by Belle Brooks
I should have asked why. But I didn’t. “Okay,” was what I managed to choke out through the lump that had formed in my throat.
“Do you want me to leave?” he asked with a strained tone.
“I can’t stay here,” I muttered to myself.
“Okay.”
My empty suitcase felt heavy, painfully heavy, as I threw it onto the bed. The opaque bag containing my dream dress was lying across the doona. I wanted to screech from the pain, but didn’t.
Moving each piece of clothing from the drawer into the open case, I became angrier. I wanted to ask, ‘Why?’, but I also didn’t want to know the answer. The top was hard to zip closed. It wasn’t everything I owned, but it was enough to see me through the next week, the last week of school holidays. The thought of returning to work as a single woman destroyed my soul. My imagination summed up a pretty good picture of the faces full of pity. Even though I’d only been there a short time, I’d already made some great friendships with my colleagues. They were close enough that they knew I was engaged. Close enough that they even knew the story leading up to it. The wheels of my tiger-printed suitcase were loud against the flooring.
“Come on, Bella,” I called out. She appeared quickly.
“I’m sorry, Abi.” His tears flowed freely down his cheeks. His arms reached out for me.
I batted them away. “Don’t touch me,” I warned, hurt pulsating through my veins.
“I’ll always love you, Abi.”
“No, you won’t,” were the last words I said to him. Bella looked sad when I loaded her into my VW. I wanted to say, “Say goodbye to your daddy, Bella.” I didn’t. Instead, I climbed into the driver’s seat and stared at all six foot two of him hovering in the doorway.
Flip him off, my mind encouraged. I didn’t. I just drove away.
***
The key opens the door with ease. The house is dark and lonely. God! What has my life become?
“Vodka.”
My hand slides down the wall and flicks the switch before fetching a glass tumbler from the top cupboard in the kitchen. Filling it almost to the top, I decide this moment calls for no ice. No beverage accompaniment. Straight numbing vodka is needed.
Locating the plastic bag filled with letters that I assume will express how very fucked up my life is, I make my way into the lounge room and slump down onto the couch, allowing it to nurture me. The softness is welcoming. My eyes water as heavy gulps of warm liquid plough into my empty stomach. Silent, in the dark, I drink until the glass is empty. It drops from my hand against the side table. Not accidently or because I’m drunk, but because I wanted it to smash. The rug is now covered with fragments of glass. A satisfying smile emerges. My tired hands reach for the cord belonging to the lamp twisted around the stand. The switch flicks over. Untying the knot in the white plastic bag, I remove five letters. A pink envelope grabs my attention, so I open it. It’s from Sophie. I read the first paragraph.
Life is full of challenges. It can change in an instant. Our character determines how we handle these situations. You are not coming off well. I’m actually disappointed because I’ve always looked up to you for strength. I admire you, Abigail, and always have.
“Rubbish,” I tut, refusing to read the rest and scrunching the page, adding it to the pile of shattered glass on the floor. “Next,” I call out, like a customer service liaison. A plain white piece of paper folded into four becomes my new reading material.
Dear Abi,
I came here today because Sammy made me. I wrote this letter because she said she would cut my balls off if I didn’t.
I laugh.
So you’re having a rough time? It happens. But seriously please don’t beat up any more fourteen-year-old school boys. I know it was only one, but it was a stupid call. I hope you get back to teaching sooner rather than later. The whole situation blows. For now, you have to do something for work.
It was stupid, but that punk needed an ear clipping. Parents are too lenient with discipline these days.
What I can’t understand is how it took almost two years for you to lose your shit. I know I wasn’t around then, but Sammy talks fondly of how you handled the entire situation. Bella dying was pretty fucked and that douche ex of yours getting engaged probably hurt. But is it worth throwing your whole life away for? It’s not. For months, Abi, you’ve been nothing of who you once were. Do you think you’re going to snap out of it soon? I hope so because I’m getting sick of Samantha talking about tragic Abi. I was trying to score the other night. Instead, I had to listen to her talk about how messed up you are. Get it together already. You’re fucking up my sex life.
“Sucked in, Mosby.” I giggle.
First step, take the job, Abs. Trish’s dad has been kind enough to offer you something. Hey, I know that boy was a turd and he had it coming. But you should have controlled yourself. Please go to the interview, dude, for your sake and ours. This curse is rubbish. Yeah, it’s rubbish, dude. Let it go already. Find peace, Abigail. Live again. Find happiness. You deserve it.
Peace out, Mosby.
“Fuck you, Mosby.” I laugh hysterically. I like Jackson Mosby. Sammy chose a keeper. Unlike me.
Deciding not to read the remaining letters, I pull my mother’s blanket from the top of the couch, where it has been folded neatly, and curl up into a ball.
“Looks like I’ve got an interview in the morning,” I mumble, turning on the television.
Hung Over
Beep…beep…beep. The alarm sounds loud. It’s obnoxious. I hate obnoxious things.
My hand slaps at the bedside table. At some point in the night, I must have set the piece of shit, before climbing into bed. Finally, it sits under my palm, one that strikes it hard. It still sirens. Cranky growls escape me as my hand grasps the alarm, tossing it with displeasure. It keeps sounding.
“Stop it!” I yell before kicking the blankets off and finding the culprit on a pile of clothing beside the bed. It’s forcibly disarmed.
Somehow I’d managed to make it to bed and set the fucker last night. Great!
***
Water beats hard against my skin as the shower begins its heated assault. My head thumps to an unwelcomed beat.
“Why did I agree to this interview?” Bloodshot eyes greet me as I wipe a foggy mirror. “I look like shit. No shock there.”
The towel restricts my movement because it’s wrapped like a Boa constrictor around me.
“What to wear?” I chant, sliding hangers, stopping when a navy blue dress comes into sight. Hoping it still fits me, I pull it over my head. The zip is hard to slide, but soon fastens in place.
“Mum,” I call, walking out of the bedroom. She doesn’t answer. “Mum…”
I clomp up the interior stairs that lead to the upper level of our house. Opening the door to her bedroom with little disregard for her privacy, I see her sound asleep. This doesn’t stop me from waking her.
“Mum, wake up,” I whisper.
Her eyes spring open, then squeeze shut. “Abigail, what’s the matter, petal?”
Your breath stinks. “Dude, you need a mint.”
“Abigail, if you’re just going to be cruel, leave me alone.”
“Sorry. I need makeup. You don’t want me looking like a troll for my job interview, do you?” I announce, hoping she will be excited by this latest development.
Her lips move until they have formed a half smile. “Yes, the interview,” she croaks, pulling her body into a sitting position, her back supported by the dark wooden bed frame. “I’m glad you’re going.”
“You knew?” I’m shocked.
“Yes, of course.”
“So you let them do that to me? The stupid intervention?”
She combs her fingers through her hair. “You invented the silly thing with your friends all those years ago. I knew you’d abide by your own creation.”
Putting my hand over my chest, I mouth the word, “Pain.”
“You’ll survive. Makeup is in the
top drawer in the en suite.”
I huff before entering. “It’s spotless in here,” I yell.
“Yes, because I care, unlike you.”
“Whatever,” I say in song. Her laughter reaches my ears.
“Don’t forget to moisturise first.”
Forget that. Rummaging through the drawer, I find some liquid foundation. Our skin types are very similar in colour, no need to buy my own.
Mum staggers into the bathroom, half asleep. I can see her reflection in the mirror above the vanity.
“I have to pee,” she declares, sitting down on the toilet.
“Don’t let me stop you.”
Once done, she washes her hands at the opposite basin and brushes her teeth.
I still fumble through her things.
“Let me do that,” she gripes in frustration. “Go and get a chair from downstairs. You’re too tall. I’ll fix your makeup for you.”
I can’t help but smile because I’m pleased. My mum is a good person. Okay, an annoying good person.
Returning with a chair, she presses my shoulders, lowering me down. Smooth liquid glides onto my skin from her steady hands.
“So how did last night go?” Her eyebrow lifts.
“Yeah, crap. You could have told me.”
“You wouldn’t have gone.”
“Would so,” I say like a child.
Mum does this laugh-cough thing she does when she knows she’s right. I hate it and she knows it.
“Close your eyes, petal. I need to put on some shadow. Do you want neutral or colour?”
“Neutral.” A comfortable silence falls between us. “I had one of those panic things again last night,” I mumble before looking into her tired eyes.
“I see. Do you know what caused it?”
I think for a few minutes about last night’s shenanigans before answering. “Probably talking about Mike.”
“That would do it. Maybe you need to talk to a professional?”
“Nope. You’ll do.”
She smiles sympathetically. “I’m a nurse, Abigail, not a psychologist.”
I don’t answer, so she allows the conversation to end there.
“And we are done,” she exclaims. “Now go put your hair up. You’ll do great. I need to go back to bed, honey. I’ve been pretty tired lately.”
“I’ve noticed.”
Her eyes bulge, shocked by my reply.
“I still notice things, Mum. I’m not dead.”
Her hand rubs my shoulder.
Have I really been that self-absorbed? “Sleep tight.”
“Good luck, Abigail.”
I’m going to need it.
Unsuspecting
“Good morning, Bertha.” I tap gently on her hood.
Bertha is the nickname my dad gave to the VW on the day he bought her for me. She’s a bit slow to start, and I’m praying there’s enough fuel to make the twenty minutes into Maroochydore. The needle on the gauge indicates half a tank.
“We’re good to go, girl.” Relief washes over me before pulling away from the gutter.
Perched on top of the hill overlooking Alexandra Beach, I wait for other vehicles to make their way down. I can’t help but admire the sun glistening on the ocean. It’s heavenly. Traffic remains smooth and the drive keeps me somewhat distracted from the kaleidoscope of butterflies that is taking flight inside the pit of my stomach.
“Three hundred and forty-six…three hundred and forty-eight…three hundred and fifty,” I mutter before spying the three-storey glass like building. A gigantic red and gold sign is a dead giveaway.
Finding a park proves extremely difficult, especially since I’m so unlucky. I end up driving around the block about six times before a spot becomes available. The dash clock reads 10:40 a.m.
“Made it.”
The doors open automatically. A petite lady looks up and smiles.
“Good morning and welcome to Sims, General, and Klein Attorneys at Law.”
“Well, that’s a mouthful.” I snicker nervously.
“If you say it as many times as I have over the last four years, it’s not.” She exits behind the desk and makes her way into the lobby to greet me. Her name badge says Asher. A pretty name for a pretty girl. Long brown locks, very straight. Flawless makeup and a mesmerizing smile. Yeah, she’s pretty. “Hi, I’m Asher.” Her voice is kind.
“Asher?” I reply in a curious tone.
She giggles. “It’s Hebrew.”
I nod. What a strange thing to say.
“I’m the receptionist and the first face a client sees. This is my desk here.” She points to the high marble counter.
I look back at her name tag—it has an emblem of a gavel on it. I picture me wearing such a badge. I don’t like it.
“So you must be Abigail. Yes?”
“Sure.”
“Well, are you, or aren’t you?”
“Umm...you would be correct.”
“Good. Your interview is on level two with Jasmine, Mr. Sims’ personal assistant. Jaz is lovely, but to the point. Honesty is her motto. Now there’s a tip for you,” she adds with a wink. “Good luck,” she mouths as the lift doors open.
“Thanks,” I mouth back.
Ting. And the doors part a floor higher. I’m greeted by a long corridor. Looking left, then right, I shrug. Which way? Left is my decision. Of course I’m wrong. Thanks to an older, neatly dressed woman I literally bump into, I’m turned around. The walls have abstract art hung on display. I study each piece as I approach it.
“This is probably where Trish gets her love for it. From her dad.”
A clear door says Bernard Sims, Property Law, and it’s written in gold letters, catching my attention.
“Abigail McMillian?”
“Yes,” I reply to nobody, because I can’t see a single person.
“This way,” the voice says before the face of an Asian woman appears.
“Are you Jasmine?” My voice cracks before her name has completely left my mouth.
“Yes.” She’s very professional in tone and appearance.
We walk into a conference room, not far from the door I’d planned to enter.
“Sit down here. Pour a glass of water and get out your notebook and pen.”
Crap! I wonder if only having car keys counts. “So…yeah. I don’t have one with me.” Great start, Abi.
Her thin eyebrows lift and her mouth forms an ‘O’. She’s not pleased. Yep, she hates me. No shock there. First impressions are not my thing.
“Here.” She slides a book and pen down the large conference table before sitting and silently reading through a document. “A moment, please.” She walks to the wall beside me and punches numbers into a phone. “Yes. No. Okay. I’ll check the schedule and ETA in thirty minutes. I don’t think I’ll be long here.” She shakes her head, then places the phone back onto the wall.
No job for me.
“Abigail,” she starts, returning to her seat, angled towards me. “Thank you for coming in today. I’m Mr. Sims’ personal assistant. I’m sure you’re aware that this is a very busy law practice with many offices located throughout Australia.” She doesn’t allow me to answer. “We will have to make our talk short.” Her fingers mimic the word short, which makes me wonder why she said the word and then used body language at the same time. Weird.
“Yes, of course.” I’m rattled. This woman is intimidating.
“The position we are looking to fill will require you to do the following duties: take dictation, answer calls, scheduling, copying, and filing. You will be in charge of mailing and banking. Also, you will chase up payments on accounts. A normal nine to five, Monday to Friday job as the assistant to the personal assistant. Do you think you can handle that?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Good. Mr. Sims has already requested you to be given a three-month contract. You start tomorrow at nine a.m. Don’t be late.”
I nod.
“Shocked?”
“Yes,�
� I blurt out, closing my mouth that has gaped open.
“This is a new one for me, too. Never has an applicant been granted immediate employment. I’m not the boss. His call. Asher will have uniforms for you. Please report to her now and get them. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Thank you.” Confusion has my head spinning. I offer my hand, which Jasmine shakes. “Umm. How much does it pay?” I murmur as I’m embarrassed to ask.
“Forty-nine thousand annual. Four weeks holiday and ten days sick leave paid. I’m sure you will be happy with this. It’s the customary starting rate. Now I must attend to my duties. See you in the morning.”
“Okay.” I’m hesitant.
The door closes on her exit. Holy crap, what just happened?
The lift tings before the doors open on the ground floor. Asher is waiting for my return.
“Congratulations! I hope you like it here.” She’s a little too excited for my liking. “What size are you? Before you answer keep in mind our sizing is big.” How does she know already?
“A size six, I guess. I’m normally an eight…”
“I thought you would be. You’re so skinny. That way.” She points, handing me a bag containing what I assume is the uniform.
“Sorry, what’s that way?”
“The amenities. Try it on for size…the uniform.” She gestures to the bag I’m holding.
Nodding, I follow her instructions.
“Not too bad,” I say, looking into a mirror above the hand basins. “Red suits me.” I’m still baffled by my immediate employment.
The uniform consists of a capped sleeve dress with a gavel logo and the company name embroidered on the breast. It also includes a gold and red checked scarf and a gold gavel dress pin. I don’t even know if I want this bloody job. Now I have a uniform and start tomorrow. Frick.
My skin becomes clammy, every breath becomes harder than the last one to take, and dizziness overcomes me. Panic. My clothes are scooped into hurried hands as I rush from the amenities.
“It fits!” Asher calls out happily as I race past her.
“Yep…fine…good.” I dart towards the automatic doors.
“Abigail, there’s two more here for you to take,” she calls after me.