Peering over the bannister, I watch as Hector walks around the bathtub, looking inside but not sure as to whether or not he should touch. He is kind, he is quietly ambitious and he never pulls me up on how badly I’ve hurt him before. But is that reason enough to move in with someone? He tilts his head, catches me watching and sends up a smile at the same time that I slip the miniature book into the pocket of my jeans.
It gives me a small thrill, the knowledge that it is there. A bit like a secret I have no need to keep.
‘What about this one?’ Hector holds up a book, the cover barely clinging to the spine. ‘Doesn’t Layla have a poster of this at home?’
I would recognise that painting anywhere. It’s by Blake, one of Layla’s favourite artists and someone she used as inspiration for her final degree exhibition. It’s also a poster that seemed to hang from every wall of every student bedroom back in Oxford. Because we are but sheep, all too afraid to be different. Apart from her. Apart from the girl I used to know who made a point of standing out, of refusing to bow to convention.
‘I’m pretty sure she already has it,’ I say as I make my way downstairs, pausing on the other side of the bathtub and reaching for a collection of Grimms’ Fairy Tales. It is the exact same one I used to have as a child, complete with a green and gold cover. I would hide under the duvet, reading by torchlight long after I was supposed to go to sleep. There was something so very gruesome about those stories, yet they didn’t scare me at all. Monsters and demons and all the things that go bump in the night have never been the problem. It’s always the other voices, the ones that tell me I don’t deserve what I’ve got, that give me nightmares.
‘I used to read those as a kid,’ Hector says as he tosses his book back on the pile. ‘Gave me the creeps, especially the weird little people who fixed things. What are they called, dwarves?’
‘Elves,’ I say, remembering the story about an elderly cobbler who was helped by magical elves. I can picture Hector in his childhood home, with snow falling outside the window and a shaggy black dog asleep on the floor. It makes me think of Sweden, of the darkness that lingers throughout the winter, stealing all the colour from the sky.
‘I’m thinking of quitting.’ The words are out before I’ve had a chance to consider them and I open the book for something to do, listening to the creak of the spine and reading the inscription written on the inside cover.
To Darcy, it reads. May your dreams be filled with all the wonders hidden inside this book. Love from Granny K xxx
There’s no date, but a quick flick through the first few pages tells me this particular edition was published in 1915. Perhaps Darcy loved the stories of Cinderella and Rapunzel, grew up to watch them portrayed on the big screen in glorious Technicolor. Or maybe she hid the book away, terrified of the witch who wanted to cut out a girl’s heart simply because she was beautiful. Either way, this is more than just a book; it’s a story of someone who I will never know, which I find morbidly curious, but also incredibly sad.
‘Quitting what?’ Hector says as he reaches across the bathtub for my hand, dipping his head and trying to meet my eye.
‘Work.’
‘I thought you wanted to give it a year.’ He drops my hand and shoves his own into his pockets.
‘I know, but . . .’
‘But what?’
It was Hector’s idea to reconnect with some of my old work colleagues after I returned from travelling, to put out some feelers to see if anyone was hiring. I was hesitant at first, but also had no desire to sit around the house watching daytime TV and feeling sorry for myself. The decision to come back to London was mine, just as I chose to leave in the first place. But now? Now it feels like I’ve once again become a cog in a machine, forever making money but not actually doing anything worthwhile. I thought Hector understood this better than most. I thought he was on my side.
‘I don’t know,’ I say as I close the book and lay it gently on top of the pile. ‘Perhaps because I thought I’d left that world behind. I hated who it turned me into, which was why I went travelling in the first place.’
‘But that kind of nomadic life was never going to be sustainable.’
‘Why not?’ I walk past him and out of the shop, squinting as my eyes adjust to the bright. ‘It felt like I was on the cusp of something when we found each other again. We talked about it. You said I should follow my heart for once, instead of my head. But coming back here, all my energy, all my dreams, have been swallowed up by the constant pressure fuelled by envy and desire.’
‘Then do something different.’
‘It’s not that simple.’
‘It’s also not that complicated.’
I watch as a black taxi trundles past, an advert for Calvin Klein’s new unisex perfume plastered all over the doors. We seem to be plagued by advertisers who tap into our insecurities, telling us that if we buy more stuff we will be fulfilled. But in order to buy said stuff we need more money, which means we need to work harder and longer and subsequently never have the time or energy to enjoy all our wonderful belongings. It’s suffocating but incredibly addictive and I know I am just as guilty as anyone else of believing the myth that happiness can be bought.
‘Is it something I’ve done?’ Hector falls into step alongside me.
‘No, Hector, it’s about me.’ About the person I used to be, who woke each morning with no expectations or plans. A person who swam in the sea and carried all her belongings in one bag, only ever buying something new when it was necessary, and never bothering to dry, let alone style, her hair. I thought I’d finally become someone he might have been proud of, if only we’d had the chance.
‘Let me look after you.’ Hector takes my arm, asking me to stop. ‘Stop being so stubborn. Take your time, figure out what it is you want to do. All you have to do in return is say yes.’
We’re standing outside a newsagent and I glance inside. Partly because it means I don’t have to look him in the eye, but also because I’m craving a cigarette, which is weird as it’s been years since I’ve smoked. But then I seem to be craving a lot of things lately that have more to do with the past than the present.
‘Let’s not argue,’ Hector says as he pulls me close and kisses me on my forehead like a father placating a child and I resist the urge to stamp my foot in frustration. ‘Why don’t we plan a trip away somewhere, just for the weekend? Perhaps even Stockholm, so I can meet the rest of your family.’
‘We’ve talked about this.’ Or rather, Hector has talked about it. Mainly because he comes from such a close-knit, liberal-minded, all-round amazing family and so has absolutely no understanding of what it feels like to no longer be welcome at home.
‘Your uncle is great and all, but at some point I’d love to see where you grew up.’
‘Maybe,’ I say, which we both know is really a no.
‘Or Oxford?’ Hector counters. ‘You could give me the grand tour of all those hallowed halls. Go punting, get drunk on Pimm’s and have sex in the library.’
‘They wouldn’t let you in,’ I say, biting back a smile because the idea of doing all those things with Hector is so very tempting, if only it weren’t for all the memories of that particular city.
‘How long is it since you left?’
‘Fourteen years,’ I reply, even though he knows this part of the story already.
‘And you’ve never been back?’
‘Why are you asking questions you already know the answer to?’
‘There’s a new guy at the publishing house. Would have been at Oxford about the same time as you.’
I don’t reply as I head inside the newsagent, breathing in the cloying scent of sugar and antiseptic.
‘His name’s Ben.’
‘Well that narrows it down nicely.’ I walk along the aisle, stopping to pick up a packet of fig rolls. Duncan always claimed it was a biscuit, but really it’s more like a cake. Lucozade and fig rolls, the hangover cure all three of us used throughout that year, alo
ng with shrimp salad and hotdogs (a Swedish staple I sort of miss, along with surströmming and pickles).
‘Went to Teddy Hall. Studied English.’
I nod, but don’t say anything, because there’s a lump lodged at the base of my throat. Even though I’m pretty sure I never met Ben from Teddy Hall, that doesn’t mean he didn’t know one of the others, which in turn means he might know the truth about me.
‘Anyway,’ Hector says, picking up a packet of Hobnobs and putting them back down again. ‘He’s going back next weekend for a reunion dinner. Made me wonder why you’ve never done the same?’
‘I don’t get invited because I never graduated,’ I say, taking another packet of fig rolls along with some small, circular waffles wrapped in cellophane. They won’t be as good as the frasvåfflor bought from the Christmas market in Stockholm, but the combination of cinnamon and sugar might help lighten my mood.
‘But still. What about your friends? Is there really no one from Oxford you stayed in contact with?’
‘För guds skull,’ I say, stamping my foot. ‘Leave it alone, Hector. I don’t want to go back. To Oxford or Sweden. So just stop asking me, please.’
Heading back to the counter I look up at the rows of cigarettes, then higher to a line of bottles on a shelf. Vodka is best drunk ice-cold and neat in order to avoid a hangover, but I want to get drunk, blind drunk, so that I might forget, just for a little while.
Because the people closest to you shape your life, even if it’s inadvertent, even if you haven’t seen or spoken to them for years. You carry them and their opinions with you, listen to their voices telling you which way to go. Nothing is ever just down to you, but rather all the people you meet along the way.
‘Why can’t I forget about them?’ I whisper to myself, feeling inside my pocket for the tiny book.
‘They made you,’ Hector says. ‘Which means they can’t be all bad, surely?’
He thinks I’m talking about my family. The people he has never met. But there are other people, three to be precise, who had so much more influence on my life, and on the present, than he could ever understand.
Turning my wrist over, I check the time, but I’m not really sure why it feels important. It always seems to be following me, the counting down of hours to some momentous event I haven’t been invited to.
At some point I need to forgive myself for all the mistakes. One day I have to accept that everything I said or did had consequences, not only for me, but everyone I hurt in the process.
One day, I hope I can tell Hector, and he will love me all the same.
NIAMH
Cingulomania (n.) – a strong desire to hold someone in your arms
Oxford, 1995
The house party was a bad idea. About fifty over-enthusiastic students were crammed into a three-bed semi just off the Cowley Road, all of whom were either looking for someone to shag, or looking for a place to shag their lucky conquest.
Niamh had made her way through the living room, where a throng of skinny skater kids wearing Adidas trainers, jeans and tighter-than-tight t-shirts were jumping around to The Stone Roses, making the walls shake. Someone in the downstairs loo was throwing up what looked like blood but was in fact snakebite and black. Her friend was sitting behind her, slowly rubbing her back whilst simultaneously snogging a boy who looked like Evan Dando from the Lemonheads.
Upstairs was a mass of bodies in darkened rooms. Some were smoking skunk and staring at a lava lamp; others were fumbling under duvets and trying to remember the name of whoever it was they were feeling up.
In the kitchen were a bunch of trust-fund girls near-identical to Octavia, with sleek ponytails and the collars of their polo shirts turned up. They were smoking Marlboro Menthol and drinking Chardonnay whilst talking through their noses about the size of their parents’ country pads.
Niamh decided to hide in the garden, where Duncan was arguing with a Liverpudlian lad called Chris about which was the better nightclub – Cream or the Astoria. She watched with envy the flirtatious back and forth, the way in which Duncan made a point of touching Chris’s arm when he spoke, laughing at things that weren’t even funny.
She caught sight of Erika in the kitchen, talking animatedly with the Chelsea set and making them all laugh. It made Niamh a little jealous, and not for the first time, of how easily Erika slotted into every single situation she found herself in.
‘Why are you hiding out here?’ Erika asked as she came outside, clutching a bottle of vodka in one hand and pulling down the skirt of her micro dress with the other.
‘I’m not hiding.’
‘Yes, you are. And you are all nervous and itchy whenever the doorbell rings. I have been watching.’
‘Twitchy.’
‘That too. Are you expecting someone?’
She wasn’t. But then again she was, or at least hoping he might show. Even though that was ridiculous because what were the chances of Leo knowing anyone at the party? Probably about the same as him being the room-mate of the person who had the book she still needed.
‘Drink this,’ Erika said, holding the bottle out to her, swaying a little. ‘It will give you courage.’
‘For what?’ Niamh coughed as the alcohol hit the back of her throat. She glanced over to see Duncan and Chris disappearing into the shadowy depths of the garden. In the half-light, it was hard to tell if they were still arguing, or whether their mouths were busy with something altogether more personal.
She envied Duncan’s ease with himself, Erika too. Both of them had such a way with people, with strangers, that seemed so impossible for her to master. Were they given lessons in popularity, or was it passed down through the generations like DNA? Or perhaps it was simply that their gilded existence meant it was so much easier to be happy.
‘For life,’ Erika replied, spreading her arms wide and tilting her head back to the stars. ‘Den som lever får se.’
Niamh frowned as she figured out the translation in her head. ‘That doesn’t make any sense.’
‘Yes it does. It means Time will tell. Although the Norwegian version is He who lives gets to see, which Astrid always liked better.’
Niamh took a long swallow of vodka, waiting for something more, because Erika only ever spoke about her dead friend when she was drunk. If she ever asked about Astrid, Erika would simply shrug and say she was perfect and then promptly change the subject. Which did nothing more than fuel the curiosity Niamh had about her predecessor.
‘She was such a shy little mouse,’ Erika said with a sigh. ‘But always filled with clever ideas, just like you.’ The last three words were punctuated with a gentle prod against Niamh’s collarbone, then Erika took hold of Niamh’s hand and turned it over, tracing over the lines that gypsies liked to read.
‘Her fingers were super long and she liked to paint each of her nails a different colour. I think I loved her because she was like nobody else I had ever met.’
Niamh thought about how Erika was like nobody she had ever met, but, as ever, it was tainted by the idea that perhaps if she didn’t look so much like Astrid, Erika would never have chosen her in the first place.
‘You miss her,’ Niamh said, taking her hand away.
‘Every day.’ Erika sniffed, then cupped her hands around Niamh’s face. ‘But now I have you, so the hurt is not always so terrible.’
‘What would you say to her if she was here?’ The question came out before Niamh could decide whether or not it was a good one to ask.
‘I have no idea,’ Erika replied, taking the bottle from Niamh and swirling the clear liquid around and around. ‘What would you say to your mother?’
‘I’d tell her I hate her for what she did.’
‘Love and hate always sleep next to one another,’ Erika said as she took two swallows from the bottle, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth when she was done. ‘Now, are you going to hide out here, or come and find someone to take your mind off that boy from the bar?’ Erika took Niamh by the hand and
led her back to the party.
The last thing Niamh could remember was falling off her bike as she stopped at the traffic lights next to Merton Street. It wasn’t even a spectacular crash, more a slow lean to the left, which resulted in her sprawled over the kerb with her arse on display. Not for the first time, she was left thinking that Erika was either some kind of Olympian athlete or an alien. All those years growing up in Sweden had no doubt made her constitution impenetrable to the perils of booze as well as the cold – even in the depths of winter she never wore more than one layer under her coat and always slept with the windows open.
Niamh was not so lucky, and had spent most of Sunday morning either with her head down the toilet or curled up under the duvet promising herself that she was never going to drink again. Turns out that half a bottle of vodka was not the best idea when you were only just scraping five foot five and weighed less than eight stone.
Duncan had been wonderfully kind all morning, if a little too attentive, asking if she wanted a strip wash, given that she was incapable of dragging her cute little backside down to the showers and she was beginning to pong a bit. He had cooked her bacon sandwiches smothered in HP sauce and even run down to the shop to procure both Nurofen and a giant bottle of Lucozade.
All that kindness was wrapped up in a parcel of gossip about everything that Niamh had been too drunk to notice at the party. He had perched on the end of her bed, eating all the sandwiches she couldn’t stomach, telling her about how Erika had set her sights on some poor lad called Callum whose father owned half of Yorkshire. He had promptly fallen deeply under her spell and Erika announced that they were going to run away to live in the Highlands, at which point Niamh had pulled the duvet back from her face to ask if Erika was aware that the Highlands were in Scotland, not Yorkshire?
The Love We Left Behind Page 6
