2014
Walking home that evening, something felt wrong. It was nothing I could identify, because everything appeared normal. I was just one of many people heading home from work, or heading somewhere at least. It was bitterly cold and I’d left my scarf hanging over my banister that morning, but the chill was nothing out of the ordinary. It was to be expected in November.
The feeling I couldn’t shake off could only be about tomorrow. I hadn’t forgotten what day it was. Perhaps the foreboding was anxiety manifesting as something else? But even that didn’t make sense because I had learnt to deal with it. As I did every year, I refused to think about it until the day arrived, descending on me like a hurricane. I had become skilled at closing that door.
Garratt Lane was busy as always, and I blended into the other pedestrians, a part of the London landscape. This was how I always felt walking home, as if I was nothing more than a puppet in a scene, being moved along by someone else. Perhaps I just felt strange because I was later than usual leaving work, and I wasn’t good with change to my routine. I needed order and structure, otherwise everything fell apart.
I was only late because I’d stayed to help Maria; I couldn’t leave her by herself to deal with the order of books that had come in, even if my day at the library had begun three hours before hers. Besides, what did I have to go home to?
I smiled, remembering Maria recounting details of a new man she’d met, while we unpacked and tagged the books. Maria had only been working at the library for a few months, but in that time I had got to know probably every detail of her life. She was my polar opposite: open and talkative, while I was reserved and kept as much of my life private as possible. I knew that she was single and often had dates, and liked hearing her stories. This new man’s name was Dan, and the whole time Maria talked, raving about the smallest thing he might have said, I allowed myself to get lost in her life. This was how it was with us; she talked and I listened. But every now and again I would catch her staring at me, giving me that look. The one that showed how badly she wanted me to let her into my life.
The library was only a short walk from my road so it didn’t take long to get home. My flat was small – no, not small: minuscule – the upstairs floor of a converted house, but it was affordable for London, and at least I had my own front door, even if the neighbours’ one was practically joined to mine. I also had my own staircase, making the place feel a bit more spacious.
But my decision to rent it was not made on practicalities like price or location. It was the name of the road that convinced me I had to live there. Allfarthing Road. It made me picture a time – way before I was born – that I could only imagine from what I’d read in books. A time when people greeted each other on the street and knew all the neighbours. I knew I was romanticising and I didn’t long for anything like that – it just wouldn’t suit how I needed to live – but it was comforting to think a time like that had existed once. That times that came before never truly disappeared.
I climbed the five steps leading up to my door and dug in my bag for my keys. It was a ridiculously tiny cross-body bag, but there wasn’t much I needed to haul around with me, so it was only a matter of seconds before I realised my keys weren’t in it. My purse, mobile phone, some hand sanitiser, but no keys.
Puzzled, I tried to stay calm and consider the possibilities. I definitely had them that morning because the front door needed to be double locked, and I never forgot to do that. I wouldn’t have needed them at the library so couldn’t recall noticing them, which could mean two things; I’d dropped them on the walk to work or they’d fallen out of my bag at the library and were at that moment gathering dust somewhere in the building.
The first possibility filled me with panic, and after a quick scout of the steps and concrete garden area, I grabbed my mobile and dialled work. Pressing my phone against my ear to try and drown out the hum of traffic, I could only just make out the ring tone. It seemed to purr in my ear forever until Maria finally picked up, trying to get her words out between heavy rasps of breath.
‘Maria, it’s Leah.’
She seemed relieved I wasn’t a customer after some help, and I gave her time to gather her breath. But with every passing second my panic was rising. I was already late home and now I couldn’t even get inside. My whole evening was being disrupted by something I had no control over.
‘No problem,’ Maria said, once I explained my keys were missing. ‘I’ll go and have a look. Call you back.’ And she hung up, eager to get off the phone and help me. All I could do then was wait, with the icy November air biting my skin, desperate to be in my only slightly warmer flat, shutting the door on another day of existing.
It was too cold to stand still so I paced up and down the steps, ignoring the bemused looks I received from a couple of passersby. Minutes ticked by and nearly half an hour passed before Maria finally called back. I held my breath and waited for her to tell me she couldn’t find them.
‘I’ve got them,’ she said, jingling them to prove it.
Relief flooded through me. ‘Where were they?’ I should have thanked her first, but I needed to know where they’d been.
‘Um, a customer must have handed them in and Sam put them in the office. I just checked in there in case—’
‘Okay.’ I tried to make sense of this. I was always so careful so couldn’t see how they had fallen out of my bag.
‘Anyway, I’m about to leave so I’ll bring them to you now. You live off Garratt Lane, don’t you? I can be there in ten minutes, just—–’
‘No! I mean, don’t put yourself out. I’ll walk back to the library. Meet you there?’ I had never invited Maria to my flat and recently she had started to drop hints about coming over, but each time I’d managed to avoid it actually happening.
She fell silent for a moment. ‘Right. Fine. But I’ll meet you at the coffee shop. I have to lock up now and it’s too cold to stand around outside.’ And right then I made a silent promise to myself to make it up to her.
Thanking her, I wrapped my thick wool coat tighter around me and began to trace my steps back towards work. I walked fast, even though I knew Maria would take a while doing all the checks before she closed up. I just wanted my keys back in my hands. I didn’t expect her, or anyone else, to understand it but any disruption to my routine left me vulnerable. I needed order. Everything to be exactly as it should be, no deviations. And tonight could so easily have become one. As it was, I was still thrown off my routine; I should have been inside by now, cooking dinner before logging on to the website and living my vicarious life once more.
When I reached the coffee shop, I peered through the window to see if Maria was there but there was no sign of her. The after-work crowd had claimed every seat, chatting away to each other, in no rush to be at home. Unlike me. I felt a pang of envy, but I knew I could never be like them.
Although I was thirsty, I decided against going inside. As much as I enjoyed her company, if Maria and I sat down together the evening would be gone and I needed to get online. So continuing to brave the cold, fiercer now than it had been just moments ago, I faced towards the library, anxious to spot her the minute she became visible so I could grab my keys and get home.
It was twenty minutes before I saw her, walking as if she was taking a stroll on a beach, in no rush to get my keys back to me. ‘Oh, you’re out here,’ she said, when she reached me. ‘I thought we could get a coffee.’
‘I’m really sorry, but I need to get home. So tired. But we could go for one next week?’ I considered faking a yawn but didn’t think I’d be able to pull it off.
Her smile disappeared. ‘Okay. But next time, right?’ With a gloved hand, she pulled my keys from her pocket and handed them to me. ‘Be more careful next time,’ she said.
As I walked home, I wondered how much of her comment was made in jest.
It always felt comforting to close the front door and stand for a minute in my hallway; like stepping into a bubble, knowing the world had been shut out. That I was safe. This was my space and I rarely had visitors. It was easier that way.
Of course there were rare occasions when I invited Mum over, but those times were always fraught with tension. Her complaints of London being too dreadful a place for words, and her insistence that I’d be more comfortable at home, were things I had to spend weeks psyching myself up for. She could never concede that my small flat in Wandsworth was my home now. There was no other.
A pile of letters sat on the threadbare doormat and scooping them up, I rushed up the creaky stairs, eager to get my evening back on track. Normally I opened my mail before I did anything else, but my growling stomach warned me to fill it up with food, and quickly. So for the first time, I left the envelopes on the kitchen worktop. No letter I ever got was so important that it couldn’t wait until later.
Even though I was existing rather than living, I filled every moment of time with something. Idle time was a toxin for me; it meant my thoughts could get the better of me and I’d spent too long letting that happen. Keeping them at bay was my goal now.
Once a week I volunteered at the care home on the next road, reading to the residents after dinner and keeping them company. If I could have afforded to I would have done it seven days a week. Just seeing their faces light up when I walked in was enough to lift me from my fog, to show me that I wasn’t a bad person.
But there were still long hours I needed to fill and it was thanks to Maria that I’d discovered Two Become One a few months earlier. Never shy about her search to find a man who would stick around longer than a week, she openly shared the fact that she had found a dating website. On it, the men were all professionals and people broke the ice by talking in chat rooms before deciding whether to meet up.
Hearing Maria talk about it, the idea of meeting someone online filled me with horror. It was like shopping for a partner. How could you know they were who they said they were? How could you be sure what they wanted? The idea was abhorrent to me. I wasn’t being judgemental, it was just the idea of meeting any man, anywhere, filled me with anxiety.
But curiosity – or perhaps it was loneliness? – got the better of me one night and I checked out the website, browsing through it until I had worked out what it was all about. I felt safe doing it: I was alone in my flat and nobody could see me, no one could reach me.
Witnessing people’s conversations, I envied these people for their carefree attitudes, and was slowly drawn in, within weeks setting up an account, using Mum’s maiden name, Harling, and posting a picture that I was convinced nobody from my past would recognise me from. In it, my hair, now lighter than it ever had been, covered a lot of my face and I was turned to the side. It was the best I could do if I wanted to talk to people on the site. But that was all I would allow myself to do. If I couldn’t have my own life then at least I could live in a fantasy one.
The incident with my keys almost forgotten, I sat on the sofa, balancing my laptop on my knee, a cup of tea on the coffee table. Although it was easier to use the computer at my tiny kitchen table, I was too exhausted to sit on a hard wooden chair.
I entered a chat room and read the lines of conversation, staying silent. But, as was usual, my presence was announced in bold blue letters and a string of welcomes followed. As tempted as I was to respond, just this once, I ignored them and waited for the conversation to start up again. There were seventeen people in the room and they were asking each other what jobs they did and where they lived. I watched as two of them, a woman called Melissa and a man called Rich, disappeared to their own private chat room. There it was. So easy for other people.
There were more visitors than usual that night; Friday was a day that highlighted loneliness more than any other, a day people’s single status stared them in the face. But I had taught myself immunity to that feeling. It was all a matter of perspective, and what was being alone when there was so much worse out there? That didn’t mean I enjoyed it, though. I would have loved to approach someone, respond to the messages I was constantly sent, be normal. I had intended to start up conversations but so far my hands froze whenever I went to reply to a message.
Cradling my mug to warm my hands, I browsed through profile pictures, making up a story about who I believed each man to be. Of course, I was never right when I compared my ideas to the details they provided, but it helped pass the time.
A ping erupted from the laptop and I didn’t flinch. I was used to being sent private messages and that’s what I knew the sound was. But when the envelope flashed in the corner of the screen, I saw it was from a moderator. I knew they lingered around, making sure chat rooms were safe, but I had never been contacted by one. Perhaps they would tell me that I was no longer welcome on the site, that I wasn’t playing the game, getting involved, so they could do without my business. Taking a deep breath, I clicked the envelope.
Moderator34: Hey, u ok?
Confused, I exhaled and reread the message. I wasn’t getting kicked off. He or she was only asking if I was okay. But why? I had no idea if this was normal. Without thinking, my fingers began tapping the keyboard.
LeahH: I’m okay. Thanks for asking. How are you?
It was all I could think of to say.
Moderator34: Just worried about you!
I’ve noticed you on here before but you don’t seem to want to talk to anyone??
So this was it. I was getting kicked off. Quickly, I tried to think of an excuse for my lack of communication.
LeahH: Sorry. Bit shy.
The response came back immediately.
Moderator34: Believe me, you have no reason 2 b shy.
Your photo is beautiful.
I am male by the way, in case you were wondering…
LeahH: Are you allowed to say things like that?
Moderator34: Probably not but figured you were worth the risk
I should have stopped there. This had already gone too far. I wanted to type back that he was wrong, that I was one person who was not worth any kind of risk, but I didn’t. Instead I continued our conversation, allowing myself to bask in a few minutes of feeling normal, firing questions at him, without having any idea why I was so interested. I didn’t even know what he looked like.
He told me his name was Julian, he was thirty-six and lived in Bethnal Green. Begging me not to judge him by his job, he revealed that he was a civil servant and worked in Whitehall.
When he turned the questions on me, I began to get nervous. I looked around my flat, wondering just how much I wanted to share with this stranger. My home was crammed from floor to ceiling with books, leaving little room for furniture. I made do with just a sofa and coffee table just so I could buy more books and not worry about where to put them. I could see the whole flat from the sofa because the kitchen and lounge were open plan. I always left the bedroom and bathroom doors ajar. It wasn’t a conscious decision, just something I always did.
I wondered what Julian would think of it here. Would he know straight away that I lived vicariously through the characters in the stories I read? Or the people in the chat rooms?
Ignoring my reservations, I continued talking to Julian and he began to intrigue me. His sense of humour jumped off the screen, his words creating a vivid picture of him. He seemed different to anyone I’d come across on the site so far, more natural, as if he wasn’t trying to do anything or be anyone other than himself. He was funny and charming without being creepy or desperate, and it made something in me ache. With sadness or longing, or a mixture of both.
I had to snap out of it. Nothing like this had happened to me in all the time I had browsed through profiles and lurked in chat rooms on Two Become One, and I didn’t like how I was starting to feel. Making an excuse that I had to go, I closed the website, not bothering to log off, and took my mug to the kitchen.
Although it had left me feeling empty, the encounter with Julian had distracted me from thinking about tomorrow. I knew nothing would happen other than my head swimming with memories, but every year was still as painful as those that had preceded it. As if no time had passed.
After making myself another cup of tea – a small comfort given the day I’d had – I took it over to the window, kneeling down so I could look out at Allfarthing Road. This was another way I spent my evenings when I wasn’t at the care home: watching life pass by outside my window. With a deep sigh, I told myself, as I did every night, that this was how it had to be. The difference was that now a tiny part of me wanted to fight against my sentence. I wanted to feel alive.
It was only when I was washing up before bed that I remembered I hadn’t opened my post. The pile remained on the kitchen worktop, and grabbing it, I sat down at the table. There were only three letters, and I binned the first one without opening it. I had no interest in special offers from a catalogue I’d never ordered from, or even heard of. I also ignored the letter I recognised immediately as a council tax bill; my payments were made by direct debit so I had nothing to worry about there.
It was the final envelope that puzzled me. It was pastel yellow and felt like a card. Strange. The only cards I ever received were from Mum on my birthday and at Christmas, but my birthday was months ago and it was too early for Mum’s Christmas card. And yellow wasn’t a Christmassy colour, was it? Red perhaps, green even, but not yellow.
The foreboding I’d felt walking home returned and I immediately knew I was holding something I wouldn’t want to see. But my hand still found the edge of the flap and tore it open. I slid out the card and stared at the glittery blue writing.
Happy Anniversary!
The picture of a champagne bottle with its cork popped, colourful ribbons bursting out of it, silently mocked me. Bile rose to my throat but I still opened the card. Inside, my name was written in thick black marker pen. Leah. There were no other words, only my first name. In writing that looked childish, every letter a different size.
I slipped it back in its envelope and flung it on the table, pushing it away with the heel of my palm, as if it could physically hurt me if I touched it more firmly. It balanced precariously on the edge of the table but didn’t fall to the floor. My flat seemed to grow even smaller, as if attempting to crush me, and I had to fight for breath.
My past was catching up with me.
1995
I turn away from Mum and head towards the huge glass doors of the main block. This is where the letter said to go when I arrived, so I take a deep breath and force myself to move forward. This doesn’t feel like a school; it’s a hundred times bigger than my old one and every subject has its own building. How will I ever be able to tell the maths block from the English one when they all look the same? Not for the first time, I wish I wasn’t old enough to start secondary school. There is no way I’m ready for this.
It doesn’t help when, half an hour later, I am just one in a sea of students seated in the assembly hall, listening to the head teacher, Mr Curtis, drone on about behaviour and consequences. I can’t take in a word he says because I’m scared stiff, surrounded by strangers who all seem to know each other.
I loathe Mum and Dad for making us move here. I was happy in Derby so why did everything have to change? Don’t they care that I will have no friends now? I found it hard enough to talk to people back home so what chance do I have here? Slipping further down into my chair, as if I can make myself invisible, I know for sure I have arrived in hell.
I’m so lost in my thoughts, I don’t realise Mr Curtis is calling out a list of names and telling us which teacher to follow to our form room. Has my name already been called? I think I might pass out. Everyone else seems to know what they’re doing, why is it only me who doesn’t? But then I hear it. Leah Mills. What a relief. I look around and there is a teacher – a woman with short, blonde bobbed hair – lifting her hand slightly to signal her form group. She looks kind enough, but it’s not as if I have any choice but to go with her. Apparently, this is the teacher I’ll be stuck with for the rest of my time here, unless the woman leaves or dies or something.
I take so long to squeeze through the crammed rows of chairs that, by the time I make it to the aisle, the teacher is strutting off, students tailing her like rats following the Pied Piper. I try to catch them up but even when we reach the classroom I still lag behind. Is this what secondary school is going to be like? A constant struggle to keep up? I hate it already.
Things don’t get any better once I’m inside the classroom. The blonde teacher has assigned seats to everyone and I am the only one sitting alone. I am also right at the back, in the corner against a wall, as if I am unimportant and it doesn’t matter to anyone whether I’m here or not. I stare at the empty space beside me, it seems to be mocking me and it is all I can do to stop a massive flood of tears from erupting and showing me up even more.
Murmurs die down and everyone turns to the teacher, waiting for her to speak. It seems to take forever, but when she eventually opens her mouth, her voice is soft and unsure. Not at all what I’ve been expecting. All the teachers in my primary school sounded as if they were talking through loudspeakers, deafening us if we were unlucky enough to sit near them. Perhaps this one is new? She looks fairly young, younger than Mum anyway, so this could be her first time teaching. I should feel sorry for her because if she is new then we are in the same position, aren’t we? And just because she’s an adult, it doesn’t mean she isn’t scared. But she has stuck me at the back and why did it have to be me out of everyone here? There are at least thirty of us, but Mrs Whoever-She-Is has picked me to sit alone. I don’t think I can forgive her for that.
‘Um, I’m Miss Hollis,’ she manages to say, and I only realise what she’s said because she writes it on the whiteboard too. The next thing I know, everyone is being told to pair up and tell their partners three interesting facts about themselves. Immediately the room bursts into life and everyone chatters away as if they’ve known each other forever, while I sit by myself, partner-less.
I can’t even see Miss Hollis any more; perhaps she’s decided she’s had enough and made a run for it. I wish I could do that. But no, there she is in the corner, watching the class anxiously from behind her computer. Can’t she see I don’t have a partner?
Just when I decide I’ll have to tell myself three interesting things about myself, a short, plumpish girl turns to me from the desk in front. ‘I’ll work with you,’ she says, smiling shyly. ‘Those three can work together.’ She motions to the three other students in her row, and for the first time I notice they are all boys. It makes me feel slightly better because at least I’m not the only one sitting in an uncomfortable place.
I introduce myself and watch as the girl screeches her chair around so we are facing each other. She’s got nice eyes, huge, dark and shiny, and a small upturned nose like a ski-slope.
‘I’m Imogen,’ she says. ‘And the only interesting fact I can think of is that I’ve only been here one hour and I already hate this place.’
And for the first time that day – maybe that month – I smile and feel my spirits lift. This girl will be my friend. I know it.
2014
I had barely slept, but that was only to be expected when the day looming ahead of me was the anniversary. I knew it did no good to dwell on eve. . .
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