summer holidays
chapter thirty-nine
The Cupid Effect
Why I had to meet Gwen here, I didn’t know. I wasn’t a big fan of airports at the best of times. Mostly because you had to travel halfway across town to get to them. It’d taken me ages to get to Leeds Bradford airport by public transport. I’d tried to get Jess to drive me there and she’d told me where to go.
I wandered across the concourse, feeling lost and cross. Meet me in the main bit, Gwen had said. I’d not realised there was so much to the main bit. And there was every danger of me making eye contact with someone, seeing as I was looking for her. I was hot and bothered. I should be at home, in bed. I was going to London in two days, I needed all the sleep I could to handle sleeping on my parents’ sofa for a while. The offer on my flat had been tempting, but I hadn’t accepted it. I’d not known what I was going to do next February when my contract was up so I wasn’t going to be selling owt until I decided.
Gwen had made sure I’d travel practically across the world to see her by saying she had my copy of my assessment with her and she’d give it to me if I met her. Crafty old woman.
‘Ceri!’ a voice squeaked across the concourse. I looked around. No one who looked even vaguely like Gwen stood among the crowd. She waved. I double-took. A woman with long black hair stood where Gwen should have been. She wore a black vest, a denim overshirt and, whoa, shorts! Gwen was wearing shorts. I looked behind me to check this woman wasn’t waving at someone else. No one behind me. Which meant, shorts woman was Gwen.
We sat on a bench, her rucksack on the seat between us, Gwen leant on the rucksack as she talked. She’d handed me a white envelope with my name on the front the moment we sat down.
‘It’s your assessment,’ she said. ‘Don’t open it yet. Wait till I’m gone, then you can’t tell me off.’
‘So this is your new job?’ I asked, prodding the rucksack.
‘The Ancient Traveller? Yes.’
‘Hey, less of the traveller bit, you, you’re only going on holiday,’ I joked.
Gwen laughed. ‘No, I’m going away for at least a year. And if I come back, I’ll be moving to London or Dublin. Or maybe even Paris. But not Leeds. Definitely not Leeds.’
‘Don’t tell me, you’ve emotionally left Leeds.’
‘By Jove, I think you’ve finally got it.’
She was all right, Gwen, when she wasn’t being her usual self. And she so wasn’t looking her usual self. Shorts. I glanced at her shorts and then her legs. Double-took. Her podgy pins were a patchwork of scars. Some circular, others deep and long. The skin on her legs, which had obviously not seen the light of day in years, were bluish white, making the disfigurements more prominent. That’s why she wore thick tights no matter what the weather.
My heart raced all of a sudden, sickness washed through my stomach. I wanted to tear my eyes away from her legs, wounded as they were.
Ouch, there it was again. An aching for someone. For Gwen. This really hurt though. My legs began to throb with the agony she’d endured. With whatever it was that caused her scars. I suddenly knew what it felt like to not be able to wear skirts or shorts. How much self-disgust went into bathing every day and seeing your skin marked like that. The nonphysical pain of knowing that if you went out without tights everyone would stare at you in horror and fascination. No one would skip over your legs, see it and accept it. There’d be pity or disgust, never indifference. I inhaled deeply. This was part of Gwen’s problem. She never felt normal. She couldn’t be. I felt that now. I understood that now. Probably why she latched onto me. I didn’t know anything about her, so that made me an ideal friend.
‘It’s going to take getting used to,’ Gwen said, raising and straightening her legs, ‘showing off my legs. I haven’t worn shorts in . . . years. Not since I got married. Actually, about a year after I got married.’
More pain shot through my legs, but this time the pain carried on travelling up to my heart, as everything finally, finally fell into place.
That day in my office when Gwen thought I’d been beaten up flashed through my mind. ‘When one of my friends was being physically abused by her husband, it was virtually impossible for her to talk about. She had bruises all over and an excuse to match each one. I don’t want you to feel you have to suffer in silence like that. I understand.’ At that time, she saw me in her. She thought I was suffering like she was and had tried to reach out to me. Tried to save me. I might’ve guessed if I hadn’t been so consumed by the Angel/huge bruise on my face thing. Not that I would’ve been able to do anything. Except, possibly, not be so down on her when she resigned. Not given in to irritation when she ‘whinged’. I’d kind of guessed there was something behind her odd behaviour, her inability to be happy or to relax. But I hadn’t cared enough to pursue it. Her problems weren’t ‘sexy’, literally, like Mel and Claudine’s. How could I do that? I thought I was open to all callers at all hours, but no.
Gwen looked from her legs to my face. ‘But it’s all right now,’ she added, obviously seeing my concern. ‘I finally did it. That’s why I quit, that’s why I’m here.’
‘Finally did what?’ I asked.
‘This is my escape, Ceri, from all the things that held me back.’
‘Your husband’s not going with you?’ I asked cautiously. I just wanted to double-check I’d decoded the speak about her legs correctly.
‘Vernon’s gone on a business trip for a few days. I think he’ll be surprised when he comes back to find me gone and our joint savings account and our investment account and the accounts he had in my name a few thousand pounds lighter. In fact, he’ll only have £10 left in each of them.’
‘Where are you going?’ I asked.
‘On the third flight out of here. Three’s my lucky number, so I’m going to get on the third plane. Which means, I need to be going.’
She stood, hoisted her rucksack onto her back. She was truly transformed. Her black hair flowed down her back, instead of being pulled back into a bun, or straightened to hang around her face like slabs of dead meat. Her body was comfortable. Not slender, not tall, comfortable. At ease. Relaxed. She moved with elegance and ease. As though someone had finally given her permission to enjoy moving in her body. WHAM-BAM! It hit me. No cigarette. That’s why she looked different. No cigarette. No look as though gagging for a cigarette. She looked about ten years younger with this comfortable persona.
‘I’ve told the college to offer you a permanent position. They might not, but I’ve told them. Your research supervisor is very impressed with what you’ve done so far, she thinks it’s PhD material, so you could stay, do a PhD. You’d have to work on getting yourself funding and getting the title right, but you could do it. Although you might not want to stay, but I think you should.’
‘I might, I haven’t decided what I want to do yet. February is a long time away.’
‘I know. But with all the changes in the department, this is probably the time to decide if you want to stay or not.’
‘Thanks, I’ll think about it.’
‘You do that.’
‘OK, bye.’
‘Bye.’ Gwen turned and went to walk away, then she suddenly spun on her trainered feet. ‘All this is thanks to you, Ceri. That’s why I wanted to see you before I went.’
‘No,’ I raised my hands, ‘do not put any of this on me. Good or bad, do not put it on me.’
‘Have it your way. But when you breeze into a place, so openly following your heart by leaving your comfortable life, going back to living like a student and being happy with what you’re doing and who you are, please don’t be surprised if people copy you. Especially people like me who thought they were stuck as they were for ever.
‘When you show people it’s possible to live their dreams, don’t be surprised if they,’ she took my hands, squeezed them, ‘thank you.’
Didn’t I say not to put it on me?
‘I’ll email you from wherever I end up,’ Gwen called
over her shoulder as she headed off towards the bank of check-in desks.
‘OK,’ I replied, then spun away before I saw which desk she was heading for. It was Gwen’s big adventure. I didn’t want to impose on it by knowing which place the third flight out of there went to.
To be honest, I had always thought of Gwen as a bit of a cow. A deranged cow who didn’t know what made students tick. I thought she was one of those people who would love teaching if it wasn’t for the students.
When, really, I had no right to judge her. I had no idea what went on in her life beyond the faculty. Her dress sense shouldn’t have mattered. I thought I’d left all that vacuous nonsense in London. Not that I thought I was into it. I used to put down people who found dress sense and labels and looks important. But I noticed when Gwen didn’t ‘fit in’. I noticed the thick black tights, I scorned her because of her thick black tights. Never knowing that they hid the horrors of her life.
I walked around people, heading out of the airport. The pains in my legs had gone now I wasn’t near Gwen. As I moved, I felt something odd about my face. I reached up to check what was wrong, found my fingers resting on my teeth.
All right, despite everything, this kind of thing did make me happy. I did find myself enjoying it. Other people’s joy was heartening. The Cupid Effect meant I’d be alone, without long-term sex and love for the rest of my natural life but, sometimes, other people needed it more than me.
epilogue
Just In Case You
Were Wondering . . .
‘All right, that’s it,’ I mumble, slap my hands on the table. ‘I’m sorting this out once and for all.’
Jess reaches out to me, but no, nothing is going to stop me. Jess and I had dropped in to college so I could get some stuff done, we could have some cheap lunch and then we’d head off to Otley for the day. But, as I sat eating with my best mate, I’d glanced up to see him again. Staring at me.
‘Leave it, Ceri,’ Jess says.
‘No, he can’t go around glaring at people and expect them to put up with it.’
Jess makes one more futile grab for me as I pass her. I storm around tables and chairs and the odd diner and head for his table.
‘Excuse me,’ I say, standing opposite Staring Man at his table.
He glares up at me, his bronze eyes fixed on my face.
‘Why do you keep glaring at me?’ I demand. ‘What have I done to you?’
He frowns slightly, but manages to keep the glare going.
I fold my arms, rest my weight on one leg and continue in my sternest, non-shouting voice. ‘I’ve hardly spoken to you, but in the past six months you’ve done nothing but give me evils, why?’
‘I haven’t,’ he replies, and his rich voice weakens my knees as usual.
I pull out a chair and sit down. ‘You have.’
‘I, er . . .’
‘You. Have.’
‘I admit I’ve been staring at you. But not giving you evils.’
‘All right, the jury’s still out on if you were giving me evils or simply staring, but why? Have I got some sort of growth on my face that only you can see? Do I remind you of someone? Do you hate black people? What?’
Staring Man blushes, searches my face for a moment, blushes some more. ‘Well, I like you, don’t I?’
‘Eh?’
‘I think you’re beautiful and I’m too shy to just come over and start talking to you, so I stare at you instead.’
‘Ah.’
‘Besides, I thought you had a thing going with Mel. You left that party together and you were together quite often. Even in the supermarket car park when I thought we’d made a connection over Star Trek, you brought up Mel. But I still had hope cos I know Mel hates Star Trek. Then, like a moment from my worst nightmare, I hit you in the face with that door and, after that, well . . . it became academic if you were with Mel or not; no matter how charming or funny you try to be, no matter how much you bond over Star Trek, no woman’s going to go out with you once you’ve knocked her halfway across a shop floor. So I gave up and went back to staring at you. I didn’t mean owt by it. I just like you. A lot.’
‘Oh.’
He smiles, and again, the grin softens his chiselled features. He runs a hand through his short, spiked-up black hair. He’s about my age, maybe a fraction older, but his face looks like he’s lived, like he’d have a story or two to tell. And he likes me.
I relax into the chair, I can’t help but smile back. He’s very attractive. When I first saw him in the pub, he reminded me of an artistic stroke on a page, didn’t he?
‘I really didn’t mean to glare at you,’ he says.
‘Hmmm,’ I reply with a raised eyebrow.
‘How about I apologise by buying you a drink in a public place, lots of people around so you know I’m not some mad staring stalker. Oh, and without any doors to hit you with.’
‘It was six months of glaring. Really hard glares.’
He laughs. ‘How about dinner then? Dinner in a public place, I’m afraid, though, there might be doors involved in a restaurant.’
‘I’m willing to risk it if you are,’ I laugh and steal a chip from his plate. ‘I’ll be in college tomorrow afternoon, you can call me to arrange it. We could go down to Town Street or New Roadside.’
‘Tomorrow?’ he asks.
‘Unless you’re busy.’
‘No, no I’m not. Tomorrow would be great. Fantastic, even.’
‘Tomorrow it is then.’
Staring Man grins, really wide. So wide, I have to look away. I haven’t had this in a while, someone who thinks I’m beautiful and looks so pleased at the thought of having dinner with me. I’d actually forgotten how it felt to have someone fancy me, not just want to unload onto me. I’m not feeling anything problem-like from him – no need to share; no ulterior motive. He’s just looking forward to dinner with me. Wow.
‘Your friend’s trying to get your attention,’ he says, indicating behind me.
‘Friend?’ I glance over my shoulder. Jess is staring at us, open-mouthed. She thought I was coming over to start a fight, which I was, and now we’re grinning at each other and I’m stealing his chips. She’s going to faint when I tell her about dinner. Oh, Jess, Otley.
I get up, ‘I’ve got a prior engagement, I’d better be going,’ I say. Then I remember. ‘Oh, my name’s Ceri. Ceri D’Altroy, I’m finally in the college phone book. What’s your name? I can’t keep calling you Staring Man. Which I only called you in my head and to my friend, over there. But not to anyone . . .’ Ceri, shut up. Now. NOW! ‘Anyway, what’s your name?’
He rolls his eyes and sighs silently. ‘I’ve got a bloody stupid name. Blame it on my parents. They wanted a girl, so when they got me, they kept the name but didn’t even consider that it’d humiliate me for the rest of my life.’
Ah ha! Someone else who understands the torture of being callously named. Ceresis, indeed. ‘Go on . . .’
‘It’s all rather embarrassing, really. That’s why everyone at college calls me Bosley.’
‘It can’t be that bad,’ I say.
‘You’d be surprised.’
I frown. ‘Oh come on, just tell me what your name is.’
His bronze eyes meet mine as he says: ‘Angel.’
Dorothy Koomson, The Cupid Effect
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