Umbilicus: An autobiographical novel

1995: MIRROR IMAGE

THE SUN IS BLINDING, and hot on your carefully cultivated vampirish skin. You wish you'd remembered your sunglasses. But it's too late now. It'll take a good five minutes to go back inside the building, wait for the cranky old lift which stinks of piss, catch it all the way up to the eighth floor, unlock the flat whilst trying to prevent Gretchen's pet rabbit from darting out the door, find your shades amongst all of your combined crap, lock up again, and make your way back down to street level.

You don't want to miss her. You have waited so many years for this moment, the idea of spoiling it with such a trivial deviation just isn't worth it. When she drives down that road, you want her to see you straight away. As she pulls up to the curb in front of Moncrieff and gets a closer look at you, you want her to be proud of what she sees. Her long lost daughter. The infant she left behind at that monstrous facebrick hospital looming over South Beach, a ten-minute drive away. All grown up, and fiercely independent now.

As you scan the road for her car, you catch the whiff of Kentucky Fried Chicken, and a rancid drain. God, you're gagging for a cigarette. But you've just brushed your teeth, and you don't want to make a bad first impression. Today she gets the sanitised version of you. You have ditched your Doc Martens for black suede Mary-Janes, the only other pair of shoes you own. You know how much your folks hate the boots, even though they were the ones who brought them back from London last year, as much-begged-for gifts, for you and your brother. You are quite sure she will hate them too. Most grown-ups do.

At 9:30am, a cream Nissan Sentra driving down Berea Road slows to a crawl and pulls alongside the pavement directly in front of you. A swarm of butterflies take flight inside your stomach. A petite woman in the driver's seat leans forward, her head tilted towards you, and smiles. No missing teeth, no sailor tattoos. Phew!

You step out of the entrance enclave, taking a couple of what you hope look like self-assured strides towards the car, even though your legs feel like jelly. As you bend forward and peer inside, your long Morticia locks cascading over your right shoulder, she is reaching over to unlock the passenger door. Your eyes meet, and your heart skips a beat.

'Beth?' You mouth her name through the crack at the top of the glass, your eyebrows raised questioningly.

'Yes.' She smiles back.

As you open the door, you can hear your pulse, accompanied by an odd swishing sound inside your head. In a cloud of your signature musk oil perfume from Go East, which smells like pink cachous, you climb into the seat and turn to face her.

Although she is blonde and tanned, you have the same green eyes and bone structure. You both break into broad smiles at the miracle of this moment, and simultaneously lean towards each other, embracing awkwardly over the gear stick.

'I can't believe this day has finally arrived.' Her voice is soft and gentle. Strangely familiar. She seems warm and kind. You feel immediately at ease as you buckle your seat belt and settle in for the ride.