I'm Jas Cole, chief acquisitions editor for Faber and Collins.
My real name is James but my friends call me Jas—a short form form abbreviation for the Biblical Book of James. But my five year- old niece, Lily, who sees right through me, calls me Jamie. That seems more appropriate.
Outwardly I'm successful but inwardly, I’m a desert—arid and desolate.
I work hard at keeping up appearances, but it’s tiresome shoring up a façade.
I manage to fool most people, but not Lily—for example, today I'm visiting my sister, Beatrice, and Lily assays me as if testing for gold.
“Uncle Jamie!” she squeals with delight when she sees me. “I missed you.”
I sweep her up in my arms and crush her in a bear hug. “I missed you too, Princess.”
She glances around to see if we’re alone, and then whispers, “I made you a picture, Uncle Jamie.”
“You did—can I see it?”
She nods gravely and takes me by the hand into her pink and purple bedchamber—a rare privilege extended by princesses.
On a small table by the window is a crayon drawing of two mountains. There’s a stick figure on the top of each peak, separated by a big blue sea.
“That’s really pretty, Lily. But what does it mean?”
“It’s about a man who sees a beautiful princess through a spyglass and falls in love with her – but they can’t be together, so he turns to stone.”
“That’s a sad story, Princess. What made you think of that?”
“You did, Uncle Jamie. You’re the man in the picture.”
“I am—really? Then, who’s the girl?”
“She’s the girl you never meet.”
“That is sad,” I tell her.
She puts her arms around me and kisses me. “Maybe you’ll meet her someday.”
I squeeze her tight and kiss her head, inhaling the scent of wild berry shampoo.
Maybe I will meet a princess someday, but if I were a betting man I’d predict Lily would grow up with just an uncle, and not an aunt.
And chances are, I’ll turn to stone.
The following morning, I’m back at work, forcing myself to shake off the lethargy of the weekend.
Monday mornings are always brutal—I dread my inbox and the routine of going through my mail.
The monotony is broken somewhat by the presence of a new editor and proofreader—a Muslim woman named Myriam.
We’re introduced over coffee and she seems pleasant enough— her slight English accent speaks of British schooling. But still, it’s uncomfortable—she wears the hijab—well, sort of. Actually, it’s a black woolen headscarf draped loosely over her hair.
She’s a westernized Muslim, I suppose, but still manages to give a sense of living in her own private, screened-off world – dressing modestly, while appearing very feminine and elegant.
The communication between us is very stiff and formal. After my depressing weekend, the last thing I need is to feel at sixes and sevens adjusting to something unfamiliar at work.
I struggle with adjusting to Myriam's gaze—it unnerves me.
By the end of the day, I’m so stressed and exhausted, I can’t wait to go home and relax with a glass of wine before the fire. At least, that’s the plan—but, at home, the restlessness continues.
I go for a walk in the rain, hiding beneath a huge black umbrella. I want to be sheltered from the elements and shut in with my thoughts.
But the murky streets hiss like static and I can’t concentrate. I picture myself as a cowled monk with aspergillum walking lonely corridors, cloistered from the world.
I end up back in my front room shivering by the fire and trying to get warm.
That night I have a strange dream. I dream of Myriam. I see her in a garden behind a leafy trellis, quietly reading. I can’t quite see her face—just the oval of her cheek protruding from her dark headscarf. She reminds me of the Moon veiled in clouds.
I creep forward to see if I can catch a glimpse of her. I use a privet hedge as a shield and then tiptoe up to her garden wall and peer over. Her chair is empty. Disappointment crushes me.
Suddenly, there’s a slight rustling behind me. I turn and find myself staring into her huge sad eyes.
“”Hello, Jas,” she whispers. “Were you looking for me?”
The next morning, I read The Times, sipping my tea and feeling totally out of sorts. There’s been another beheading in Ethiopia and a foiled terrorist plot involving blowing up the Canada-USA Bridge. I feel sick to my stomach.
At work, it’s not much better. There’s a buzz around the coffee machine and a few pointed looks in Myriam’s direction.
I go back to my desk depressed and exhausted. I glance at my watch—only ten o’clock. Will I even make it to lunch?
I glance over at Myriam and she’s bathed in a silvery luminescence. My attention is totally arrested as I hold my breath.
But just then, the phone rings and I have to answer. Of course, the spell is broken. When I look back, the radium glow is gone.
What was it? It reminded me of snow at night—a very faint radiance.
At that moment, Myriam lifts her eyes and stares. Were you looking for me?
I swear I hear her whisper inside my head and begin to tremble.
What’s happening?
The phone rings again and I warily pick up.
“Jas? It’s Raj. Are you free for lunch?”
I breathe a sigh of relief. “Raj! You’re just the man I need to see. Can we meet at Coro’s at noon?”
He chuckles. “That depends, my friend—if it’s pleasure, my treat. If it’s business, it’s your tab.”
“Always a pleasure to see you, Raj, but this time I need advice.”
“In that case, if you arrive before me, order me a double scotch neat so I’ll be well fortified.”
“Will do, Pal.”
I feel better already. I’ve known Raj—or, more formally, Dr. Rajab Basha, for over ten years. Besides being my best friend, he’s an Adlerian therapist and someone I trust enough to pour out my soul.
If anyone can make sense of my angst it’s him.
The problem is how do I tel him I'm haunted—captivated, tormented and obsessed?
https://goo.gl/images/j7xic3, https://goo.gl/images/xUJq9Y