Cover pic is Rita - inspired by Helena Bonham Carter.
--
Amsterdam is one of the world's most appealing and offbeat metropolises, and I was thrilled to be back after such a long time. I arrived in the very centre, standing outside of Central Station, looking around myself in awe. Memories came flooding back of the last time I was here; memories of her. But I pushed them to the back of my mind and got a tram to my hotel. I had saved up a long time for this, and I was going to make the most of it.
"Name?" questioned the man at the reception.
"Emma Slater." I responded, smiling as he handed me a key, "Bedankt." I thanked him.
When I was in the hotel, I found a grubby leaflet left on the floor and picked it up with a frown.
'Lately,' it read, 'media coverage on tourists in Amsterdam has been quite negative. However, some do see the positive side of all the tourists making their way into Amsterdam. It's a great opportunity to get in touch with new cultures, and to spread a positive image of a city like Amsterdam. This motivated bike rental company 'Yellow Bike' to come up with an extremely clever idea: Yellow Backie, a yellow luggage rack (a backie), attached to an Amsterdam citizen's bike, that is available for tourists to hop on and explore the city in a totally new way. All you do is shout the word 'Backie' at a local with the yellow luggage rack and they will stop for you.'
I had left the leaflet behind and not thought much about it, however later on as I was walking across a large bridge, I spotted a man with a yellow luggage rack. Just as I was about to ask if I could hop on, a short, pudgy, tanned man shouted 'BACKIE' and the bike stopped to allow him to join. They pedalled away and I sighed, not realising how much I had wanted to join in. All of a sudden, yellow flashed across my vision once more, and I couldn't believe my luck.
"Backie!" I shouted, running to the woman. As I hopped onto the bike, perching sideways on the back, holding onto her shoulders, she immediately began to pedal. "Hallo!" I said shyly, smiling.
"Hallo! You're English?" she questioned, shouting over the sound of traffic.
"Yes! I am!"
"Where are you heading?" she asked, and I realised she was English too.
"I'll go wherever you go!" I responded, and her laugh was a musical one as she took a left down a quiet street. I realised quickly that for all I knew, she could have been a murderer. But, in that moment, I couldn't bring myself to care.
"What's your name?" she asked, a dark brown fringe tickling her eyebrows as she quickly chanced a look at me.
"Elizabeth Brown!" I lied, "You?"
"Rita Koch! Lovely to make your acquaintance!"
--
"Hello." I said nervously, squinting in the bright lights that shined upon me. "I'm Elizabeth Brown, I'm going to be singing U.N.I by Ed Sheeran. Thank you." a weak round of applause went around the bar.
"Whoop! That's my girl!" I heard Rita shout, despite only having known me for 6 days. I began to sing, pouring out my heart for the first time in a long time. Images of blonde hair and blue eyes flashed behind my closed ones as I willed myself not to cry.
"I found your hairband on my bedroom floor,
The only evidence that you've been here before,
And I don't get waves of missing you anymore,
They're more like tsunami tides in my eyes,
Never getting dry, so I get high, smoke away the days never sleep with the light on,
Weeks pass in the blink of an eye,
And I'm still drunk at the end of the night,
I don't drink like everybody else,
Do it to forget things about myself,
I'm stubborn, I'm forward, my head's just blocked,
My head's still with you but my hearts just not..."
--
"Have you ever been in love?" Rita asked playfully one night, balancing a drink in one hand and a spliff in the other. Smoke clouded the room as she leant over and opened a window, revealing the moonlight reflecting off of one of Amsterdam's many canals.
I took a deep breath, "I guess so, awhile ago. But I can't remember it."
She tilted her head and frowned, "You can't remember being in love?"
"I can't remember her, I mean, I remember her name and what we had and everything, but I can't remember her. I know I loved her laugh and her voice but I can't remember how they sounded. I don't recall the scent of her hair that drove me crazy when I kissed the top of her head. It could have been apples but I'm not sure. I remember the name of her perfume and how it made me lose my mind but I don't think I would recognise the scent anymore." I paused, then closed my eyes, rubbing my temples before continuing, "I wish I remembered so much more about her but the only thing that comes to me anymore is how utterly destroyed I was when she told me she was leaving."
--
"I can't believe this is it." I sighed, craning my neck to look over the crowds of squared hats.
"I know. It's crazy. We're actually graduating." Finn responded, grinning. I had been so lucky when I realised I wasn't going to be alone at University, as Finn was going to Glasgow University too. We had both been on the same course, and were now graduating with a Bachelor's degree in History of Art. Various other friends we had made sat around us, all of them chatting wildly as we waited for the ceremony to begin.
I had severely underestimated Finn and Rachel, thinking that it was just young love. That it wouldn't last. Rachel had proposed to her last month, and I had been crying with happiness ever since. It was wonderful, and beautiful, and I was incredibly happy for them. Rachel had gone to University in London, and theyir relationship had struggled, but not long after joining Rachel realised University wasn't for her. Now she had gotten a job in Glasgow working in a bank after doing an apprenticeship there. They had both struggled before, after Finn's parents got a divorce and Rachel began to drink, but they had come out the other side, and now they were even stronger.
"Elizabeth Brown!" my name was called and I stood up as applause filled the room. Legally changing my name had been one of the best decisions I had ever made. It felt like a clean slate, a fresh start. Finn and Rachel still called me 'Em' but it was slightly similar to Elizabeth, so I never complained.
I thought I saw her once. Elise. I was walking down a narrow street in the centre of Glasgow and a flash of blonde hair appeared ahead of me, designer heels on her feet. I whispered 'Elise' as my eyes swum with tears, my heart pounding so hard it seemed to shake my entire body. The blonde woman turned around, and it wasn't her. I cried myself to sleep that night.
--
My hands were shaking ever so slightly as the pen scratched on the clipboard. Rachel sat beside me, looking nervous but slightly excited as she filled in the identical forms. My eyes flashed with memories of Finn's terrified face as we told her the news. Her screams. Her tears. Her pleading, down on her knees - begging us not to go. But we had to. Rachel had lost her job, and she hadn't been able to get another one for months. Finn's younger brothers were struggling and they needed help, they needed money. Rachel was desperate to help, so she did the only thing she could.
And I had nothing left to live for. There was no reason for me not to support my childhood best friend. So, we handed in the forms to enlist as Paratroopers, and left the Army recruitment offices, driving home, a slight melancholy mood enveloping us.
--
"This tastes like shit." Rachel muttered, grinning as she stirred the porridge in the bowl. It was 0600 hours, and we were sat in the mess hall. This was our third tour being deployed in Syria, and Rachel was coming to the end of her time serving. Her four years were almost up, then she was going to go into a non-combat job in the Army close to her and Finn's home in Brighton. They wanted to start a family together, and although I planned to stay on in the Army and extend my service, I couldn't wait to be a part of their family. Rachel already promised for me to be the baby's Godmother, with James as the Godfather. He had studied in Asia, and had lived in Kenya for a few years now, but Rachel was still determined to make him a part of the baby's life.
--
"Rita, hey! It's Elizabeth. Yeah. Listen, you still in New York City? Sick! Yeah... okay. Sounds good! Yeah, just need a break from England for a little while. Cool, I'll book the plane tickets. Okay, see you soon! Bye!"
--
"Congratulations!" a key was dangled in front of me, and I took it with tears shining in my eyes. This was it. My dream. My own art gallery. I was finally going to make it.
--
"Yes, yes, yes, I understand that, Patricia, but I asked my coffee to be on my desk at 7 o'clock in the morning, not 6:59 and certainly not 7:01. Understood?"
"Yes, Miss Hart." she squeaked.
"Ugh." flipping my phone shut, I surpressed a groan and swivelled in my office chair. The decision to change my name had been an incredibly good idea, in hindsight. And, it allowed myself to be fully proud of my achievements without having any doubts that I had been promoted or given certain jobs because of my surname. Both 'Douglas-Hamilton', my maiden name, and the surname 'Elderflower' held great weight in this world.
I was now the Chief Curator of paintings for the Louvre Museum, one of the most regarded and respected positions in international art circles. And I had gotten here all on my own merit. 'Sophia Hart' was nailed on the door, not Elise Douglas-Hamilton, and certainly not Elise Elderflower. I was not going anywhere. This was my life now.
Currently, I was heading to the opening of a new gallery. It was the fourth in the UK for the art curator 'Elizabeth Brown' and she had already made waves in the community with her apparently incredibly tasteful eye for art. Another reason there was so much gossip surrounding the enigmatic woman was because she refused to show her face. No one knew what she looked like, but I respected that greatly. It was all about the art, and nothing else. She wouldn't be at the gallery, but I was sure I would see her soon enough.
--
"Okay, how do I look?" I questioned nervously, glancing at Rita.
"Gorgeous. But professional. Look, don't be nervous," she leant forward and placed a pair of cream heels on the floor for me to step into. "It will be fine."
I glanced in the mirror and flattened down my hair, hoping I looked smart enough in the white sheath dress. "I can't not be nervous. I'm about to meet Sophia Hart, one of the most renowned Art Curators in the world. And she reached out to me! Me! God, I'm going to make such an arse of myself." Sighing, I grabbed my purse.
"Look," Rita grabbed my shoulders, "El, this could change your entire life. It could do so much for the gallery, and lead you onto an amazing, sustainable career doing what you love. This is what you've been waiting for. Go out and get it!"
"Okay. Okay." I smiled at my best friend and left the flat, running down the stairs as fast as I could in my high heels. Hailing a cab, I settled in the back seat and watched Central London pass by through my dark, tinted sunglasses. As it pulled up on the curb, I stepped outside, onto the curb of an extremely expensive restuarant, ready to meet the woman who could and would change my life forever. As my hand landed on the glass door to push it open, my phone began to ring. Glancing at the screen, ready to silence it, I recognised the number and felt my insides churn.
A voice answered as I picked up. My hand fell from the door. I turned away and got a cab home. Frantically, I grabbed the bag I always kept on top of my wardrobe, just in case. It was true that once you join the army, you never really left. I had gotten out two years ago, and had never planned to go back, although I knew they could call me in at any moment for six years after that. And now, they did. I picked up my phone again.
"Rita? Yeah. No. They've called me back. I know. I don't have a choice. I'm sorry."
--
"This is one of the moments where my mind is dark as night," I began, my voice shaky as I stood in my Military Dress uniform, "I won't repeat how much some people belonging to this world mean to me. I simply say that Finn was one of them. She was a true hero. She was a woman that fought until the very end against the evil that doesn't forgive - cancer. She may be gone, but deep inside of me, I know that there is a world in which nothing dies. The world of memories, the world of heart, the world of kindness that will always be there to welcome you again and again."
--
"Elizabeth, look... I've been thinking about this for so long. About asking you this. I know we've only been dating for two years but I think it's safe to say I'm head over heels in love with you and can't imagine my life without you..." I watched them go down on one knee, shocked. "Would you do me the honor of being my wife?"
--
Scotland presented a dark, primal landscape. Soaring mountians shrouded in cloud poured down their slopes to spread tendrils of mist across the moor. The skeletons of long-abandoned homes dotted the moors, gable ends standing stark and black against a brooding sky. Hostile and inhospitable bogland was shredded by scraps of loch and ragged inlets. The ruins of all the failed attempts by men and women to tame the marshes were everywhere in evidence as we drove towards the village, the only ones that remained huddled together in small, sheltered townships such as Braemore village.
I had been in Rita's Aunt's house before, and always thought it a cold, miserable place, for all the colourful pots of plastic flowers and fabrics she draped around. There was a chill damp in that house that got into your bones after a while. There had been no fire on all day, and so it seemed even more wretched than usual when she pushed open the door to let us in. The naked bulb in the hall was harsh and bright as we struggled up the stairs with our bags and cases.
"Here we are," she said, opening the door to an attic room at the end of the hall, with sloping eilings, damp-stained wallpaper and condensation on rusted windows, "This is your room." There was a single bed pushed against one wall, draped with a pink candlewick bedspread, and a double bed beside it that was sitting at an angle in the corner, as if it had just been moved up here. A wartime utility wardrobe stood with it's doors open, empty hangers and bare shelves awaiting the contents of my case. She hefted the suitcase onto the bed. "There." she threw opn the lid. "I'll leave you to put away your things in the wardrobe the way you like. It'll just be kippers for tea, I'm afraid." said the intimidating, yet kind, woman. She closed the door behind her, and I stood in the cold, cheerless room that was now mine for as long as she could afford to have me. My sense of desolation was very nearly overwhelming.