By Sally Angell
Open the door. Make an entrance. You’re good at that!
I’ve rehearsed this moment so many times, whenever passing a
reflective surface, trying to get back into role. It’s like putting on an old
dress, or rather skirt and blouse. There she is, that girl you used to know.
But getting into her head again is another matter.
She’s still shadowy, Maddy, in the background behind the
stronger image of Adele who is me, myself, today. How to get Now Me to morph
into Then Me? It’s doing my head in. I’ve been hyperventilating at night. ‘No
no no.’
Is it worth it? When the e-invitation arrived, my fingers
hovered over Delete. It was a long way to travel in winter. And you heard
horror stories about these old girls’ reunions. But I knew I would go. It’s
some masochistic need. I’ve read about this Exposure Therapy. Bite the bullet,
face the fear full on. Exorcise those demons for good.
So I RSVP’d back, accepting. And a few panic attacks ago
bumped the Audi through the gateway of St. Helena’s, into the playing fields. I
mean car park. With the reduced outdoor lighting, I felt I’d stepped into one
of those dark Noir dramas, where present and flashback scenes are confused.
“Hi.” Other figures were emerging from cars, in a swish of
skirts, jeaned legs, the flash of an earring. For these occasions, it was dress
to impress ‘see how successful/happy/normal I have turned out.’
I waved, but rounded the corner alone to the school façade,
its familiar architecture stark against black sky. Gothic turrets towered like
a portent in one of the nineteenth-century novels we had to pretend to
understand on long sleepy, hormonal English Lit afternoons. I was re-entering
the haunting landscape of a thousand fevered dreams.
Read more here:
0 comments:
Post a Comment