Losing My Identity Read online

  ‘You reckon you’d be comfortable driving something this size?’ Hari asked, as they prepared to leave, and Leila checked for the fourth time that both cottage doors were locked.

  She snorted. ‘I’ve driven lorry-sized horse-boxes, vans, old-fashioned Land Rover Defenders, tractors… you name it.’

  ‘In that case, I’ll check my insurance policy – I think you can drive on it as things stand, but if necessary I’ll add you.’

  Leila was taken aback. Driving his car seemed to signal a level of commitment that she didn’t think they’d reached.

  ‘I guess you could drive my Yaris then.’

  He laughed. Not in a hundred years, she thought. ‘I like my wee car,’ she added defensively. ‘It’s economical, and it’s easy to park.’

  ‘Which is why you never take it into town? Have you got a clean licence, by the way?’

  ‘I have. You?’

  He confessed to having six points on his, for speeding. Leila said she was surprised his friends the cops hadn’t let him off, but he said they probably lay in wait. Extra brownie points for nabbing the pathologist.

  ‘Inspector Morse would have got you off.’

  He muttered something very unflattering about Morse. But somehow, during that light-hearted conversation, a small, unmanned border had been crossed.

  She’d never been allowed – or invited – to drive Sam’s car.

  Hari paced around her flat in an irritating way as she whisked through his shirts.

  ‘They’ll have that lovely scent of sea air,’ he said.

  What Leila was noticing was the way the heat of the iron brought out a ghost of the scent of Hari’s trademark cologne that was subtle and heady at the same time.

  ‘I feel bad about making you do this,’ he announced.

  ‘You didn’t make me.’ Like to see you try to make me do anything… ‘I’m surprised you haven’t learnt to do this for yourself, that’s all. I mean, you cook far better than most women do.’

  ‘That’s different. Cooking’s a skill. It’s creative. Laundering clothes isn’t.’

  Now he was abashed. ‘That didn’t come out the way I intended. The way you iron is super-skilful.’

  She snorted. Very unladylike.

  ‘Don’t you even send your work clothes to a laundry?’ he said.

  ‘I prefer to do them myself.’

  She could imagine what Grannie – must stop thinking of her as that – what Eva would have had to say about that.

  It was a thought though. In the winter, getting everything dried was a chore.

  ‘You earned having your shirts ironed anyway. It usually takes me all summer to get those windows done.’

  He grinned. ‘I was hoping if I pulled my weight I might be asked back?’

  ‘I almost forgot,’ he said, as he prepared to leave, shirts carefully balanced on their hangers. ‘Just a moment – I have something in the car for you.’

  He handed her a carefully-wrapped parcel. It was the Iittala Uuhu owl. Leila had only seen a single one offered in an auction in the years since she’d started collecting – the price was far above what she’d ever pay. It was stunning, with its chestnut body and gleaming orange eyes.

  ‘I don’t think you have this one already?’

  ‘I don’t. It’s almost impossible to find.’

  ‘Then I’m very glad I found it for you.’

  ‘I can’t possibly accept such a valuable present. Do you know what this is worth?’

  ‘I’ve had it for ages. As far as I can recall, I found it in an antique shop in Hastings, when I was down there as a trial witness. I’m sure I didn’t pay much for it. And it doesn’t go with anything else in my collection, whereas it fits perfectly into yours.’

  ‘You could sell it on eBay for hundreds of pounds! Tell you what: let me buy it from you.’

  ‘Leila, that’s not very polite. I want you to have it as a present. I don’t care what it’s worth. What it’s worth to me is that you seem to like it.’

  ‘I don’t know how to thank you adequately!’

  ‘Say you’ll come with me to a rather silly event next weekend? There’s a ’60s night at the Hilton Central on Saturday. I saw it advertised in the free paper.’

  ‘What – for people in their sixties?’

  ‘No, silly. ’60s music and all that. Though it’s the same thing I suppose. People who were teenagers then are in their sixties now. Are you up for it? It sounds like fun.’

  What a very Sam remark. A random, unplanned, out-of-character activity out of the blue sounded like fun?

  ‘Sounds as exciting as a wet weekend in Rothesay.’

  ‘Come on, Leila. I feel like a teenager again when I’m with you. It’ll be a laugh. The folk at the hotel won’t remember you, if that’s what you’re worried about.

  ‘I’m not worried about anything.’

  ‘That’s my girl.’

  She let that pass.

  Nine

  Leila almost didn’t take the call, because she didn’t recognise the number.

  ‘Miss Ghazali? This is Anna, the archivist you spoke to at the School of Art a week or so back? I found some additional information about Flora Gibson.’

  Leila was immediately attentive. ‘What did you find?’

  ‘Her name’s on a register of evening class students from 1910. She took a life-drawing class. As far as I can see, she only stayed for one term. As an artist, it looks as if she was self-taught. I hope that helps a little.’

  ‘It does. Many, many thanks. If you ever find any more records of Eva Connor, I’d be interested to hear about those too.’

  ‘Of course.’

  One term of life-drawing. Not a stayer, then. Leila realised that she had, quite unbidden, taken a dislike to Flora Gibson, whoever she had been. It seemed clear she’d been happy to hand over her child to her landlady.

  The second shock came in the post. It was the copy of Flora’s marriage certificate she’d sent for.

  She glanced at it – nothing she didn’t already know, except for the fact that the space where Hector Gibson’s father’s name should have been entered was left blank. Flora’s father was John Henderson, deceased. Her own occupation was given as milliner. Leila added it to the file she’d started for family tree notes. On an impulse, she took it out again and turned it over. Typed on the back were several paragraphs.

  Register of Corrected Entries for the Parish of Millrig in the County of Lanark.

  Register of marriages for the Parish of Millrig in the County of Lanark, for the year 1908, Entry No 6.

  17th July 1915. Decree of Divorce was pronounced by Lord Anderson, Ordinary, in an action at the instance of Mrs Flora Henderson or Gibson, wife of Hector Gibson (after described), presently residing at Hill Street, Glasgow, against the said Hector Gibson, her husband, presently residing at Townhead, Millrig.

  The above insertion is made under the direction of the Registrar General in terms of the 5th Section of the Act 18 Victoria c29.

  22 July 1915, at Millrig. James Waddell, Registrar.

  Extracted from the Register of Corrected Entries for the Parish of Millrig, dated this 17th day of April 2014.

  Leila chortled bitterly. Family traditions!

  To take her mind off the Flora mystery, Leila spent the entire afternoon next day deciding between jeans or a short skirt, and ended up with the latter – though nothing like so short as they’d all worn in the ’60s. She was proud of her legs – they were as trim as they’d been when she was young, and the only prominent vein was hidden at the top of her thigh. She could get away with showing them off. But she still studied Hari’s face carefully for a reaction when they met in the foyer of the Hilton. Approval. He was wearing a pale blue short-sleeved shirt and jeans. Possibly the most casual outfit she’d ever seen him wear. Smart casual. Very, very smart. He suited that particular shade of blue better than any other colour.

  The function room was crowded and stuffy, and Leila began to think it was a terrib
le mistake. Not really her scene, nor his. But he was so sparkly-eyed she began to remember all these things you read about doctors and drugs.

  He took her hand and led her in the general direction of what seemed to be the dance floor. They’d scarcely begun to weave a path through the crowd when a voice behind them called tentatively, ‘Gill?’ Hari turned. A grey-haired man half a head shorter than Leila was looking expectantly at him. Hari studied the guy for a long moment. ‘Donaldson?’ He shook the proffered hand. ‘That’s amazing! Leila, I haven’t seen this man since we were both at school. Now – let me think back. Norman Donaldson?’

  The other nodded. ‘You did medicine, right?’

  ‘Right. You?’

  ‘Accountancy.’ He waved to a woman heading in their direction. ‘This is my wife, Alison.’

  Leila noticed with a twinge of self-consciousness that the other woman was a lot more conventionally-dressed than she was. But those full skirts were way out by the late ’60s. She had authenticity on her side.

  ‘Ali, this is Hari Gill. We were at the Academy together. And his wife – Leila, did you say?’

  She opened her mouth to speak, but Hari squeezed her waist and shook his head imperceptibly. She managed a mouth-only smile as she shook hands with Alison.

  ‘Come on, folks,’ said Hari cheerfully. ‘We came here to dance. Let’s dance. Never mind what assumptions they’re making,’ he murmured once he and Leila were alone. ‘We’ll probably never see them again. It’s easier to let them assume.’

  Not a social animal then, by any stretch of the imagination. Leila squirrelled the information away. In that, he was very like her.

  They spent the rest of the evening dancing energetically, interspersed with brief respite drinks at the table the Donaldsons had bagged. It was a side of Hari she hadn’t seen before – letting his hair down (if he’d had any!). He was fun. He was happy. He was a good dancer.

  Each time they headed for or left the dance floor, he kept his arm around her, and she eventually left her own arm tucked around his waist, because it was less awkward to walk that way. But a psychological bridge had been crossed. They were a couple. She couldn’t justify that view, except by accepting that she was the one who had altered her identity. Hari was the same old Hari. Confident in his own identity.

  By ten forty-five, everyone was singing along raucously to the chorus of Dylan’s ‘Forever Young’.

  ‘That was released in 1974. I remember buying it that year,’ Leila said.

  ‘Stop being so literal. It’s appropriate. It sums up what our generation’s about.’

  By eleven, the DJ had reached the slow dances. They were swaying together to ‘In Dreams’, and Leila felt tears pricking her eyelids, as they always did when she heard that song.

  Hari brought his mouth close to her ear. ‘Are you OK?’

  She snuggled against him and hid her face against his chest. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Shall we go home soon?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Will you stay over with me tonight?’

  Their bodies were pressed so close you couldn’t have slid a sheet of paper between them. She had no illusions that he was inviting her to sleep in the spare room.

  ‘OK. But I have no change of clothes with me or anything.’

  ‘Never mind. I’m sure I can provide you with all you’ll absolutely need tonight.’

  She was very far from being drunk, but she was mellow with having had a couple of glasses of wine. It’d be fine. It had to happen sooner or later.

  As soon as they were outside, Hari did his trick of simply raising his arm, and a taxi appeared beside them. They necked in the back like randy adolescents, all the way home. ‘A kiss takes a minute off your life,’ Eva used to say. Take an hour. Take a year. It’s worth it. I wasn’t fully alive before anyway…

  As soon as they entered the flat, Leila noticed a distinct smell of rabbit. ‘We need to change the bunnies’ litter tray and feed them,’ she said.

  Hari groaned and smiled at the same time. She refilled the water bottles while he did the rest. Possibly two rabbits had never had their needs attended to so quickly.

  ‘The en suite’s your territory,’ Hari said, as they reached the bedroom. ‘I’ll use the other bathroom.’

  On the tiled shelf, a pink-handled toothbrush, a tube of Aesop toothpaste, and a bottle of Korres Fig shower gel, in a basket with a pink ribbon bow on the handle. Folded on the rail, a couple of fluffy dusky pink towels, obviously new, but freshly laundered. Just for a second, it felt creepy. Had he opened the bathroom cupboards at her place, to spy on her? Then she realised how stupid she was being. He’d been to the cottage. He’d seen what she’d assembled in its only bathroom. He was merely being considerate. She decided to borrow the towelling robe hanging on the door.

  Hari was already in bed when she went back through. He turned back the covers to welcome her. Fresh sheets too!

  ‘You showered?’

  ‘I did.’ With my head at the most awkward angle, because the one thing you forgot, my dear, was a shower-cap. ‘I was all sweaty.’

  He grinned. ‘I’m hoping I might get you a little sweaty again shortly.’

  ‘You’d planned on getting me back here tonight, hadn’t you?’

  ‘A boy can always hope. I bought all the kit for you ages ago. The day after you told me pink’s your favourite colour.’

  Fibber!

  He drew her down beside him.

  His lips brushed against her ear. ‘Is there anywhere you don’t like to be touched?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  He giggled, although she could tell that was the last thing he wanted to do.

  ‘Don’t laugh at me.’

  ‘I’m not. I’m laughing at my own crassness. You’re a talented, competent woman, but you’re also very innocent about some things. I need to be more careful and tactful.’

  Not so innocent as you imagine, brother. Just not accustomed to a man who gives a flying fish about what I like and what I don’t. I’m used to selfish, careless men. And what was acceptable when Sam and I were in our twenties turned out not to be, once I grew up…

  ‘No, you don’t. I’m not a child.’

  Then those clever, slender-fingered, expert hands were all over her. This man’s an anatomist. I don’t have to draw him a map…

  ‘Stop fighting it,’ he murmured. ‘I want you to be ready, so I won’t hurt you.’

  ‘I’m a bit nervous. It’s a while since I’ve been with anyone.’

  ‘It’s been a while for me too.’

  Leila suspected his ‘while’ and hers came from separate dictionaries. Possibly separate languages.

  But she was too far-gone to start linguistic analysis. Hari was a mixture of strait-laced and incredibly sensual that drove her to distraction. And distracted her. What brought her back to earth was the noise of the bedhead – it was a wooden one, heavily-carved – beating a tattoo against the wall. And he clearly wasn’t a man to take his pleasures quietly. The whole building would be able to tell what they were doing. Jeez! I hope no one thinks it’s Hari banging on the wall and shouting for help, and calls the fire brigade! It was her turn to stifle the urge to giggle.

  ‘Leila, Leila, Leila. This is bliss. Who chose your name, by the way?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘I mean, if your parents split up before you were born, it seems odd to have chosen an Arabic name?’

  ‘I suppose my mother liked it because it’s exotic.’

  ‘I like it for that too.’

  ‘Anyway, it goes with Ghazali. I guess it would have sounded weird with something like Macpherson.’

  ‘I’m crazy in love with you. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Crazy being the operative word.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘At our age, behaving like teenagers.’

  ‘I feel like a teenager again. And it’s OK that you don’t feel the same way. I hope you will, in due course.’

&nbs
p; She started to mumble something with the word ‘love’ in it, but he laid a finger across her lips. ‘I don’t want you to feel you have to pretend. It’ll come, with time. At least, I pray it will. Maybe I need to teach you, darling.’

  ‘Don’t call me that. I loathe words like “darling” and “honey-pie”. They’re so hackneyed and false.’

  ‘Right. I don’t think I’m particularly guilty of over-using these terms. Can I call you “sweetheart”?’

  ‘At your peril! I do feel the same, Hari. I’m less demonstrative, is all. Less emotional. I like you more than any man I’ve ever known.’ That at least was probably true. She’d never liked Tarquin, the man she’d had a fling with in ’75. She had subconsciously recognised from the start that his character was despicable. She had loved Sam. But, latterly at any rate, she hadn’t liked him – as she’d discovered too late. Hari was different. He was an excellent friend, but she enjoyed being in bed with him too. ‘Anyway, we hardly know each other.’

  ‘Nonsense. I’ve been dreaming about this since February.’

  ‘The first time you set eyes on me was in February.’

  ‘That’s what I mean.’

  ‘Lust at first sight?’

  ‘Something like that. And when you walked in that evening wearing your slinky red dress… Well, I knew it was inevitable. If I didn’t get you into bed, I’d explode.’

  Leila curled her toes, remembering the way he’d looked at her that night. She was amused by the faintly obscene image his words conjured in her head. ‘That’s just sex, not love.’

  ‘It has to start that way. We’re all merely hairless apes. It’s instinctual. I’ll tell you a secret – the time I totally fell in love with you was that night you told me not to hurt the spider. But we’ve been getting to know each other for weeks now. We’re so alike. We’re made for each other.’ He yawned. ‘I can tell you’re not comfortable lying that way. How do you usually sleep?’