Some Kind of Wonderful

by Giovanna Fletcher

  My eyes fall on a pack of multi-coloured lace thongs and water a little at what seems like an unforgiving fabric choice. Two rows down things get a little simpler with a plain black set that promises to have extra stretch. I grab what I assume is my size and head to the counter. I feel like I did when I bought tampons for the first time – embarrassed and cross that I’m being made to feel this way because of my gender. I’m aware no one else is actually forcing that emotion on me; it’s something I’m doing to myself.

  The checkout woman, a miserable-faced Indian lady who’s already frowning before I drop my pack in front of her, scans it without even looking.

  ‘Would you like a bag?’ she asks, her voice nothing more than a monotone drone.

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course,’ I say, horrified at the thought of going out in public with my new undies out on display. I could bump into someone I know.

  I snatch up the bag and hastily scurry off.

  I get back to the office unscathed, but feel childish for my lack of feminist pride. I am choosing to try on this underwear in a quest to see if they’re something I like. I’m making informed decisions and not doing something just because someone, a man, has told me whether or not it’s their preference. Although, I must say, when it came to undies Ian was never particularly vocal about what he liked. On the rare occasion we did have sex (ten years … ten years! The sexual passion did unfortunately trail away from time to time) my knickers would be off within ten seconds anyway – without him grabbing so much as a glance as to whether they were lace, crotch-less or full-on Bridget Jones.

  So this is about me, and what I prefer to have cuddling my lady garden.

  When it comes to me and my list, this tiny action is achievable right now, therefore it carries more weight than it would if I were usually trying on undies, which I’m starting to realize rarely happens. Part of me wonders whether slipping into them is going to automatically rewind me into the girl who used to wear them while standing in clubs wearing her top as a skirt.

  There’s only one way to find out.

  With the place still empty I go into the bathroom and have a quick change. I was expecting a string up my bum, like the ones I wore when I was young and foolish, but these actually have some meat to them. Yes, they’re up my arse and feel like a comfortable wedgie, but I’m going to see out the rest of the day and assess how I feel then.

  That’s two things from my past that I thought I would never revisit. Both have surprised me. I know switching off KISS in the past would’ve definitely been led by Ian’s taste, but the thong situation was a choice made by me and the fact I was sick of pulling fabric out of my butt crack.

  Neither of these little acts is going to change my outlook on life or lead the way to finding the person I was or will become, but they’re little stepping stones, and I have to start somewhere.

  Inspired by my balls and ‘go get ’em’ attitude, I pick up my phone and go to messages. I’m not sure I’ll ever press call when it comes to Ian ever again. His voice is the last thing I’ll ever want to hear. So I start texting instead.

  The flat. Either you can buy me out or we sell it. Can get an estate agent in ASAP if it’s the latter. Elizabeth.

  OK, it’s ridiculous me writing my name, but my given name is just pathetic. I should just write Lizzy. Or not sign off.

  I press send anyway, before I have a chance to overanalyse further.

  Within thirty seconds my heart constricts as a reply pings through.

  Whatever you think is best.

  Cock.

  13

  Before I can conjure up more expletives towards my ex, the office phone starts ringing.

  ‘Home Comforts, Lizzy speaking. How may I help?’ I say serenely into the handset, the words spilling out automatically as I push aside my frustration with Ian for the time being.

  ‘Lizzy, it’s Cassandra,’ the caller replies. Cassandra has been one of our most loyal clients. Or rather, someone who’s constantly asking us over to tweak things in her stunning home. She’s younger than me, lives in a gorgeous manor house outside Braintree and is married to Jake – who’s hilariously funny and witty, but who’s always travelling abroad for work. They don’t have children, although I know they’re planning it soon (we’ve already been asked to ‘think’ about the nursery), and in the meantime Cassandra is making the most of keeping the house in order and putting her desired stamp on the place, with our help.

  ‘What can I do for you, Cassandra?’ I ask.

  ‘Can you come over?’ she asks, her voice thin and nasally.

  ‘Now?’

  ‘It’s a total disaster.’

  ‘What is?’ I ask.

  ‘You need to see it. Can you come?’ she asks, sounding desperate.

  ‘Stephanie’s out, but I’ll give her a ring.’

  ‘No, no, I need this sorted now. Can’t you just come?’

  ‘OK …’ I say, confused. We’re all part of one team, and I know her house intimately, but Cassandra in particular usually deals with the big boss first. However, there’s no point bothering Stephanie with this until I know more anyway. ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  I leave the office and run round to the taxi rank, deciding it sounds like a big enough deal to put this one on expenses. Cassandra has always been happy with the work we’ve done and constantly emails over praise she’s received from her mates, so I’m unsure as to why she’s in such a panic – but it’s good to be out of the office. I didn’t realize how claustrophobic it would seem after being away for a few weeks.

  Thirty minutes later, after sitting in the back of the car wondering what could possibly be wrong, I’m finally being buzzed through the house’s huge iron gates and riding along the silver-birch-lined gravel driveway that winds through its gardens and parkland, the house slowly coming into view after a few false reveals along the way.

  It never fails to wow me with its beauty. It looks traditionally English and imposing, with small burnt-orange bricks, white beaded windows and a set of chunky, solid and inviting radius-top-shaped double doors sitting within a classical pillared and pedimented porch. The whole thing is topped by what looks from afar to be a thatched roof, but is actually very thin slate tiles, which have been put under a conservation order by the council. Apparently it’s something to do with the aesthetics of the house with the surrounding countryside, though they own several acres of land and can’t be seen from the road. Whatever the reason, it costs Cassandra and Jake a small fortune to maintain. The fragile tiles are continuously failing to withstand the weather, but at least they look pretty.

  The grounds are equally stunning, with the team of groundsmen managing to keep it colourful no matter the season. Every time I come here I’m surprised to find my eye is drawn to something new. Today I spot a splattering of deep-purple bushes in the turning-bay island, their wispy and elegant branches spilling up and over like an umbrella.

  The taxi drives around the turning circle in front of the eight-bedroom house and comes to a slow stop. I’ve barely had a chance to step out of the taxi when I hear the front door opening.

  ‘Thank god!’ Cassandra sighs from the porch.

  ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘Come in,’ she pleads, storming back into the house, her arsenic-green stilettos still clomping as she goes.

  The interior of the house has been largely designed by Cassandra but executed by us. She was very headstrong about what she wanted, and while it’s great to have a client who at least knows their preferences and doesn’t look at you gormlessly between swatches, her ideas were no different to the other places we’ve worked on. This was not helped by the fact we’d been recommended by a friend of hers and she literally just wanted an altered version of the same thing.

  In my opinion the interior of this house with its modern sparkly furniture doesn’t match its traditional exterior or tell me anything about the owners. It’s a thought that always occurs to me when I’m here, bu
t even more so now as she walks me through to the living room, an area we’ve recently redone for the third time. Its zebra-print wallpaper and pink diamond-encrusted furnishings leave it perilously on the edge of looking tacky, although Cassandra loves it, and at the end of the day my job is purely to make her happy and help her execute her ideas. I don’t have to live here. It’s not meant to be a reflection of my personality, I’m merely meant to make the client’s vision a reality while secretly hoping they take on some of my ideas. That being said, I’m hoping the reason she’s asked me over is because she has had a sudden urge to revamp the whole place and make it into something far more elegant and classy.

  ‘I’ve been looking at this for days and it’s been really bugging me,’ she says, pinching the top of her perfect button nose as though she’s finding the matter difficult to talk about.

  ‘What is it?’ I ask, concerned.

  ‘The whole room,’ she sighs heavily, looking at me from underneath her fake eyelashes.

  ‘Oh?’ I sound, my heart beginning to race at the thought of finally getting our hands on this room and decorating and furnishing it to perfection. ‘Any specifics?’

  She looks at me blankly.

  ‘OK,’ I say, nodding my head enthusiastically, willing myself to get this right as I might only have this one chance to pitch my thoughts. ‘It’s fine not to have new ideas, that’s why we’re here.’

  Cassandra sighs again, her bright pink lips pouting out as her eyes scan across the room. ‘What would you do with it?’

  Her question sends a bolt of excitement through me. I look around the room, taking it all in again as I think about how I word my thoughts. ‘Well, like you, I love colour, so I think I would mix that love with more neutral tones to really help them pop? For instance, a yellow sofa against a soft stone-grey wall would really help infuse so much fun into the place without it becoming overbearing. Or pink could work,’ I say, knowingly appealing to her taste. ‘I’d keep a variety of textures and patterns, too, as I think that’s quirky yet sophisticated, but use them in specific areas rather than everywhere – like with scatter cushions, maybe. In fact, I’d collect fabrics and art pieces from places I’ve visited to give it a really personal touch. By doing that I’d be ensuring the room was unique to me and a true reflection of my own loves and tastes and know it couldn’t really be meaningfully replicated by anyone else.’ I think of all the colourful rugs I saw when Ian and I were travelling around Africa and couldn’t bring back and how great a small one would look under a coffee table in the middle of the room. The thought conjures up a longing pang for my old walking boots and the sheer joy of getting to a hostel after a day’s travelling. It startles me.

  ‘Interesting,’ Cassandra says curtly.

  ‘Also,’ I continue, focusing on the room once more and walking towards the huge bay windows lining one side of it that have always bugged me thanks to them being completely covered up with trendy white wooden shutters – a silly design as they block out far too much light. ‘It’s such a beautiful room and these windows could really unlock another dimension. The view of the garden could be framed so nicely if we got rid of these shutters. The difference in light coming through would really lift the space and make it even more inviting.’

  I stop myself from blabbering on and turn to Cassandra, seeing if anything I’ve said has tickled her fancy or ignited a thirst for simplistic yet classy interior design. It’s hard to read the expression on her face because, thanks to her love of Botox, her frozen features display none.

  ‘I was so happy with it,’ she mutters forlornly, as though she hasn’t listened to a word I’ve been saying.

  ‘Yes, I guess the issue with such a statement room is that they can lose their appeal and novelty once you’re living in them every day,’ I say regretfully, deciding not to add that it was something we forewarned her about. ‘They project so much into your atmosphere it can be overwhelming at times. Really you want a space to lend itself to your needs but give way for you to live in it comfortably.’

  ‘I’m very comfortable in it,’ she states, playing with the cuffs of her aqua-coloured jumper.

  ‘You are?’

  ‘Extremely!’

  ‘Well, it’s easy to get bored –’

  ‘Not bored either!’ she snaps, cutting me off. ‘There’s so much to look at, so many colours, shapes and textures.’

  ‘OK …’ I say, sounding as confused as I feel. ‘I’m sorry, Cassandra, but what seems to be the issue if you still love the room?’ I ask, stopping myself from guessing again and annoying her further.

  ‘This,’ she says, pointing to the wall behind her. Painted in Farrow & Ball’s All White (I wouldn’t usually go so stark but Cassandra hated the idea of going for a delicate grey), there’s a collection of nine black square frames, which have been hung closely together to make a bigger square. Like a screengrab of Cassandra’s busy Instagram page. The frames have been filled with pictures of her and Jake on private yachts, at lavish parties and sunning themselves on a secluded island in the Caribbean. It might be a reminder of bling-filled times, but it’s probably the calmest area of the room, which is probably why I like it. That being said, she clearly has an issue with it, so I stare and try to see what our client is seeing, giving a little ‘hmmm …’ to let her know I’m thinking about it.

  ‘It’s dull!’ she exclaims dramatically.

  ‘You think?’

  ‘There’s nothing going on,’ she huffs. ‘Look at all the bareness surrounding the prints. Look …’

  I do as she says. OK, I can see how to her eye it might seem a little bland. She loves things to be vibrant and crazy, but on a personal level I completely disagree. Then again I disagree with the whole idea of this room. ‘What about …’ I start, feeling myself trying to clutch at straws in the air and hoping a wonderful idea is about to appear. Seeing as she hasn’t leapt on any of my earlier suggestions it’s clear we have entirely different tastes. I have to be more Cassandra. ‘Well, we could change the pictures frequently to keep it fresh.’

  ‘I’m not sure it’s enough. Honestly, I can’t bear to bring anyone in here. It depresses me too much.’

  Jeez, that’s quite a statement. Though a part of me can sympathize at needing a room to represent the person you are, and taking from it what you need, to make it your sanctuary, your haven. I couldn’t be in my own home any more, the one I shared with Ian, because it filled me with sadness. OK, it’s not on the same scale, and I know Cassandra is probably over-exaggerating her feelings, but I still hate the thought of our work not filling her with complete joy. And, quite frankly, I’d rather be alone in my current misery.

  ‘I think we need more zebra,’ she says, nodding in agreement with herself. ‘We should wallpaper the whole room. It’s too good to be wasted on just one wall. It needs more.’

  I look around the space that’s bigger than the whole downstairs of Mum’s house and imagine the safari madness that could take over if I don’t take control of the situation. Before we know it I’ll be in charge of buying stuffed giraffes, lions and zebras to complete the look along with an indoor rainforest and sprinkling water feature. However, the business side of my brain is telling me not to go in too forcefully with my opinions. Rather I need to compromise to keep her happy so that she feels supported, but also make sure the project isn’t going to completely derail and make potential future clients, Cassandra’s mates or anyone who might come into this house, see our work here and think we’re absolutely awful at what we do.

  ‘I know!’ I say, unable to believe I’m even suggesting it. ‘The frames. Let’s change them. We can get chunkier ones and wrap them in the wallpaper. If we reprint the pictures in black and white too it should look quite classy.’

  Cassandra squints at the wall as though trying to imagine it.

  ‘I love it!’ she sings.

  I hate it, I think, while beaming at Cassandra. I am happy she’s happy, but really the whole thing saddens me. It’s yet another
beautiful space ruined by too much faff. As a result, I already know a part of me will be silently weeping when it comes to painfully hanging the new frames on the wall.

  14

  A grey cloud is not looming over me when I wake up on Michelle’s wedding day – metaphorical or actual. It might now be December but the sun is shining brightly, and I find myself waking with an actual grin. Today is not about me and what might be happening in my own life. It’s all about being there for my little sister as she commits to the man who wants to stay with her to the grave and not be a douche by failing to admit that. Hurrah to my little sister for finding a good egg!

  I let Michelle have my bed last night while I slept on the sofa. Not only is she the bride but she’s also heavily with child, so it seemed like the right thing to do. Plus she pretty much kicked me out of my room and hung her wedding dress and other bridal paraphernalia over my wardrobe doors and on my chest of drawers, so I didn’t really have much of a choice. I honestly didn’t mind though, I took it as my first official wedding day duty as chief bridesmaid.

  I’m woken by the smell of bacon and sausages sizzling in a pan. Easily tempted, I throw off my duvet and investigate. In the kitchen I find Mum sitting in her dressing gown, her rollers already in (God knows how long she’s been up), Ted skimming over the sports section of the Mirror and my dad standing over the hob with a spatula in one hand and frying pan in the other.

  ‘Hello, angel,’ Dad beams at me, holding his hands as far away as possible as he bends in for a kiss. I wrap my arms around his neck and give him a good squeeze, his grey stubble tickling my cheek. I get my height from my dad. Obviously I’m not as tall as he is at six foot four, but I’ve always been taller than any of my female friends. I also inherited his sloped nose, albeit a daintier version, and his big brown eyes. Although, his contain a wisdom I can only hope to inherit one day.