Single in the City

by Unknown

  It’s possible that I’ve overpacked (again), but I’m going up north, where it’s sure to be colder. And having never been to Edinburgh, I can’t possibly choose just one pair of shoes. ‘Excuse me.’ There’s a nice porter, no doubt here to take my bags. ‘Is this the train to Edinburgh?’

  ‘Edinburra.’

  ‘What did I say?’

  ‘Edinburg, ma’am.’

  ‘Is this the train to Edin-burra?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  It’s purpler than I’d have thought, not quite the right shade to be regal, if that’s what they were going for. My pointed nod to my luggage doesn’t seem to be encouraging the porter to take my bags. Maybe he’s waiting for a tip…no, I guess not, based on the fact that he’s just walked away.

  I’ve accidentally walked into a closet. No, wait, there’s a bed. It is my room. Remember the torpedo launch tube I saw when searching for apartments? It appears I’ve rented one for the night. I poke my head out the door, where it is nearly decapitated by an employee passing through the metre-wide corridor. ‘Sorry! Em, excuse me. Is this the first-class cabin?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ My doubtful look encourages her to continue. ‘Standard class is just through to the next carriage.’

  ‘May I see a standard-class cabin?’

  ‘Certainly. Right this way.’

  ‘What, exactly, is the difference?’

  ‘First class is private; you’ll not have to worry about another passenger joining you.’

  ‘And the cabin?’

  ‘It’s exactly the same. Except, see, the top bunk folds up.’

  ‘I do see. Thank you.’ Something tells me that Orient Express passengers don’t sleep in bunk beds. I bet their decor doesn’t bring to mind a bag of grape Fruit Sours either. On the plus side, a bottle of spring water is included on the shelf, which really compensates for spending £237 to sleep in a rolling dorm room. Or else the train wasn’t cleaned properly.

  It was probably too much to expect that this getaway (runaway) would distract me from my thoughts, but it was my first instinct after leaving Jimmy Choo. I toyed with the idea of going directly to the station to jump on the first train out, until I caught my reflection in a shop window and realized I was still wearing my work clothes. Being distraught is no excuse for looking so functional. I can be tragic and lovely…The same thing cannot be said of this lounge, where the designer’s fondness for grape hues has again run rampant. This time, he decided to use it on the boxy leatherette sofas and metal-armed chairs, offset by the unusual application of mauve on walls and patterned carpet. At least they serve drinks through the night, should I wish to self-medicate, and I shouldn’t really complain. After all, it’s not often I can lay my head down in one city and awaken in another without a cricked neck and my seatmate’s halitosis to detract from the experience.

  I’m not going to drink. If I do, I’ll end up blubbering into my wine glass at the injustice of the situation. Are the gods trying to give me a breakdown, bent on punishing me for my arrogance when Sam first asked me out? They’ve given me a taste only to snatch away the ice-cream cone. That’s their MO. I’ve read The Odyssey (only as a school requirement, obviously). I should have paid more attention in class, because I can’t remember how Odysseus escaped his fate. I guess it’s not important, given that I’m not a mythical character in an ancient epic poem. I’m a real girl who has just been told the man she knows she’s meant for is moving round the world, where she’ll probably never see him again. This is so depressing.

  We passengers awake to Edinburgh’s bright sunshine, obscured only by the heavy clouds and pelting rain. Technically, this was a reawakening, since we were first roused around 6 a.m. when part of the train fell off. Don’t check the papers; this wasn’t a rail disaster. The carriages are meant to disconnect like this, sending passengers off on another track to Glasgow.

  ‘Taxi. Hi, I’d like to go to the Radisson at 80 High Street, please.’

  ‘Ye ken it isnae far frae here?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I cannae chairge ye, lass. Ye’ll hae tae walk.’

  ‘Okay.’ He’s not moving the car. ‘The Ra-di-sson Hotel. Hotel.’

  ‘Aye, I ken whit ye said…Two poonds sexty.’ He’s just driven around the corner. ‘Dae ye hae anythin’ smaller?’ he says to my £20 note.

  ‘No, sorry.’ He was right, it isnae far at all. And it’s right in the thick of things, which is important if I’m going to get Sam out of my head. I’ve never been good at quiet contemplation, preferring instead to jar loose any uncomfortable thoughts with vigorous stimulation. If Edinburgh’s intriguing steep stairwells leading into the bowels of ancient buildings and grand castle brooding on the hill can’t do that, then nowhere will.

  ‘Guid morrnin’. Can ah help ye?’

  ‘Checking in, please. Hannah Cumming.’

  ‘Aye, rroom thrree-sexty-fowar. Weelcome.’

  The need for caffeine has overridden my fear of melting in the deluge outside. Edinburghers obviously don’t share my concerns, for most of them are umbrella-less despite the downpour. The Scottish variety must be heartier than us delicate flowers in the south. It surely seems to be true of their breakfast. Eggs, sausage, bacon, tomato, mushrooms, black pudding and toast. The people of the British Isles do seem to embrace odd food combinations. Roast-beef-flavoured potato chips, for instance, or yeast extract on toast. In this case, though, I’m all for mixing breakfast with dessert. Pudding is such an under-rated treat. It was the highlight of my childhood lunchboxes, especially in butterscotch or vanilla. Everything looks delicious…

  ‘’Scuse me. What’s this?’ It looks like a hockey puck made of gristle.

  ‘Black puddin’.’

  ‘What’s in it?’

  ‘Bluid.’

  Blue-id? ‘Whose blood?’

  ‘Peg’s.’

  I hope to god she just said pig’s. ‘Thanks, just the check.’

  ‘I think that’s yer phone.’

  At least it’s not Sam calling again. He’s left at least a dozen messages. ‘Hey, Sarah.’

  ‘’Annah, you okay?’

  ‘Yeess, fine thanks.’

  ‘Sam’s called ’ere looking for you. We got worried. Are ya weeth Chloe?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Ya sure scared the heel out of Sam. He thinks you’ve gone off the rails.’

  Good.

  …‘Do ya want me to come meet you? We’ll grab a coffee?’

  ‘I’m in Edinburgh.’

  ‘Well, whaddya doing there?’

  ‘I don’t know. It was the first place I thought of.’

  ‘You’re by yourself?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘That’s not smaht. When’re ya comin’ back?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I really didn’t think this through very well.

  ‘Hang on…Immajizz the hotel?’

  ‘Wha–?’ Their accent just doesn’t get easier. ‘Uh, about a hundred pounds. Why?’

  I hear muffled discussion. ‘Sarah? Hello?’

  ‘Right here, pumpkin. We’ll be there this afternoon.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We’re coming up. Can’t stay the noight but we can take the train back down. Keep your phone on, we’ll call when we get there.’

  ‘That’s crazy, you shouldn’t –’

  ‘No ahgument, ’Annah, you need us. We’ll be there. Hold tight, sweetie. We’re comin’.’

  ‘Haur, tak these.’ The waitress has just handed me a fistful of napkins. Presumably to staunch the flow of tears, which is causing some alarm among the patrons. I have the greatest friends. How many people would drop everything to come to the aid of someone they’ve only known a few months? That’s one nice side effect of the enforced cohabitation within London’s rental market; people all over the city move in with complete strangers, taking their chances in the compatibility lottery and often finding good friends. I’m sure there’s been the odd girl who discovers her flatmate wa
tching his favourite TV programme in her underpants, but it generally seems to work out. Of course, with Australians, naked strangers on your sofa are a risk.

  Despite the many attractions of Scotland’s fine capital, the Ultimate Fighting Championship44 continues to rage in my head. In one corner is my distrust of Sam now that he’s lied about Hong Kong. In the other is my enduring hope that he’s The One. They’re formidable contenders, each with its own strengths and tactics. No matter how many rounds they’ve been through, they remain equally matched. How am I supposed to decide between my heart and my gut? I know what Stacy would say, which is why I haven’t called her. My best friend can be uncompromising when it comes to what she thinks is in my best interest. She wouldn’t accept any nuance here. And from an outsider’s point of view, I can see her point. Sam knew he was moving to Hong Kong when he asked me out. He didn’t tell me, and yes, it’s possible that he withheld that information because he knew I wouldn’t sleep with him otherwise. But isn’t it also possible that he didn’t tell me because he does wonder if I’m The One too? In which case, at least he’s not a scheming bastard. He’s a nice man who is soon to move 6,000 miles too far away to meet for dinner. What am I expecting will come from prolonging that final separation? I’m not expecting anything. Of course I’m hoping he’ll change his mind, turn down the job and stay in London.

  Even my usual meditation isn’t calming me. I’m not sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk ‘ohm’ing at passers-by. I’m in M&S. When I first moved to London I was unprepared for the depth of feeling that this store engenders in the British public (and I know a thing or two about passionate feelings for stores). Having been a British institution for a million years, like Rome, all roads lead to it when searching for a particular item. Saleswomen countrywide are trained to utter four little words when asked for anything that their store doesn’t have: ‘Try M&S.’ According to English girls, it is the place to buy things like underpants. I’m not talking about sexy lingerie, for M&S is about as sexy as Sears. It’s where you buy the stuff that’s actually comfortable to wear, versus the stuff you put on for the sole purpose of (hopefully) taking it off in front of somebody later. However, it has a secret Aladdin’s cave of treasures that I don’t get access to. Chloe swears she buys half her great clothes there. Every time I go in, the only things I see are drawstring pants and maternity tops (I don’t think they’re meant to be maternity tops). Today’s visit is no exception. How cruel. Shoppus interruptus when I most need the distraction.

  Luckily, its Spanish cousin, Zara, is just up the street. If M&S is the homely, dependable relative, Zara is the one who sneaks out of the house to meet boys and smoke cigarettes. Her clothes are fun, and some are even on sale. Of course, these aren’t the big discounts I came to expect all the time at home, for rather than having a year-round rack of sale items where the wounded and/or unflattering clothes are banished, Europeans only seem to have sales twice a year. As if a sale is a privilege, not a constitutional right. Naturally, this makes everyone somewhat desperate and, in my experience, it’s never a good idea to agitate women seeking retail therapy. Even when the stores do mark their stock down, they start in increments that you need a calculator to notice. Despite these shortcomings, women in London speak about the sales like they anticipate Santa Claus to land on Oxford Street.

  I’ve started to buy the hype, judging by the armloads of bags I’m a little surprised to be holding. I may have suffered a shopping black-out, only snatched from the brink by my bank, which just called to voice its suspicion about all the Edinburgh charges hitting my credit card. I find their concern touching and told them that I’m fine and having a great time. They suggested that, as I still have a slightly outstanding balance from last month, I might want to take in a sight or two that doesn’t involve cash registers while I’m here.

  True to her word, Sarah has rallied the flatmates. Chloe’s here too, having called looking for me this morning. However, now that the war council is in place, I don’t want to talk about Sam. I’m afraid I’ll jinx it and he won’t say he’ll stay.

  ‘It’s Sam.’ Chloe is peering at my phone.

  ‘I don’t want to speak to him.’

  ‘Don’t you want to tell him you’re okay?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll tell him, then. Hello, Sam? No, it’s Chloe. Yes, she’s fine; we’re together. No, I don’t think so. No. I don’t know. I will. Okay, bye-bye.’

  ‘What’d he say?’

  ‘You didn’t want to talk to him.’

  ‘No, that’s right, I didn’t.’ Is he reconsidering his move? ‘I’m hungry. Can we eat?’

  ‘Sure, I could eat too.’ Sarah’s got a weightlifter’s appetite. ‘What’re you in the mood for?’

  ‘I don’t know. What do Scottish people eat?’

  ‘Neeps and tatties and haggis,’ she sings.

  Oh my. ‘What’s haggis?’

  ‘Aw, mate.’ Adam looks unhappy to have to break this news to me. ‘It’s sheep’s heart and liver boiled in –’

  ‘And lungs,’ prompts Chloe.

  ‘And lungs, boiled in its stomach.’

  Gaggis. ‘I might be more in the mood for fish and chips.’

  ‘One drink first.’ Nathan is already halfway down the street, his finely honed radar for hand-pulled beer and easily pulled women leading the way. Edinburgh, being a college town, has an abundance of both. ‘How ’bout this one?’ I’m sure his choice has nothing to do with the nipply blondes smoking out front. It’s not much to look at, but there’s music thumping from a band somewhere in its bowels.

  ‘Come on, ’Annah, you need a dance.’ Adam grabs my hand and stalks off into the mosh pit. He has proven to be just as sweet as I thought he’d be when we first met, and just as unlucky in love as I feared. He’s also got a thing for Sarah, but he seems to be realistic about his chance of success, so he doesn’t let it get him down. He’s singing like he’s the lost Beatle, while Nathan head-bangs so impressively that I can almost imagine the kinky afro he had in high school. The lead singer doesn’t look like he was out of diapers when the songs he’s singing were recorded, but he’s giving a credible tribute to Kurt Cobain, and the beer is flowing (mainly over me, but I don’t mind). This is fun, and I’m again grateful to Sarah for dragging everybody up here, especially Chloe, who’s being a real sport. She’s dancing away next to me, with no hint of the discomfort she must feel at being so far out of her cultural milieu. I know her natural environment is the trendy cocktail bar, not this sticky-floored dive full of customers more likely to barf on, rather than covet, her shoes. I’m probably pretty drunk, but I’m feeling a little better. Beer does tend to put things into perspective. Of course he’ll stay. He likes me, right? And he knows I like him. He also knows I’m upset about his leaving, and is concerned enough about that to call twenty times in twenty-four hours. And given that he found a job in Hong Kong, he’s clearly very hireable; it’ll be a cinch to find a job in London that’ll be just as great. He must be realizing the same thing. All the signs point in the same direction. So of course he’ll stay. Yes, I feel a little better. Maybe that’s how Odysseus reversed his fate. He drank beer.

  ‘Do you remember The Odyssey?’ I say to Sarah when she hands me another pint.

  ‘Vaguely. I wasn’t much of a student.’

  Like I said, it’s really remarkable how randomly chosen flatmates can result in such a good match.

  ‘I do.’ Nathan was clearly the popular jock in school. I guess it was shallow of me to assume there’s no brain beneath all that lovely brawn.

  ‘What happened to Odysseus? How did he overcome the Fates?’

  ‘Weel, pumpkin, he didn’t. He wandered the world for, like, twenty yeahs trying to get back home.’

  ‘Did he finally get there?’

  ‘Yeah, but it was a hard road. He’d have been better off not pissing them off in the first place.’

  I should have paid more attention in class.

  27


  I’m finally inside the magical clothes closet, with permission from Felicity.

  And in yet another of the delightfully ironic twists that have marked my London adventure, it’s completely empty. Not one shoe, no whisper of a scarf remains. It’s just Siobhan and I (well, not at the moment; she’s gone for coffees). And a floor full of drop cloths, paint tins and brushes. Sam’s sudden resignation left a gaping peon-sized hole in the office. A hole that I’ve been pressed into service to fill (yes, I know, also ironic). So when Felicity, drunk with the power of newly minted partnership, decided that she could no longer stand to have bare plasterboard framing her lovelies, I was the obvious choice for renovator of the week. On the upside, it’s taking up my weekend, so at least I’m distracted from my thoughts.

  Painting is rather therapeutic. Once I got the hang of it and stopped splattering acrylic all over the floor, and myself, I found a rhythm. There’s a certain beautiful symmetry to the strokes and a compulsiveness to cover every centimetre that’s strangely calming. Plus with Radio One blaring, I’m free to dance around should a good song come on. Though I’ll steer clear of that paint tray next time.

  I’ve been forced to face an uncomfortable realization this last week. I’m not as happy in London as I’d assumed. It was easy, when I first got here, to gallop ahead into the adventure. All was exciting and new. Then Chloe and Siobhan and the flatmates provided the entertainment and ears to bend. I didn’t even miss Stacy. Then, the prospect of a great new job, then Mark (then not Mark), Potential, Barry and, finally, Sam…My new life has swept me up in its current. I didn’t stop to notice that, actually, it’s falling a little short of my ideal.

  I still have my friends here, of course, and I’m constantly grateful for them. But Stacy’s visit shone a light into the shallows of new friendships. I have no doubt that those pools will fill with time, but it does take time, and shared experiences. There aren’t any shortcuts, and they’re never going to replace my best friend. Despite having all the others, I still miss her terribly.