Journey to the Centre of Myself (9 page)

BOOK: Journey to the Centre of Myself
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‘So how do you want it, love?’

‘Erm…’

‘Do you want a magazine for inspiration?’

I nod my head repeatedly before I realise I must resemble an overenthusiastic puppy, ‘Yes please.’

She volunteers to make me a cup of tea while I spend time looking through the magazines.

Some minutes later I find a photo of an actress with rich dark brown hair and a fringe that sits below her eyebrows. I’ve not had a fringe since my youth. My hair was brown before the grey started to poke through, it’ll be nice to be reunited. I show Yvonne the photo.

‘That’s lovely. I think it’ll suit you. Oooh, a real transformation, I can’t wait. Usually, all we get is some ugly bloke who wants a quick short, back and sides.’

This makes me laugh. A transformation? Gosh, can she alter my soul while she’s at it? Give me a life makeover?

As I’m placed under the heat lamp for the colour to take, I realise I need to think about my next move. It will be five o’clock before I’m out of here. Then I need to make my planned visit and find a hotel. As I stare out of the hairdressers window, I realise I’m staring at a hotel in the heart of the City Centre. If I book in there, I’ll be able to drop off my case, which I’m fed up of dragging around, and I can eat anywhere in the centre. Not a bad idea, I agree with myself.

‘So, I notice you've got a case. Are you here on business?’ asks Yvonne.

‘No, I’m about to go on holiday and decided Paris cannot see me in this state?’

‘Paris? You lucky woman. Hey,’ she nods at her colleague, ‘this one’s off to Paris.’

‘Oh, I love it there. You must go to Laduree and sample their Macarons. They’re out of this world.’

‘All the sights of Paris and you recommend a food shop? Trust you,’ laughs Yvonne.

I get my notebook and write the name down. ‘I’ll be sure to try them.’

‘You won’t regret it,’ says the colleague, ‘better than sex.’

‘I’ll go there first then,’ I reply and they both break into laughter.

 

I find it hard to put into words how grateful I am when I see the results. My hair is stunning and I resemble a younger version of myself. Why have I let myself go like this? Well, obviously I know why because I could no longer be bothered with anything. My dignity having gone long ago, the rest of me followed.

I thank Yvonne and give her a huge tip. She asks me to pop back and tell her what Paris was like. I know they’re probably empty words, said to each customer, but someone has been kind and taken an interest in me and I appreciate it more than I can say.

I book into the hotel opposite. It’s upmarket and costs me more for one night than I’d hope to pay for three, but it suits my new image so I go for it. Thick red carpet lines the reception. I’m shown to my room. It’s enormous. Unfortunately, the view is of Manchester City Centre, not quite the same as the River Spree, but there is a wall mural along the back of the bedhead, a view of New York City. The nearest I’ll get to it, I think. Paris is one thing, but a longer flight, that would be a challenge. For now, I’m a little excited to be getting on a plane again tomorrow. Who’d have thought it? Karen the Jetsetter. I get my toiletries out and put them in the bathroom, freshen up and head out for some food.

There’s a pizza place nearby and I’m about to order my usual Ham and Pineapple when I stop myself. For goodness sake have something different, Karen. I order one with chorizo, olives and spinach. Not too adventurous, but a step in the right direction. I wash it down with a glass of
rosé
, which reminds me of my breakfast. Was that only this morning?

Then I stand in the cold, and wait for the bus that will take me to Chorlton-cum-Hardy and my daughter. I used to laugh at that place name. It’s not been funny to me for a long time now.

I walk through the gates of the Southern Cemetery and down to the meadow where she lays. It seemed fitting to return her to nature. Here in the meadow, there is no memorial headstone, just a number which I still hate, but I wanted her amongst the butterflies, birds and flowers, with ‘All things bright and beautiful,’ which I had played at her service. The meadow is sodden, plants are broken and dying and the place looks like something from an Alfred Hitchcock movie. It kind of appeals to my nature. I always liked dark stories and vampires. Perhaps she lives on as a beautiful angel or a little butterfly spirit? Nature shows the death and rebirth. I’ve suffered the death, I have to hope she was reborn somewhere else.

I realise I should return in the Summer, though, to experience Gen’s resting place at its finest.

Adrian comes to mind as I go into the Remembrance Lodge. He insisted we had the Lodge’s craftsmen create a memorial inscription, so he had something he could view to remember her name. I didn’t understand back then. Why did we need something written in a book? We had thoughts, memories, photographs, but today, as I’m here, I get his point of view. It shouts that she was here, she counted, and she lived amongst others.

I realise I haven’t wanted to cry. It would be so easy to think of my loss and collapse into a heap, but today hasn’t been about that. It’s been about facing things head on, not running away from everything. In some ways, though you could say I’m running away to Paris, I don’t feel like that’s the case. It’s like I’m going around collecting parts of myself and fitting them all back together.

I sit in the Remembrance Lodge for some time, remembering fond memories of my baby girl.

 

Sleep evades me most of the night. Memories surface of how happy Adrian and I were with our baby. Then came my breakdown and his gambling and somehow we got lost along the way. I realise I need to take part-responsibility for what happened. I’ve been so focused on the fact that what happened to me afterwards wasn’t my fault, that I’ve excused myself for everything I did. For the first time, I think our relationship might have a chance. I need more time to think about things. Perhaps Adrian lies because that’s the only way he can survive? Or am I making excuses for him again? Steve would be enraged at my even considering giving him an excuse for his behaviour.

‘Urrrrrrggh.’ I turn my pillow to the cool side as I realise I’m letting my brother’s opinion count again. Karen, I tell myself, go stand on your own two feet. Then I sleep.

I’m back at the airport Friday afternoon. This time, I’m stopped while I’m going through the scanner and frisked, and then, as I go through to the gate, they’re doing spot checks and I have to have my bag and body searched again. Dear God, it must be this new hair, I’ve never had so much attention.

I buy myself a Top Ten Paris guide from the bookstore and write the date of my trip on the inner page, making a mental note to do the same with my Berlin one. The new book contains multiple photos and I lose myself in the sights and ideas within, making the odd little note in my journal of places and shops to investigate on the days with no excursions.

Next it’s a wander around Duty-Free where I treat myself to some luxurious new cosmetics after the girl at the counter gives me a makeover so I can sample the products before I purchase them. The smoky mauve colours pick up my brown eyes and the chestnut of my hair. I walk with a swing to my step as I return to my seat to await boarding.

No. It can’t be? I recognise a familiar face, three rows over. Christ, can I not catch a break here?

My breath is held as I wait for him to rush over, but he opens his newspaper and starts to read. I’m wrong-footed, sure the bastard would hurry over. Please don’t let him board the flight. I try to read my book, but I can’t concentrate. I keep having little peeks from under my fringe to check if he’s looking at me. He doesn’t. Has he not recognised me? I’m looking a lot different today.

The expression ‘ants in your pants’ is apt. I can’t seem to sit still. In the end, I can’t leave it any longer and I go up to him.

‘What are you doing here? I asked you to leave me alone.’

He looks at me as if I’ve asked him what two and two add up to. ‘I’m catching a plane to Paris.’

‘Is this some kind of joke?’

‘Karenza, if you’re going there too that’s a complete coincidence. You aren’t the only person who can travel around.’

‘Oh, don’t Karenza me.’

‘But you were always my Karenza.’


Years
ago.’

‘Yes, but here I watch you, sitting alone, and I think, hmm, maybe there’s still a chance for romance. Don’t you wish to spend time with Arjan?’

I narrow my eyes at him. ‘The last thing I need right now are your games. I’m here—alone. Make sure you leave me that way.’

‘Oh-kay.’ He sighs in disappointment.

‘I mean it. Anyway, how come you’re here? How did you know I’d be here?’

‘Maybe I’ve been following you?’

‘I don’t have time for this. I really don’t.’ My eyes fill with tears, I feel like everything is spoilt.

He touches my shoulder. ‘Hey I’m sorry, I thought it was a good idea, but I’ll leave you alone, okay?’

I shrug him off and stand in front of the window overlooking the planes.

They call for boarding and I let everyone else get on the plane—including him. I’m unsure now whether I’m going to get on. Damn him. I
want
to go to Paris. Arjan can do whatever he likes. I’m looking at my future, not my past. I walk past the Air Hostess, show my boarding ticket and step onto the plane. Searching around, I can’t see him so at least he’s not sitting near me. Just over an hour of flight time and I’ll be able to continue challenging myself to rediscover the real me.

I feel butterflies in my stomach and hope they’re because of the Paris trip.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 11

 

Amber

 

There’s a visceral pain, an agony. It begins in my throat. ‘What? What?’ My eyes close. It’s impossible to open them, to accept the current circumstances, the horror. My brain won’t function to work things out. I shake my head. This isn’t happening. ‘No. No.’

I slide to the floor. My elbow thuds against the laminate. Blood seeps from the wound, but there’s no pain. It’s all concentrated inside, like my intestines are being pulled out of my throat.

I point my finger at Sam.

Will jumps up to stand in front of her. His back to me. ‘You’d better go.’

I hear her say, ‘I’ll meet you at the hotel.’

‘Yes,’ he nods. ‘I’ll be there as soon as…’

He points in my direction as if I’m excrement on the floor to be cleaned up.

My world goes black.

 

I’m aware that I’m half dragged, half carried to the sofa. A hot cup of coffee is put at the side of me. I pick it up, hands shaking, and throw the contents at him.

‘Fucking hell,’ he screams as the coffee burns. ‘Are you insane?’

I curl into a ball and rock. ‘Stop this, stop this, stop this, stop this…’

Will goes upstairs.

My mind spins like I’m inebriated; Will, Sam, baby, Olly—how, where, when?

Will returns. He has a suitcase in his hand.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says.

I sit up. ‘How did this happen? I need to know.’

He sits across from me on his own sofa.

‘I called round to see Olly one night. He wasn’t there. It just happened.’

I shake my head from side to side. ‘No, you wouldn’t.’

‘But I did.’ He begins to cry. ‘And now I’ve made a huge mess. I’ve destroyed my marriage, and I’ve destroyed my friendship. I need to think about the baby now.’

‘But when—’

‘Amber, I’m sorry. When she told me, I panicked. I thought if she told Olly it was his and we had our own we could pretend it never happened.’

I try to dry heave, I lean across my knees towards the floor.

‘Oh, my God.’ I clutch my stomach. Thank goodness there’s nothing in there.

‘Stupid woman told Olly. Their marriage has been in trouble for some time. I’m doing the best I can with such a difficult situation.’

I sit up. ‘Saint fucking William of Sale.’

He reaches and takes hold of my hands. ‘Amber, if you think there’s any chance—’

‘Take your hands off me,’ I scream. ‘Get out. Get out!’

‘Okay.’ He puts his hands up in a gesture of surrender, steps back. ‘I’ll go. Call me if you need me, okay?’

He goes, locking the door behind him. I stare across at the empty sofa. No-man's-land.

 

I stay there all night, sometimes drifting off, other times sobbing, constantly ruminating the events of the evening. It spins through my mind. I’m repeatedly nauseous and sip water. I step through the thrown coffee on the way to the kitchen, my socks are wet and I can’t be bothered to change them.

At six am, I get up and wash my face. My eyes are so puffy I resemble some kind of fish I’ve seen in a magazine, or pictures of people who’ve had allergic reactions to hair dye. I make a coffee and wet a tea-towel, carrying them back to the sofa. I lay down with it draped over my eyes until I guess my drink will be a reasonable temperature.

As I take sips of coffee, I stare at Will’s sofa. I can’t bear it. Tears well up in my eyes again. I slam my fists into his sofa and punch it over and over. It’s not enough. He has to pay. I run into the kitchen and take a kitchen knife out of the drawer. I feel the sharp edge of the knife with my finger tip, and then I regard my arm. That’d serve the bastard right. I could do small cuts and call him. Let him find me covered in blood.

BOOK: Journey to the Centre of Myself
4.16Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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