Soul destroying, egotistic, self-centred, self-pitying idiot.
55
Edinburgh 2000
Andi
I pour boiling water into my favourite china mug over a chai teabag, inhaling deeply. Following a painfully long day of back-to-back lectures and workshops, I’ve consumed more than ample quantities of caffeine. No wonder I’m not sleeping, I had another diabolical night’s sleep last night. Sharing a room with Camilla is fine for most the time but sometimes, probably when my mind is already unsettled, she wakes me in the middle of the night, talking out loud, crying to herself. I try really hard but can’t quite make out what it is she’s saying but it’s not happy speak. She’s not happy, but then, neither am I.
Wandering from the kitchen into the lounge area to the cavernous sofa, I sink down, allowing it to hug my body, tucking my knees underneath me. The more I think about it, there’s so much sadness in Camilla. She wears this tough face, speaks hard hitting words with a quick and sharp tongue, failing to hide the thoughts running underneath the surface. But, there’s something else, something she’s almost scared to share, or she chooses to hide. I watch her, she deliberates a little too much, over compensating for natural reactions and responses, toning down her natural reproaches. But then, don’t we all do this to a certain extent, from time to time? Don’t I do this?
I allow my head to fall back, my eyelids becoming heavy just as the front door slams, startling me from my thoughts. Clara. Has to be. Within seconds, her flamboyant drawl calls out. ‘Hello—’ Dragging out the word as far as it will stretch without adding an extra syllable. ‘In here,’ I return and she comes marching through, places herself at my feet, tall and upright, flaunting a new jagged cropped hair cut of walnut textured highlights and lowlights. ‘What do you think?’ She spins around swishing her head.
‘Gorgeous,’ I say, ‘really suits you. You didn’t say you were having it done, never mind going for a new look.’ Her hair was below her shoulders when she left this morning.
She sighs dramatically, allowing several glossy bags to fall at her feet, inside I spy items wrapped in delicate pastel tissues. ‘I know, last minute decision. Not the appointment, it’s been booked for weeks. But this,’ she says, swishing the sharpened ends, ‘is because I sat ogling myself in the mirror, whilst flicking through the impossibly glossy haired adverts in the salon magazine. And I thought – why not, need a change,’ she laughs. ‘Wine, give me wine,’ abandoning her bags, she wanders towards the kitchen before turning back to me, ‘can I tempt you? Join me in a glass of pinot?’ I hold my mug up and shake my head. ‘You’re so bloody good, Andi,’ she groans. ‘Sometimes you make me quite nauseous.’ I hear her clinking glass, opening the fridge door, imagine her knocking back half a glass before refilling all over again. ‘You don’t have to be perfect all of the time you know,’ she calls out, ‘you are allowed a day off from time to time. Even an hour or two, would suffice.’ Only a few moments pass before she calls out again. ‘Is what’s his name, Elliott, still popping by again this week?’
I smile to myself, so the hair cut is for the ever charming Elliot. ‘You mean, Cam’s man?’ I call back.
‘Camilla’s man, he isn’t.’
‘Well, he is kind of,’ I say but she doesn’t come back to me. ‘Anyway, wouldn’t have thought he was your type at all?’
‘What, tall, dark and incredibly handsome?’
‘Not that. I mean, a market trader?’ It’s not how I see him but he’s so not Clara’s usual affluent type, in fact he couldn’t be any more different. Clara pokes her head around the door, simply tapping her nose, a huge grin widening her face. What on earth is she up to? She met him for the time the other night, Cam eventually gave way to my reasoning. Still adamant there’s nothing between them, or nor will there ever be. But it’s clear to see they adore each other. Clara couldn’t take her eyes from him, even more surprisingly she took him up on one of his haunted tours – since when has Clara ever been interested in history and ghouls. As it turns out, they have a mutual friend, someone who owns the tour business. Even so, I know she’s up to something. And she met him for ‘coffee’ the other day, whether he wanted to or not.
Moments later she rejoins me following a quick trip to the bathroom, positioning herself in the opposite slouchy chair with an enormous glass of wine. She leans forward and delicately places a silver coloured necklace onto the coffee table between us. ‘This was in the bathroom, on the shelf above the sink, waiting to disappear down the plughole at any moment. Don’t recognise it, do you?’
I pick it up and study the moon crescent on the fine delicate chain, ‘I’m not entirely certain but I think it’s Camilla’s, I’m sure I’ve seen her wearing it recently. Yep, I’m pretty sure it’s hers.’
‘She’s not in then?’ Clara looks around her as if she may suddenly be taken by surprise.
‘Not tonight, she’s a shift at the bar, won’t be home until late I’m guessing.’ Wishing I could lie, I’m not ignorant to Clara and Camilla’s obvious dislike of each other. Now Clara is aware we’re alone, she’ll not be able to help herself from attacking her nemesis. It makes me feel really uncomfortable, talking about people behind their backs. Having been on the receiving end of school bullies when I was young, I can’t stand two faced people.
‘Hmm,’ she says, raising her eyebrows.
‘Oh, don’t Clara, please.’
‘What?’
‘Start on about Cam. Please understand, I’m not completely stupid, I get it – you’re not keen. Really, both of you are as bad as each other.’ Although, on the surface, Clara is more obvious.
Clara holds her hands in the air. ‘It’s nothing to do with me.’
‘Yes, it is, Clara, you don’t like Cam, you make no secret of it.’
She laughs. ‘Oh, you’re too nice, Andi, I don’t think you realise how vulnerable it leaves you. You’re far too nice.’
‘Please, Clara. I’m not the gullible fool you seem to take me for. I like Cam, I like you, but the two of you clash. Because like it or not, there are elements of you both that are painfully similar and yes, I do mean painfully. Neither of you would admit it but it’s so true!’
Clara, dramatically chokes on her mouthful of wine. ‘You have to be kidding me? There’s nothing remotely alike about her and me, thank you very much. To be honest, And, I am quite insulted by the remark. Actually, awfully insulted.’
I can’t help but laugh out loud at her disgusted expression. ‘In terms of background et cetera, you are completely different, granted, poles apart in fact. But in other more fundamental ways, as in – personality traits, like it or not, you’re both alarmingly alike.’
‘Not a chance. Like how? How on earth could we possibly ever be alike?’
‘This, now,’ I gesture at her face, ‘how you’re behaving right now, challenging, willing for a fight, if need be. Refusing to see from an alternative perspective, pig-headed, call it whatever you will, do I need to continue? You both share this trait. In fact, if anything, at least Cam hides it better than you do. You should see how you’re staring at me, right now. Both of you are naturally suspicious of everything and everyone too.’
Clara’s face softens as she hoots in response. ‘You are too nice though, And. You know, I care about you. We’ve always looked out for each other, haven’t we, always had each other no matter what. Remember when you were living through that dreadful time at home, I was the one you turned to,’ she raises her hand and voice to prevent me from commenting, ‘it’s a fact – I don’t trust Cam. I’m not sure what it is exactly about her, yet, but I feel unable to trust her. I have tried. I really have. I think she’s bad for you and for us.’
‘Us?’
‘Yes, she’s attempting to divide us because she’s jealous of our tightness. I’ve tried my hardest but she won’t entertain it, I know it sounds ridiculous but I’ve done my best.’
It’s clear Clara is having a wonderful time, expressing her opinions. I’m full
y aware of how protective she is of our friendship, but this has in the past also triggered its own problems. ‘Ohh, Clara, you haven’t tried at all, you little fibber. You don’t want to trust her, and this is why you refuse to allow yourself to like her. Don’t take this the wrong way,’ I brace myself, ‘but I think you’re being a bit of a snob too.’ I hold my hand up to stop her from jumping in, a look of utter repugnance across her face. ‘She’s not part of your usual set, is she? Her mommy and daddy are unknowns, she didn’t go to private school, she doesn’t talk like you do and, this is the point here – no one, has ever, ever given her a chance in life. Without wanting to sound horribly patronising, she hasn’t had any of the chances in life you or I have had.’ Clara pulls a face of someone eating something horribly sour. ‘I know you’ve also come through some dreadful times. But instead of sympathising, understanding, you almost begrudge her all the more for it.’
‘Finished?’ she asks me and I nod. ‘Right firstly, I am not a snob,’ she glugs from her glass. ‘I don’t think I am, anyway,’ she bites on her left lip, she knows she is a snob. ‘And secondly, you’re saying the only reason she is here is because you feel sorry for her? You pity her, isn’t this far worse than what I do, apparently?’
I bite my tongue, sipping from my mug, because maybe she is right. Do I simply feel sorry for and pity Cam? Wouldn’t she hate this if she knew? Is this the only reason she’s here? I do genuinely like her, admire her too, and she fascinates me but is there more to it, do I have selfish needs for her being here? I know I do. Despite all her hardships, all of the unthinkable sadness in her life, I envy her. She has independence, she is void of long standing family traditions, binding you in to unwritten contracts. She has no put on, birth right expectations sitting heavy on her tiny shoulders. She is totally free. I couldn’t sleep last night for thinking about the situation with my family, the Christmas gift of a new life in Miami. Irrespective of my intentions, my aspirations for my life, the choices I ache to make for myself. I still haven’t been able to address this issue with my parents. If truth be known, it’s because I’m too afraid to do so.
I stretch out reluctant legs and stand, picking up the delicate necklace from the table as I do, aware of Clara’s vigilant eyes on mine. Gently, I bend down to kiss the side of her warm cheek, temporarily engulfing me in spicy undertones. ‘Your hair looks stunning, striking,’ I tell her, ‘very you.’ I hold out my hand as the tiny silver links slither between my fingers, ‘I’ll put this somewhere safe. Then when I return, let’s move on shall we? You can pour me that glass of wine. No more discussions about Cam. She is who she is, you are who you are, and I am, who I am.’ But who am I, really? Whoever my family want me to be, tell me to be?
Unlike Clara and Camilla, maybe I can never be who I truly am. Only always who I’m told to be.
56
Edinburgh 2017
Camilla
Elevated on the first floor, a magnificent view overlooking the castle on Princes Street, the floor to ceiling leaded windows are completely as before, it seems like only last week we sat here as two hopeful students. Both so different but in many ways, and although I didn’t see it at first, were we not seeking the very same thing in the end. Eyes and heart fixed on the end result. Independence. A life without suffocation. To be able to be accepted for making our own choices. We were poles apart in so many ways but ultimately in the same state. There’s so much I couldn’t see back then, so much I must have missed, so consumed with my own situation.
It took me a while to be able to come back to this place, despite its numerous ownership changes. The first time I attempted it, I made it as far as the first four or five steps to the first floor before falling victim to the dogged hammering of my chest. All too quickly losing control inside, struggling to grasp a breath, I gave in and retreated. Then, several more failed attempts before I succeeded. I’m making progress across the board, until now I’ve avoided, ducked and dived. Always looking over my shoulder, considering each and every word before it leaves my mouth became a habit. Now, I’m nearly forty, I’ve had enough. No longer is this what I signed up for, if I ever really did. I’ve also become increasingly aware of the fragility of life. The image of Drew, broken with a recent diagnosis of progressive MS, how he’d originally laughed off a visit to his GP about the tingling sensations and muscle fatigue. Perhaps it was this that urged me to question the life I was living.
I make an indent into a generous slice of passion fruit cake, discreetly brushing away any rogue crumbs from my chin, then I freeze mid mouthful. The voice from behind demanding my attention. No way, surely not, it can’t be, far too much of a coincidence after all this time. I gulp back the remainder of the sponge, then slightly angle my head around a couple of occupied tables, there, loitering at the top of the stairway, stands a blast from my past. I want to turn away but my eyes are locked on as he bends down to a bundled up pink nosed child, staring up at him in innocent awe. I catch my breath and turn away; I can’t afford for him to spot me, it was always a possibility in a relatively small city but even so. My research informed me he’d moved back home, though at first I doubted its accuracy. But further delving only supported it. Suddenly the things I’d questioned back then made perfect sense. His secret background. The stately home come hotel in the country somewhere near Ingliston was the legitimate home. Always had been apparently. A market trader, poor and making ends meet were what then? A lie, a farce, a need to blend?
I slide myself down into the tub chair as far as I can without attracting attention. How can this be happening? Elliott. Elliott with child. I close my eyes, feeling the heat reaching up for my cheeks. I’m trapped. Surreptitiously, I glance around me, thank god – all the surrounding chairs are taken. Still, I’ll be stuck here until they leave, I can’t rely on my now jelly legs to chance a run for it. Images of our past, flooding back to me by the second – the dinner parties and many other cosy evenings at the Morningside apartment. Elliott being the brave and willing guest in a party of four females. In fact, he was completely Mr Charming. I can still see Clara with her new sassy hairdo gushing around him, as gauche as a peacock. Laughing keenly at his tongue in cheek humour. It was embarrassing to observe and as she knocked back the wine, she became even more blatant.
The rest of us slipped into the background of her flamboyant act. I recall lots of eye rolling around the dumb-struck table as she drank more and we all became more abstemious. She practically served herself up on a plate for his consumption. But I and everyone else fully appreciated it wasn’t Clara he’d fallen for. Despite his good natured comebacks to Clara, he clearly wasn’t in the least interested. I glance timidly over my shoulder to the left, they’ve taken a table some fifteen feet from me. The last time I saw him was at the fateful graduation party that night at the beach. Clara was there, dolling herself up, thinking she may still be in with a chance. Knocking back the drink again, I didn’t get it, it wasn’t as if she needed an input from alcohol for Dutch courage, she was hardly ever the shrinking violet; she was no fool, and she must have recognised he was never hers to take.
But perhaps the biggest mystery of all was only recently resolved. Elliott was so far removed from her usual type. Or so I’d thought. You knew, didn’t you, Clara? Fancied yourself as lady of the manor I now discern. Elliott, no less than an heir to an enormous Scottish estate, fully the upper class. It wasn’t until he finally returned to claim his inheritance, to then establish a most lavish boutique bed and breakfast and wedding venue that I stumbled across the magazine article. In it he talked earnestly of how he had fallen out with his father following his father’s sudden marriage to a woman of much younger years. Elliott was only sixteen and left home with absolutely nothing. He wasn’t simply the amiable market trader, he was in fact a multi-millionaire. Clara, you always were so calculating with the nose of a hound. No wonder his rejection of you stung so badly. I see now, you were rejected twice in your eyes weren’t you, Clara, by the man you set your future on and a
lso your best friend as you read it. What a dreadful waste, if only, Elliott… if only he’d told us all the truth, things could have been so different. So much unnecessary heartache.
So here is the man I thought to be such a loveable working class rogue and clearly he’s moved on, now in his Barbour jacket and matching child in tow. But then, I’ve been missing for nearly twenty years. Did I expect everyone to put their lives on hold the way I did? For Elliott to still be single, pining for the lost hopeful love of his life?
I strain my ears to listen to the undertones of their voices, the animated natter of the small girl and presumably her father, trying to ignore the ache of loss deep inside. I chose this single life with no family, but what now seems so packed away, hidden from my conscience is – why? I tuck my head further back into the chair, wishing they’d hurry up and leave. My coffee becoming cold, my throat dry but I daren’t reach for it. And now I’ve seen them, I’ll be looking over my shoulder even more than usual everywhere I go. Isn’t it always the way – you don’t see people for years, then you keep unwittingly meeting up on every street corner?
After what feels like hours and I’ve cramp in my neck, I hear Elliott call to the child who is apparently playing some way from him. ‘Leave the sugars, Lily, come on sweetheart, it’s time to go. Mummy will be waiting for us.’ A small body brushes past my chair, her pudgy hand on the back of it, catching my hair, my eyes follow her movement without shifting my head.
‘Hello,’ she suddenly says.
I feel my heart accelerate, she has Elliott’s eyes and a delicate Scottish twang. ‘Hello,’ I say back. I don’t want to encourage her, I need her to leave before she gives me away. ‘Your daddy wants you, he’s calling you. You better go in case he becomes cross,’ I tell her. Round dark steel blue eyes regard me, ‘you’ve to go and see your mummy too, you don’t want miss her, do you?’
Who I Am: A dark psychological thriller with a stunning twist Page 25