Losing My Identity Page 3

He looked horrified. Those eyebrows of his were more expressive than most people’s entire faces. ‘You surely never walk all the way back there? It’s not safe!’

  ‘Why – because I’m a woman? I can look after myself, I assure you.’

  ‘I’m sure you can. But all the same…’

  ‘If I were a man, you wouldn’t think it wasn’t safe to walk alone.’

  I’ve met his type before. The married wide boy who thinks he’s all that. The difference is, they don’t usually hit on women my age. Perhaps he’s just weird?

  ‘I certainly would!’ he said. ‘On that route anyway.’

  ‘I’ve lived there all my life, and I’ve walked alone in cities all my life. Here, and in Paris and London and Boston. I’ve never had a problem.’ Not strictly true. She’d never had a problem she couldn’t deal with. She’d never come to harm, just had one or two uncomfortable moments. ‘There are basic, common-sense rules. You don’t make eye-contact, and you don’t stroll along wearing a diamond tiara. There are always plenty of people around at this time in the evening anyway.’ Getting on to chucking-out time from the pubs… ‘Normal people.’

  ‘It’s going to rain. It wouldn’t take me long to drop you at home.’

  Just at that moment, his mobile rang. He glanced at the screen. ‘Damn! I have to dash anyway.’ Leila tried not to smirk. The wife, presumably, checking on where the hell he was.

  ‘But please promise me you won’t walk home.’

  ‘Promise you?’

  ‘I get to see more than most people would ever want to of what can happen to women who’re out on their own at night.’

  ‘I might take a taxi then.’

  ‘Do, please. And bring your own car next time. I never have any difficulty finding a place to park nearby.’

  As far as George Square, there were plenty of people around. The stretch below Strathclyde University was less well-populated, but not so as to be alarming. Leila kept well out to the edge of the pavement, away from the closed shops and cafés, and maintained a smart pace. She sped up her steps even further as she passed the junction with High Street. Back to where people lived after that. The pubs were still lit. The windows of the flats above them were illuminated too. Past the tower blocks on what used to be the Drygate, their grass surrounds tidy and well-kempt. Folk waiting at a bus-shelter. (Shall I? Hardly worth it, for two or three stops…)

  Past Tennent’s Brewery; but even that was OK. There were security lights at the gates, and the flats across the road had lights on. Though she wasn’t sure why that gave her any feeling of security. There were plenty of tales about the screams of a murder in the street going unheeded; no one rose from their sofa to see what was going on. They’d just turn up the sound on the TV. I’d probably do the same, when I’m at home.

  Leila didn’t find the new Glasgow less sinister than the old one, much though she tried to kid herself. She used to walk across Alexandra Parade, down Craigpark and along Golfhill Drive in the dark all winter, when she was at school. There were fewer street lights then (in fact, when she was at primary school, a few of the streets still had gas lighting), but she’d never felt nervous.

  But her journey home that night triggered a sudden memory of walking from Bellgrove Station towards Duke Street one evening when she was about seventeen. She’d been out with some of the other sixth year girls, and of course, none of them lived anywhere near Dennistoun. A sleazy-looking specimen started following her as soon as she left the station. The more she speeded up, so did he. As soon as she turned onto Duke Street, she started to sprint, and kept it up until she reached Dick’s, a grocer’s she knew would be open, as it had an off-licence. The staff knew her, from shopping with her mother. Alec Dick ran out into the street, still in the brown warehouseman’s coat they wore in the late ’60s, and chased the stalker, but the guy dodged down Bluevale Street and into a close, and Alec didn’t follow him – a wise choice, probably. He’d walked Leila home and waited until he’d delivered her safely into Greer’s hands. Her mother wasn’t as sympathetic as he’d been.

  Her mouth dry, Leila quickened her pace to a semi-jog-trot as she passed the Lidl store; closed, though the lights were still on. Restocking, probably. They’d never hear a scream…

  Damn you, Harry Gill! I’ve never, ever felt nervous walking this route. I could do it with my eyes shut. But of course, he knew what he was talking about. He had to dissect the results when someone’s lone walk went wrong.

  She kept up her pace until she was well past Bellgrove, and almost at the point where she could turn up Whitehill Street towards home. That part of the city was engraved on her, like the lines on her palm. She and Greer used to do all their shopping in that stretch of Duke Street. You could buy anything in those days – even shoes and clothes that were smart enough for Cambridge. Now some of the shops were shuttered and neglected.

  It had happened during the time she was away, Dennistoun’s slide into seediness, and its slow climb out again. The Drives were trendy and bohemian once more. The small, independent shops on the closest part of Duke Street thrived. You could buy a decent cup of coffee or fancy French cheese in any one of half a dozen places within easy reach.

  As she drew close to Roseisle Drive, Leila was strolling again. She was positively sauntering as she reached her own front door, and her heartbeat had slowed to its normal rate. How foolish, to have let Harry Gill get her so rattled. She recognised that it wasn’t all because of the images of danger he’d conjured. It was the sight of that finger, with the mark where the ring had been so clearly delineated. If there was one thing that made her angrier than any other, it was being taken for a fool.

  She leant her back against her closed (and locked) front door for a moment or two, and breathed deeply, telling herself, All I need is here.

  A huge percentage of women (and men) over thirty lived alone, both in Britain and the US. How dare those authors of self-help books on ‘finding the person for you’ imply that all those people were somehow wrong? Yes, the papers were full of articles about the rising tide of loneliness. But loneliness was a state of mind among those who’d been fed unrealistic expectations by soap operas and the social media. The whole caboodle. In the end, ‘happiness’ as a concept was over-sold, particularly by cynical governments. Whose life was perfect, even half the time? Contentment, that was the goal. And she was contented with most of her life: her home, her work, her travel, her hobbies (including the ones she intended to take up).

  Greer had done her a favour, in the end, by being lax about school attendance, so Leila had learned to be happy with her own company, all those long days home alone in the flat, talking to her dolls. (The attendance officer had turned up one time, when she was in Primary Seven. Greer had charmed the pants off him. There were no repercussions.)

  They were the stable, vibrant stars in her cosmos, her mother and grandmother. The men – her father, her grandfather, even her great-grandfather – were part of a vague, inchoate cloud, like salmon milt in a stream.

  Harry Gill didn’t show up for choir practice the following week. Leila thought back to Phyllida’s dictum at the audition. ‘I hope you realise that we expect choir members to turn up for every rehearsal? Particularly at times of year like this, when we have an important competition coming up. And, of course, when we’re preparing for one of our public performances. We’re a very professional choir you know. And very much in demand because of that.’

  Why didn’t she chuck Harry Gill out, in that case? Firstly, because it was obvious she was besotted with him. And secondly, because it would interfere with her graded-by-height arrangement. But mainly because of the first reason.

  Leila could scarcely contain her impatience for the session to end. Her warm-up Hallelujahs were half-hearted, and although she’d got the measure of Fair Phyllis at last, it brought her no satisfaction. She decided she would stay until after the competition – it would be mean to spoil Phyllida’s neat arrangement. But once that was past, she’d bow out gracef
ully. Possibly she’d see about joining an evening class in art after the summer. She had tried one such class in her thirties, just to see what it was like to draw without Greer snatching the pencil from her hand and drawing for her. But the memories ran deeper than that; like the incision you have to make to reach the heart. She’d left after the first week, forfeiting the fee she’d paid up-front for the whole term. She had accepted that she had not one iota of talent for drawing.

  Still, she was a different person, thirty years on. Greer was gone.

  It was the penultimate practice night before the Choir of the Year competition. Leila arrived in good time and had mixed feelings when she realised that Harry Gill wasn’t there. Perhaps he was going to stage another no-show? There was a moment of mingled adrenalin-rush and guilt as she wondered if her off-hand attitude had made him decide to quit.

  She made mistake after mistake, until Phyllida was shrieking at her. ‘I don’t know what your mind’s on, Leila, but it’s not on this. Concentrate!’

  And because she was still stinging from caring about the fact he wasn’t there (it was like a missing tooth her tongue kept going back to), she didn’t count to ten and take a deep breath. She snapped back, ‘Please don’t talk to me in that tone of voice, Phyllida.’

  The women glared at each other for a good half-minute, while the other choir members cleared their throats and shuffled their feet. Then Phyllida rolled her eyes, turned on her heel and moved back to her position opposite the shortest sopranos and contraltos. From the corner of her eye, Leila could see the others glancing at her. Fuck ’em. As they prepared to launch into yet another run-through of Fair Phyllis, the door opened softly, and Harry slid silently into his place.

  Phyllida patted her hair and treated him to her most ingratiating smile.

  ‘Sorry!’ he said.

  ‘Another emergency call-out?’ she purred.

  ‘I’d been out since the wee small hours, so I needed to nip home to feed and water the beasts.’

  His children, presumably. What a thing, to call your children ‘beasts’ – though it chimed with Leila’s own view of children. Other people’s children. And where was his wife? Surely she was there to feed her kids? A second marriage, probably. Leila reckoned he must be around the same age as she was. Men can get away with having young kids when they’re in their sixties. Damn them. Presumably the wife was a high-powered career-woman then. Another medic. Doctors marry doctors, the same way vets marry vets.

  As they started singing again, she was aware of his voice, just behind her, and his breath, and the warmth of his body; though perhaps she was imagining that part…

  At break time, Phyllida approached like an angry swan, ignoring Leila and body-blocking her in one move. She made straight for Harry and monopolised him in conversation.

  The second half of the rehearsal seemed never-ending. Just as Leila was congratulating herself on escaping without a lecture on safety for women walking alone, Harry appeared from nowhere, like a djinn, as she reached the exit door.

  ‘All set for the tenth?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Phyllida’s precious competition. Surely you hadn’t forgotten.’

  ‘Oh that. Yes, I think I know the pieces well enough now.’ She kept walking at a brisk pace; almost a canter.

  ‘No car with you tonight?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘But it’s pouring!’

  ‘I won’t melt. I’m a Glaswegian. There are buses that take me almost home anyway.’

  ‘Please – let me give you a lift. You’ll get soaked.’

  ‘No, thank you.’ That sounded so rude. But Jesus Christ! I thought I was done with finding married men cruising like barracudas. I don’t do married men. In particular, I don’t do married men who take their rings off and think you’re too stupid to see the mark. How crass. How patronising.

  Harry stopped and held his hands up in a surrender gesture. ‘I don’t mean to harass you. Just to be friendly. I can see you don’t want anything to do with me.’ His face crumpled ever so slightly. ‘Sorry. Sorry.’ He turned on his heel and strode rapidly away.

  Leila felt guilty. This competent, successful, confident man reduced to incoherence. On impulse, she ran after him. ‘Harry! It’s not that. I’m sorry too – I sounded a bit offhand just now. But honestly, I don’t need a lift. I like to make my own way. I’m used to it. I don’t mean to be unfriendly. We’re both getting drenched, standing here. See you next week.’

  She struggled to compose her expression, trying to convince herself he was merely a friendly, tactile type after all. He wasn’t actually hitting on her. It was just as likely he’d removed his ring for Phyllida’s benefit, or had left it lying beside the washbasin after scrubbing his hands. Yeah. Right.

  ‘Extra-special practice that night – you’re remembering that? So that Phyll can get us all drilled for the competition.’

  ‘We’re not supposed to turn up in our long dresses and so on though?’

  ‘I don’t mean to wear a long dress,’ he said, watching closely to see if she’d smile.

  Leila bared her teeth in an imitation of an insouciant grin. ‘Great. Though you never know. Might find a whole new you.’

  She left him giggling half-heartedly in the rain, and cantered towards the bus stop.

  Three

  Leila was vain enough to have cleared her whole Friday of work, deciding if she had everything she needed for her competition rigout. Phyllida had asked all the women the previous week what colours they were wearing, so that no adjacent dresses would clash. ‘I don’t want all the ladies in the same colours,’ she said. ‘It’s not as if we have a uniform.’ And she laughed – her ‘tinkling’ laugh. The men were all to wear evening dress. For the women, the only stipulation was ‘a long dress’. When Leila was quizzed about the colour of her intended outfit, she said simply ‘red’. She reckoned she was on safe ground, because the woman on her right was to wear yellow. And of course, there was no one on her left.

  She’d had the dress for a while, but had never worn it. It had been a fortuitous spur-of-the-moment purchase from a House of Fraser sale three years before: a simple, classic style, a plain sheath of heavy jersey with a silky finish, in a shade between claret and ruby. It draped flatteringly at the bust. The neckline was low, but decorous – not a hint of visible cleavage.

  She made another sortie to Fraser’s and bought a Guerlain lipstick in exactly the right shade of deep red, and nearly fainted when she heard the price. But when she thought back, it was probably twenty years since she’d bought a lipstick. To hell with the expense. She added dark grey eyeliner and eyeshadow in a deep, golden olive.

  All that remained was to find new shoes to go with the ensemble. After two hours of fruitless trekking up and down Buchanan Street, Leila decided that gold sandals with a mid-high heel would do. After all, she’d most certainly be taking a cab both to and from the competition venue, so even if it had decided to snow, she’d survive. She asked to have her walking shoes put in a bag, and wore the sandals for the journey home, to practise walking in them. She was conscious of being more accustomed to wellies than heels. It would be the ultimate disgrace to fall over.

  Once she was dressed the next evening, on an impulse she took out her grannie’s necklace – her one ‘good’ piece of jewellery. She’d probably worn it twice in her adult life. The memory of the last time she had worn it made her lay it hurriedly back in its fitted plush-lined box. She shook herself, and took it out again. It was very beautiful, and she knew it had meant a lot to her grandmother. There must have been times in Flora’s life when she could have done with the money it’d have brought her, but she’d kept it, and left it specifically to Leila in her will.

  And after all, it was time to start putting memories of Sam to the back of her mind. Time to come to terms with reality.

  It was an excellent match for the dress at any rate. The rubies seemed to blaze with a deeper light close to the red material, and the large aquam
arine drop at the centre of it softened the effect beautifully. Years before, Leila had been given ruby earrings to go with it, but had never worn the whole ensemble. It had seemed too OTT.

  However, the formality of the dress made it look not too bad. She decided to go for it. She’d put her hair up in the elegant, Edwardian style that would have been quite the thing when the necklace was made, around 1906, and she’d applied her eye-makeup with more than usual care, even adding a slick of kohl to her lower lids.. She could still get away with that. She’d give the men something to really stare at, for once.

  By then she was running short of time, and almost decided to drive. But rather than risking breaking an ankle legging it to the Concert Hall from the nearest parking-spot (which, with her luck, might be halfway to Paisley), she called a cab.

  She tried to avoid Harry’s eye as she walked into the room where the choir was assembling, but she couldn’t help glancing at him. The admiration in his eyes was quite a fillip to the spirits. He did that eyebrow-flash thing that both intrigued and irritated her. She smiled primly. Cool it, Ghazali. You’ve been had that way before.

  He actually looked delectable in his penguin suit. He had the height and the build to carry it off. Leila struggled to tear her eyes away, and kept to the other side of the room until it was time to form a double-file crocodile like school kids and march through to take their places on the stage.

  ‘You look stunning,’ he murmured in her ear. ‘They’re bound to let us win. The judges won’t be able to take their eyes off you. That’s a particularly good colour for you. And that necklace!’

  ‘Family heirloom,’ she said airily.

  ‘Thought so. Nothing so elegant made these days. Rubies?’

  ‘So I’m told.’

  Who can find a virtuous woman? For her worth is far above rubies. Grannie had been a virtuous woman. Leila wasn’t about to let the side down. Again. She was a virtuous woman; she had no truck with men who were already spoken for.