~~~
Give me a reason to get out of the city
~~~
Some nights, Amelia would stay up and paint pretty pictures in her head.
Some nights, it would feel as if her very bones were on fire, her skin hot and cold at the same time, as the beating of her heart would get louder and louder until she could no longer tell if it was the music blaring from her earphones or her heart that seemed to make everything shudder rhythmically. Her head would pound and her eyes would burn and ache as she'd lie in tangled in her blankets, looking out of her window at where the stars should be, revelling instead in the warm glow of the streetlamps and the strange noises of the city, at the moon that almost always never appeared and the breeze that had stopped blowing a long time ago.
On these nights, she could almost feel the spirit within her wanting to rip out and fly away among the sulphur laden clouds, away from the large bed and the empty apartment and the half full closet, away from little else, away from the insignificance of her life, screaming and writhing until it felt truly alive.
Such strange, unearthly urges would always, always follow a day spent in utter desolation; Amelia spent her time moving from one task to another, completing each with a lack of involvement and level of skill that astounded her (whenever she did deign to notice), almost comical in how much the result didn't interest her, her attention freely given instead to the strange numbness in her palms and the knot in her chest, the strange ache in her feet and that damned emptiness.
The self-help columns on the incognito tabs called it anxiety.
Amelia called it Sadness.
The funny thing about Sadness was that it didn't quite attack you like a vicious beast of prey, spinning its web around your chest for years and years instead, watching you get infinitesimally more breathless with each passing second, biding its time in the shadows until sheer hopelessness brought you down. Almost unavoidably, it became one's companion – often the only – the sort of poison that killed you a little every night as one stared up at the ceiling in the dark trying to remember what happiness felt like.
These were the kind of thoughts that flitted in and out of Amelia's head on the evening of the exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, a couple hours before she was expected to make an appearance.
But this isn't an account of the misery that Amelia wallowed in every once in a while. If anything, it's a story of youth and of life and the love one inevitably gives and receives, and Emily Gilbert walked to her friend's apartment in the Upper East thinking of much the same, her nicest pair of heels packed up in her satchel in a roll of cellophane, her boyfriend's baggy denim jacket hiding most of her shimmery green dress.
On June 20th 2009, Amelia brought Jason to her apartment for the first time.
On March 20th 2011, Amelia met Adam McAlister at Sarah Montgomery's studio loft.
On February 21st 2015, Amelia attended an art exhibition with Emily at the Met.
In all probability, however, this could've been Emily's story as easily as it was Amelia's and Adam's – in the June of 2011 she met George Connelly on DateMyCollege and discovered within an hour of their conversation that he was not the One, and two years later, in March, she moved in with him and his golden retriever Brutus, her previous impression of him all but forgotten. Through an objective state of mind, this might as well have been the story of the woman who walked three paces behind Emily, or the aged man across the street, or the young girl brooding in her room three blocks away – each carrying a unique burden – but most people (unlike Adam) didn't quite think that way, and for most part, this remains the story of Adam and Amelia, and possibly, even Emily.
Emily Gilbert was a girl with a (mostly) one track mind.
Emily Gilbert was the sort of girl who thought and spoke of a million things each day, every day, but not the sort of girl who'd think of one thing and speak of another, a stranger to Avarice and Secrecy and all those two penny words that she absolutely didn't care about. Born and brought up in the city, she had led a life of easy conversation and casual strolls, a life spent in the pursuit of little comforts. Emily wasn't prone to burning up in her passion or in courting her inner melancholy, unlike many others in this tale, and spent her time smiling and laughing and talking and simply being, in a very simplified, content state.
Emily had it all figured out. It was all rather marvellous, really.
When she woke up on a cold morning in February, she had very little on her mind, except perhaps the breakfast of pancakes she knew George would have laid out for her as part of their Saturday ritual. This ritual would also entail a sweet peck on his cheek, her humming sleepily as he'd ask if she wanted coffee, and a sweet, sweet smile George would bestow upon her when she'd stretch and yawn and told him she loved him. Much of the rest of the day would usually be spent lounging around the house and watching New Girl and her doing laundry while he'd hover around and talk about how he had that big presentation the next day and his mom wanted them to visit and how the paper coming along anyway?, while she smiled and nodded and laughed at his silly jokes, clad in his ratty sweatshirt, never once doubting that this wasn't fated for eternity.
This Saturday was different, however.
Instead of a day spent in Eden, Emily stepped out after breakfast, kissing George goodbye and lamenting (sweetly and dutifully) how it was the worst luck ever that he couldn't make it to the Met tonight, on account of the business dinner he was to attend, while he lamented (sweetly and dutifully) that he was equally disappointed that she had to work tonight, that he'd miss her at that boring dinner, and can't she possibly make it out early? Laughing and giving him another kiss, she promised she'd try (both equally aware that it was impossible) and left him at their doorstep.
Six hours sorting through programmes and RSVPs and catering orders later, however, Emily wished dearly that she could escape to George's boring dinner if only so she could rant about how Johnson was driving her crazy and Tom hadn't come by to drop the catalogues and Mr Campbell really ought to pay her better.
Instead, she picked up her brown, weather-worn leather satchel and started for Amelia's house, a fifteen minute walk away, eager to slip on her nicest pair of heels and touch up her mascara. It was opening night, after all.
The sight she was greeted by, therefore, the aforementioned fifteen minutes later, wasn't exactly what she'd expected.
Something seemed off about the brunette who greeted her at the door.
Dressed in pyjamas and an oversized T-Shirt, her hair tied back in a messy, loose ponytail, Amelia peered at her glumly, taking a whole second to process her appearance and finally taking the chain off the heavy oak door, letting Emily in. The latter was appropriately confused by this lacklustre reception.
"Oh sweetie! Are you down with the flu?"
Amelia sighed, almost melodramatically, and led her into the spacious living room, collapsing on the bare couch and peering at Emily through laden eyes.
"No," she finally replied, "I'm alright."
A second passed in silence.
"Umm, you did remember that I was coming over to pick you up, right?" Emily asked tentatively. Upon getting no response, she said, "The Art exhibition, Met Roof Garden – ring any bells? Look I even texted you –"
"Yeah, I got your text", Amelia interjected, not meeting her companion's gaze, rubbing her eyes as she sat up straighter. "I've got my dress laid out and everything, and it's just..."
"So you did get the text?" Emily reiterated, perplexed. The day's exhaustion had stretched her patience thin, "It's just – uh, no pressure, of course – but I kinda have to be there at least fifteen minutes before the opening, Campbell said he expected the Research Cell to be there on time to make sure that the catalogues were ready to be handed out to all visitors, and I had to go over the log for the auction and – Ames, is everything alright?"
Amelia looked back at her blandly.
"Yeah, everything's fine – look Em, can we talk?"
Amelia never quite called her Em unless it was serious business, and so, recognizing the direness of the situation, Emily set down her bag on the coffee table, smoothened her dress and settled down carefully on the couch. Up close, she noticed that Amelia's eyes were blood shot and baggy.
"What is it, Hon?"
"It's er – would you mind terribly if I didn't attend this exhibition?"
Emily sat silent for a full second.
"Are you drunk?"
"Erm – just a little – it was just a couple of scotch and sodas."
"We kinda have to be there in like an hour."
"I know."
"And you've known about this for, like, two weeks"
"Yeah, but..." Amelia looked at her beseechingly. Emily wasn't straight-laced – but the gallery had always been her first priority, and she wasn't the kind to forgive messed up plans so easily either. Something about her friend's sorry state, however, told her there was much more to the matter than foolish weekend drunkenness. Setting aside her sense of duty to the gallery (and the promise of Dom Perignon and Bordeaux) she reached out for Amelia's hand and pressed it tenderly.
"Ames, is there something I should know?"
The brunette breathed in deeply before answering, rather incoherent, "Uh - you remember the posters for the promo? The big one in the centre with a stupid poem on it?"
"The centrepiece by Adam McAllister?"
"Yeah, that one – thing is, I wrote that poem."
Emily blinked thrice before speaking.
"You wrote that poem?"
"Yeah."
"Loss of reason, loss of rhyme, losing sanity, love and time – that's all you?"
"Yeah, I wrote that."
"Shooting stars, falling rai –"
"Of greying scars and fading pain – yes, yes I wrote all of that."
Emily blinked again, processing the information and all that the implications may entail.
"So uh – you sold that poem, or you collaborated with the artist or – wait, do you know this Adam McAllister?"
Amelia's eyes widened as she pressed her lips together, refusing to make a peep.
"Wait, this isn't about some intellectual property theft thing right? Cos I can ask George and –"
"No, there's no theft! I gave him the poem – well, no, technically he found it first and met me later, but I gave him the go ahead and," Amelia shook her head, as though trying to get her thoughts in order, "It's not about the poem – it's Adam. He and I, well I used to – we were kind of umm, together."
"Didn't you say that it wasn't a collaboration – oh"
The realization hit Emily.
"You were together?"
Amelia nodded miserably.
"Oh sweetie – why didn't tell me you didn't wanna see your ex?"
Amelia slumped back on her couch instead, throwing an arm over her face as she sighed irritably, answering hesitantly, "Would it make me an absolute idiot if I kind of wanted to see the bloke?"
Emily fought back a smile as she replied, "No that actually makes a lot more sense than you getting drunk on a couple of scotch and sodas."
"I'm a lightweight", Amelia grumbled from her position on the couch.
"And what about this Adam?"
"Oh he could chug it like a motorboat. Bloody alcoholic sod – couldn't keep his hands off his whiskey even in – that's not what you were asking, were you?"
Emily shook her head sagely, as Amelia continued,
"Well", Amelia hesitated, sitting up and gazing at her feet, her fingers fiddling with the threadbare seat of the couch, "we were going out – well, it was more serious than that, to be honest – and about two years back, it... ended." Emily sat silent, waiting for additional information. But when none seemed to be forthcoming, she pressed on, "Well, then what's the problem?"
"I just told you –"
"But you also told me that you did wanna see him", Emily attempted to reason, "I mean – what's the dilemma here, exactly? In either case, it's been two years, right? That's a lot of time to get past stuff – Unless," Emily tried cheering her friend, "you got sloshed on a couple of vodka shots and trashed his apartment and murdered his cat?"
Amelia cracked a smile, running a hand through her hair, "No, I did worse. I dumped him."
"What?"
The rueful smile fixed on her face, Amelia replied, "I broke up with him. He didn't quite see it coming – one evening we're kissing goodnight, and the next morning I left. It wasn't exactly the-mutual-breakup-of-the-year, and I'm fairly sure he hates me by now. So do his friends," she sighed, surveying her fingers, refusing to look up at Emily, "I mean, we had a lot of mutual friends – other artists, and a couple of people here and there – d'you remember Armin Bluhm, the one you told me about when I came by for getting the permit? The German Bloke who worked with Urban Aesthetics Initiative? They're best friends – we were really thick too, but two days after I left he unfriended me on Facebook and blocked my texts. That's huge for Armin – he was practically my bother Brother Bear, you know – big, soft and full of wisdom."
Emily chuckled weakly, unable to think of an appropriate response. To her, relationships were a simple matter – you fell in love and you made it work. She couldn't fathom why a seemingly uncomplicated person like Amelia would end things with anybody for no apparent reason – and resized, perhaps for the first time, that she hadn't known her for more than three months, and even then very little about her outside of her work. As with any other matter, she decided to gather the information as directly as she could
"Why'd you break up with him, then?"
Amelia finally met her eyes, a clarity and calm in her gaze that Emily found a little inconsistent with the situation. Silent for several seconds, she finally replied, "It's...complicated."
The curious thing about this reply was how straight forward yet unhelpful it was. As unfathomable as Adam's love for her had been, Amelia had left him just as confused when she'd stood in the middle of their living room, her hand pressed to her forehead, her eyes closed, as she'd whispered, "Adam, I can't do this anymore." For reasons (given very, very sparingly to him) Amelia had run away from her Eden in less than two hours, taking with her whatever held the least of him, and after two years of constant inner turmoil and self- doubt, the most coherent answer (that she gave to herself as well) was that it was complicated.
To Emily's credit, she accepted this answer without contest.
...
"Amelia, do you only wear grey trousers and jeans?"
Emily stood with her hands on her hips, looking at the neatly stacked clothes in Amelia's closet, a variety of (boring) work shirts arranged by colour hanging off sleek hangers, more than a quarter of space taken up by an assortment of grey clothing, most of them rather sombre looking pant-suits and formal jackets. It was quite possibly the most monochromatic collection of clothes she'd ever seen in somebody's possession. Amelia hovered behind her, cringing at her words, adding rather sheepishly, "There are some dresses in that pile on the rack – not grey, I promise – we can look into those."
Emily nodded, pulling out the entire stack and placing it on Amelia's bed. Since their brief (and rambling) conversation in the living room, Amelia had taken about 10 minutes to recuperate, promising to Emily that she did want to attend the exhibition.
"I think it'd be cathartic", she'd said cryptically, and Emily at a loss, had offered to pick out her dress for her, knowing fully well that there was no way she'd do it herself within a reasonable timeframe.
If seeing this new side of Amelia wasn't enough, Emily now searched hopelessly through a stack of extremely formal clothing, occasionally chancing upon something ancient and oversized, much like the clothes the brunette had donned previously. To her credit, however, Amelia had taken a quick shower meanwhile and looked significantly more presentable now, blowing her hair dry as Emily pulled out a slightly gaudy yellow dress from the stack, laughing a she held it out and looked at it, turning to see Amelia's expression.
"My mum picked it out", Amelia said a little sullen, "it was for a cousin's wedding and I didn't have time to shop."
"It's very Belle. From Beauty and the Beast – remember that poofy dress she wore in the ballroom?"
"That's quite possibly what mum was going for."
Laughing, Emily laid the dress aside, surveying the small selection of dresses Amelia owned. Most of them, like her work clothes, were plain and rather understated, and devoted as she was to her friend and what was to be her first meeting with her erstwhile flame, Emily was adamant that Amelia looked her best. Pushing aside a mauve skirt, Emily spotted a dark indigo dress, plain but elegant, and she excitedly pulled it out and held it up for inspection
"How about this one?"
Amelia stepped forward, peering at the proffered dress, frowning in concentration as she replied, "I'd forgotten I still had it. D'you think it's good enough for a gala?"
"It's a little modest", Emily replied, "but I like it, you'll fit right in. It's casual enough to pass as effortless, and maybe with the right shoes, it'll work flawlessly." "Effortless indeed", Amelia remarked dryly, as Emily smiled and looked at the clothing tag "You shop at Kitsch!? It's so chic, isn't it? This is so gorgeous – I can't afford even their scarves!"
"Just the one dress", Amelia replied with a strange smile, taking the dress (almost tenderly) from Emily's hands, "I bought this years and years ago, actually - not my most economic moment. Now give me just a minute, I'll be right out."
Half an hour later, the two girls found themselves at the steps of the Met, while a few cameramen snapped pictures of the gallery and its visitors, relishing the cool breeze as they stood on the steps. The Gallery was lit up magnificently, posters propped up strategically around the entrance. Amelia looked out at the street, her gaze distant as Emily fished in her purse for their passes, a little uncomfortable with the silence that had enveloped them since they'd stepped out of the apartment. They finally entered the foyer, flooded in amber light, Emily relishing the experience of being a part of the event. She regarded the arrangements with satisfaction, waving at her co-workers who she spotted on and about, busy with their respective tasks, as they walked past the security guards who recognized her on sight, Amelia accompanying her, silent and patient.
After a short visit to her office, the two made their way to the Roof Garden, Emily carrying a bunch of catalogues and pamphlets, Amelia maintaining an unaffected expression. Emily found her thoughts wandering, thinking back to the vague explanation Amelia had offered, wondering if it'd have been better to insist upon her staying at the apartment instead. She felt a little guilty, wondering if she'd done enough, but the thought was pushed out of her mind as they reached the top of the staircase, about ten feet away from the entrance of the rooftop gallery, when Amelia grabbed her arm.
"Ames, what is it?"
Amelia looked at her with something like panic in her eyes, "The bloke at the door, the one with that woman in blue."
Emily looked at the doors; a rather tall man stood at the entrance, smiling at a woman in a peacock blue gown who chatted animatedly with him. His wavy blonde hair was slicked back, a dark stubble covering his cheeks, his hands in his pockets as he nodded, barely speaking. Turning to Amelia, Emily said, "That's Adam McAllister?"
Amelia nodded, her eyes fixed on him, her face oddly blank.
"Amelia, are you alright?
Amelia finally turned to face her, an incredulous expression on her face, and replied
"I can't believe he wore a tuxedo!"
In that moment Emily acceded that she really didn't know Amelia very well at all.
~~~
AN (Part 2) – This chapter is so horrendously meh I'm surprised I'm even posting it at all. But here it is anyway. Some things need to exist solely to aid the birth of others. It was fun exploring Emily as a character though – no regrets on that front. Do leave a review, please – having your feedback helps me tremendously with the writing process. Have a nice day :)