The Things We Learn When We're Dead

by Charlie Laidlaw

  Was she in love with him even then? After only one cup of coffee – actually, not even that: she’d only drunk half of hers – and a white wine and soda? Lust, certainly, she wouldn’t deny that. She’d never believed in love at first sight; unlike Suzie who had fallen in love several times, so she claimed, often on the merest whim, and then straight out of love the next morning once the alcohol had worn off. But can you love someone if you don’t know them? Lorna’s relationships had always been measured – except Leo. She wasn’t built to cast her soul to the sea, and relationships also spelled distraction. She didn’t need love; she didn’t need its complications. So why behave like a mythological Falklands penguin?

  They clinked glasses.

  ‘Next time, let’s go out properly,’ he suggested, that infuriating lock of hair across one eye. Did she know him well enough to push it back? She decided against; she might be a brazen bitch, but not that brazen, not yet. ‘To the cinema, get something to eat. Or both,’ he smiled.

  Lorna readily agreed, trying not to grin like a Cheshire cat.

  Later, walking home, she had an unaccustomed spring in her step. Such a stupid cliché, but how true; her feet did seem to be attached to springs. Lorna hardly minded that it was raining, the air heavy with the first taste of autumn. Above, the sky was grey and molten; muddy clouds churning like waves. She unfurled her umbrella, turned up her coat collar, and hurried on, oblivious to everything.

  * * *

  She felt safe with Joe and trusted him, and for some reason felt able to accommodate distraction. She stopped being single-minded. They went to the cinema then, the next week, to the theatre and, late one Sunday morning, walked to the top of Arthur’s Seat. Below were rooftops stretching to the sea and, against the horizon, the hills of Fife. Joe held tight to her hand.

  On the way down, scampering and giggling on the muddy path, Joe said that he knew a pub near his flat that did huge portions of Sunday lunch. So they ate roast beef and shared a bottle of red wine, listening to a fiddler playing Hebridean tunes. Joe seemed nervous; inwardly smiling, Lorna guessed why. On the way out, he pointed to a chalk board advertising a cocktail night.

  ‘God, no!’ said Lorna.

  The living room of his small flat on the Royal Mile looked out over a disused bus station, which disappointed her. Living on Scotland’s most historic street, he deserved a better view. On the mantelpiece was a skull.

  ‘You’re supposed to kiss it,’ ventured Joe. ‘Bob and Sarah-Ann insist that every new visitor give Eric a quick snog. It’s a sort of initiation, I suppose.’

  ‘But they’re not here,’ she replied. ‘In any case, it’s revolting.’

  ‘They’re medical students,’ he reminded her. ‘Medics have a peculiar sense of humour.’

  ‘Why Eric?’ she asked, looking more closely at the skull.

  ‘Named after a lecturer neither of them likes very much. Actually,’ he said, taking it from the mantelpiece, ‘it’s plastic.’ Stamped on the skull’s base was Made in China. ‘It’s not real. Utterly artificial.’

  He poured her a glass of wine then sat in an overstuffed chair and watched her drink it slowly. She was by the window, looking over the old bus station and thinking about nothing. Soft music was playing and shafts of light played on the flat’s worn carpet. She put down her glass and sat by him, on the chair’s soft arm. Joe was still looking nervous. Lorna touched his face with the fingers of one hand, running over its contours as if to memorise him.

  ‘I’ve run out of things to say,’ she said.

  ‘Likewise.’

  ‘Then it’s probably time you seduced me,’ she suggested.

  His small bedroom, with one single bed, had clearly been tidied in anticipation of visitors. The sheets were clean and the room smelled faintly of furniture polish. He drew the curtains then helped her to undress, kissing her gently. She closed her eyes, still thinking about nothing, but feeling warm and safe and wanted.

  Afterwards, he said something surprising. ‘You’re very beautiful,’ he told her.

  Lorna was at the window and about to light a cigarette. Although Joe didn’t mind her smoking, standing by open windows had become a habit.

  She paused, the cigarette not yet lit. ‘I don’t think so, Joe,’ she replied, suddenly aware of his eyes on her naked back. ‘But it’s nice of you to say so.’

  He was propped up on pillows, his hands behind his head, his face in shadow. ‘Well, for what it’s worth, I think you’re beautiful.’

  Lorna replaced the cigarette in its packet then lay down beside him. After a moment, she rested her head on his chest. ‘You don’t have to say anything you don’t mean, Joe.’

  ‘I never do,’ he said. ‘I do actually believe in honesty. In relationships, I mean.’

  ‘Is that what we have, Joe? A relationship?’ Lorna was smiling.

  ‘Well, I suppose so,’ he said, holding her tight. ‘After all, we’ve just had sex.’

  ‘I prefer the term making love,’ she corrected, ‘as in making love to Love.’ Lorna squinted up to see if he was smiling.

  He shrugged. ‘Anyway, I only ever say things I mean. If I don’t mean something, I don’t say it. So, believe me, Lorna, if I tell you you’re absolutely lovely.’

  ‘The term you used was beautiful,’ she reminded him. ‘Apart from which, you’re not so bad yourself. My mother would fancy the pants off you.’

  ‘Would I want to have sex with your mother?’

  ‘Doubt it, but you never know.’

  Lorna laid her head back on his chest and closed her eyes. Inside, she felt an unbidden emotion, something she hadn’t felt for a long time, and realised she was happy.

  She could only suppose that she was falling in love with him. There seemed no other explanation. She had never been in love before, not properly. Austin had been a rite of passage, a friend; Leo a strange interlude on a Greek island. The other men in her life hadn’t made it onto the Richter Scale. This totally new emotion could only be love. There was nothing else that it could be.

  * * *

  She had come to believe that it was easier to see life’s injustices when you had to look up; she’d never had the luxury of being able to look down. After her father lost his job, money had been tight, and most of her clothes had come from charity shops. Holidays were a distant memory. They’d struggled for years, watching her father spend what they did have, and his red eyes and shaking hands. After that first afternoon in bed with Joe, feeling buoyed and exuberant, she felt guilty about her dad and phoned him when she got back to her flat.

  She hadn’t spoken to him for days, although her mother had kept her updated on progress. He seems to be better, her mother said, making it sound like a twisted ankle or bout of flu. Her father answered, sounding tired and distant, as if he was speaking from outer space.

  ‘I just phoned to see how you were.’

  ‘In other words, whether I’m sober.’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘I’m still taking pills,’ said her dad, sounding resigned and unhappy. ‘I’m going to see a therapist, whatever they do. As of now, I’ve no idea. Have you any idea what a therapist does? You’re the clever one, Lorna, not me. After that, there’s a group I can go to.’

  ‘I’ve no idea, Dad. But it’s a start.’

  ‘As you say, it’s a start.’ There was a small silence. ‘For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.’

  She was confused. ‘For what?’

  ‘For not being strong.’ His voice was soft and Lorna could hear him breathing.

  ‘You don’t have to apologise for anything.’

  ‘You’ve always been the strong one, Lorna.’

  She didn’t know what to say to this, or how to tell him she wasn’t strong. The patina of her resolve was made of soft metal. She wasn’t strong, but had become good at pretending – so good that only she knew it. She had developed a chameleon’s skin; she could change colour and hide behind a false façade. She wasn’t made of steel. She sti
ll sometimes slept with a light on, and still sometimes heard a small child crying.

  ‘We’re both so very proud of you,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll see you soon,’ said Lorna.

  Secrets

  Suzie’s next visit back to Edinburgh was at Christmas. Now that filming had finished for School’s Out! she was in demand for modelling assignments, and auditioning for other parts. She regaled Lorna with stories of people she’d met, things she’d seen, the parties, the nightclubs. Now back at college but still working shifts at the HappyMart, Lorna’s life seemed inconsequential by comparison.

  ‘I mean, Jordan!’ Suzie was saying. ‘You only have to shake hands with her to be in the newspapers.’

  Lorna had only a vague idea of who Jordan was so didn’t reply.

  They were in the flat, Suzie settling herself more comfortably on the sofa, in her favourite spot, legs tucked up behind her swimwear-catalogue behind. ‘But the exciting news, sweetie, is that I may be into a relationship.’

  ‘Only may?’ Lorna also saw that she was frowning. ‘With Hugh Grant?’ she asked. ‘That’s a bit quick, Suze.’

  ‘For God’s sake, no!’

  ‘So why the long face?’

  Suzie had now stretched out on the sofa and was looking at the ceiling. ‘I’d rather not talk about it, not quite yet.’

  There had rarely secrets between them, and even fewer that Suzie had successfully kept. This was uncharted territory. ‘But why not?’ asked Lorna. ‘Is he someone to be ashamed of? A Latvian dwarf? Someone old enough to be your grandfather. Christ’s sake, Suze! You can’t just announce exciting news then clam up!’

  Suzie made a zipping motion across her mouth. ‘Best if I explain everything soon,’ she promised.

  ‘God, it’s someone famous, isn’t it.’ Lorna thought for a moment. ‘Christ, it is Hugh Grant!’

  ‘Not Hugh Grant.’ Behind Suzie’s head, the castle as always was floating, beating unseen wings.

  ‘An actor?’

  ‘Lorna, let’s not play guessing games. I’ll tell you soon.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Soon. Anyway, what about you, babe?’

  Faced with Suzie’s evasiveness, Lorna didn’t know what to say. ‘I dunno,’ she said, then dried up. ‘Do you remember last summer?’

  ‘Crete?’

  ‘The beach bar. A redhead from Oz called Simone?’

  Suzie did remember, with a sudden cackle. ‘The place, as I recall, where you had carnal knowledge with what’s-his-name.’

  ‘Well, her brother phoned a while ago. He’s working in a bar in the New Town.’ Lorna was looking at her castle and smiling. ‘Anyway, he phoned to say that Simone was OK and still happily pandering to Nico. He was also asking about places to go, that kind of thing, so I met up with him.’

  ‘And? Lorna, stop beating about the bloody bush.’

  ‘Well, it turned out he is gorgeous.’

  ‘More gorgeous than Hugh Grant?’

  ‘I haven’t met Hugh Grant,’ Lorna reminded her. ‘But that’s all I’m telling you, Suze, because you’re telling me fuck-all.’

  They went down to North Berwick for a few days over Christmas, Suzie driving the Porsche for the first time in weeks, and giving Lorna palpitations. Suzie’s concept of driving involved maximum velocity then remembering, with some surprise, that roads also have corners and other cars. Lorna’s overnight visits to the town had become fleeting. It felt strange sleeping in a familiar bed that had become unfamiliar. Her bedroom felt smaller, the sea louder. Their ornate Victorian bath seemed more chipped. On Christmas Day, they ate turkey and all the trimmings. Her parents asked lots of questions about her studies, most of which they’d asked a hundred times before. Her father drank mineral water; the cupboard under the sink now only contained cleaning fluids. Lorna checked. Later, they watched Star Wars on the TV. It was the first film, the one that she remembered so well and in one of the commercial breaks Suzie suddenly appeared holding up toilet roll. She was in some kind of spaceship, and was wearing a skin-tight silver jumpsuit. This, presumably, was the reason that Suzie had been picked for the role – the jumpsuit could simply have been silver paint, sprayed on. At the end of the advert, Suzie intoned to camera: It’s toilet paper, but not as we know it.

  Immediately afterwards, Lorna’s mobile phone rang.

  ‘Did you see it?’

  ‘Of course, Suze.’

  ‘I knew you’d be watching that stupid film. So, was I wonderful or just marvellous?’ Later, as Lorna was going to bed, she saw a torch flashing from up the hill, just as it had years before. She fetched a torch from the hallway cupboard and, laughing, flashed back.

  * * *

  Every year, ever since Suzie had become her best friend in the world, Lorna was invited to the Bryces’ for leftover lunch. Every year, there were exactly the same leftovers, the same red-chip driveway, so too the obligatory Porsche that adorned it. This year, with Suzie at home, there were two Porsches, making her house look like a dealership for posh people. The year before, there had been a houseful of leftover relatives, the afternoon descending into inebriation and spontaneous games of hide-and-seek and charades. Lorna had been given the film Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy, which didn’t seem easy, but all she did was point at an empty bottle of red wine and Adele, Suzie’s mother, had guessed immediately. This year it was just the four of them. There was champagne in the drawing room, as Suzie’s mum preferred to call it, while Suzie recounted tales from London, Adele rolling her eyes when Suzie wasn’t watching. Then they ate in their cavernous kitchen, surrounded by marble, stone floors, and gleaming chrome. Lavender, their purebred Siamese, sat quietly and disdainfully by the French windows, too refined to miaow or beg for food. She’d never once brought a dead mouse into the house, so Suzie said. In place of napkins were folded up sheets of toilet paper.

  ‘It’s a bit creepy having a loo roll that’s not as we know it,’ said Graeme, Suzie’s dad. His steely hair was cut short and he had piercing blue eyes. He unfolded his toilet paper napkin theatrically and placed it on his lap.

  Suzie tossed her head, making her hair cascade. ‘I don’t make up the words,’ she grumbled. ‘We have scriptwriters who do that.’

  ‘Gosh!’ said Adele, placing dishes of ham and turkey on the table. ‘Scriptwriters. Plural! Just to write one sentence!’

  ‘They wrote several sentences,’ Suzie muttered, feeling got at. ‘Then those sentences were sent to groups of people who decided which one they liked the best.’

  ‘A focus group for toilet roll slogans,’ said Graeme, trying, and failing, to sound sincere. ‘I wonder how they choose these people. Can anyone apply for jobs like that?’

  Suzie grimly chewed a mouthful of ham, saying nothing.

  ‘Imagine!’ added Adele. ‘All that effort just to wipe your bum.’

  Lorna was wearing an off-the-shoulder chunky jumper, a Suzie cast-off from a modelling assignment. It was oversized and knitted, grey with silver threads, and she was wearing it with jeans (Oxfam, ho-hum) and a silver belt. Adele was wearing much the same, although with less make-up and with more designer labels.

  After lunch, Lorna was quizzed by Graeme. He was perplexed that she had still to make up her mind about which branch of law to pursue.

  ‘Dad, she’s a pinko leftie,’ Suzie advised him, demolishing a bread roll. Everyone else had finished eating. ‘She wants to change the world, don’t you, sweetie?’

  ‘Suze, that’s not true.’ Lorna said, realising that she was expected to say something on the subject of her future. ‘I haven’t decided yet,’ was all she could think to say.

  ‘Lorna likes little people,’ said Suzie, buttering another roll and filling it with ham and salad. ‘She also wants to save big fish like whales.’

  ‘Fish aren’t little people,’ said Graeme.

  ‘Actually, whales aren’t really fish,’ said Lorna.

  Everyone was looking at her. ‘I just want to feel good about what I do, tha
t’s all. It doesn’t have to be about little people, or fish, or anything stupid like that. Despite what Suzie thinks,’ she said to Graeme, ‘I’m not a completely hopeless idealist.’

  ‘There’s nothing the matter with ideals,’ said Graeme. ‘Idealism is only to be expected in the young. It’s what distinguishes the young from the old, I suppose. Keep to your ideals, Lorna. Unlike my daughter, you might end up doing something worthwhile.’ He winked at Suzie, who pretended to be angry.

  ‘It’s toilet paper, but not as we know it,’ said Suzie’s mum through giggles. Lorna was stuck again by how similar mother and daughter were, like Russian dolls that fit inside each other. On the few occasions that Lorna had been to their home for parties, she had always seen how Adele Bryce was surrounded by men, the centre of attraction, the focus of the room, with other wives keeping a close eye on their husbands. That was certainly the case with her parents, her father drawn like a moth into her light, her mum – wearing beige – smiling grimly from the other side of the room. Suzie’s mother’s genetic code seemed to have been passed in its entirety to her daughter who now said through gritted teeth: ‘OK, OK. Very funny. Not.’

  Suzie’s parents had only once been invited to Lorna’s home, and it hadn’t been a success. It couldn’t have been long after Tom died, and the unmentionable subject hung on everybody’s lips. To avoid it, Adele talked about a recent long weekend in Venice, seeing the Grand Canal, Saint Mark’s Cathedral, the Palazzo Ducale – the list went on and on, including a visit to a glass factory on Murano where she’d bought an ornate green vase which she presented to Lorna’s mother as a thank you for their meal. Lorna’s mum placed it on the mantelpiece alongside Tom’s picture, her father pouring another glass of whisky and not looking at it.