I do not remember the woman, but I recall what she said.
“Are you looking for anything in particular? Maybe I could help if you are? We shut in ten minutes I am afraid.”
By then, shaking with self-loathing, frustration and claustrophobia, I felt I was being attacked. I decided that everyone was my enemy. Nothing, not a single item, was for me. Everything would say something about me that wasn't true. I felt sure not a thing would represent me and what I stood for and therefore it was the woman's fault. It was the world's fault. It was fashion's fault for favouring the slimmer figure and not catering to small, curvy girls like me. Girls who were a certain size up top and another down below, and for whom, dresses rarely fit properly and would not unless custom-fit, or couture, I heard it once called. It was terrible.
“Nothing in here will suit me!” I shouted angrily, turned and went. I was sick with myself, really, but I just wanted to be left alone. I wondered why those people had to bother others who just needed to have their own space and find their own clothes, in an environment they felt comfortable with.
I almost did run away. I made it to the escalators and started making my descent. Alex saw me and caught up.
“Hey, did you find anything?” he asked.
He and I had never once fought, up until then. Not really.
“I am not best pleased, Alex. Why did you force me into this?”
“I didn't,” he protested.
As always, we knew the issue, but we never spoke of it.
“You are trying to prove a point,” I spitted.
“Yeah, perhaps I am. But never maliciously.”
“You don't understand.”
“Oh, but, I really do. I do,” he tried to assure me.
“Alex, today… all this shopping, has only made me feel bad. It has only… I haven't enjoyed it, okay?”
“You're avoiding yourself, life, love, everything…!” he protested. I was incandescent with rage. He was unperturbed, continuing, “You seem to treat everyone else like a lesser mortal. You're offish, unapproachable, untouchable. I know different. I know you. I know why you're like that!”
I flushed purple probably, with anger and resentment.
“Don't judge me. You know, I have never judged you and your inability to be honest about who you are!”
We had traversed two escalators and were on the last.
“Listen Char, okay? Please. Maybe I hope I can save you from the same fate as me.”
He tried to squeeze my shoulder in a loving, affectionate, understanding gesture, but I shrugged it off.
“This has caused me pain,” I muttered, glancing back at him with a scowl. I could feel my teeth chattering, my lips trembling and my eyes stinging. I was going to draw attention to myself in the worst manner possible and break down right there.
“Char, you are really beautiful, you are. Even in your scruffs you knock spots off most women! I promise you are lovely, please believe me! I love you. I do. You are gorgeous, inside and out. I only want you to see that. I thought I was helping to snap you out of this!”
We reached the bottom and I turned on him. I pointed at him, tears rolling down my cheeks, telling him, “You don't know Alex, you don't know!”
“I do,” he said softly.
He stood so solidly in front of me, almost gloatingly, I perceived. He did not swerve or falter at my exclamations. I decided he was actually an unkind, unloving bastard who really had no clue who I really was. I slapped him. There was nothing else I could possibly do. If it were a romantic connection between us, he might have tried to win me over with a kiss. But we were better than that, more, and knew only too well how our more earthly, platonic bond had become so vital. That he was now trying to edge his way into the monogamous realms of changing me ‒ goading me toward overcoming all the protective barriers I had set up with one fell swoop – was totally unreasonable and exacting in my mind. It was calculating and uncalled for. It was unbearable to think that someone who was supposed to be my comfort was now my enemy, my challenger, my judge and executioner. He had not thought how this would set me back. I was not like him. For me, my level of exactness was well-hidden and closeted. He did not know how many layers there were to peel away and how my essence was shrouded by so many protective cushions.
He stepped back, unemotional, and walked away. I was left there alone. In one last act of persecution, I was curtly told the store was closing and to leave immediately. I went, out into the wilderness, and a zombie pushed its way through my front door, falling into its bed for some days after that. I spent my birthday totally alone.
* * *
I was told I may never have children. I didn't start having periods until I was 16 and this had always made me feel an outsider. Even my younger sister started hers before me. I was told my life expectancy was good but would be below average. I was told I had a greater risk of developing heart or lung disease, a reoccurrence of cancer could happen at any time, my immune system may never recover, I had more chance of becoming obese and my muscularity might not be as strong as others of my own age.
The leukaemia was diagnosed when I was 10 years old. I had been struggling to get out of bed in the morning which was unusual for me because I loved school. I honestly couldn't lift myself up without Mum or Dad's help, though. At first my parents might have tried to brush it off as laziness or too much late-night reading but when the weight loss occurred and the dizzy spells became more frequent, it was time to visit the doctors. I was put in a box and scanned and bloods were taken. I remember thinking it was all a bit of a novelty really. The middle child that was always quiet and overshadowed by the big personalities of her other siblings was finally getting some attention. I was taken to a room and my parents sat there silent and pale as a family support worker told me that I was very poorly and was going to need some treatment. I remember seeing the looks on everyone's faces and not really understanding the gravity of it all. That was the day I didn't want to be a special case anymore. After that, I longed for normality. I was stage four or five, I cannot really remember. It started with chemotherapy. I never cried or complained. I didn't give in to the aches and the hunger, the feeling of death washing over me or the horror of being incontinent or the bleeds in my eyes from the radiation that came later. I shut down and that was how I coped. Oh how the words “you're so brave” became so monotonous. I decided that my family, in all their efforts to make me well and gee me up were in actual fact very bad at hiding the pity behind their eyes, stealing glances at the weak child whose body could give out at any moment. The nurses, doctors and other patients somehow became my family and the people I'd known before the illness were sudden strangers who could not empathise with me whatsoever.
When the zapping didn't work, and with no viable bone marrow donors in our family, it was some cells from a stranger that helped cure me. It was a miracle. It was a new treatment that Dad had decided was a risk worth taking. Once seemingly cured, all I had to look forward to then were the regular checkups and the fright on my mother's face at each appointment; the look in her eyes that said she couldn't handle a setback. We all knew that if it came back, my chances of a normal life after that might be dramatically reduced. Plus, death would be more likely. From then on, though cancer-free, my life always centred on those checkups and pushing through those. Each time, a sigh of relief, followed quickly by the thought of looking ahead to the next tests and the next tests and so on and so on, always living in the shadow of the possibilities of relapse or complications. I was home-schooled for a time and went to see a speech therapist (hence why Mum was inspired to become one too). In actual fact, I'd just gotten used to living in my own head and conversation had gone out of the window. Dad had always paid for private treatment so I was lucky to get hydrotherapy and physiotherapy to re-strengthen my body. It became a ritual of mine to perform the exercises every morning and it had stuck. It had also really helped when I began work as a chambermaid, which was very hard at first with such low bone and mu
scle density. Over the years, however, I rebuilt myself gradually.
I had problems concentrating in class but still felt I was as capable as many others. Deep down inside, I knew I should have been destined for more. It was just difficult sitting down to a book or a computer. It was even harder contemplating having to do a job that involved all those things. All those physical disadvantages the cancer and the chemotherapy had left me with were in some respects easier to cope with than the bottom line I could never escape. Always, in times of hardship or despair, I came back to that bottom line: You are different.
That is the only certainty I had found comfort in sometimes. I might get ill again, die, never have kids, have to go back into hospital, and all manner of other terrible possibilities always awaited me, hanging over me in the background. The only constant thing I knew was: I am different.
The reality that I, Charlotte Taylor, was different, was never spoken, never uttered, never acknowledged, but every time I ventured into a world outside of my domain, I knew I was. I could not ignore the fact. Comparing myself to others was the most dangerous, self-damaging thing I could possibly do. However, I could not help it. It was rooted within me, deep down, wedged between old scars from the drips and tubes they had stuck in me. Hid behind the long hair I loathed to have cut in case it fell out again. Buried beneath my reticence to visit the doctor or dentist in case they discovered some deformity that yet again made me different. Hid behind my belief that I deserved no happiness and therefore was a pebble, a little one at that, sitting on the shore, being gently eroded by the salty waters ever dissolving my exterior, but oh so gradually. The unsightly, non-descript girl who knew no happiness and dare not hope to attain that in case it all came crashing down around her again. That was she; that was me. The girl who had been to hell and back and survived, and who lived a simple life to avoid risking herself; subjugating any earthly urges that reminded me I was weak, for that was not something someone like me could be. I had to be superhuman and above all material wants and desires. The defence mechanisms were many; various; vicarious. If I acted as though not alive, I had nothing to lose. If I maintained a balance of mediocre existence, that was amiable enough for someone who had survived so much.
I was different because I understood when it counted. I had the advantage of having stared death in the face. The lingering memory of dull pain, plus physical and emotional exhaustion, was swimming in some chasm in a far-off land, a burning ember in a junkyard of flammable old sofas, waiting to ignite a disaster zone at any moment. All the idling, petty thoughts of others, they wearied me. I was cut off from everyone who had not battled the same burdens. I was alone and misunderstood. I was different. I was a statistic. I would be judged unless I told my story and I did not want pity. No. Not that. So, I did whatever it took to remain hidden, or unseen: a ghostly spectre that swished in and out of hotel rooms, taking comfort in my inconspicuousness. A behind-the-scenes girl who was happy enough in her own private achievements. I did not need questions or queries, interrogation or intervention. I needed to stay hidden. Bury the pain deep down, manifest it any other way, just not face it. Not that.
But life was about to deal me a vicious, vindictive blow that would see me become the person I was meant to be.
Chapter VI
Carrying On
I went back to work some days later after telling them I was suffering flu or something, and that in itself was a feat. Many a time I had a cold and had suffered through it, rather than call in sick and have people assume I was lazy or taking advantage. Even worse: weak or inadequate. It would inevitably turn to flu and my mother would be forced to call in for me. I built so many outlandish scenarios in my mind of what people thought of me or how they might perceive me doing something out of the ordinary. I knew in the back of my mind that my thoughts were extreme, but I could not easily stop myself spiralling sometimes. Decisions were difficult to make; the thought of being assertive was something that made me break out in a sweat and doing anything that might draw attention to me was sacrilege in my book.
Alex and I didn't talk for several days. He even had his assistant carry out the obligatory return to work meeting. Perhaps he had decided to give me time and space and that in the end, I might eventually return to my normal self and we would be friends again. A miraculous reunion without a hint of awkwardness. However, he must have seen that his little attempt to bring me out of myself had obviously pushed me deep back down into my own little world of hiding and cleaning, sleeping and dreaming.
There was just too much at risk and so, we did not talk for quite some time. We did not say it, but we telepathically communicated that things could wait until we were both definitely calmer. Everyone in the hotel must have wondered what the heck had happened for the two biggest bosom buddies to have fallen out. They must have understood that something meteoric had to have taken place.
All those days spent ignoring one another, with silence and polite glances ‒ oh how I sometimes wished we were back at the bottom of those escalators in John Lewis. With hindsight, I would have thrown my arms around him and given him the Hollywood kiss that would break all discomfort between us. He would tell me how much of a silly mare I had been and we would laugh it off, go for drinks, and forget all about it. If only I had been reckless and fallen on my knees before him, begging his forgiveness as we crossed paths in reception. If only I had called him to a hotel room, forced him under the covers with me, held him and said sorry.
Three weeks after our fight, we were still not talking. Each day was agony without him. A couple of days later, he was dead. Someone spiked his drink one night and Alex collapsed in some toilets with nobody there to save him, choking on his own vomit, before dying alone in a rancid cubicle.
I remember his assistant ringing to tell me. I sounded so mechanical, just accepting the news as if it were an everyday occurrence. I hung up the phone and went to the loo. I made a cup of tea. I drank it. I tidied the whole flat, top to bottom. I went and did some shopping and packed it all away in the cupboards. Just as I was stowing some pink wafers, however, a thick, fierce wave of pain ran through my core. We had often shared a pack over mugs of tea while watching wildlife documentaries or old Carry On films. That would never happen again. The reality hit me like a bullet and I fell, to the kitchen floor, unable to drag myself from the pits of despair. A stray visitor might have stumbled on me laid there and thought I was as dead as Alex, for life had left me so quickly. No tears escaped. I lay, frozen, in disbelief. It was so unfair.
My beautiful friend: gone, just like that. Nobody with him at the end. Nobody to tell him it was going to be alright. No warning of what was to come. Alone and undignified in a filthy casino toilet. The hard luck of it was what hit me hardest. He was so young, so vibrant, so alive, so wonderful. And just like that, he was gone. If only I had been there with him. He might have been saved. The what-ifs almost drove me mad.
The hotel gave me a leave of absence and in fact, the whole place shut for a day as a tribute to Alex. They were very good and knew the chemistry he and I had was not fake. I went home to Mum and Dad, telling them the story, and was grateful that they welcomed me with open arms. The place that had often felt like my prison, or a hindrance, became a comfort once more. I allowed Mum to bring me my meals in bed again. I allowed her to buy me some clothes and make-up, though I had never given her the chance to before. I gave in and let her have all the little delights I had hitherto prevented. Alice cut my hair for me, but this time, I said, cut it all off, and she did. I adopted a short, crop style, reminiscent of Clara Bow, whom Alex had adored.
Though we hadn't talked for a while, my childhood friend Jessica visited the house, crawling into my bed with me as I lay there. “Hey, nice hair,” was all she said.
She knew that all I needed was to be held and supported. That sometimes, all we need is one really good friend to pull us out of the darkness. I crumpled at the show of affection, for Jess was not one to bestow hers easily. It was the first time
I'd cried over Alex. It was a revelatory moment for me: that real connections, bonds and emotions never faded and could never be ignored. That perhaps, Alex had suffered through those three weeks too, but had known that it was for the sake of our friendship. That once I had gotten over the shopping trip, we would have rekindled our relationship, and would never have broken up again.
Somehow, I knew, once the pain had subsided, and life went back to normal, I would have to change my ways to honour his memory. I didn't know where to start, but felt life might show me the way, if I finally accepted it.
* * *
I didn't much feel like it but I went back to Nottingham and to my flat. The other staff just let me be and they knew I was thankful. I just buried myself in routines again and felt like I was coping. Then I got a call out of the blue on my mobile one day, from an unknown. It turned out to be Alex's sister, Darcey, who wanted to meet up. She started crying down the phone and I could hardly say no.
When I walked into the coffee shop we had planned to meet in, I found her straight away. She was the female version of her brother. If anything, I was a little taken aback. As the conversation went on, I found out she was a runway model living in London.
Anyway, she said Alex had told her all about me. She had agonized over whether to tell me what she knew, but she had decided there were things that could not go unsaid. Apparently, he had been calling her every night after our tiff, whining down the phone over it all. He just did not know what to do. He was in hell, she said, and she had vainly tried to reassure him it would all blow over. Sat in the cafe, my eyes streamed with tears. I couldn't see. Crying had somehow become normal and to not be crying was a freak event. I insisted she carry on; just get it over and done with. I needed to know it all. She said that despite feeling certain he was gay, he had admitted to her that he was deeply in love with me, and that he hadn't had sex with a single man since he had been with me. He had told her however, that I was too complex to figure out, it would never work, and he just wasn't sure. These telephone calls of theirs had spanned hours and she had turned up at shoots with bags under her eyes after being kept up all night. He was inconsolable and had always turned to her in times like that, she said. I saw her waiting for a reaction but I really did not feel a thing. I let it sink in for a minute and questioned myself. I didn't see the signs…
A Fine Profession (The Chambermaid's Tales Part One) Page 7