The Forever Girl

26



She sent an e-mail to Ted. “I saw James the other day. You’re still in touch with him, aren’t you? Have you got his address (not e-mail – I have that – but his snail-mail address)? I don’t seem to have it. We’re going to meet up some time soon.”

She read and re-read the message. Was it a lie? No. She had seen James – that was quite true – and it was also the case that she did not have his address – she did not have to say that he had not given it to her. They were going to meet, too, as James had taken her number and you did not take a number unless you intended to do something about it. So there was no deception in this message, even if she had not disclosed why she wanted to know the address. But there was nothing to be ashamed of in that respect, she told herself. It was quite understandable, she thought, to want to know where your friends lived. That was normal curiosity. It was. It was.


Ted was usually good about answering his e-mails, but on this occasion it was three days before he responded. The delay made her wonder whether he somehow knew that she wanted to … to what? To spy on James. But it was not spying. All she wanted was to be able to imagine the place where he lived, and that was definitely not spying. Wasn’t there a song about that; somewhere in one of the old musicals that her father liked? About being on the street where a lover lives?

Ted’s eventual answer set her mind at rest, giving her the address, including the postcode. She transcribed it into the back of the Moleskine notebook she used as a cross between a diary and a place for lists. It was, as she had imagined, on the north side of town; in Dublin Street, a street that ran sharply down the hill from the Scottish National Portrait Gallery. It was just the sort of place that she could see him living in, and from that moment it was invested in her mind with a sort of glow. Of course he would live in Dublin Street because it was … well, it was just right for him.

The address revealed on which floor of the five-storey tenement building his flat would be: the figure and letters “2FR” meant that James would be on the second floor, in the flat on the right hand side of the landing. Armed with this information, anybody could, in theory, walk up the shared stone stairway and ring the bell – provided, of course, that the lower door onto the street was left unlocked. If it were locked, then there would be a bell system allowing for the remote opening of the door. All you would have to do would be to tug at the appropriate bell-pull and the outer door could be answered from above.

Ted had other things to say in his e-mail. He was now studying Romance languages in Cambridge. “You should come and see me,” he wrote. “I have a room in St John’s looking out onto a quad – they call them courts here – and if I put on the right music – Tallis or somebody like that – you would think you were back in the sixteenth or seventeenth century. It’s the opposite of Cayman, and I am seriously happy. I mean, seriously, seriously happy. I have a friend who’s an organ scholar here and we’re going to go to Italy in the summer. He knows people in Verona and Siena. They say that we can stay with them. Can you imagine it? And you? What about you? You’ll see that I’ve put James’s address in at the end of this e-mail. I hope that you get to see him, but … all right, I may as well be honest and say what I want to say, or what I think I need to say. Don’t die of a broken heart. I mean that seriously. It’s very easy to break your heart and it may be – it may just be – that our hearts have been broken ever so slightly by the same person. Just a thought. Remember that he doesn’t mean to make us unhappy – he’s far too kind for that. But you know something? James may be like the sun. It’s nice to have the sun out there but you can’t look at it directly or get too close to it, can you? End of lecture. Be happy. Come and see me in Cambridge and we’ll go out on the river in a punt. If it’s summer, that is; if it’s winter we’ll go to a pub I know where they serve fish and chips and disgusting warm beer. You can sleep on my floor, or rather I’ll sleep on my floor and you can have the bed. It’s only moderately uncomfortable. Tuo amico, Ted.”

She thought about Ted’s invitation – it would be good to see him again, and he had proved a loyal friend. Those friends, she thought, were the ones whom one almost did not notice; the ones who were just there in the background, the unglamorous ones, the ones you took for granted and then, quite unexpectedly, might prove their loyalty by coming to your rescue in a moment of crisis. In her mind, Ted had remained, rather curiously, the little boy that he had been when they had first known one another; that was another feature of loyal friends – they were slow to grow up, and often, in your mind at least, failed altogether to get much beyond the age at which you first met them – that was an absurd notion, of course, but it concealed a more prosaic truth about old friends: they did not change. And yet here he was giving her advice, as one contemporary to another – which he was, of course, as they had entered the Cayman Prep on the same day, all those years ago, excited and frightened at the same time by the change that was occurring in their lives: that first step through the school gate is for most of us the biggest step we ever take – the step out of Eden into the world beyond.

She would accept the invitation, she decided, but then she stopped thinking about it because Dublin Street came back into her mind and now she had the address. She would go down there one morning – the following day, perhaps – and just take a look; that was all – just take a look. The timetable of the first year economics course was available online, and she consulted it. The first lecture on a Tuesday was at ten: Macroeconomic Modelling. How dull that sounded, and yet it was what James did, and that somehow rescued it. If the lecture were at ten, then he would have to leave his flat by nine-thirty at the latest to give himself enough time to walk up to George Square. Of course it was uphill most of the way, and that meant that he would need to leave somewhat earlier – by nine-fifteen perhaps.

If she were to be in Dublin Street by nine-fifteen, she would see him. He would come out of the door and she would be on the opposite side of the street – not too close – and she would see him. She could then walk behind him – sufficiently far off not to be seen – she could follow … She stopped herself. It was not following. She was not the sort of person to follow somebody. All she was doing, she told herself, was taking the opportunity to see somebody, and there was nothing sinister about that. It was entirely natural to want to see friends in that way when you felt too shy, too proud, perhaps, to make the first move. And pride did play a part here; she acknowledged that; pride mixed with an element of tactics. Now that she had his address it would have been simple for her to go to see him, but she did not want to do that because he would think her pushy and she knew that men did not like being pursued – a woman who chases a man puts him right off, everybody knew that. Bide your time; wait for him to come to you. If she were to seem indifferent to James then there was a chance that he would come round to seeing her in the light in which she saw him; it might occur to him that she might be right for him. But if she made the running, it could spoil it all. He would back off … not, she reflected with a smile, that he had ever backed on. The realisation made her sad – that was the only word she could find for her feelings; James did not love her, or, if he did, he loved her as a brother, or as one friend of childhood may love another, platonically, fondly, and in no other way.

Of course there was Padraig. This, though, had nothing to do with him. This was her private business, and it was not as if she were being unfaithful to him. She would never have a love affair with somebody while seeing another person; her conscience, in that respect, was clear. Padraig did not need to know about James – beyond what she had already told him – because this was a private domain within her life, like a private enthusiasm, a self-indulgence that one did not discuss with other people because it was simply that – a private passion. You did not have to tell others you liked to listen to a particular piece of music and would play it again and again, or that you liked Rembrandt or Hockney and that you could spend hours poring over their paintings, experiencing the thrill that something entirely beautiful can impart; you did not have to share these things. You did not have to tell others that you loved a boy who you understood would never love you back but who was your secret treat, like a concealed box of chocolates. Nobody was harmed by such things.


“Why so early?” asked Ella.

She had made herself a slice of toast and a cup of coffee and was having these in the kitchen by herself when Ella came in, eyes still filled with sleep – Ella never got out of bed until ten unless absolutely obliged to do so.

“Seven-thirty isn’t early. Not for me.”

“It’s virtually last night as far as I’m concerned,” said Ella, making her way to the coffee pot. “May I pinch some?”

“Yes.”

“So why so early? Are you going somewhere?”

“I thought I’d get some work done. I’m behind with an essay.”

She thought: this is what it is like to lie about a small thing; and there are people whose whole lives are built around lies, whose every move must be something like this. For a moment she felt appalled at herself, and could have abandoned her plan, could have gone back to bed; but it was more powerful than she was – whoever the she was.

Ella poured herself coffee, cupping the mug in her hands, as if to warm them. “But the library doesn’t open till nine.”

“There’s a departmental library. The Fine Art Library. That’s open much earlier. It’s a great place to work.” This was half-true. The departmental library was sometimes open at eight-thirty, but not always; and she had never worked there.

Ella shrugged. “I’ve got a hangover. I don’t deserve it. I had two glasses of wine – max – I swear it.”

“Go back to bed.”

“I will.”

Clover left the flat ten minutes later and began the walk across town to Dublin Street. The streets were quiet at that hour, and barely light. It was technically late autumn, but there was a hint of winter in the air – a sharpness that was a harbinger of what was to come. Yet the sky was clear and when the sun rose properly it would be one of those sunny, exhilarating days that a northern city like Edinburgh can sometimes pull out of the hat – a day in which the senses are rendered more acute by the cold in the air; a day in which distances are foreshortened by clarity. The sunlight would not be warm, but it would still be felt, like the breath of an unseen creature upon the skin, a soft, slight touch.

She arrived at the top of Dublin Street a good half hour early. Broughton Street was not far away, and she thought that she might find a coffee bar there that would be open. There was one, a small room decorated with out-of-date posters advertising plays from the Festival Fringe. Even at this hour it was busy with people dropping in on their way to work; the people who were too busy to eat breakfast at home, or found they had no coffee in the flat, or simply wanted a few minutes to themselves before work started. She sat at a table with her steaming cappuccino and looked at the people about her. They were part of a world that seemed parallel to hers; a working world that she knew nothing about. What did people do in Edinburgh? She looked at the woman sitting at the table nearest hers; she was wearing a woman’s business suit – a dark skirt and top under a neatly cut jacket. At her feet was a briefcase and on the table in front of her an open organiser-type diary. She was studying the diary, annotating it here and there; her days mapped out, thought Clover – her expensive time sold in little packages. She must be a lawyer. Or a financial adviser perhaps; telling people how to parcel out their own lives, how to move things about, how to move their money from one place to another.

Sooner or later, she would have to join them: everybody did. She would find herself in an office somewhere, working with people, doing the things that she currently had no idea about, living with one eye fixed on some goal or other – some promotion, some opportunity to do better than the next person, some inducement dangled before her. But for the time being she was spared all that and could sit and listen to people talking about art because … She hesitated, and then admitted it: because somebody else, somewhere else – her father – was doing exactly what this woman was doing. He went off to his office in George Town and sifted through papers and wrote figures on documents and looked out through air-conditioned air into the glare of the unremitting light until he went home and cooled off in the pool and was too tired to read or think very much. And he did all that not so much for himself – because he never seemed that interested in acquiring anything – but because of her and Billy and her mother, to enable them to do the things they did.

The woman at the next-door table glanced at her watch. Then, snapping her diary closed, she took a last sip of coffee and stood up. As she did so, she looked across at Clover and smiled. Clover, embarrassed at being caught staring, returned the smile guiltily.

The woman picked up her briefcase. “So, have a good day.”

It was said in a friendly tone.

“I will. And you.”

There could have been a barb to the exchange: the woman could hardly have missed the fact, from dress, from pace, from a number of other clues, that Clover had no job to go to, that she was a student and that none of this business of getting to work affected her yet. That might have produced a wry resentment, but had not.

Clover looked at her watch. Something had happened to her, and she thought that it was probably to do with having a brush with normality. The woman with her business suit and her diary had something real to do, as did all the others in the coffee bar. Their daily lives were real in a way in which the world she was creating for herself – a world of dreams – was not. She shook her head, as if to rid herself of an unwelcome idea. She did not have to go through with this; she could go back to the flat and forget that she had ever entertained the thought of coming down to Dublin Street.

She made her decision; she would do that, and immediately felt a sense of relief. She looked up. She was no longer a ridiculous love-struck girl on a pointless mission, not much more than one of those air-headed young teenage girls – as she thought of them – who swooned outside the hotels where boy bands stay on tour, ready to squeal with excitement when their heroes ran the gauntlet of their fans.

She finished her remaining coffee, savouring it though it was now lukewarm. Her thoughts turned to the day ahead. She had a tutorial at eleven and she would now have the time to finish the prescribed reading for it. She would throw herself into her work. She would lead a normal life. She would have one boyfriend, whom she would appreciate, and she would stop thinking of James.

And then, suddenly, he was there. She had not seen him come in because she was facing away from the entrance, and now, he was at the end of her table, half-turned away from the counter where he had been about to place his order, distracted because he had seen her.

His surprise seemed as great as hers. For a moment he was silent, but then he laughed and said, “Well, of all the people …”

She made an effort to recover her composure. She had half-risen to her feet but now sat down again. She thought it possible that if she tried to stand again her feet would buckle under her.

“James …”

The assistant waited patiently behind the counter. James turned to him and placed his order. Then he turned back to address Clover. “You’re not in a hurry, are you? You looked as if you were about to go.” He gestured to the other chair at her table. “Do you mind?”

“Of course not. I was about to go but I …”

He interrupted her. “But you could do with another cup of coffee? Come on. My treat.”


She acceded, and he called out to the assistant, “One more, Anton.”

He sat down, casually resting his elbows on the table. “I’ve never seen you here before.”

“No,” she said. She was searching for an explanation, for an excuse for her presence, but her mind, for the moment, was blank.

“Somebody told me you live over on the south side. You do, don’t you?”

She nodded. “A friend …” she began. She wondered who had talked to him about her. And why?

He cut her off. “Yes, of course.” He looked away, and changed the subject. “They make great coffee. The best in this part of town, I think, and it’s just round the corner from me. I live on Dublin Street.”

She almost said, “Yes, I know,” but did not, and simply nodded at the information.

“You’re lucky,” she said. “New Town flats are nicer, I think.”

“It depends. There are some that aren’t. The rent’s higher too.”

It then dawned on her what he was thinking, and why he had dropped his enquiry as to what she was doing first thing in the morning on the other side of the city.

She felt herself blushing. “I don’t usually come over …”

He cut her short. “It’s not the other side of the world,” he said, and grinned. “I sometimes go to that pub in Marchmont. You know the one?”

She nodded. She wanted to correct his mistaken impression, but could not see how to do it. She could hardly say I came over here to see you walk out of your front door.

Their coffee was brought over to the table. “I need this,” he said. “A lecture at ten.”

She spoke impulsively. “Something boring? Like macro-economic modelling?”

He laughed. He did not think it odd that she should know. “Right. Actually, it’s not all that bad. It sounds it, but it isn’t.” He paused. “But … well, I’m on the wrong course. It hasn’t taken me long to discover.”

“You’re going to change? I thought you liked economics.”

“Universities.”

She caught her breath. “You’re going to leave Edinburgh?”

“Yes, next semester. I can transfer the credit on the courses I’m doing this semester. Glasgow has exactly the right course for me. It’ll fit what I’m going to be – an accountant.” He smiled. “Like your dad. I should have chosen it first time round, but I wanted to come to Edinburgh. And I’ve really enjoyed Edinburgh – it’s just that the subjects I want to do are right there in the Glasgow course.”

She was silent.

“Are you all right?”

She nodded.

He was staring at her intently. “You don’t seem happy, Clover. Are you homesick, do you think?” He gestured towards the street outside. “This place is very different from Cayman. Obviously.” He paused. “I miss it too, sometimes. And will even more in the future, I think.”

She wondered what he meant. “Why the future?”

“You haven’t heard? Sorry, I thought you knew. My folks have left Cayman. Two months ago.”

She felt her world slip further away.

“Where to?” Her voice sounded strained.

“Australia. My mother’s from there originally, you know. She wanted to go back, and I think my dad was a bit fed up with Cayman. He wanted something new. He’s got a job in a medical practice in a place called Ballarat. It’s not all that far from Melbourne. I’ll be going to see them over Christmas.”

Clover struggled to keep herself under control. This was the end. It was what she had decided she wanted, but it was still an end.

James was still looking at her. “I don’t think you’re happy,” he said quietly. “Boyfriend trouble?”

She shook her head vigorously.

He reached over and placed his hand on hers. “Are you still with the same guy? The Irishman … what’s his name?”

“Padraig.”

He took his hand away. “I hope he makes you happy.” And then, after a brief pause, “That’s what I want, you know.”

She thought: I have to tell him now. If I don’t, I’m going to have the rest of my life to regret it. There’s a chance – just a chance. I have to tell him.

But instead it was he who spoke. “You see, I never had a sister and I suppose you’re the closest thing I have to a sister.”

She struggled with the words. “But I don’t want to be your sister …”

He drew back, in mock apology. “Sorry! I don’t mean to burden you.”

“It’s not that …”

But he interrupted her. He had remembered something and looked down at his watch. “Oh God, I’ve forgotten.”

“Forgotten what?”

“I have to get a book back to the library by nine. And it’s still in the flat. I’m going to have to run.”

She could not say anything.

He wiped the foam off his lips. “I’ll see you sometime,” he said, and added, “Are you going home for Christmas?”

She nodded.

“I envy you.”

She stared at the surface of the table, at the crumbs of something – a croissant, perhaps – that had lodged in a crack in the wood. She did not want her misery to show, but the thought struck her then – the strange, unexpected thought – that misery was not just in ourselves – it was in the things about us in the world.

“Then you’ll see Ted,” he continued. “Tell him to come up to Scotland and see us both. Either Edinburgh or Glasgow.”

“I will.”

“Good.”

He waved to the assistant behind the counter, who waved back. Then, as if it were an afterthought, he blew a kiss to Clover. She blew the kiss back.