by Naomi Joy
My instinct had been right: she didn’t care about me, she cared about what her friends were saying about me. She would never have helped me leave Charlie. Though my relationship with David was taking a turn for the controlling, I still owed him a lot. He’d helped me when no one else could. However, I was determined to stand on my own two feet before long: I didn’t want to feel indebted to anyone ever again.
I walked through to the bathroom and turned the chrome-finish tap as far as it would go. I set the temperature to medium-hot and steamy water poured into the giant tub, sat solidly on four silver legs. I scattered in Epsom salts and watched as they fell, gathering at the base of the bath, diffusing their magical healing powers into the water. The cupboards held all kinds of bubbles; I picked lemon and black pepper then stood over the water and fed it a generous amount.
The bathroom mirrors steamed up and I hardly recognised myself in the reflection – my cheek was back to a normal size again, but a few faint purple marks persisted, tracing the outline of my bruises, reminding me how lucky I was to have escaped without worse. I tentatively placed a toe in the warm water, now brimming with frothy bubbles that filled the room with a sweet, lemony scent. Satisfied with the temperature, I closed off the taps and stepped in, pausing every so often as a new part of my skin acclimatised to the heat. Finally submerged, I rested my head against the back edge of the tub, letting the water cover me, lapping its way up my neck. I told myself to relax, enjoy, let the bubbles and the bathwater transport me to a zen-like mindset, but every time I closed my eyes I imagined Olivia lying in this very spot, her hands gripped round the edges. A barrage of horrific images streaked through my mind, blue lips, shallow breath, wild eyes. I sank beneath the bubbles quickly, covering myself completely in the water. What must it feel like to drown on your own blood? If I opened my mouth now and took a huge breath in, I’d certainly get an idea…
I slipped under the water, my mouth wide, my hair ballooning behind me.
1, 2, 3, 4… I counted, daring myself to do it: to breathe in. But I couldn’t. I emerged, panting heavily, sending tidal waves over the lip, deciding against suicide – things were finally looking up, plus, I’d already put my mother through enough today. Not that she wouldn’t have revelled in the drama of a deceased daughter; she’d probably rather have me dead than single. I thought of our conversation moments ago. She’d told me she and dad would come down tomorrow morning. I’d insisted it wasn’t necessary – it wasn’t, my call had been a mere courtesy – and groaned at the thought of having to explain myself all over again.
As I lay in the bath and thought of home, I didn’t notice the creak of the front door as it opened, nor the careful footsteps as they padded around downstairs.
14
Jade
10 p.m. I’d been attempting to watch TV, but the TV and I both knew I wasn’t paying it much attention. Mainly I’d just been staring directly at the soulless, colourless screen of my phone, willing it to light up. I was hungry now, starving. I guess the adrenaline was wearing off. He didn’t like it. My attempt at a sexy photoshoot had failed.
10.15 p.m. I rattled up a festival of food in the kitchen, stopping every minute or so to check for signs of life from my iPhone. It was on loud but, just in case it malfunctioned and didn’t make a noise, I kept checking. Did chorizo ever go off? I flung it into the oven and turned the heat to 240˚C. A good cook would kill the germs. There was some old penne in the cupboard, not quite enough, and the dregs of a packet of spaghetti. I bundled them together in a pan and added a heavy pinch of salt. The saltier the water, the better. I checked my phone again. Nothing. Hmm… no sauce… There was milk in the fridge, could milk be a sauce if I put butter with it? Too risky. Plain was fine. Great start to the diet.
10.45 p.m. Beep beep! My heart jumped for a moment as I thought the alert was from my phone. Dinner was ready and I bashed the timer on the oven. Bloody hell – I’d completely forgotten about the pasta. It was all gloopy and dense due to the amount of water it had absorbed. I persevered and drained it anyway, the steam from the boiling water giving me a mini-facial as I poured it into the colander. I chopped the somewhat charred chorizo and added it to the bowl with a knob of butter. I took my sloppy dinner to the kitchen table and ate it in silence, my phone propped up against the fruit bowl, currently housing exactly zero pieces of my five-a-day: just a letter reminding me to book an appointment with my counsellor and an empty packet of sweets. I barely took my eyes off the screen. Why did I send him a nude? Our fledgling relationship had been a thing for about five minutes and I was already undressing for him. It was truly tragic.
11 p.m. Pub closing time now. I guessed if he’d gone out for a drink and things had got a little out of hand that he’d be starting to head back now. Twenty minutes, maybe thirty, before he got home. If he was drunk whilst looking at my picture it would be better, his inhibitions lowered for starters. I let myself get excited at the prospect of a late night steamy sexting sesh. Or he was laughing at it with a group of gorgeous friends.
11.30 p.m. OK, so maybe he’s home and he’s just thinking about what to say back…
12 a.m. I should turn my phone off now and go to sleep. Sleeping is more important than a text. If he replies now, do I want to look like I waited up all night for it?
Desperate.
12.10 a.m. Depends what it says, I guess.
Desperate.
12.30 a.m. I fell asleep for a couple of minutes, woke up with a start and checked my phone. Nothing. The backlight woke me up further and I started browsing… not much news at the moment.
Desperate.
1 a.m. Tears were building behind my eyes, that telltale lump growing in my throat. I buried my head deep in my pillow and let them free, crying myself to sleep, soaking my pillow in sadness.
Desperate.
15
Ava
My parents had arrived moments earlier, the doorbell sounding like the ping! of a microwave oven about to spit out its dubious contents.
‘Is this really it? This place?’ My mother’s shrill and judgemental voice behind the door.
I opened the barrier between us and stood before them. Mum’s face almost disappeared in on itself as she sucked on her own bitterness, the entranceway chandelier sparkling in the reflection of her pale blue eyes. The only reason she’d been so desperate to see me was she thought she’d find me at my lowest ebb today, she’d probably wanted to feed on my weakness, use it to make her feel stronger.
‘Hello,’ I said, trying my best to keep my voice level.
‘Well,’ she started. She didn’t greet me properly, not even with the air-kiss I’d been expecting, but a thick waft of her liberally applied perfume clung to me as she pushed past. My dad stuck out his hand for me to shake.
Not much had changed in the year we’d been apart, then.
‘What on earth are you doing living in a place like this?’ she gasped, her petite stature emphasised by the cavernous hallway surrounding her. ‘You didn’t mention you’d moved into a luxury townhouse on the phone...’
I wasn’t allowed to be any more, or less, well off than she was. That was the rule. Either would be judged, either would be too different, too foreign.
‘I’m not here for long and it’s the CEO’s house, not mine. He’s letting me stay for a while, just until I get back on my feet.’
‘Gracious, for a moment I thought you’d turned to escorting, darling.’ She flicked her expensive pashmina from her wiry neck with a quick twist of her hand. ‘Heavens. Are you sure peasants are welcome inside? I expect you’ll want us to take our shoes off…’
Mum always insisted on people taking shoes off at her house – a three-bedroom semi on a tidy street in Reading – so quite why she was so put out about the thought of it here was beyond me. You’d think she’d appreciate a well-kept home – she always made sure there were fresh-cut flowers in the hallway at hers – but instead she was taking it as a personal attack. Of course, my mother didn’t follow
up with any questions about my work, or why the CEO had been so kind to me. She rarely asked questions about my career. She simply didn’t care for it.
‘Can I take your coats?’ I asked helpfully as they pulled jackets from limbs. Mum was wearing a beige roll-neck, adorned with a carefully considered heart-shaped silver jewellery set – bracelet, necklace and earrings – her hair set in tight blonde ringlets.
‘Very good,’ my dad said. ‘Could I get a brew? I’ve been gasping for one since the station but the prices are just murder down here.’
Mum looked sideways at dad. She didn’t want to talk about money, not in a house like this. He felt her bony elbow in his side.
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Mum?’
‘I’d prefer an Earl Grey.’ I shot her a slightly bemused look. I’d never seen her drink a cup of Earl Grey in her life. ‘Do you have lemon, though? I like to add just a little to the cup, sharpens the taste. But honey, or sugar, would do. What do you have?’
*
Mum and dad looked as startled and apprehensive as two antelopes dropped unwittingly into a lion enclosure as they sat, side by side, joined at the hip, on the ivory sofa in the living room. I hadn’t asked them to sit there and chills had run over every inch of my skin as I’d brought two steaming cups of strong Yorkshire tea through to the living room, then Mum’s special Earl Grey. I’d added honey to the cup instead of lemon as a sort of peace-offering, hoping she’d calm down if she had something to complain about.
‘No lemon, darling?’ she asked predictably, smiling wide.
‘Afraid not.’
‘Goodness me, you’d think you’d have lemon in a place like this! But that’s OK, I suppose it is awfully fussy of me. I’m sure it will be fine as it is.’
We cradled our cups in awkward silence. Mum broke the ice. ‘Have you spoken to Charlie?’ A quick pause.
‘No.’
She clinked her shimmering pink fingernails against the mug. ‘It’s just, don’t you think darling, that you should give it another go?’ It was the first time we’d seen each other for a year and, surprise surprise, her preoccupation was with my marital status, not with me. My hair was a different length, I’d probably lost a stone in weight, but she hadn’t seemed to notice. She still looked the same, of course, a tidy tailored blazer over well-cut jeans, leather boots sticking out of the bottom, a logo on each side. Mum liked to buy brands: hated the thought that people might suspect she could only afford the plain alternative. I ignored her question.
‘My only plan is to work as hard as I can at W&SP.’
‘Wasp?’ Dad asked.
I peeked at him, surprised by his complete absence of knowledge about my life. ‘The company I work for.’ Dad nodded and took a large gulp of his tea, milky residue left dripping from his moustache.
I’ve often wondered if Dad was my mother’s first choice of husband. You’d think a prim and proper thing like Mum would marry up, that she wouldn’t dream of turning up to dinner parties and events with someone as untidy as him. She would have paired perfectly with an executive type in a black suit and checkered tie, briefcase in one hand, eighties mobile phone in the other. Dad was, if anything, the opposite of that. His eyebrows were long and curled inwards, his hair shaggy at the back, his shirt buttons carelessly undone at the bottom, a bit of hairy belly poking through. I couldn’t imagine Mum marrying for love: she just wasn’t that type of woman. But their decades-long marriage was the strange piece of evidence to the contrary. Now he sat, flat-cap still on, about to open the local paper and read it for, what was probably, the second or third time today in order to avoid ‘London news’ or, indeed, mine.
‘We can’t stay long,’ Mum said, sipping her tea like a sparrow, her needly hands creeping out from under her blazer.
‘I have to get back to the dogs,’ Dad said over the top of his paper.
‘Is there someone else?’ Mum asked, hopefully.
I shook my head.
‘Oh, Ava.’ My mother looked down at the floor. ‘It’s a shame. You were always such a pretty girl.’
16
Jade
I’d woken up full of hope that I’d missed Josh’s reply overnight but my worst fears were realised as I’d stared at the flowery stock-photo screensaver on my phone. No new messages. It had taken a Herculean effort to get myself dressed and ready for work and I felt I’d almost deserved a little round of applause from my colleagues for making it in just twenty minutes late, even if I was still covered in fake tan and heavy make-up from last night’s photoshoot. Kai called early, just as I’d sat down at my desk, my eyes still puffy from crying all night, my head far from ready to face the day. I looked across the floor into Ava’s office. Empty. Why wasn’t she in yet? Was she going to take another day off? Another example of special treatment for special Ava? Jade, could you just pick up the pieces?
Kai’s voice was ratty. ‘I called earlier but Georgette said you were running late.’
‘My train was delayed.’
‘I thought you walked to work?’
‘Sometimes I take the train.’
‘You told me last week it took longer to take the train than to walk, that you enjoyed the exercise.’
What was this, the bloody Spanish inquisition? Did he remember every detail of every conversation we’d ever had? Jeez!
I opened an email whilst I was still on the phone to him. Ava’s junior had been tasked with booking Kai a hotel room for launch night. Kai lived in Oxfordshire but, when he came down to the city, had extremely exacting standards.
I knew from reviewing the booking that she’d booked the wrong one.
‘Has Ava sent through your hotel details yet?’
‘No, has it been done?’
‘She hasn’t turned up for work today but I’ll chase her on it now.’
‘What’s going on with her lately? I’ve barely heard a peep.’
I left his question alone, let him sow the seeds of doubt about Ava by himself.
‘Anyway, best get going, as you can imagine her absence leaves Josh and me a little in the lurch.’ I opened up my email and jabbed CTRL+N into the keyboard.
Ava. Kai’s wondering where his hotel booking is…
I fired off another email, taking out my frustration on her that Josh hadn’t replied to my picture yet.
Why am I having to chase you on this, Ava? We really can’t afford these kinds of mistakes.
I smirked, enjoying every moment of being on top for once.
Next I rounded on Georgette, she’d messed up this morning too. She was supposed to be on my side in this.
‘George,’ I whispered harshly, attracting her attention and that of a few others round us. ‘Never tell a client, especially not Kai, that I’m running late – do you realise how bad that makes us all sound?’
Pairs of eyes bobbed up from their screens and stared over at me and Georgette: public humiliation was always enjoyable viewing in an open plan office and, after all, George needed to learn.
‘What was I supposed to say, Jade? You weren’t here,’ she fought back.
‘Off the top of my head?’ I asked, raising my voice and standing up. ‘How about… “Oh, sorry Kai, she’s on the other line I’ll get her to call you in a mo”, or… “She’s at a breakfast meeting with Kate Moss, she’s schmoozing her to attend the launch, not sure when she’s due back…” or “Unfortunately she had an urgent doctor’s appointment, her spleen exploded this morning”,’ I countered, heat rising from my body.
‘Fine,’ she replied haughtily, ducking her head back behind her monitor, keen to end our altercation.
I put on my best disappointed teacher voice. ‘If you picked up your effort level overall, small things like this phone call wouldn’t be such a big problem, George. Stop slacking and you could start being successful here. At the moment you’re taking too many notes from Ava’s book.’
A few team members stifled their giggles: Georgette had learned her lesson this morning, that was for sure. I got
up from my desk and moved towards the double doors to the office kitchen area; my stomach rumbling at the thought of the turkey and avocado sandwich I had brought for lunch in the fridge. As I closed in on it, Josh strode through, one hand on each door, throwing them apart before him. He didn’t even look at me as he marched to his desk. I felt the lump in my throat building again, a little round rock bobbing up and down in the sea, and I aborted lunch in favour of the women’s toilets. I slammed down the seat cover and sat, crying, too much for what the situation really was.
You’re hideous! That photo you took was revolting, you really think he’s interested in you? You’ve shown too much of yourself. You’re revolting. You should have realised when it took hundreds of attempts to get just one acceptable shot. He much preferred you plain. Why on earth did you pimp yourself up like that? The voice in my head was so loud and I couldn’t drown it out. You are delusional. You spent more than a hundred quid to look that bad. You used gallons of fake tan, a shiny leg brush, an eyebrow pencil, and, even still, despite all of that stuff, that horrible picture you ended up sending him was the best you could do! I rocked back and forth, the insults running riot. I breathed in through my nose, expanded my rib cage, out through my mouth. In through my nose, out through my mouth. In through my nose…I started to feel better. Calmer. I had to rationalise it. He hasn’t seen it yet. Breathe in. It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours. Breathe out. Yes, give it a day before you start to worry.
I grabbed reams and reams of toilet roll and patted my damp face with them. As I stumbled out of the cubicle my reflection stared back at me: what a mess. Wisps of hair had escaped from the slicked-back bun I’d had it in, my mascara ran in wavy lines down my face and a significant amount of lipstick was smudged across my right cheek. I rushed to the sink and splashed water against my cheeks, squeezing a mound of soap into a cupped hand and rubbed furiously, teasing the clumps of mascara from each eyelash. When I was happy I looked slightly less alien, I walked briskly to the kitchen, keeping my head down, opened the fridge, retrieved my sandwich, and ambled back to my desk. I shook a couple of pills into my hand and, as I swallowed them down, glanced over at his desk. He was gone.