Turning Point The entrance to the accomodation at Beckett's Park campus . . . looks like a hotel lobby - a very nice hotel lobby. I was staying there over the summer holidays and once, an American man ( American because of his accent ) came in and asked for the rates. I remember turning around - curious, seeing that man approach the reception area - wearing grossly informal clothes and talking in his deep southern drawl which seemed alien to the air around him. It happened two years ago, my memory of the past is not very clear. What I think of the past changes over time, so my recollections change as well. For roughly one and a half years, this memory has been a blur to me but one day, as I am sitting down feeling nostalgic . . . without even wishing for it, I see it clearer in my mind and without realising it, I am suddenly there . . . It is luchtime. In the background, my friends talk. They talk a lot. Equipped with their polished British accents, they sound confident, witty and yet strangely naive. Their swift banter includes things they have read in magazines, friends they know and friends of friends they know. They criticise people they have seen on T.V. Their judgements are hard and relentless - almost as if they are enjoying pointing out these faults. They do enjoy it. I can tell. Almost without realising, I join in and laugh -hesitantly - a smile wavering on my lips. We look normal. We seem happy, but the way we flicker out eyes is a bit odd - as though we are coscious of other people watching us. As though we are conscious of other people realising we're watching them. Suddenly, I cannot stand being in the room anymore. I get up and with a false smile on my face, I say "I have to go to the bathroom". I walk out the doors, but instead of heading down the hall, I duck out the front exit and head towards the tube station. I am walking down a street. I don't know which street. I fail to notice the street signs after a while. I guess I am on Regents Street. I see a Mango store jammed between rows of smaller shops. Sunlight reflects off the vinyl backpacks and sunglasses outside some shops. I pass all of these and enter the Mango retail outlet. The gush of electric fans greet me and the fluorescent light bounces off my reflective sunglasses. In here I feel safer and more confident. I feel more grown up than I really am as I pass racks of clothes and occasionally stop and flick through the hangers. In my imitation leather jacket & fake Fendi bag, I could pass as a trendy working girl . . . or a foreign student with filthy rich parents. Both sound good to me as I am neither of those things. Suddenly I spot one of my friends. She notices me before I notice her, so she is the first to look surprised, then screams quite unexpectedly. "AAAAAA!Carol!Long time no see!" she cries. I recognise her as Gabrielle. When calm, Gabrielle has a seductive French accent which sounds very smooth - almost like those busty European women in Bond movies. She has a tendency to stretch her words and scatters the word "No?" here and there in her conversation.Despite her slick exterior, I know Gabrielle to be coy, evasive but very, very persuasive. She is indirect in her manner of speech and her presence poses a threat to me in the sense that it is hard for me to talk to her. Her superior air makes me feel the size of a pea which automatically makes me feel a little like Alice in Wonderland - in the middle of a living nightmare . . . "Hi Gabby!" I say, trying my best to sound enthusiastic. We embrace and kiss air on either sides of our cheeks. As we hug, I notice that her black hair shines like the velvet bags in the store. Her breath is warm and sweet and in her right hand, she holds three brand new Donna Karan bags filled with goodies. I can tell they are new because I inspect them carefully from the corner of my eyes as we talk. We talk about clothes, the course we're doing and things that annoy her. I am aware that the conversation is rather one-sided. I wonder if I am being too passive, but then think she is intentionally dominating the conversation just to make herself feel & look better. She insists that I join her for lunch. I am not a good liar, but I lie anyway. A friend, I tell her, I am meeting her at the National Gallery in half an hour. I do not give her time to look me up and down - a sign that she knows I've lied. Instead, an artificial laugh appears from nowhere and I wave goodbye to her in an almost frantic manner. For a second, i think she looks concerned. This is unexpected. It does not fit in with what I think of her, so I tell myself it's my imagination. Before I know it, I am outside the automatic doors and back on the sreet. I'm not safe in there, I think, I'm not safe anywhere . . . I own a mobile phone I hardly use and, a white second hand laptop I carefully covered with a film of baby blue resin mixed with glitter, in an effort to make it look trendy. Everything in my wardrobe is either black or navy blue, which makes my clothes easy to match and I buy tons of cheap but good quality accesories on the Saturday market or at after Christmas sales. Somehow I feel a sense of satisfaction when I see I am better dressed than the other girls ( whom I know probably shop all over Europe ) and I titter silently in my head when one of them has raked up a huge bill and gets 'temporarilly seperated from daddy's credit card'.It's little things like this that get me through the day, because for a brief moment, I feel defiant -almost rebellious. An inexorable strength fills me and for a second, I am flying over their heads. Among the spendthrift, spoilt kids, who have about six different bank accounts is a girl who is economical, yet manages to portray an image that suggests she splurges her parents money. This sounds sad. As a matter of fact, it is pathetic. I don't know it, I feel it. Each time I talk, I feel my words poisoning the air around me. It's a slow poison. It hurts but it is me that it hurts the most. I wonder what those kids think - those kids with middle class working parents. And although there is nothing wrong with that, I always think it is a crime. I feel ashamed of my thoughts, so I block them out . . . the thoughts . . . the feeling . . . everything . . . yes, I'm good at that . . . blocking it out. The truth is, I don't know any people like me. I never talk or mingle with them. I suppose when I was younger, I never really thought abpout it and probably had quite a few friends like that, but for some reason I have now forgot ( or chosen to forget?), I gradually lost touch with them. Now all that's left are vague images superimposed, blur and going in slow motion, like a hazy dream. Gradually, so gradually, I myself didn't even notice it taking place, I crept into this circle of girls - rich spoilt brats who take everything for granted - the sort of girls who think shopping is a way of life and whose favourite pastimes are slagging off their 'best friends'. Yes, I know these girls. . . I know them very well . . . God knows, I have to tolerate their patronising manner everyday of my life. Despite this, I feel comfortable thinking I know what is behind an effectuated laugh, but what if I'm wrong? What if . . . there is a girl out there - a girl like me, but doing a better job at it than I am? I wonder how many, if any of these girls have seen through me? Maybe someday we will spot each other - little social climbers . . . Notice the passive tones in our voices and the way we laugh, as if aiming to please. What would we do then? Would we just stare at each other and do nothing? Would I approach her? Would she approach me? . . . Probably not. We'd be too weak. We'd have no weapons - no gift of gab, no protection, not even from ourselves . . . especially ourselves. Maybe we don't know exactly who we are and we're not ready to find out - will never be ready to find out. In my mind, I see her turning away from me and me turning away from her - reflections of each other, not people, just reflections. I think about the American man with the Southern drawl who just breezed into the entrance hall, carrying with him, his arrogant carefree manner - wearing nothing but Bermudas, a sweaty T-shirt and leather sandals. I think about the ease with which he talked - ridiculously blunt, honest and overbearingly hearty. For some reason or another I envy him. I don't know why. His overall character and appearance struck me as repulsive and offensive , yet, there was something about him that makes me smile. Then I think about the girls I talk with. Their perfect keyboard smiles, witty, almost cruel words and rather shifty eyes. I take a deep breath and for some reason or another just close my eyes for a brief moment. . . I see myself. Yes, I am teetering on the edge of a cliff that I somehow knew I had created. There are people in the background - girls I know - girls whom I think are my friends, shouting abuse at me. They start chanting - their chanting gets stronger and stronger. . . What are they saying? Could it be "Chump"? No, it's another word . . . I look at their faces, like strange goblins laughing and jeering . . . suddenly a girl steps out . . . she is smilling . . . she looks familiar . . .she is laughing a pretty laugh - a laugh filled with warmth and kindness - the kind your mum has on Christmas eve when your little brother or sister does something silly. . . I suddenly realise this is a dream I once had. It was one of those dreams I could never understand, until now! And depite what was happening to me, despite this web of deceit I have created, I still have a friend - one real friend who cares. Just for a moment, I wonder who it could be, then I concentrate on the feeling of relief. It has a sense of security, but I am denied this feeling as questions start filling my head. How can I not know who this friend is? Could I have been so blind as not to have noticed her? Is it possible I was too pre-occupied with myself? Am I . . . selfish? I see an underground sign on the corner of the sreet. I walk towards it and go down the steps. My kitten heels click and clack as I descend the stairs. Their sound is not busy, not hurried, not even annoying ( like I usually think they sound ). Instead, it sound lighter and regular, almost calm. I realise that I AM CALM. Such a feeling makes me feel strangely excited and very . . . liberated! I don't know this girl's name. I don't even know what she looks like, except for a faintly familiar smile. I just know she's out there somewhere . . . But what if she isn't? What if the dream meant absolutely nothing? What would I do? . . . I would have to start all over again, that's what. I would have to build up a new circle of friends. I become aware that I am slowing down. Behind me I hear the hollow echoes of my footfalls. A frightened hush surrounds me and I am completely alone. I panic and am on the verge of crying, but seconds later the familiar sound of people talking bring me back to me senses. I close my eyes and give a sigh of relief. It has now occured to me that I do not have to be afraid anymore. There are always vacancies for friends. If you acknowledge them, they acknowledge you. It sounds easy, for any person . . . but I'm not just any person. It'll take some time, I know. It'll be difficult trying to be honest, not just with people, but, more importantly, with myself. Perhaps change isn't the demon I thought it would be. In a way, I have stagnated. But I have made a conscious decision now . . . I've decided to move on - as when your favourite grandparent died or when you lost your pet kitten when you were five. Out of the darkness into the light - we all have to move on to make the most of life. . . � ������ ������ ������ ������
Copyright © 2001 Harriet Nicholas |