The Other Me (6 page)

‘Cosmo. We did introduce ourselves last night.’ He rubs his cheek, making a rasping noise. ‘Don’t you remember?’

I stare at him. I have no memory of last night. Instead I remember his smile as he set the crackling ice on the table before me. Should I remind him?

‘OK.’ He frowns, stifling a yawn behind his hand, ‘Let’s see… your name is Eliza. You came to Leeds to do a geography degree.’ He pauses, blows out through pursed lips as if he’s thinking. ‘But you dropped out and now you spend your time dancing. You’re an orphan. You have two brothers. Oh, and your best friend is about to abandon you for Paris.’ He looks pleased with himself. ‘Not bad with a hangover.’

He has no idea that we’ve met before. I stare at him. I told him all that?

‘We didn’t sleep together,’ he says, ‘if that’s what’s bothering you. I mean, you were a little amorous, but neither of us was in any condition… you spent some time in the bathroom…’

‘Enough!’ I put my hands over my ears. ‘Please don’t.’

He sits up, blinking at his watch. ‘I would say let’s get breakfast, but it’s past lunch time.’

Unbelieving, I grab his wrist to check the time for myself. He feels warm, solid. He’s right. We’ve overslept. I’ve missed my tap class.

‘How about a coffee?’ He pushes the covers back and stands up. He’s not quite naked. He’s wearing a pair of crumpled boxers. I look away from his bare legs and stomach. But not before I glimpse taut muscles, dark hair tracing a line from his belly button down under the low-slung waistband of his boxers. ‘Think you might need one,’ he adds. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him bend to retrieve his shirt from the floor.

I do need something to sharpen me up. I heave myself out of bed, dragging the sheets with me, wrapping them around myself with some difficulty. He watches me, his mouth twitching. Trying to maintain my dignity I hobble towards the door.

‘Drink some water,’ he yells as I shut myself in the bathroom. I lean over the sink, dizzy and nauseous. Turning on the cold tap, I pool water in my hands, splashing my eyes. It goes up my nose, drips down my throat. I bury my face in a towel. I can’t believe that he’s here, in my room.

God, I look haggard. The mirror shows grey smudges on my skin. My brown hair is a bird’s nest. I drag a comb through it, and say his name aloud. ‘Cosmo.’ I’ve thought about him a lot since meeting him in the pub. But the truth is, he’s a stranger. The first time we met doesn’t count. We hardly exchanged more than a couple of words. And he’s forgotten. Which is embarrassing. I scrub at my teeth and spit bubbles of minty paste into the sink. The failure of yesterday is sitting inside me, implacable and heavy. Memories have begun to flash up like neon signs behind my eyes. Voronkov’s voice hissing, ‘Coward.’

We squeeze into a sofa booth behind a small table at Café Flo. As we wait for our drinks to arrive, we both fall silent. I glance at my nails and then at the chipped green walls and the collection of oversized clocks, all of them telling different times. A local radio station plays in the background. Cosmo is humming along to some recent pop song, and he shifts in his seat, casually resting his arm along the back of the sofa. Students slump at tables, reading newspapers, chatting over plates of egg and chips and mugs of coffee, but every fibre of my body is acutely aware of the warm, human shape of his arm just behind me, and the space between us, his skin so nearly touching mine.

I open my mouth to ask him something useful and polite, like if he lives in Leeds, but instead I can’t stop myself blurting out, ‘Actually, we’ve already met. Ages ago. You gave me some ice.’ My face burns and I look away.

‘Ah, so you do remember.’ He gives me a wide smile. ‘Yeah. I recognised you too.’ He moves his arm and scratches his cheek. ‘I knew straight away. The girl with the toe. I stood in the doorway and watched you dancing.’ He looks down. ‘How’s your foot now?’

‘Fine. Thanks.’ I rest my chin on my hand, ducking to hide my pleasure. I play with the ends of my hair, twisting them between my fingers. ‘Haven’t you done your finals?’

He nods. ‘I finished last year. History. I’m doing teacher training now. There’s a college, the other side of town. I went to the party with a mate of mine who’s doing an MA here. Abandoned him I’m afraid. One look at you and…’

‘Oh.’ I can’t think how to respond.

‘Couldn’t stop watching you… sorry, that sounds pervy. It was the way you danced. Lost in the music.’

‘Drunk, you mean.’

‘No… you were good.’

Our cappuccinos arrive and I dip into the froth, swirling shapes inside it with my teaspoon. My mind is blank. ‘So,’ I struggle. ‘You’re going to teach history?’

‘It’s not my dream. But it’s keeping my parents happy.’

‘Where do they live?’

‘South London. It’s where I’m from. You?’

I fiddle with a packet of sugar, crunching it between my fingers. ‘Wiltshire.’

‘Ah, yes,’ he smiles. ‘I remember. The family home with wisteria over the porch.’

‘God!’ I grip the sugar packet. ‘I really did talk a lot last night, didn’t I?’

He smiles. ‘Didn’t understand all of it. But yes. You are a chatty drunk.’ He takes a sip of his drink. ‘You probably don’t get to London much. But if you do, you should check out my friend’s burlesque club in Brixton. It occurred to me that you’d like it.’

‘Really?’ I can’t tell if he’s joking. ‘I thought burlesque was another word for stripping?’

‘That’s what I thought, until Josh educated me. It’s a skill, apparently. It’s about anticipation – the performer weaving a spell on stage, making everyone hold their breaths… that’s what you did…’ He breaks off, and laughs. ‘Listen to me! I don’t know what I’m talking about.’ He clears his throat. ‘You’re the dancer.’

My face stiffens, remembering the spotlight hitting me, and my body refusing to move. I reach across the table and push up the crumpled cuff of his shirt so that I can read the time. He puts his hand over my fingers. I notice that there are flecks of colour on his skin. Red. Blue. White. Paint splatters.

Outside, I reach up to kiss his cheek and we bump noses. Our lips slide across and meet; I taste coffee. We hesitate and pull away.

‘Well, that was awkward.’ He takes hold of my hand. ‘Do you want to try again?’

I begin to reply, but he’s already put his mouth over mine. The sounds of the day slow and fade. There’s a roaring in my ears: waves rushing inside a shell. His arms are tight around my waist. My hands have linked around the back of his neck. I feel the tickle of his hair, catch the faint scent of his skin. My tongue grazes the edge of his teeth. It is a kiss to fall into. And I let myself fall. My stomach rises and drops. My fingers move to his shoulders and grip.

When we pull apart, his face is open. Surprised. He touches his lips with his fingertips. ‘Eliza,’ he says. It sounds like a question.

ERNST

1931, Germany

Beneath the cow’s belly my thumb and fingers are busy squeezing and pulling. I lean against her warm flank. This is work I’ve done since I can remember. The rhythm is comforting. Streams of hissing liquid hit the side of the bucket, each spurt sounding slightly different. The cow, standing with lowered head, blows patient air from wet nostrils. I butt my head into her warmth, squeeze and pull. Nearly done. Otto crouches on his stool in the next stall. Meyer is at the end. The sweet smell makes my stomach rumble. I’m looking forward to breakfast.

Otto appears at the opening of the stall behind me, two pails of milk balanced from the yoke across his shoulders. His bare knees look too big, the bony surface of them rough with scars. He sniffs. His nose is always sticky with snot. ‘First again,’ he grins and walks carefully on, the pails swinging beside him.

I finish, slapping the cow on her backside, dried mud and matted hair beneath my fingers. I don’t want Otto to take my slice of bread. I balance my pails and walk with small, steady steps out of the dim barn into the brightening morning. The sky is streaked with pink, the sun coming up over the thatched roof of the house.

Agnes and Bettina are in the yard, wrapped up against the cold, hats pulled down over their heads. They are going to collect the eggs, baskets hanging from their arms. I watch Bettina stop in front of Otto. She says something, covering her quick grin with mittened fingers. Otto’s head jerks forward and he shoots out a hand to push her. She shrieks and jumps back. I see the milk spilling seconds after I already knew it was going to happen. Otto is so predictable. Bettina knows that too and she delights in teasing him.

I hear Meyer’s heavy steps behind me. His hoarse shout makes me duck. Bettina and Agnes, meekly pulling their skirts about them, disappear around the corner. Otto is left, guilty, red-faced, puddles of milk around his boots, froth seeping into the mud. As he waits for Meyer, he sticks his milky hand in his mouth. He knows he won’t have any breakfast.

Meyer is pulling the leather belt from his waist, grabbing Otto’s ear with a twist to lead him back to the barn. I look away. I don’t want to see my brother’s humiliation. In the kitchen I eat my bread and cheese, munching on the dark rye tang, the sharp flavour of the cheese. I fill my mouth with milk, holding the softness on my tongue for a moment before I swallow. I slip a crust of bread into my pocket to give Otto later. Agnes sees me. But Agnes won’t say anything.

Otto and I walk to school. The narrow lane borders a black field. Somewhere in the middle is a flock of geese. We can’t see them – they’ve been swallowed up inside a low mist that hangs over the hollow – but their complaining voices come to us, loud as a gaggle of housewives. The red brick spire of the church rises above treetops in the distance. Otto walks ahead; he has marks on each leg, long livid stripes curving around his calves, over the backs of his knees. He stamps on icy puddles, snapping the brittle surface, splintering chunks that he kicks across the road, and wipes his nose on the back of his hand. It’s his habit to sniff; he hasn’t been weeping. We are used to the feel of the strap on our legs or backsides. We know how to hold the sharp sting inside us, breathing through the pain. We don’t cry. Not anymore.

‘He went on about the Bolsheviks again.’ Otto shoots a shard of ice against a tree, watching it shatter into a spray of crystals. ‘Always the same story.’

Meyer likes to boast about his soldiering days in the Great War, how evil the Bolsheviks are, what horrors they committed in the name of communism. ‘You boys don’t know you’re born,’ he tells us when he whips us. Panting out words between strokes. ‘Got it easy. You need to show more gratitude.’

Meyer beats us both, but Otto has it the worst. I’ve given up trying to comfort him. He likes it better if I ignore him; it was the same even when he was small. He hates to be pitied. People get a particular look when they find out that we’re foundlings. They feel sorry for us when they notice our torn clothes and the strap marks on our skin, the fact that we always have to share our school books and never have a packed meal to eat at break. Otto turns away from sympathy, bending over a scab on his knee, prising it loose, making it bleed. Or he’ll find a hapless ant crawling by and casually crush it with his thumb.

KLAUDIA

1987, London

Shane saunters up to me in the crowded canteen with his pelvis forward, and that smirk on his face. He’s got his hands around my waist, jerking me so close that I wince at his sharp hips. His breath is in my face. I see other people’s faces, the way they shake their heads, their looks of disgust or fear. He grabs at me as if he has the right, as if we’re girlfriend and boyfriend.

When I try to shove him away, he whispers, ‘Do that again and I’ll break your fingers.’

I stare up under my fringe, hating him. But he seems to find it amusing.

‘I like a bit of graffiti,’ he says. ‘So be careful, or your old man will find his name on walls with the rest of his mates.’ He puts on a teacherly voice. ‘You do know who I’m talking about, don’t you, Klaudia? My heroes.’

My mind is numb. Blank. But I nod.

‘Say their names for me.’ He licks his lips.

The smell of food is making me feel sick. Gravy. Mashed potatoes.

‘Hitler?’ I whisper.

‘Uhuh. Go on.’

I can’t think of another name and he squeezes my arm, pinching. ‘You can do better than that. Goering. Mengele, Hess…’ he prompts.

The names are dry husks in my mouth. I don’t know who they are. I don’t want to know.

‘Good girl.’ He pats my bottom. ‘I’ll test you next time.’

I avoid going outside at break. The library or the girls’ toilets are my sanctuaries. A swastika has appeared on the lid of my desk, drawn carefully in blue biro. However hard I rub, and spit onto the cuff of my sleeve and rub at it again, the ink refuses to budge. I pile my books over it, or lean over my desk so that I can position my elbow or hand across it.

Only a week till Christmas. Paper chains hang from the ceiling of the canteen. There’s a secret Santa posting box in our classroom. Every morning when it’s opened and envelopes distributed, I pretend I’m busy checking my pencil case. To my surprise I get a card from Amber. I take it home and put it on the chest of drawers in my bedroom, where Mum finds it and nods approvingly. ‘That’s nice. You should invite your friend over again. Hope your father didn’t scare her off.’ I give a vague smile. Amber might be charitable when it suits her, but she’s not going to commit social suicide for me.

My mother has been baking for weeks. She started months ago with a Christmas cake wrapped in layers of waxy paper and tied with string. Trays of mince pies with stars cut into the pastry wait in a tin to be taken to the church service; vanilla biscuits are made for her prayer groups. At the weekend I’m going to help make gingerbread men.

‘We’re out of plain flour, cariad,’ Mum tells me on Saturday morning. ‘Pop into the Guptas’ and pick some up will you?’

The Guptas’ tiny shop at the end of our street is packed with towering shelves. Each row is crammed with everything you could wish for: packets of cornflakes, sugar, washing powder, biscuits, tins of tomatoes and dog food stacked right up to the ceiling. And there are exotic things like dried chillies, packets of saffron and cardamom pods. The smell of spice makes my nose itch.