I have a double. That's not unusual. Statistics indicate our genetic makeup is not unique, that somewhere in the world lives an individual so very like us, that looking into their eyes would be like gazing at our personal reflection. And yet this is a person we do not know, whose life may be totally alian to our own.
I first came across my double when I was living in England, aged fifteen. A friend of mine said she had no idea I had been holidaying in Paris. I had been spotted touring Les Invalides. "You should have told me," she complained. "We could have met up." It wasn't me, I protested. "When I waved, you even waved back", my friend accused. She clearly didn't believe me.
Over the years, my double continued to re-surface. There was the May Ball at Cambridge she attended, which I ignored because I was nursing my first broken heart. Her love of horse-flesh led her to Ascot and she was seen eating strawberries and cream at Wimbledon. My friends glimpsed her from afar - but by the time they approached, she always mysteriously disappeared into the crowd. I nicknamed her Cinderella, but she never left the gratifying clue of a shoe.
I began documenting my double's sightings. She was the party girl I secretly longed, but was too shy, to be. She wore strappy high heels and low-cut gowns - a complete contrast to my corporate (and totally sexless) wardrobe. Decidedly flirtatious, she dated numerous young men. And in a London that was as class-conscious as it was acidly WASP-ish, she was a Sloane Ranger of distinction, as far away from my Romanian immigrant scholarship girl background as it was possible to be.
My friends were convinced I was living a double life, or that I had a personality disorder - the bookish introvert by day turned social butterfly by night.
Until one of them saw "me" skiing in Switzerland and phoned me in London, just to make sure. My double was sprung and I was believed at last.
But I kept on wondering. What kind of person was she? Where was she going, with her expensive holidays and designer clothes? Did she work? (Images of Princess Di at the kindergarten sprang to mind.)
Part of me envied her. She was at ease with herself and her world. She would never experience the second generation immigrant's gaucheness or the social malaise of being accepted, but not quite - "such a nice girl, but not English. Her parents came from Dracula-country or God-knows-where." Aching to find my niche, I longed for hers.
Part of me despised her. She was frivolous and superficial, silly and soft. She had, I believed, no social conscience. That made me feel smug and, for the first time, superior.
And then in 1990 the Berlin Wall came tumbling down. And with all the frenzied media coverage, I found myself staring at a photograph of young people laughing and crying, embracing each other as the divided city was made whole. And there she was. On the front page of The Times. Holding up a piece of the wall. A friend of mine sent me the clipping with "Tears of joy as Dina escapes to the West" scrawled underneath.
I felt terrible. I had misjudged her. Unless - there was another Berlin double. Perhaps there were three of us, each unknown to the other. A tale of two cities.
Knowing I have a double both troubles and delights me. A genetic quirk has engendered an invisible, unbreakable bond between us. We may be completely different. But we may share many personality traits and life experiences. Still, there is a feeling of unease knowing that in another city, another country, lives and breathes a being so like me, she could be my non-biological twin. My unique sense of self is eroded. I feel cloned. And at the same time, elated. For as an only child, my double is the sibling I always longed to have, the wished-for sister.
When I emigrated to Australia, I thought I left my double back in Europe. There was much to occupy me - a new marriage, a new country, a new baby. I felt comfortable here, finally discovering my spirit of place. I pushed the thought of my double to the back of my mind. Until last week.
A woman tapped me on the shoulder in the street, said: "Anne, when did you get back? Oh - sorry, you look so much like a friend of mine, you could be her double." I smiled and walked on, but my mind was racing. Had she followed me to Australia? Or were there now four of us? And she had a name. Anne.
Maybe one day Anne and I will catch up. She'll be sipping a latte with her friend. We will freeze in the agony and ecstasy of recognition. Maybe we'll speak. But perhaps not. Part of the joy of having an unidentified double is the cherished anonymity. It's like breaking the code of the Internet chat-room or the pen-pal relationship - you don't necessarily want to meet in case you are disappointed. Better by far to imagine myriad realities and possibilities. And to know that someone reading this may be thinking exactly the same thoughts about me.
