar
e, you have to know that you are a desirable, sensual and sexy woman.’

  Teen Nay looked on with sadness, thinking about all of those magazines she read when she woke up in the future with the size-zero airbrushed models.

  Maybe it was the abuse my body had suffered at the hands of others and then at my own hands. Maybe it was the familiar rejection I’d felt from Henri ignoring me. Maybe it was the waist on my jeans tightening every day. Or maybe it was the failed relationships with my friends and the ever-widening gap between me and my sister. Whatever it was, it was contributing to me feeling awful about myself, and even more so about my body.

  But something changed while I was standing there at the concert. Teen Nay reminded me of the way she had flirted with all of the men on holiday in Egypt and of the date with Ahmed. She had shown me that I needed to honour the part of my womanhood that was sexual and sensual, that it was safe to enjoy my body and express myself in all my curves, dimples and love handles.

  When she’d had control of my body, Teen Nay had realized that it hadn’t let me down, that it was my friend, that it had protected me. I knew then at the concert that it was okay to let go of that deep feeling of physical inadequacy It was okay for me to embrace whatever changes my body was going through. I had to start somewhere, and harbouring feelings of hatred towards my body had to stop.

  The lights came back on and Beyoncé began another song. As I watched this beautiful athlete twirl and turn gracefully across the stage I knew that I needed to embrace the curves and contours of my life if I was to move as easily in my life as she did in her body, regardless of the size. I took my hands and, starting from the side of my breasts, I traced the curve of my shape and shook my hips in the middle of a crowd of people in a concert in Paris. Teen Nay was right. My body hadn’t betrayed me; it had stood by me. It had taken all of the bruises and the batterings and the abuses and was still working for me. My body was my faithful friend and there was no need for me to fear its strength any longer.