Beside Myself

by Ann Morgan

‘How is your friend?’ he said.

  She frowned for a moment before the question made sense. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Actually she was my sister. My twin sister, Helen Sallis. Sorry, it seemed easier to say friend when I saw you. She died earlier this week. A blood clot. The post mortem’s just confirmed it. You might have seen it in the papers. One of those things.’

  Anton nodded, understanding dawning in his eyes.

  ‘Of course.’ He coughed. ‘When is the funeral?’

  ‘I—’ She frowned. ‘I don’t know. I’m not sure I’ll go. I’m not sure I’m invited.’

  Anton narrowed his eyes. ‘Not sure you’re invited?’

  ‘Yes. It’s complicated, you know. Families.’ Her face started to twist out of her control so she forced it into a bright smile. ‘But anyway, what about you? What about your dad?’

  Anton sighed. ‘He died three weeks ago,’ he said. ‘The day I saw you, in fact. It’s been an odd time. Horrible obviously, but it has been something of a release as well.’

  On the cabinet table between them, Anton’s phone flashed into life. ‘Michael’, read the screen.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Anton, putting the phone to his ear and turning his head away from the table. ‘Hello,’ he said quietly. ‘Mmn. Mmn. I’m just with her now…’ He glanced back at her. ‘Not long. About five minutes, I reckon… Mmn… I don’t know. How about Thai?… All right, sweetness. Ciao ciao.’

  He slid the phone into his jacket pocket. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘That was… Actually it was my boyfriend.’ He cracked a smile that showed the gap between his top teeth, giving him a slightly goofy air.

  The waitress came to their table: a young girl with red lipstick and a Victory roll in her hair, wearing a flannel dressing gown.

  ‘Specials are Eggnog with Lavender, and Cherry Brandy Surprise,’ she said sullenly. ‘We’re out of the Crème de Menthe Sundaes.’

  They ordered a Diet Coke and an orange juice.

  ‘So where are you living now?’ said Smudge as the waitress slouched away in her slippers.

  ‘Round the corner, actually,’ said Anton. ‘This lovely little loft apartment. Former blacking factory or something. The money from Dad, you see. Not that it’s through yet, but, well it opened up a lot of possibilities.’

  He winced ruefully.

  She sat and watched him, wondering what it must be like to have the sort of life where you felt constantly obliged to apologise for your own good fortune.

  ‘And you?’ he said as the waitress plonked their glasses down on the table. ‘Where are you now?’

  Smudge thought of the trashed shell of the Walworth flat, the Formica tables of the all-night caff.

  ‘I’m still making plans,’ she said. ‘It’s been a difficult time.’

  Anton nodded. ‘Well, look, the reason I wanted to see you was because I’ve got something to give you.’ He slid a folded bit of paper out of the inside pocket of his jacket and put it on the table. ‘You remember that painting you did? The tower block? Well, it sold. Not long after you… left Edgewise. I felt bad about how all that worked out. The police and everything. All that stuff in the media with your sister. It must have been hell. I’ve been hoping I’d run into you and when I saw you at the hospital, well, it seemed only right that you should get your share.’ He gestured to the paper. ‘That’s not all of it,’ he said. ‘Some of it got used when the business wound up. But when I get the money through from my father, there’ll be another instalment. Anyway, in the meantime, I thought it might be enough to get you started on something else. Sort you out with a studio or something. Paints, materials. Whatever you need.’

  Smudge held up her hands. ‘Really, it’s kind of you, Anton,’ she said. ‘But I don’t need anything. I can look after myself.’ She sipped her orange juice. It was sour and made her pucker her lips. ‘Besides, right now I think I just need a break from the past,’ she said. ‘I need to start somewhere new with a clean slate.’

  Anton leant forward. ‘This isn’t charity,’ he said. ‘This is money you made. Look, even if you take it and just give it away to someone or whatever, that’s your right. But take it at least. I wouldn’t feel right if you didn’t.’

  He slid the cheque towards her and she sat back, panic in her eyes. She didn’t want to go back there. She didn’t want any of that to come with her. She wanted finally, fully, at last, to be free.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, standing up. ‘But I think I’d better go. I shouldn’t have come. Thanks for the drink.’

  She turned and made for the exit, colliding with a waitress in a housecoat and headscarf carrying a tray of Cherry Brandy Surprises. The girl sucked her teeth as the glasses trembled, shivering drops on to the floor.

  Outside, the blankness of the day greeted her: a white sky, people hurrying here and there. She had no idea where to go.

  Then she felt a hand on her arm. Anton was standing next to her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I know it’s difficult. Believe me, I know what it’s like to want to make a clean break. But the thing is, you see, the past doesn’t always have to be a bad thing. Sometimes good things come from it as well.’

  He handed her the cheque. ‘Take it at least. Burn it. Use it in a Satanic ritual. Whatever you like. Just think about it.’

  He patted her arm. ‘You going to be all right?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Well, take care.’

  He started to walk away towards the high street. When he got to the first lamp post he turned.

  ‘And go to your sister’s funeral,’ he called.

  She watched him head up the road. The cheque waited between her fingers. Smooth and crisp. She turned it over and unfolded it. The name space was left blank, but there was a lot of writing underneath. It was for sixty thousand pounds.

  62

  The PR firm has gone to town. There are arrangements of dark lilies up the stairs into the function room, and smiling staff waiting with trays of martinis and champagne cocktails. Inside, young men in black mill about with boards of vol au vents: little parcels of smoked salmon, mousse on chicory leaves, blinis topped with caviar glittering under the spotlights.

  The paintings hang behind curtains on the walls, ready for the unveiling. Distinguished guests stroll around between them, stopping now and then to sip, laugh, air kiss or tap a colleague on the arm. There are some faces you recognise. Over there by the cloakroom is the woman who presents the TV breakfast show you and Gareth often stick on before heading out to the studio. The tall man with round glasses is an art critic for De Telegraaf and next to him is the discussion-show host who always crops up on late-night TV, hauling politicians over the coals. There are lots of other people you feel you should know too, but their identities escape you for the moment. Luckily the PR firm has assigned a member of staff to mind you and she whispers information in your ear as people approach. You find yourself talking to a local councillor, the head of a big drinks firm, a producer from NOS and a curator from the Rijksmuseum.

  About twenty minutes after you arrive, Jan Heijn clatters a spoon against his glass and makes a short speech, introducing the concept of the campaign and explaining the rationale behind hiring Edgewise to bring the vision to life. When he’s finished speaking he makes a gesture and the servers in black, who have migrated to stand next to the paintings during his speech, tug the strings to reveal the artworks.

  After Jan’s speech, the crowds thicken and more and more distinguished visitors press in to share their praise and shake your hand. When the art critic comes over to quiz you about your technique in achieving the brushstrokes in Girl with a Pearl Earphone, you talk authoritatively about the thought you gave to the layering of colour and the use of light. You even correct one of his observations about Vermeer’s deployment of glaze. You sound like an expert – someone who has spent hours, days and weeks thinking about this particular issue, turning it round and round in her mind until she comprehends it from many angles.
And, you realise with a catch of joy, that that is precisely because it is what you are. There is no artifice here. There is no need to dissemble, talk around the issues or pretend. You have done the work. You have lived the life. This is who you are.

  The conversations continue in a flurry. Now and then you are caught in a camera’s flash. People press business cards into your hands. Grand statements get made about future projects. You receive invitations to tour the rest of the Netherlands, the promise of commissions further down the line. Afterwards they will tell you that you met the mayor, and one of the runners up of the Dutch Big Brother, and an art collector known for spending millions of euros on new, obscure works (she wanted to buy your reworking of Constable, you later hear, but Heike told her it wasn’t for sale).

  It’s only when the crowd begins to thin out that you realise your feet hurt and your head’s aching. You and Gareth take your leave of Jan and his team who are beaming, delighted with how well things have gone and the promise of coverage in tomorrow’s papers. You stroll back through the streets, skirting the red-light district, and over the canal towards the bare trees of Vondelpark.

  ‘You were on fire tonight,’ says Gareth as you turn into your street for the last time.

  As a thank you for your hard work, Jan Heijn has arranged business-class flights back to Manchester for you so you don’t have to brave the ferry and the choppy January squalls on the North Sea. You’re both half asleep when you get to the airport. You doze during the flight. The announcements from the captain and chief steward come to you from the end of a long tunnel. They are barely enough to make you stir. In the queue for Immigration you giggle at Gareth’s passport photo – a spotty, student shot from when he’d just turned eighteen.

  ‘To be fair, you don’t really look that different,’ you joke, and he slaps you affectionately on the arm.

  Weird to think that when you left on the ferry three months ago you were practically strangers. You can’t imagine not being close now.

  There’s a bit of an issue when you try to come through passport control. The border guard takes a long time, glancing between your face and the photograph. You’re on such a wave of euphoria after last night that you forget that the passport is a fake. When you remember you flush and feel your pulse quicken, but by that time the danger has passed. He hands it over and waves you through.

  You find Gareth standing staring up at a TV screen showing a breakfast news show. There’s a ribbon of text running along the bottom of the screen: ‘Two dead in Staffordshire shooting. Police to question minister over fresh expenses allegations. Daytime star reveals childhood trauma.’

  Gareth turns to you. ‘Back to real life with a bump,’ he says.

  ‘Shit, isn’t it?’ you say.

  Gareth breaks into a grin. ‘Nah,’ he says, reaching for you. ‘The best ever.’ He kisses the top of your head. ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘Let’s g-go home.’

  Perhaps it’s because you’re still spaced out from yesterday, but in baggage reclaim you start to notice something strange: people seem to be looking at you. You see a couple of women whisper to each other, their eyes glued to your face. A little boy zipping between the conveyor belts on a scooter stops to point and stare.

  The illogic of this makes you worry. You’re afraid paranoia is readying itself to overwhelm your mind once more and hurl you into chaos. Not now, you whisper to your brain, as you pull your second suitcase off the conveyor belt. Stay with the programme. Everything’s going to be OK.

  At the taxi rank, the first driver glances up at you when Gareth asks for Manchester. Then he shakes his head and drives off.

  ‘That’s a-weird,’ says Gareth. ‘M-must’ve been my stammer. Ignorant sod.’

  You shrug and try to look indignant. It’s all normal, it’s all normal, you tell yourself, resolutely blocking out the staring faces your mind seems set on manufacturing on the edges of your vision. Nobody’s looking at you.

  The moment’s quickly forgotten in the next taxi. You snuggle up together on the back seat and watch the motorway verges skim past and then the unspooling of Manchester’s outer suburbs as Friday evening settles over the streets.

  Gareth’s flat is in a new development beside the Bridgewater Canal. There’s a keypad by the door to buzz you into the building and a lift that can only be operated with an electronic fob. A new-carpet smell wafts along the corridors.

  ‘It’s a bit plasticky,’ he says apologetically. ‘I would have preferred something older and more scuffed about. Still, needs m-must and all that.’

  But you like the newness of the place, the fact that no one has lived in it before Gareth. There has not been time for sadness to seep into the walls and insinuate itself into the soft furnishings. Anger has not stamped its way up the stairs. The block is a blank page ready for a new drawing, a fresh start.

  Gareth’s flat is small but light, with windows looking out over the canal. He hurries into the bedroom to tidy up before you see it and you stand in the living room, looking around. There’s a brown corduroy sofa, a little folding table with two chairs, and some psychedelic prints on the walls. Over by the window is an old vinyl turntable, surrounded by cardboard boxes of records. Turning, you see these take up most of the shelving space on the far wall behind the door too. You walk over and run your fingers along their edges. From what you can make out, there are old classics and rare survivals alongside limited-edition vinyl versions of more modern releases. You pull out Use Your Illusion II and gaze at it, thinking how strange it is to see the design you remember from a cassette sleeve blown up to ten times its size.

  ‘They’re my secret vice,’ says Gareth, coming into the room. ‘I spend hours searching for them online. I like the sleeves as much as anything – the artwork.’ He pauses, coughs. ‘But of course we can always put them in storage to make space for your stuff. That is, if you want to, of course.’ He shakes his head. ‘I m-mean, if you think… if…’

  He’s blushing furiously, his mouth opening and closing. You go over and stop it with a kiss. Of course you want to. Why on earth wouldn’t you? There’s nothing you’ve ever wanted more.

  You order in a Chinese takeaway. You’d planned to tell him about the pregnancy over dinner but as soon as you take your first mouthful, you realise how exhausted you are, so instead you give in to Gareth’s suggestion of watching Star Wars and doze on the sofa as Luke Skywalker goes off in search of Obi-Wan Kenobi. You go to bed early, leaving the suitcases standing in the hall.

  The next morning, Gareth gets up and goes out to buy milk and croissants for breakfast. You wander to the kitchen and spoon some coffee into a cafetiere. While the kettle boils, you wash up the plates from the takeaway, staring out of the window as a boat chugs its way along the canal. The woman at the tiller is muffled up against the morning drizzle and the sight of her makes you glad to be in the warm kitchen with the kettle bubbling away on the side and Gareth set to return with breakfast any minute. You smile and your mind jumps ahead to the rest of the day. You’ll tell him when you’re having breakfast, you think, sitting at the little table in the living room. It’ll seem sudden and he’ll be surprised at first, but pretty soon you know he’ll be pleased. Your brain fetches up a vision of his shy face breaking into a radiant smile. Then, after you’ve talked it over and finished eating and – maybe – had sex again, you’ll suggest going out for a walk. You might find a local park to stroll through, like you did in Amsterdam, or visit an exhibition. Perhaps you’ll go to a cafe. You might even – although this could be pushing it – stop by Mothercare in the Barnacle to look at baby clothes. You’ll have a quiet dinner and tomorrow there’ll be more of the same – more companionship, more love, more plans. And then on Monday there’ll be the return to the office and the happy resumption of the old routine, except this time so much more solid, more real.

  You can see it all and it thrills you – so much so that when you hear Gareth come in the front door, you know you can’t wait until breakfast. You want the
future now. As he walks into the kitchen, you take one last look at the woman chugging along the canal in the cold and wet, and a deep breath. Then you turn.

  His face is pale and drawn. Shadows have crept into the hollows around his eyes. He slaps a newspaper bearing a picture of what appears to be your face on the counter. You’re so caught up in your bright visions that for a moment you think it’s you, that there must have been a news crew that you missed at the campaign launch the other night and that the whole thing is now being reported around the world. You start to laugh excitedly. Then you notice that your hair is shaped perfectly under your chin and there is no scar across your forehead, no MONSTER peeping out from under the fringe. Underneath the picture, the caption reads, Presenter Helen Sallis: the day my twin tried to kill me.

  Gareth stares at you. ‘A-What the fuck is this?’ he says.

  63

  She sat in the Costa across the road from the church and watched people arriving: chat-show hosts, TV weather men, the faces off auction challenges, gardening programmes and home-improvement shows. They were the sort of everyday celebrities you might wave at in the street before realising you didn’t actually know them in real life, the people they’d used to watch in Beryl’s living room most nights. They circulated, studiously ignoring the photographers on the pavement, as she observed them through her sunglasses, fingers raking through her newly peroxided hair. Her cappuccino had gone cold, but still she sat there, unable to make up her mind to move.

  At five to twelve a bell started tolling and the crowd on the pavement began to thin out as people made their way inside. A hearse pulled up, followed by two black Bentleys, and she saw Nick get out, leading Heloise, who was wearing a little pink dress with a black cardigan. Behind them came Horace and Mother, getting out of the second car with a young man in military uniform who must be Richard. She got a shock for a moment when Mother seemed to look towards her and catch her eye, but her gaze swept on past the man tapping at his laptop and away up the street.