Double Exposure [3]

Veronica didn't take her eyes off Heather as she read, trying to gauge her reaction, but her face gave nothing away.

"So, what do you think?" She asked, unable to contain her impatience, when Heather had finally finished and come up for air.

"Well, it looks like you're not the only one who's an open book. Hannah is me, but upgraded. What I can't work out is if you're in my fifteen year old head, or in my head now. It's like an amalgamation of my past and present me... You're not going to use our real names?"

"No."

"Are you going to use their names?"

"Of course not."

"Probably a good idea," she replied, handing the phone back to her. "I'll never get over how much I love your stories."

She reached over to take her phone back, and thought she saw the semblance of emotion on Heather's face. It surprised her, vanishing without a trace the moment she saw it, like a fleeting shadow you caught from the corner of your eye. When you turned to look, there was nothing there. Unless she had imagined it, a sudden and deep sadness had flickered across those immaculate contours, and she wanted to know why.

"But?"

"There is no but."

"Yes, there is."

"No, there isn't."

"Yes, there is," she pressed for an answer, "and I need you to be completely honest with me. Before this turns into a pantomime."

If it hasn't already.

Heather pulled up her jacket sleeve to reveal an expensive looking smart watch on her wrist. She began to tap its screen with a glittering fingernail.

"You know, they're going to throw us out of here unless we order something. Even in this dump," she said, without looking up at her.

So is this how we're going to play it? Whether it was going to be a complete avoidance on Heather's part, or her simply changing tack for the moment, Veronica couldn't be sure. But it was just like her to be infuriatingly obtuse at the wrong time.

After a few seconds of intense scrolling and tapping, but with no visible furrowed line on her brow, Heather said with a quick nod, "I'm not over my caffeine limit, so shall we have that coffee now? And wasn't there mention of muffins? Better skip the red velvet ones and get them with blueberries, though. Have to think of our five a day."

She looked around for the same barista, and readied to raise a hand.

Veronica couldn't stop herself from asking, "Why do you insist on ordering our coffees long distance?"

"Because I've been told I can't. But don't worry, I shall be the complete embodiment of decorum." Heather raised her voice in the direction of the counter. "Excuse me. Excuse me."

Veronica watched as Heather went from waving to then clapping her hands at the barista, and for a moment feared that if that didn't work, she was about ready to get up on the table to wolf whistle and stamp her feet to get the young man's attention. Heads began to turn again from the neighbouring tables.

"I'll just go up and order, before they really do throw us out," she offered, making a move to get up.

"For what? Asking for service? He'll come, if only to tell me to shut up. Third time's the charm. Just follow my lead. Excuse me!"

"Haven't I always?" She said under her breath, but decided against adding that following her lead would probably end up with them standing on the table to dance the flamenco, when she heard approaching footsteps from behind her.

Heather's persistence had paid off.

"Have you noticed our signs?" The barista asked, politely, making his way over to their table.

"Signs?" Heather retorted sweetly, in a tone of confused innocence. "I just want to order some coffee. Is this not a coffee shop?"

"I'll be happy to serve you if you'll just come--" he began, but got no further.

Heather swiped his comments away with a hand as though they were on some dating app. "Look, let's just pretend we are still in Europe. Or in any civilised country that hasn't been taken over by the abhorration of self-service. And just bring us two regular Mandheling mochas and two blueberry muffins--"

"One blueberry muffin to share," Veronica interrupted apologetically, secretly beginning to love the right hand swipe Heather would use to cancel out any situation in front of her.

"How depressing, but right of course. Make that one muffin and two coffees. No sugar please, bring the stevia. And as it's Veganuary, what milk alternatives do you have?"

"We have soya, oat, and coconut," he replied in a flat voice, which suggested that, having found himself on the receiving end of a customer's iron-clad will, his life would be a whole lot easier if he just submitted to it. Why make a long work shift even longer?

"What, is that it? No pea milk? But that is so on trend right now."

"That's all we offer. I'm sorry."

A loud tut of disappointment got the few remaining unturned heads from the nearby tables to turn around and stare. The ensuing silence and Heather's micro-managed expression of disapproval put extra emphasis on the lack of choice, as if any were needed, until she eventually said, "I guess we'll have to make do with the oat."

"Fine. Is that all?"

Heather's eyes flashed him a wide, unblinking stare. "I should say not. Is it all fairtrade? How's the coffee's pedigree? We're not murdering wildlife to get this to our table, are we?"

"No animals are harmed during the making of our coffees," the barista quipped with a straight face, in a moment of quiet rebellion.

Surprised, but with genuine merriment in her voice, she said, "Touché, cherie. Now, you will manage to remember all that, right? And don't forget the knife. If we're still allowed one in this day and age. You don't need to write our names on the cups seeing as you're going to bring it over to us. No edible cups, I suppose? On recycled paper cups then. Off you go."

Bewildered, the barista backed away from the table, as Veronica tried not to cast a pitying look in his direction.

Bang, bang, bang and you're dead, son.

But this was not the friend she knew in her youth.

"I wish we could be nicer to the boy. He's providing a service. And he probably works long hours."

Heather's hands, devoid of a phone, had begun to twitch. The fact wasn't lost on either of them. "I don't know what you mean. I was being nice-- Now, what's that look for?"

"What look? What do you mean?"

"That look. All over your pretty little face. What is it?"

Veronica's split-second hesitation would have gone unnoticed by anyone else, except Heather. The more things changed, the more they stayed the same. Or maybe there were just some things that never changed. "I was wondering how much of that performance is the new Heather, or the old Heather playing at the new Heather?"

"Hmmmmm. Okay, I'll take the bait. How many Heathers are there? And which one am I? And will the real one stand up? Maybe your story inspired me."

Veronica shook her head. "No, I don't think you need inspiration to be who are, you have always known who you are."

It's just I feel you're using a performance to cover who you really are. Why hide yourself now? Why hide yourself from me?

"Now it's your turn. Answer my question-- And don't say what question."

"I told you already, there is no but. I love the story, and you should novelise it. Maybe what you sensed is that I while love it for the hyper-version of me, it makes me hate myself for not being more like that at school. It's quite the existential dilemma."

"But it made you sad, why?"

"Well... All your stuff makes me a little sad," Heather said in a softened voice. "I have read your stuff, remember. But I don't really know why it makes me sad."

"You must know."

"Oh, really? Do you know why you write?" she asked.

Maybe not the why, but I know the how.

The question had come out of the blue, though it served to remind her of something a poet had said once, about writing being a battle with the blank page. As a young girl, she had won that battle by imagining that behind that paper there was always someone she loved, someone that was always listening to what she had to say, telling her to keep going.

And now that I have that certain someone in front of me, the reason I can fill every blank page that I've ever had to face, I don't know how to tell her. I wouldn't even know how to begin to write it down.

Instead, she said, "These days I write to remind myself I exist."

"No, don't do that," Heather said slowly. "Try again."

"Why do you think I write, then?"

Heather stared at her for a good, long while and then, in a lowered voice, said, "I think you write because you've always had this burning desire to share, to reach out and touch others. But you've always been too timid to do that in real life, even with those you care about. For you, a blank page has always been a bridge, where you felt it was safer to ferry your thoughts over to them without actually having to do any of the heavy lifting to tell them yourself."

She tapped on Veronica's phone, lying on the table, dormant between them, with one hand, while indicating the coffee shop with the other. "Isn't it what this is all about?"

Veronica felt the intense scrutiny of those words on her skin, as though she had unintentionally sat too close to a fire. She felt uncomfortable, conscious of the possibilities of saying the wrong thing, and the irony of a writer being afraid to use words wasn't lost on her. So she paused, fearful of how close to the truth Heather was again. The fear confused her, too; she had never before felt so frightened of saying the wrong thing to her in case it caused upset. Theirs had been a friendship where they'd shared everything easily once, even the silence, confident in the knowledge that what was left unspoken was because it didn't need to be said, and not because they were too frightened to say it.

Maybe resuming a friendship like that is a past expectation too great for our present selves to swallow.

So, she said finally, "What do you think it is I brought you here to tell you?"

"No, come on, be brave. You tell me."

She felt like giving Heather a kick under the table, wanting desperately to reply she realised, reluctant now to allow silence as a third guest, unsure of what it could bring to the conversation. But she was also wary of what she might say next; knew only too well the duplicitious nature of the spoken word. Even when words were locked down on the page, their meaning could be slippery as eels.

She gave herself a moment to gather her thoughts, and wondered how to best express what she felt. She struggled with the self-doubt as she did with the virtues of silence: What was she really sure about?

That we live and then we die. I'm sure about that. And that we leave behind our stories to remind others of that; stories, which in turn and throughout their ages, have sang defiantly into the wind of an amnesiac future.

Because stories begin at the beginning like most things, but they don't always end with their ending, they go on. They don't die. That's what makes them special. And I want to believe that everything special has a life beyond its page, too.

Be brave, Veronica Be brave. You owe her other that. You owe yourself that.

But before Veronica could respond, the barista had returned to their table. In his hands he juggled two khaki-brown paper cups, a knife and a muffin on a plate. It sat majestically on the plate, a bulbous, blueberry crown the size of a bodybuilder's fist, with

I'm cruelty-free, cupcake :)

written around the paper rim. The words

1 Bitch

and

Friend 2

adorned the cups in the same black marker. They both leaned back in their chairs to allow him to place the items on the table.

"Nice touch," Heather responded, without breaking into a smile. She turned the plate around to inspect the muffin. "But technically not a cupcake." Rotating both paper coffee cups around to face her, she added, "And I sincerely hope the coffee isn't as bad as your attempt at humour."

Veronica took the coffee marked 1 Bitch and waited for the barista to be out of earshot before she spoke, "I regret asking you to be nice to him."

Heather gave a shrug of her shoulders, "I asked for it, but Christ, sensitive, much? You better hope he didn't spit in my coffee."

She looked as though she were about to say something else, but instead, changing her mind at the last moment, took the knife and began to judiciously divide the muffin in four rather than two pieces. Victoria watched, and waited, not knowing for what, when suddenly, a fugitive bit of fruit popped out and rolled on to her side of the plate.

Spying the lone blueberry, Heather picked it up, and indicated to Veronica, who needed no further explanation. She opened her mouth as Heather threw it, and she caught the blueberry with more youthful aplomb than she thought she would be able to muster. The response had been automatic, and with it she felt an immediate rush of real familiarity flood her veins. She looked around to see if anyone had seen them, resisting a sudden, foolish urge to giggle.

A memory stirred in the recesses of her mind. They were playing by a narrow river in the woodlands at the edge of town. What people would call forest bathing now. Catching chocolate candy in their mouths. It triggered one memory after another, and she followed the trail, happily. Climbing trees. Digging for treasure. Seeing who could run the fastest. Playing chase. Kiss chase.

She found herself hunting down the ghost of halcyon days, as excitedly as two young girls had once chased each other across a stream. Sometimes through the lens of memory, you could refocus to get a clearer picture. She saw Heather's real face now. The young girl she was. A tomboy at heart, of scruffed knee and dirt laden nails, climbing up to the farthest branch of the tree.

The young girl she still is, and my mind's eye needs no Instagram filter or cosmetic filler to beautify her. I can see past your face to see your heart now, Heather. For those who only see faces cannot see the heart. And it tells me your face isn't a mask, it's your beauty shining out from the inside.

The double exposure of past and present matched perfectly, and the silence that came now was a peaceful one, Veronica decided, of the therapeutic variety, filled with nothing but the comfort of knowing itself. Just as the silence between two old friends should be.

Heather, reading her thoughts again, said, "Are we good, now? May be I'm not so much of the new Heather as I claim to be, but show me that some of that good old Ron has changed a little. That she can be as brave in person now as on the page." Without waiting for a response, she added, "God, they really did a number on us, didn't they?"

The pause of a heartbeat later, Veronica asked, "They?"

"The eighties, the bitches at school, every man who ever came into our lives to tell us who we should be... their penises a measuring stick to our capacity as women, as mothers, and as lovers. Take your pick."

Heather pushed the plate away, the muffin left uneaten, and began to clear the crumbs that had fallen on to the table. Her actions were deliberate and measured, stalling for time, as she picked up the pieces. "I know what's going on in that wide expanse you call a mind. But they were just fifteen year old girls. Like we were. They said horrible things about us, and did horrible things to us, and we didn't stop them."

No, I didn't stop them. Worse, I deserted you. I denied you three times. Like Peter denied Jesus.

"But they can't hurt us anymore, Ron. This is a different decade, and the opinion of those bitches don't matter anymore. It never did. Maybe that's why your story made me sad. Let it go. Stop hiding. We've wasted so much time, but you don't need to be afraid anymore."

Veronica nodded, but her voice shook as she said, "But I left you alone, Heath. I didn't have your back. How can you forgive me?"

Heather's eyes widened in amazement; it was the first true emotion her face had shown since arriving, and it stayed. "Forgive you? Is that what your story is? A peace offering? An apology? For what?"

"For deserting you."

"Woman, stop taking the blame of others on your shoulders. You did nothing wrong. Sometimes bad things happen for a good reason. We finished school, and we started life, despite it all, didn't we? If we're here today, successful and free, part of that is because of what they put us through. And how do you think I survived and got to where I am? Because of you, and your family. You were-- no, are and always will be, my fucking beacon. Whenever I was stuck, I would remember one of your stories, and knew someone out there was on my side. Christ, If I'd ever thought you felt this way, I would've reached out to you long before your daughter's DM."

"Why didn't you?"

"I thought maybe I was just an embarrassing childhood memory, a-and I didn't want to shame you. But I promise you, I never forgot you."

To hear Heather be frightened of something, anything, and especially on that subject, surprised her to the very core. "Shame me? It's the memories without you that I'm ashamed of, every memory with you has always filled me with joy," she said, roused by Heather's words, and trying to fight back the tears. "It looks like we did a number on ourselves."

Heather leaned forward. Her face broke into a smile, but it came with a few tears of its own. "You did a number on yourself girl, you tied a rope to this thing all by yourself. And you've pulled it behind you all this time!"

Put in that way, Veronica felt foolish, but also very human. It occurred to her that the virtues of the past reflected that of silence. Sometimes it was a comfortable blanket you snuggled up to. Sometimes a minefield you walked through: All it took was one step to feel underfoot the soft lush of sun-warmed grass, or hear the click of a mined bomb about to dentonate beneath your feet. But if you were too frightened to walk through its uncertain territory, if you never had the courage to take that first step, then you could never move on.

And hadn't it always been that way for her? To avoid taking the first step, she took to the written word. The blank page for her wasn't just a bridge to others, but a comfort blanket for herself. To voice what she couldn't express. Always too afraid to lay all her cards on the table, to show her hand. Too afraid it wouldn't be a winning hand, but a losing one.

"Christ in heaven." Heather took a sip of her coffee, and grimaced at its taste. Taking her bag from the side of her chair, her phone long forgotten inside it, she said, "Now, I'm going to get up and go over to teach that boy how to make a decent cup of fucking coffee and, if he's very lucky, to pay the bill. Where're you parked?"

"Close by."

"Great, you can drive us both back, I'm not going on the train again. Okay?"

"You don't have to do that--"

Heather stood up. "Listen, this friendship isn't just for Christmas, Ron. Now we've found each other, let's waste some of that time together."

"I'm not going to get rid of you, am I?" It wasn't merely a rhetorical plea, but a statement to stay.

Because you're my beacon. And your lamp will shine bright for us both.

"No, Ron. I'm here. To the end."

She watched Heather charge up to the counter, and was filled with a sense of calm that usually only hours of writing gave her. She picked up the coffee cup with Friend 2 written across it and slowly twirled it in her hand, and found her mind shuffling through her memories like a magician with a pack of aces.

Is this your card? Two young girls lying down on a green hill. Eating their first school lunch together, looking up across a field of clouds, biting their own chunks out of a pale blue sky.

Is this your card? Two teenage girls walking in the woods. Loudly laughing, playing, reciting stories by a stream, trying to heal each other's wounds that would bind them to its railings for thirty years.

Is this your card? Two women sitting around a coffee table. Talking over old times, French dialogue of dubious quality sprinkled throughout by one, with a good dose of boring bullshit preached by the other. But still looking up. Still trying to heal each other.

Veronica decided to pick and keep the last card from the ones the fates had placed on her table. She stood up. Two women, together. Ready to face a certain future.

You live and then you die.

That was still true enough, but she now believed that wasn't all there was to it. You could choose what you did in between those two certainties; there was all the beauty to be shared, in silence and with word, hidden and in plain sight.

Even if your choices sometimes felt like playing cards offered by the hands of fate, as long as the hand that held your own was the first and last lamp on the post of your life, there was no dark that couldn't be embraced by its light.

You live and then you die.

But now it was time to live, she decided, before she died.

Main | Parts: 1 | 2 | 3