Guilt Trip

by Maggy Farrell

  But now it was daytime. I could hear the sounds of the market outside…the faint roar of heavy metal coming from the T-shirt stall… a market-seller shouting out about his amazing deal on tomatoes … a bus pulling up at the bus stop.

  What time was it? I felt around for my phone on the bedside table. 11o’clock!

  I sat up. Dad would have finished breakfast ages ago and be hanging around waiting for me. But when I checked, there were three messages from him: the first two asking if I was up yet; the third informing me he was off exploring and would be back by lunch.

  I sighed, heading off to the bathroom. It was probably better, Dad going off like that, really. After all, if we’d been together, he’d only have had to spend the morning worrying about me fainting again, and I’d have had to spend it trying to convince him that I was perfectly fine…

  Actually, I thought as I stepped under the shower, I didn’t feel too bad today. I was lighter somehow - as if a heavy weight had been lifted from me.

  Five minutes later, having glanced at the door to make sure it was locked, I grabbed my towel, wrapping it around me as I moved over to the sink.

  I looked at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, studying myself.

  Was it over then - my psychological turmoil? All that built-up pressure erupting out of me. The relief of tears, like the bursting of a dam. With that release, had I finally chased away the madness?

  But I was nervous about testing the theory. Just in case. So, as I reached for the tap to brush my teeth, I kept my eyes closed, willing myself not to look. Not to notice whether the déjà vu happened or not. Whether the insanity was with me still.

  Instead, I concentrated my mind on Luke. On how he had held me. Until I could almost feel his arms around me now…

  Suddenly, I opened my eyes, feeling self-conscious. The flannel on the radiator had gone now. And the half-empty toothpaste tube. But the tweezers were still on the little shelf above the sink. And a bottle of peach bubbles had appeared on the side of the bath. I was still sharing this intimate space with strangers. I still felt their eyes on me.

  <><><>

  By the time I was dressed, Dad was back. He took me off to lunch in a local café overlooking the market square - an old-fashioned place with white cloths on the tables and white lace curtains at the window where a fly buzzed angrily, hurling itself at the glass in a bid to escape before it joined its friend, dead on the sill. A sullen waitress took our order: homemade quiche and a side-salad. We sat waiting, surrounded by the hum of polite conversation, the customers’ voices hushed by the stuffy formality of the place.

  “Sorry about this,” Dad grimaced. “But we don’t have time to go anywhere better now. I have to be getting off to the gallery soon. Promised to be there by two.”

  Tonight was the opening of the exhibition. Out of thousands of entries, the photos had now been whittled down to the top ten in each category, and Dad and the other judges wanted to run through them again, before having to speak to the press and public about them tonight.

  “But I’ll come back to get changed around six,” he said. “And then we can go to the gallery together.”

  Our food arrived: cardboard pastry, soggy underneath, with a garnish of limp, undressed lettuce.

  “Anyway,” Dad said, examining a mushroom critically, “I’ve had a very successful morning. Got lots of great shots in the Hall of Teeth.”

  “You went back to the caves?”

  “Yep - got my own personal guided tour. Somehow I didn’t get to see everything properly yesterday, what with some girl fainting and causing a right scene.”

  I smiled sheepishly.

  “But I took some great photos this time, so no harm done. Anyway, how are you feeling today?”

  “Fine,” I said.

  “Sure?”

  I nodded.

  “I saw Luke this morning. He said he sent up some food.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you had a good, long lie-in?”

  I nodded, and Dad looked relieved, happy that his world seemed to be back to normal - as if yesterday’s collapse could be mended by a cheese toastie and a sound sleep. But he obviously knew nothing about my anxieties. My tears. Which meant that Luke hadn’t told him. So it was our private matter. Just between us.

  <><><>

  Lunch over, Dad went off to the gallery. It was still cold, the sky dark, bruised, threatening rain. A storm waiting to happen. So, nothing better to do, I made my way back to the pub.

  As I crossed through reception, Luke appeared.

  “Hi,” he said, running a hand through his hair.

  Immediately I felt self-conscious. This man had seen me show real, raw emotion. He had held me as I wept. Even as I fell asleep.

  “Hi,” I said shyly.

  “All alone?”

  “Yeah - Dad had to go the gallery.”

  He looked at me thoughtfully, his eyes staring into mine. “So - what are you up to then?”

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  “Fancy going somewhere? Before the rain starts?”

  I shrugged again, but smiled, excitement bubbling up inside me.

  “So …maybe avoiding caves and confined spaces…” he said playfully, “maybe try out some adventure activities? A bit of abseiling? Or we could take the motorbike up into the fells, do some hiking, taking in a freshwater tarn?”

  He stopped and looked at me carefully. “Or maybe - maybe we could do something completely different. Go on - what would you really like to do?”

  I hesitated. I wanted to choose something that had nothing to do with geology for once. Something that all the other tourists did. But something that we would both enjoy.

  And then I remembered how he’d moved in close to me as we’d played darts together. His hand touching mine... His whisper tickling my ear…

  “How about crazy golf?” I said.

  <><><>

  “So you’ve never played this before?” Luke shook his head in disbelief, aiming his golf-ball at a clown’s gaping mouth and missing.

  “No. Dad likes photographing geology,” I said. “Full stop.”

  He shook his head. “Never mind all that. A family’s got to play crazy golf - at least once. It’s like an unwritten law isn’t it?”

  “Try telling that to Dad.” I wacked the ball up a long slope, but all too soon it lost momentum, slowing down until it stopped altogether and then rolling straight back to me.

  We’d come here, to a nearby town, by motorbike. My first ever ride on one, it had been thrilling sitting there, my arms wrapped round Luke’s waist, clinging on as we roared down country lanes.

  And now we were playing my first ever round of crazy golf. Predictably, I was terrible at it. But as it turned out, so was Luke. And so, instead of taking it seriously, we were soon sabotaging each other’s game, nudging each other during shots and both cheating outrageously. And so, despite the weather, we were having fun.

  And, all my shyness finally banished, I loved it.

  After mini-golf, despite the temperature, Luke bought us some ice creams and we sat on a low wall, side by side, under a glowering sky, happily watching the world go by on the busy high street.

  Then we spent some time messing about, getting silly with the merchandise outside a souvenir shop, trying on hideous plastic sunglasses and sunhats.

  And then we wandered inside to warm up.

  It was the usual kind of thing: bouncy balls, toy fishing nets, paper-weights, sticks of candy rock, jars of old-fashioned sweets, various maps, enormous pencils, cheap, plastic compasses. A jumble of stuff.

  But amongst all the tack, my eye was caught by something on a shelf to the right of the door: a row of teddy bears in different sickly colours, each with a corresponding fruit stamp. Green with a lime; yellow with a banana; blue with blueberries.

  And there it was: a pink teddy bear with a strawberry on its paw. Exactly like the one I’d imagined so clearly at the Changing Well. Holding my breath, I reached out a tr
embling hand … and touched it.

  Nothing. Not a thing. Not one unusual emotion. Just the sensation of soft, furry material. I laughed with relief.

  At the noise, Luke looked over.

  At first he seemed surprised. Maybe he hadn’t thought of me as the teddy bear type, I thought. But, seeing me laugh, he shrugged. “You girls and your cuddly toys,” he chuckled. “Go on, let me buy it for you.”

  “No!” Hurriedly I took my hand away from the bear.

  “Go on,” he urged me, reaching into his pocket for his wallet.

  “No!” I started to walk away, but he picked up the bear and followed me.

  “Go on, let me.”

  “No!” The word came out more abruptly than I’d intended. I didn’t mean to snap, but I was horribly embarrassed. First of all, I wasn’t a teddy bear sort of girl, and didn’t want to be seen as one. Especially over this bear - the very same type which, at the Changing Well, had plunged me into the depths of terror.

  But I was also worried that he might think I was hinting for a gift. He’d already insisted on paying for the crazy golf and the ice creams. And now this. It was way too much.

  But I instantly regretted my outburst when I saw his face fall. He’d been so lovely to me after my breakdown the night before, spending time with me, encouraging me out of my shell, getting to know the real me. And what had I done in return? I’d practically shouted at him. I felt terrible.

  “Sorry - it’s just…” But I didn’t know how to continue.

  Luke didn’t press me. “Well, maybe something else then?” he offered gently.

  I looked around hurriedly, but the shop was full of rubbish. I didn’t want him to waste his money on any of it. But then I spotted a glass counter displaying jewellery featuring natural gems. I wandered over to take a look. And there was a silver necklace with a small drop of purple crystal. It was beautiful. And only about the same price as the teddy bear.

  “Pretty isn’t it?” The shopkeeper noticed me looking. “Amethyst. Supposed to be comforting; helps calm and sooth you apparently, in times of emotional upset.” She sniffed her disapproval of such New Age drivel. “If you believe in that sort of thing.”

  Luke and I looked at each other. A gift to comfort me in times of emotional upset? It was perfect.

  “We’ll take it,” he said.

  Outside the shop, the sky had darkened dramatically. Luke took the necklace out of its cellophane wrapper and unclasped it. “Come on, then,” he said, holding it up.

  I pulled up the back of my hair and turned so that he could put it round my neck. It took him a little while getting the fiddly clasp fastened, every accidental brush of his fingers against my skin sending tiny shivers and prickles darting across my neck and shoulders, so that it was a struggle to stand still.

  When it was finally done, I looked at my reflection in the shop window.

  “Thanks, Luke” I said, really moved. “It’s gorgeous.” I turned, reaching up to kiss his cheek but he was just turning his head to look at me, and I mistimed it, almost kissing his mouth by mistake. I pulled away, feeling myself blushing furiously, but he gave me one of his secret winks.

  Then the first few drops of rain spat down from the sky and we hurried back to the bike.

  16

  I looked at the collection of dresses strewn across my bed. Hmm…

  I was already late for Dad’s opening party at the gallery. So late that he’d left without me, barking at me to follow him as soon as I was ready. But still, I hesitated.

  None of my clothes were really suitable; after all, formal adult gatherings weren’t exactly regular events on my social calendar. And clothes shopping here in the market had been a complete disaster.

  However, when I’d packed my bag at home, I had actually grabbed a few of Mum’s old things, stuffing them in with my own, just in case. And now I examined them as they lay on the bed.

  Mum had been quite small and slim. Attractive, I guess. And stylish. But still I hesitated. I’d never worn her clothes before.

  But it was obvious which one I should choose. It was practically calling out to me, really. Begging to be worn. A cute little purple halter-neck: it would be perfect with my new necklace. I tried it on, pulling the ties tight so that it fitted me.

  I examined myself in the mirror, piling my hair on top of my head so that my necklace was more noticeable, remembering the feel of Luke’s fingers on my skin as I did so. Yes. It looked good.

  Now. Time to put on my new make-up - the pearlescent shadow and the dark glittery liner, shading it out to the edges to make my eyes seem bigger. Yes - that was right. That’s how Paula, the woman at the stall, had done it. I rooted about in my make-up bag and found my extra length mascara, moving in close to the mirror to apply it carefully. I smiled to myself as I worked. I looked so much older. Mum would have gone spare.

  And then, I noticed a dark shape in the reflection, above my head. I glanced up at it nervously. No! Not again! Please!

  The poster was back.

  But why? I didn’t understand…

  Trembling, my hand automatically reached for the tiny amethyst drop suspended from its silver chain.

  So - my journey into insanity wasn’t over yet. I’d been stupid ever to think it was. But when I’d touched that pink bear in the shop, and it had had no effect on me, it had given me hope. Hope that I’d got everything out of my system when I’d wept on Luke. That the climax was over. That the madness was gone.

  But I guess I’d been fooling myself. Like Dad, I’d imagined that all my problems could just conveniently vanish over night. How naïve. How pathetic. Obviously, you couldn’t erase months of psychological turmoil with one good cry.

  With a heavy heart, I returned to my make-up. I had to get a move on. Couldn’t let Dad down.

  But as I applied my last stroke of mascara, something made me cry out and pull back from the mirror.

  My eye had looked at me.

  I don’t mean I’d stared at myself. I mean, the reflection of one of my eyes, independently and of its own accord, had suddenly swivelled away from looking at my lashes, and stared right at me.

  It only lasted for a second - over, literally, in the blink of an eye. So I guess it could simply have been in my imagination. But the shock it gave me was real enough. Because it wasn’t one of my eyes.

  It was blue. Like Mum’s.

  It was raining quite heavily as I ran along to the gallery just past the market square, but it hadn’t put the guests off. The party seemed to be in full swing.

  Someone at the door made a fuss that I’d forgotten my invitation, but Dad quickly took command.

  “At last,” he cried. “Where’ve you been?” Taking a leaflet from the flustered door staff, he handed it to me.

  And then he got a proper look at me and gasped. “Melissa,” he whispered, wiping the corner of his eye, “you look beautiful.” I beamed with pride under his admiring gaze. “Just like your mum.”

  Having placed my dripping umbrella in a pot by the door, he took me by the hand and led me inside.

  “Welcome to Forces of Nature,” he declared grandly. “Remember, every photo here has been taken with that title in mind. However, different photographers have interpreted the title in different ways. That’s what makes these finalists so exciting.”

  We now joined a group of people made up of the organisers and the other judges. They were all very pleasant to me, but soon returned to their in-depth academic discussions about photography, which pretty much excluded me from their conversation, so I just stood there, smiling vacantly.

  “Harry!” Dad suddenly launched himself across the room to greet another colleague, leaving me standing with virtual strangers. I smiled at them, pretending that everything was fine and moved slowly away.

  I helped myself to a drink from a tray held by a passing waitress. Wine. Urgh! But at least sipping it now and again gave me something to do, making me look more at ease, as if I was happy to roam about on my own.
>
  The gallery was one big room, all clinical white, with lots of bright, modern lighting, and divided up by big, white panels so that people could wander into different sections, their walls lined with huge photographs. I looked up at those nearest to me: a moody shot of a snowdrop, and a black-and-white of a tree with huge, tangled roots. Both beautiful pictures, but I didn’t really see how they could be called forces of nature. I consulted my leaflet: ‘a delicate snowdrop pushing its way up through the cold, hard snow’; ‘a solitary tree in a harsh rocky landscape, its roots twisting and boring down into the dry Earth’. Okay - I’d got it now - two forces of nature struggling to survive in hostile conditions.

  I examined the next pair: an expanse of shining green ivy clambering all over an abandoned old shed, a cluster of purple-black berries dangling in the foreground; and then an extreme macro close-up of something bright green and barbed - viciously spiked. I checked my pamphlet: okay - so the ivy berries were poisonous and the green thing was a stinging nettle, and both plants were considered invasive weeds - so I guessed these photos represented dangerous forces of nature.

  I moved off again. By now the place was even fuller. I helped myself to another glass of wine and strolled into a different section, away from ‘plants’ and towards ‘places’.

  “Don’t you look nice, love.”

  I turned to find a woman squeezed into a very low-cut dress standing in a haze of sickly perfume. It was Paula, the woman from the make-up stall.

  “Thanks,” I said, laughing and batting my eyes to show her how I’d applied her eye make-up.

  “Fancy seeing you here.”

  “Yeah, well,” I shrugged. “My Dad’s involved with the judging, so…”

  “Really? Wow.” She smiled at me. “So - are you staying round here then?”

  “Yes - at the Fox and Hound.”

  “Really?” Paula’s tone had changed. She stared at me for a second.