Cynth’s wedding poem was to me a perfect example of how I felt my writing to be bound up with obligation. I’d been writing for so long for the particular purpose of being approved that I’d forgotten the genesis of my impulse; unbothered, pure creation, existing outside the parameters of success and failure. And somewhere along the line, this being ‘good’ had come to paralyse my belief that I could write at all.
So admitting to Quick that I wanted to be published was no small step. It communicated, to a certain degree, that I believed I should be taken seriously. And here she was, telling me, Well, maybe you’re not that special, maybe you are – but that doesn’t actually mean anything, and it certainly doesn’t have any bearing on whether you can write. So stop worrying, and do it.
She had told me that the approval of other -people should never be my goal; she had released me in a way I hadn’t been able to myself. She trusted me. Quick had encouraged me to lay myself bare, and it had not been that difficult at all.
I ran my fingers over the ruby leather of the notebook and remembered. I first started writing as a little girl because I liked imagining parallel possibilities. That was all it was. That Sunday, I picked up my pen for the first time in a long time, and began to write.
?
At the end of the day on Monday – my actual birthday – I left a short story typed up on Quick’s desk. I wasn’t completely bullish – the top--grade schoolgirl dies hard – I did not creep into her office without a feeling of trepidation. I put no note on the top; she’d know who it was from.
I appreciated the irony that just like at school, at university, I was delivering a story for someone else to approve, but I had been too long inculcated with the act of writing for an audience. This time, however, I wasn’t going to hinge everything on my audience’s response. If Quick didn’t like it, maybe that was a good thing. It was now out of my control.
Pamela stopped me as I was leaving. ‘You can’t hide it any longer, you know,’ she said.
‘Sorry?’
‘Oh come on. You’re going round like Cupid smacked you in the chops. You forgot to put stamps on these envelopes. That ain’t like you.’
I winced; Pamela was more observant than perhaps I’d given her credit for. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I said.
‘Odelle, I’m only gonna keep askin’. Gonna be your Scotland Yard. It’s you and that feller, isn’t it? There was barely five minutes between you when he turned up.’
I weighed up my options. Don’t tell Pamela, and suffer her interminable hypotheses, which, knowing her, would become more outlandish and indefatigable – or just tell her, and be done. ‘Maybe,’ I said.
‘Lawrie Scott, eh. Bit posh, ain’t he?’
‘How do you know his first name?’
She looked pleased with herself. ‘It’s right here, in the appointment book. Written by your own fair hand. Shall I draw a heart round it for you?’
‘Shut up, Rudge.’
‘Does Quick know?’
‘Quick knows.’
‘How?’
‘Saw us kissing in the reception.’
‘Hoo--ee!’ Pamela whooped with laughter and I couldn’t help a smile; it was a thrilling admission. ‘Bloody hell, Odelle, I didn’t know you had it in you. She must like you, ’cos most girls woulda been out on their ears.’
‘Pamela, shut up.’
‘Ahh, you like him.’
‘Don’t be an idiot.’
‘All right, all right.’ Pamela put up her hands, and her ringed fingers glinted in the light. ‘I was like that when I first met Billy,’ she said. I suspected no two men were more different than Lawrie and Billy, but I let it pass. ‘It’s like you can’t breathe,’ she said.
‘I can breathe perfectly well.’
She laughed. ‘Miss High and Mighty. Honestly, Odelle, are you sure you ain’t a secret African queen?’
‘I’m from Trinidad.’
‘Keep your knickers on. Or maybe not.’
‘Pamela.’
‘Come on,’ she whispered. ‘Have you done it yet?’
‘Mind your own business.’
She smirked. ‘That’ll be a no then,’ she said. ‘Get on with it, Odelle. You don’t know what you’re missing.’ She fished under the reception counter and placed a brown--paper bag before me. ‘Happy birthday,’ she beamed, mischief dancing in her black--kohled eyes.
I eyed it suspiciously. ‘What’s that?’
‘Take a look, Miss Bastien.’
I lifted the edge of the paper. Inside were two strips of pills. ‘Are these—-’
‘Yep. Got some spare. I thought you might want them.’ Pamela looked at the expression on my face, and her confidence faltered. ‘You don’t have to take them—-’
‘No, thank you. I’ll take them.’
Pamela grinned. It was funny to me, the different gifts -people employed to show their friendship – with Quick it was a notebook, with Pamela, the contraceptive Pill. I’d spent weeks pressing novels onto Pamela, which in many ways said all you needed to know about me. Pamela’s offering was a perfect reflection of her utilitarian sensuality; a pragmatic approach to the pursuit of pleasure. It was no small thing for an unmarried girl to get hold of the Pill in those days; no doctor would prescribe it.
‘How did you get these?’ I asked.
She winked. ‘Rubbed a lamp, didn’t I.’
‘Come on, how?’
‘Brook Advisory,’ she relented. ‘Gold dust.’
I shoved them into my handbag. ‘Thank you, Rudge,’ I said, skipping down the Skelton steps before Pamela could ruin the moment with a salacious addendum. Still – she was a woman of the new world, giving me a slice of freedom. I should have been more grateful.