by JD Nixon
Brilliant. Now I could either hare off to catch a slow, smelly, overcrowded bus or ring a taxi and wait a million years for one to turn up. I checked my watch. I didn’t have time for the bus trip.
Ignoring Heller’s strict instructions about never having taxis come directly to the Warehouse, but meeting them a block or so away, I sat on the low brick fence anxiously checking the time as I waited. When the taxi finally turned up, I virtually threw myself into the front seat, gabbling out instructions, worried I was cutting it too fine to be ‘prompt’ as Miss Petunia expected. God, would nothing ever go right in my life?
The taxi driver, a very neat and well-groomed man, and surely used to dealing with an enormous spectrum of humanity in his job, reeled back at the sight of me. That hurt my feelings.
“Good morning,” he said politely in an accented voice, looking everywhere except at me. “Are you off to a fancy-dress party?”
“No!” I replied indignantly. “I’m going to a job interview.” I gave him the address of the shopping centre.
“And you want me to take you to such a public place? Looking like that? Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m positive. I just told you I have an interview and I need a job.”
“It’s just that . . .” His glance was filled with pity. “I think it’s going to be a hard day for you, Miss.”
“It already is. I have to go to an interview looking like this and my boyfriend’s gone away for work. I miss him already.”
“I know how you feel,” he said, steering the car away from the curb, accelerating. “My wife is working in the mines. She’s away for months on end. I’m trying to hold the family together while she’s gone.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” That made my problems shrink into insignificance. I felt ashamed of my self-pity. “What does she do there?”
“She drives one of those huge trucks. I don’t really know more than that. She doesn’t like to talk about it. She tells me when she’s home that she just wants her spare time to be about our family, not her job.”
“I can understand that. She sounds like a great mum.”
“She’s the best,” he said, the affection plain in his voice. “She hates being away from us, but you know . . . it’s difficult to get a job these days.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Especially when you’re an immigrant.”
“I’m sorry.” I’d never really thought about that before.
“We’re both trained as doctors in our home country, but it’s not recognised here, so . . .” He shrugged, nodding his head towards his steering wheel.
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re not to blame, Miss.” He managed a laugh. “Sounds like you’re having a bad day yourself.”
“We’ll see. I’m hoping it will get better.”
He laughed. “That’s the best way to think.” I’d smile at him, but I was afraid my makeup would crack like drought-stricken earth.
We chatted inconsequentially on our way to the shopping centre. He entertained me with tales about his homeland and why his wife and he had left for here. I really enjoyed our chat, almost sorry when he dropped me off at the centre’s taxi rank, where a couple of people waited in the taxi queue. He’d have no trouble finding a new passenger to replace me.
“Good luck, Miss,” he said nicely as I paid him.
“Thanks! I really appreciate that.”
“But please, take a minute to freshen up first. Please. For your own sake.”
Not sure what that was supposed to mean, I checked my watch. I had no time for bathroom breaks. I’d be lucky to get to my interview on time as it was.
Scurrying through the acres and acres of the colossal shopping centre looking for the right store, I became rather offended by the startled looks I received from other shoppers. Just because I had a terrible rash didn’t mean they should feel free to stare at me. It was just bad manners. A couple of kids even pointed at me. I now had an inkling of how Daniel felt venturing out in public and could appreciate his reluctance to put himself through the ordeal.
After rushing around frantically searching for Miss Petunia’s Boutique, I realised with a groan I was on the wrong floor. Almost pushing an elderly man out of my way, I sprinted up the escalator, hunting desperately for the correct location. By the time I’d found it, I was out of breath, sweaty and a little ruffled. Not the best start for an interview.
I couldn’t see this going well, but I was here and I’d give it my best shot. It was all I could do.
When I stepped inside, a quartet of well-dressed woman instantly stopped what they were doing to stare at me. One’s jaw dropped open and another shrieked softly. Geez, I thought, disgruntled, what an over-reaction. You’d think they’d never seen a person with a rash before.
“I’m looking for Miss Petunia,” I said with my brightest smile.
“I-I’m she,” the woman who shrieked said faintly. I didn’t think this was turning out to be a very promising start to what I’d hoped would be a new, no matter how temporary, career. Particularly when two of the women, who I presumed were customers, fled the store, carefully skirting me. I was really beginning to become offended.
I gave her a quick once over – a middle-aged, impeccably groomed woman with nicely styled grey hair, fine, powdery skin and a pair of flamboyant glasses. She had the kind of pinched features that didn’t indicate a kindly disposition, not helped by the unhidden repulsion on her face. Doggedly, I stepped towards her, my hand out. “I’m Tilly Chalmers. I’m here for the interview.”
She shook her head, edging backwards until she ran into the counter. “I’m sorry. You’re not right for this job.”
“What? How can you possibly tell that without even interviewing me?” I asked in stunned disbelief. “I know I’m a little late, but aren’t you even going to give me a chance?”
“You’re just not right. I can tell,” she repeated, not even able to look me in the eye. “Can you please leave? We’re closing.”
“What? Closing? It’s just gone 11:30!”
“We’re closing for lunch,” she insisted, becoming belligerent. “You need to leave now.”
I stared at her, bewildered. “I can’t believe this! You insisted I drag my butt all the way over here, even though I don’t have any petrol in my car and you can see I’m having some skin issues at the moment, and –”
“Don’t make me call security,” she warned, reaching for the phone.
“Security? What have I done wrong? We don’t need security.” Though I didn’t expect the shopping centre security to be equal to any of Heller’s men in size, beefiness or skill, there was no reason to find out firsthand.
“Please leave without causing any unpleasantries.”
“The only one causing any unpleasantries here today is you,” I retorted rudely, by now riled by her inexplicable behaviour.
“Are you going to leave or not? Or do I have to call security?”
“All I did was turn up for an interview.” Determination nipping her lips to thin slits, she viciously stabbed at numbers on the phone keypad. I surrendered, my hands up. “Okay! All right! I’m going.”
“Thank you,” she said, her voice sour enough to make vinegar wince.
Resolute, I walked out of her store with my head held high. She was making a big mistake forcing me to go. It was her loss – she didn’t realise what a jewel of an employee she was losing. Heller had even called me a gem one time. Although he hadn’t exactly been talking about in an employment sense, I had to remind myself.
My dark mood grew only darker by the time I made my way back to the taxi rank, becoming lost twice as I did. A small child started crying when I stormed past, her mother’s small scream of shock not improving my mood. A group of teens actually laughed at me when I past them. When did the people of this city become so incredibly bad-mannered, I grumbled to myself.
My happiness level plunged to new depths when I approached the taxi rank. Every single taxi driver took one lo
ok at me and screeched away, the smell of burning rubber hanging in the air. What the hell? I thought, standing like an idiot, eating their dust. In his rear view mirror, I even saw one crossing himself with his hand.
I searched through my handbag, finally locating my long-unused bus card. I slogged up the road to the bus stop, enduring a hail of honks for no reason I could discern apart from my rash. This was turning out to be a really bad day for me.
Of course I had to wait forever for the right bus to arrive. Three of same bus zoomed past within a minute of each other, then a different bus came, then another one of the first bus again, then one of the second – but, conspicuously, not the one I needed. After thirty minutes, my bus trundled along towards my stop.
I hailed it, but when I stepped in, the driver drew back sharply and bit her lip until little beads of blood appeared. As I swiped my bus card on the reader, I could tell she didn’t want me on her bus. Tough shit for her, I thought, no sympathy left inside me today for anyone else. Her day couldn’t possibly be even one-tenth as bad as mine so far.
The entire bus fell silent as I made my way down the aisle. I couldn’t fail to miss the strong thought waves I received from every other passenger – don’t let her sit next to me, don’t let her sit next to me. There were no free double seats, so I had to choose some unlucky sod to bless with my proximity. I picked the smallest, meekest looking person on the bus and sat down next to her, assiduously keeping my eyes straight ahead. She huddled even further against the wall of the bus, somehow shrinking her body to take up only half of one seat.
I plugged in my headphones, lessening the misery of the rest of the trip by listening to my favourite music and thinking about Heller. What was he doing right at this minute? Had he even thought about me once since he’d left? Would he come back alive? Though not being an especially driven person myself, I could sort of understand his need for adrenaline, being such an alpha male used to experiencing what I could only assume was some kind of dangerous military career. I also partially appreciated his obsession with his business, because he’d built it up by himself with his own money and hard work. It was being kept in the dark about what he was doing or even where he was that killed me the most.
Jolted from my reverie, I realised I’d almost missed my stop, ringing the bell at the last second. I distinctly heard the driver swearing as she swerved dangerously to a halt at the curb of the bus stop. I stepped out of the bus, choking in its exhaust as it pulled away, only then realising that I’d forgotten to swipe off with my bus card. Fan-fucking-tastic! Now I’d be charged the most expensive fare. I traipsed home with no enthusiasm. It was a fair way to the Warehouse, but it was the closest the suburb came to public transport. And being forced to walk a great distance in high heels was just one more thing I resignedly added to my week’s Long, Long List of Spectacularly Crappy Occurrences.
By the time I reached home, I was more than a little puffed by the exercise. It was quiet inside the Warehouse. Everyone was probably working – everyone except me. Climbing those bloody stairs again seemed like conquering Mt Everest. By the second floor, I was puffing. Must get on the treadmill, must get on the treadmill, I chanted to myself. It wasn’t as if I had anything else to do with my life.
Daniel rushed out of the office on his way downstairs to deliver something to Clive or Sid. He screeched to a halt when he saw me.
“Holy shit, Tilly! Please tell me you didn’t go out in public looking like that?”
It was the last straw for me. “Daniel! I’ve had the shittiest day. I’ve just about had enough of people staring at me and laughing at me and avoiding me. Just because I have a little rash. It’s cruel. I don’t need it from you too.”
“Tilly, darling. No, that’s not what I’m talking about.”
“What do you mean?”
He gently took my arm and started heading for the office, then pulled up. “No, not in there. Niq’s in there. Come up to your place.”
“That’s where I was intending on going before you stopped me,” I said, a little snide but not too much – it was Daniel, after all.
He ignored me and guided me to my place, into my bathroom.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
I jumped when I saw my reflection. “Oh, my God! I’ve been walking around like this all day! No wonder everyone thought I was a freak.”
Because I hadn’t used them for so long, the expensive concealer and foundation I’d stuccoed on my face earlier hadn’t remained silky smooth as promised in the ads featuring a famous actress. Instead they’d set like some kind of thick mudpack. Though I’d looked okay when I’d left home, by the time I’d been in the taxi, chatting away with the driver, it must have cracked with the movement of my facial muscles. That was bad enough, but the makeup seemed to have reacted with the rash cream Dr Kincaid had given me, turning an unattractive shade of orangey-brown.
“I look like the Thing!” I wailed. “No wonder that nice taxi driver told me to freshen up so vehemently. He was too polite to tell me I looked like a hideous mutant superhero.”
“I guess it is the kind of topic that’s difficult to bring up with a woman,” Daniel sympathised.
“I went out in public looking like this,” I continued to moan. “I was in a shopping centre! I caught a bus! I made a little kid cry.” I slapped my forehead, my hand immediately covered in thick makeup. “No wonder Miss Petunia didn’t want to interview me. Imagine someone looking like the Thing trying to sell high-end designer outfits to snooty, rich women?”
Our eyes met in the mirror and despite my misery, we both started giggling at the thought, which quickly escalated into laughter. Tears rolled down my cheeks, forging wriggly rivulets in my war paint. We clung to each other, helpless with mirth. Daniel laughed so much he snorted loudly a few times as he laughed, only making me laugh even harder, my stomach soon aching with the effort.
When we eventually subsided, I jumped in the shower to wash away, not just the caked-on makeup, but all the disappointment and humiliation of the day. Peering at my face in the mirror afterwards, I noticed my skin was considerably less reddened, barely even a blush left. Strange, I thought. But perhaps that concealer/foundation cement had given my skin what it needed to heal. Whatever – I wasn’t complaining.
With Heller temporarily absent, Daniel decided to give himself the rest of the day off, which we spent goofing around on the rooftop, playing pool and singing along loudly (and in my case, slightly off-key) to energetic music. Niq joined us at dinnertime, having hunted us down after conscientiously toiling over his schoolwork all day, vexed to find us slightly sloshed and having a great old time without him. He also didn’t really appreciate us laughing through his heated admonishment, but I jollied him up with a huge tickling that left him feeling a little silly with laughter as well.
We ate, we drank, we chatted, we played pool. I fell into bed, relaxed, if not exactly happy. As I laid in the quiet darkness, I reached my arm out to where Heller would normally be, stroking down the pillow and sheets, an approximation of his head and torso. My need for him burned inside me like a physical pain. I missed him.
I fumbled around for my phone, calling him. It didn’t even ring once before a robotic voice cut in, informing me that the number was out of range and to try again soon. What would be the point of that? He wasn’t even close by.
“Please stay safe,” I whispered into the void left by his absence, wondering if, in some way, he could hear me or at least sense me, out there wherever he was.
Chapter 29
After a restorative breakfast and shower the next morning, I decided to return to the shopping centre to apologise to Miss Petunia. Yes, she’d been very rude and hurtful to me, but to be fair to her, it probably wasn’t every day a candidate turned up having taken the liberty to be interviewed as one of their favourite Fantastic Four characters. The least I could do was try to explain. Maybe she might even decide to interview me this time because of my refreshing candour. And maybe she’d call secur
ity again.
Determined today to snag one of the fleet vehicles to drive, my car still out of petrol, I jogged down the stairs to be pulled up by Clive on the ground floor.
“This came for you,” he said gruffly, handing me a registered airmail parcel. It wasn’t large, stamped with a postmark from the UK, but had no return sender name or address.
“Thanks.”
Curiosity overcame my need to apologise to Miss Petunia. Finding the wrapping of the parcel too difficult to rip open, I climbed back up those never ending stairs to my place, rummaging around in my messy utensils drawer for a pair of scissors.
Once opened, I sat for a full minute staring at the enclosed DVD and especially its cover. An envelope had fluttered to the floor with my rough opening, so I bent down to pick it up. Inside was a note.
Dear Tilly
Hope this finds you well. We’ve never forgotten what you and Bick did for us and have paid homage to you in our own little way. We rushed this into production, excited by the concept.
Enjoy! (And don’t blush too much, sweet girl!).
Love Barb and Roger xxx
I picked up the DVD, my eyes about to pop out of my head. “Security Swingers,” I read aloud in a hushed voice. I was almost too afraid to watch.
I decided to brave it. After all, it couldn’t be that bad, could it? I made a strong cup of coffee and curled up on my lounge to watch.
The main character was a well-endowed female security officer (Barb), who wore a very skimpy uniform, very low-cut tight black shirt, midriff showing, tight black mini shorts showing half her butt, and black high heels.
“That’s not a practical uniform,” I complained to myself. “How’s she supposed to keep anything secure wearing that? She couldn’t even run in those shoes.”
Her work partner was a well-endowed man (Roger) in a black shirt slashed to his navel and an extremely tight pair of black leather trousers that would have severely restricted lower body blood flow and impeded the movements of any normal security guy.