A Fine Profession (The Chambermaid's Tales Part One) (9 page)

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I was told I may never have children. I didn't start having periods until I was 16 and this had always made me feel an outsider. Even my younger sister started hers before me. I was told my life expectancy was good but would be below average. I was told I had a greater risk of developing heart or lung disease, a reoccurrence of cancer could happen at any time, my immune system may never recover, I had more chance of becoming obese and my muscularity might not be as strong as others of my own age.

The leuka
emia was diagnosed when I was 10 years old. I had been struggling to get out of bed in the morning which was unusual for me because I loved school. I honestly couldn't lift myself up without Mum or Dad's help, though. At first my parents might have tried to brush it off as laziness or too much late-night reading but when the weight loss occurred and the dizzy spells became more frequent, it was time to visit the doctors. I was put in a box and scanned and bloods were taken. I remember thinking it was all a bit of a novelty really. The middle child that was always quiet and overshadowed by the big personalities of her other siblings was finally getting some attention. I was taken to a room and my parents sat there silent and pale as a family support worker told me that I was very poorly and was going to need some treatment. I remember seeing the looks on everyone's faces and not really understanding the gravity of it all. That was the day I didn't want to be a special case anymore. After that, I longed for normality. I was stage four or five, I cannot really remember. It started with chemotherapy. I never cried or complained. I didn't give in to the aches and the hunger, the feeling of death washing over me or the horror of being incontinent or the bleeds in my eyes from the radiation that came later. I shut down and that was how I coped. Oh how the words “you're so brave” became so monotonous. I decided that my family, in all their efforts to make me well and gee me up were in actual fact very bad at hiding the pity behind their eyes, stealing glances at the weak child whose body could give out at any moment. The nurses, doctors and other patients somehow became my family and the people I'd known before the illness were sudden strangers who could not empathise with me whatsoever.

When the zapping didn't work, and with no viable bone marrow donors in our fa
mily, it was some cells from a stranger that helped cure me. It was a miracle. It was a new treatment that Dad had decided was a risk worth taking. Once seemingly cured, all I had to look forward to then were the regular checkups and the fright on my mother's face at each appointment; the look in her eyes that said she couldn't handle a setback. We all knew that if it came back, my chances of a normal life after that might be dramatically reduced. Plus, death would be more likely. From then on, though cancer-free, my life always centred on those checkups and pushing through those. Each time, a sigh of relief, followed quickly by the thought of looking ahead to the next tests and the next tests and so on and so on, always living in the shadow of the possibilities of relapse or complications. I was home-schooled for a time and went to see a speech therapist (hence why Mum was inspired to become one too). In actual fact, I'd just gotten used to living in my own head and conversation had gone out of the window. Dad had always paid for private treatment so I was lucky to get hydrotherapy and physiotherapy to re-strengthen my body. It became a ritual of mine to perform the exercises every morning and it had stuck. It had also really helped when I began work as a chambermaid, which was very hard at first with such low bone and muscle density. Over the years, however, I rebuilt myself gradually.

I had problems concentrating in class but still felt I was as capable as many others. Deep down inside, I knew I
should have been destined for more. It was just difficult sitting down to a book or a computer. It was even harder contemplating having to do a job that involved all those things. All those physical disadvantages the cancer and the chemotherapy had left me with were in some respects easier to cope with than the bottom line I could never escape. Always, in times of hardship or despair, I came back to that bottom line:
You are different.

That is the
only certainty I had found comfort in sometimes. I might get ill again, die, never have kids, have to go back into hospital, and all manner of other terrible possibilities always awaited me, hanging over me in the background. The only constant thing I knew was:
I am different
.

The reality that
I, Charlotte Taylor, was different, was never spoken, never uttered, never acknowledged, but every time I ventured into a world outside of my domain, I knew I was. I could not ignore the fact. Comparing myself to others was the most dangerous, self-damaging thing I could possibly do. However, I could not help it. It was rooted within me, deep down, wedged between old scars from the drips and tubes they had stuck in me. Hid behind the long hair I loathed to have cut in case it fell out again. Buried beneath my reticence to visit the doctor or dentist in case they discovered some deformity that yet again made me different. Hid behind my belief that I deserved no happiness and therefore was a pebble, a little one at that, sitting on the shore, being gently eroded by the salty waters ever dissolving my exterior, but oh so gradually. The unsightly, non-descript girl who knew no happiness and dare not hope to attain that in case it all came crashing down around her again. That was she; that was me. The girl who had been to hell and back and survived, and who lived a simple life to avoid risking herself; subjugating any earthly urges that reminded me I was weak, for that was not something someone like me could be. I had to be superhuman and above all material wants and desires. The defence mechanisms were many; various; vicarious. If I acted as though not alive, I had nothing to lose. If I maintained a balance of mediocre existence, that was amiable enough for someone who had survived so much.

I was different because I understood when it counted.
I had the advantage of having stared death in the face. The lingering memory of dull pain, plus physical and emotional exhaustion, was swimming in some chasm in a far-off land, a burning ember in a junkyard of flammable old sofas, waiting to ignite a disaster zone at any moment. All the idling, petty thoughts of others, they wearied me. I was cut off from everyone who had not battled the same burdens. I was alone and misunderstood. I was different. I was a statistic. I would be judged unless I told my story and I did not want pity. No. Not that. So, I did whatever it took to remain hidden, or unseen: a ghostly spectre that swished in and out of hotel rooms, taking comfort in my inconspicuousness. A behind-the-scenes girl who was happy enough in her own private achievements. I did not need questions or queries, interrogation or intervention. I needed to stay hidden. Bury the pain deep down, manifest it any other way, just not face it. Not that.

But life was about to deal me a vicious, vindictive blow that would see me become the person I was meant to be.

I went back to work some days later after telling them I was suffering flu or something, and that in itself was a feat. Many a time I had a cold and had suffered through it, rather than call in sick and have people assume I was lazy or taking advantage. Even worse: weak or inadequate. It would inevitably turn to flu and my mother would be forced to call in for me. I built so many outlandish scenarios in my mind of what people thought of me or how they might perceive me doing something out of the ordinary. I knew in the back of my mind that my thoughts were extreme, but I could not easily stop myself spiralling sometimes. Decisions were difficult to make; the thought of being assertive was something that made me break out in a sweat and doing anything that might draw attention to me was sacrilege in my book.

Alex and I didn't ta
lk for several days. He even had his assistant carry out the obligatory return to work meeting. Perhaps he had decided to give me time and space and that in the end, I might eventually return to my normal self and we would be friends again. A miraculous reunion without a hint of awkwardness. However, he must have seen that his little attempt to bring me out of myself had obviously pushed me deep back down into my own little world of hiding and cleaning, sleeping and dreaming.

There was just too much at risk and so, we did not talk for quite some time. We did not say it, but we telepathically communicated that things could wait until we were both definitely calmer. Everyone in the hotel must have wondered what the heck had happened for the two biggest bosom buddies to have fallen out. They must have understood that something meteoric had
to have taken place.

All those day
s spent ignoring one another, with silence and polite glances ‒ oh how I sometimes wished we were back at the bottom of those escalators in John Lewis. With hindsight, I would have thrown my arms around him and given him the Hollywood kiss that would break all discomfort between us. He would tell me how much of a silly mare I had been and we would laugh it off, go for drinks, and forget all about it. If only I had been reckless and fallen on my knees before him, begging his forgiveness as we crossed paths in reception. If only I had called him to a hotel room, forced him under the covers with me, held him and said sorry.

Three weeks after our fight, we were still not talking.
Each day was agony without him. A couple of days later, he was dead. Someone spiked his drink one night and Alex collapsed in some toilets with nobody there to save him, choking on his own vomit, before dying alone in a rancid cubicle.

I remember his assistant ringing to tell me. I sounded so mechanical, just accepting the news as if it were an everyday occurrence. I hung up the phone and went to the loo. I made a cup of tea. I drank it. I tidied the whole flat, top to bottom. I went and did some shopping and packed it all away in the cupboards. Just as I was stowing some pink wafers, however, a thick, fierce wave of pain ran through my core. We had often shared a pack over
mugs of tea while watching wildlife documentaries or old
Carry On
films. That would never happen again. The reality hit me like a bullet and I fell, to the kitchen floor, unable to drag myself from the pits of despair. A stray visitor might have stumbled on me laid there and thought I was as dead as Alex, for life had left me so quickly. No tears escaped. I lay, frozen, in disbelief. It was so unfair.

My beauti
ful friend: gone, just like that. Nobody with him at the end. Nobody to tell him it was going to be alright. No warning of what was to come. Alone and undignified in a filthy casino toilet. The hard luck of it was what hit me hardest. He was so young, so vibrant, so alive, so wonderful. And just like that, he was gone. If only I had been there with him. He might have been saved. The what-ifs almost drove me mad.

The hotel gave me a leave of absence and in fact, the whole place shut for a day as a tribute to Alex. They were very good and knew the chemistry he and I had was not fake. I went home to Mum and Dad, telling them the story, and was grateful that they welcomed me with open arms. The place that had often felt like my prison, or a hindrance, became a comfort once more. I allowed Mum to bring me my meals in bed again. I allowed her to buy me some clothes and mak
e-up, though I had never given her the chance to before. I gave in and let her have all the little delights I had hitherto prevented. Alice cut my hair for me, but this time, I said, cut it all off, and she did. I adopted a short, crop style, reminiscent of Clara Bow, whom Alex had adored.

Though we hadn't talked for a while,
my childhood friend Jessica visited the house, crawling into my bed with me as I lay there. “Hey, nice hair,” was all she said.

She knew that all I needed was to be held and supported. That sometimes, all we need is one really good friend to pull us out of the darkness.
I crumpled at the show of affection, for Jess was not one to bestow hers easily. It was the first time I'd cried over Alex. It was a revelatory moment for me: that real connections, bonds and emotions never faded and could never be ignored. That perhaps, Alex had suffered through those three weeks too, but had known that it was for the sake of our friendship. That once I had gotten over the shopping trip, we would have rekindled our relationship, and would never have broken up again.

Somehow, I knew, once the pain had subsided,
and life went back to normal, I would have to change my ways to honour his memory. I didn't know where to start, but felt life might show me the way, if I finally accepted it.

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I didn't much feel like it but I went back to Nottingham and to my flat. The other staff just let me be and they knew I was thankful. I just buried myself in routines again and felt like I was coping. Then I got a call out of the blue on my mobile one day, from an unknown. It turned out to be Alex's sister, Darcey, who wanted to meet up. She started crying down the phone and I could hardly say no.

When I walked into the coffee shop
we had planned to meet in, I found her straight away. She was the female version of her brother. If anything, I was a little taken aback. As the conversation went on, I found out she was a runway model living in London.

Anyway, she said Alex had told her all about me. She had agonized over whether to tell me what she knew, but she had decided there were things
that could not go unsaid. Apparently, he had been calling her every night after our tiff, whining down the phone over it all. He just did not know what to do. He was in hell, she said, and she had vainly tried to reassure him it would all blow over. Sat in the cafe, my eyes streamed with tears. I couldn't see. Crying had somehow become normal and to not be crying was a freak event. I insisted she carry on; just get it over and done with. I needed to know it all. She said that despite feeling certain he was gay, he had admitted to her that he was deeply in love with me, and that he hadn't had sex with a single man since he had been with me. He had told her however, that I was too complex to figure out, it would never work, and he just wasn't sure. These telephone calls of theirs had spanned hours and she had turned up at shoots with bags under her eyes after being kept up all night. He was inconsolable and had always turned to her in times like that, she said. I saw her waiting for a reaction but I really did not feel a thing. I let it sink in for a minute and questioned myself.
I didn't see the signs…

S
ecretly, I had always been in love with him but had thrown off the notion, deeming it impossible to ever be realised. I told her he was too gorgeous to love a plain Jane like me.

“
He talked about you all the time. All about the jokes you shared, the quips about hotel guests, the night you commandeered a room for yourselves and drank the mini-bar bare. He really loved you so very much. He really did. He thought you were wonderful and beautiful. I suppose when we know, we just know.”

“
I didn't even make it to the funeral, I didn't even…”

“
We had him cremated, but there's a little burial site up in Arnold at St Mary's Church, where you can go and say goodbye if you like. We placed his ashes there.”

I
felt my face turn grey and my stomach began to wretch. I had to run into the bathroom. When my insides were empty, I pulled my knees up to my chest and sobbed. One thought hit me:
At least now I know that what we had was real. He must have known it too.
The sadness of that reality was overwhelming but the feeling of having shared something so wonderful with him was uplifting. When I emerged, Darcey was gone. I didn't blame her for leaving me. I would.

However, a waiter
came over to hand me a small package, which she had left with him. I said thanks and walked straight out.

I headed
to our lake at Pierrepont, almost delirious, and found a bench. I had worked myself up and was ready to see what was inside the package. First was a note, reading:

Here's a book I found in Alex's
flat. He was always trying to help you. He always loved you. Also enclosed is £100 for that dress. It's from the money he pledged to me but I know he would have wanted you to have it. Take comfort, D x

When I opened the paper packet and pulled out the book, the cover read:
Overcoming Low Self-Esteem.
I covered my eyes and had to take a deep breath. I just knew I needed to get to that cemetery quickly.

A taxi ride later, I reached a Norman church surrounded by thick undergrowth. I felt I was entering a separate realm of existence. I trembled with fear and loathing, for who I was, what I had done to my darling Alex and what I would say to him when I got there.

I found the plot and read the plaque:

Alexander James Grainger,

Born 13.1.1976 – Died 17.4.2008

Beloved Son and Brother

Tragically Taken So Young

Ever Remembered in Our Hearts

I wanted to scream and s
hout. There was no mention of,
And Best Friend to Charlotte Taylor, Who Might Have Been His Wife.
Even the notion of wife was ridiculous and absurd, but now we would never know. I fell to my knees on the damp, mossy ground, struggling to absorb it all. There, in that earth, were the fragments of what was left of my gorgeous friend, who had filled my life with so much more than I ever could have dreamt of. Laughter, hope and love.

He had given me the job that had rescued me from my parent's house. He had opened my eyes to culture and experience. He had brought me to a city that was diverse and
swollen with myriad peoples, giving me a new sense of existence. However, the glamour of my newfound life was all down to him. Otherwise, it might have been just another grey city to hide and drudge away in. It was a different world to the one I was brought up in. Nottinghamshire people were outspoken protestors, while Lincolnshire folk were grounded in quiet debate. He had been the one to give it all to me. I would never be able to tell him how grateful I was.

I said whatever came to
mind…

“
Well, you've looked better Alex, I must say. Going for the outdoorsy look is not really you baby!” I exclaimed, whimpering with remorse. I took myself to task, taking a deep breath.

“
My angel, my love… I remember the day we met. You were totally gorgeous. I really do remember thinking I had died and gone to heaven. But, we were shielded by our split sexualities at first, I guess. Unable to be anything but amazing friends, drawn together through common cynicism and low regard for our work and the world. What we had that night, I have to say, was the most perfect way to make a woman out of me. At the time, I didn't really appreciate what you were doing. I didn't see how in actual fact, you were making love to me. Over the years, you know, it's been hard to block out all the complaints of the women I've worked with, over their husbands being useless in the sack; too big, or too small, or too quick, or too slow, or this, that and the other. I realised today, you were such a giving, generous lover, and let me have what I wanted. I always wanted more after that night. Always. I was in love with you, in every way, and our argument that day hurt me so much. Possibly, almost as much as I know it must have hurt you too.”

I was snivelling like a baby
. I continued, “Anyway, turns out, you were right. I read some of that book on the way over. I sat at the very back of the bus, of course, hiding the material engrossing me. With it staring me straight in the face, in black and white, I couldn't very well ignore the shocking truth. It is just so strange to realise that after all I've suffered and beat, this is what now troubles me, and it does so with such vengeance sometimes. How could I have not realised it was this simple? But I will try to overcome, I will, like you must have done. I'll try really hard and do all the things you would have wanted me to. I'll take a leaf out of your book. I love you so much, I always will, and I'll never let you go.”

I sat there crying until it was dark and then I had no idea how to get back to the city. I slept in a bus shelter that night but woke up in hospital. I had to stop neglecting myself, I knew, and that was the last wake-up call I needed.