The Perfect Life

by Nuala Ellwood

  There are purple half-moons under my eyes, my skin is grey and dull, my hair lank. I seem to have aged ten years in the last few weeks.

  But I try to relax, to put all negative thoughts out of my head as Verity sets to work cleansing my face with a Vitamin C-packed foam, applying micro fine moisturizer, then a matte primer. She gives me the name of each product, its ingredients and benefits. As someone who has spent the last five years working in the cosmetics industry this should feel like a bit of a busman’s holiday, but Verity is clearly passionate and informed about her products and I’m drawn in. ‘This foundation, Silk Sheen, is so light that it just looks like you’ve got great skin rather than wearing a mask of make-up,’ she says as she sponges a heavenly scented lotion on to my face. ‘And it blends so well, see?’

  I lean forward towards the mirror and nod my head. She’s right. This is an excellent product. I must make a note of its ingredients to pass on to Anne. Then I remember I don’t work at Luna London any more.

  Georgie was right, though. This has been just what I needed. The sound of Verity’s voice as she enthuses about the products, the smell of her perfume, the hum of the radio in the background, make me feel safe. No one can get to me here. I close my eyes as Verity applies a soft grey eyeshadow to my eyelids and I recall those nights when I would watch my mum get ready to go out. The smell of Penhaligon’s Violetta and M&S Magnolia talcum powder mingling in the air, the lotions and potions lined up on her dressing table, the way she opened her mouth into an ‘o’ shape as she applied mascara to her lashes.

  ‘Gosh, that Dove Letter eyeshadow looks great on you!’ says Verity, after applying blush and a gorgeously glossy lip tint called Rose Cream. ‘There we are. You’re all done.’

  She stands back and I look into the mirror. What I see almost makes me cry. It’s the old Vanessa. She looks back at me and smiles: this groomed, perfectly made-up woman. And I tell myself that, no matter what it takes, I have to get her back.

  I get down from the chair and go to the counter where Verity is standing at the till.

  ‘Oh, it’s okay, it’s already been paid for,’ she says as I offer my bank card.

  Georgie is waiting outside the shop when I emerge.

  ‘Oh, wow, you look beautiful, darling,’ she says, her eyes welling up. ‘Just perfect.’

  ‘Thanks, Georgie,’ I say, hugging her. ‘Though you really shouldn’t have paid for it. Brunch was more than enough.’

  ‘I didn’t pay for it,’ says Georgie, looking confused. ‘I went for a walk up to the bookshop while you were in there. I wanted to see if they had the new Kate Atkinson.’

  ‘But the woman … Verity … she said it had been paid for,’ I say, glancing back at the shop, panic fluttering through me. ‘I need to go back and ask her who paid for it.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t bother,’ says Georgie, taking my arm. ‘It looks like she’s given you a freebie. I did mention when we first went in, on the quiet, that you’d worked for Luna London. She probably wanted to secure you as a contact. Now, come on, let’s go for that walk.’

  We arrive back at the house at 1 p.m. As Georgie puts the key in the lock the door opens. Jack is standing there.

  ‘Oh,’ he says, looking surprised. ‘I wasn’t expecting you two back for another couple of hours.’

  ‘Well, we’re early,’ says Georgie, squeezing past him. ‘Honestly, Jack, this is my house too. Surely I can come and go as I please.’

  I can sense the rumblings of a row so I excuse myself and head upstairs. After a couple of minutes, I hear the door slam. I look out of the window and see Jack storming off across the common. I flop down on the bed, the happiness of the morning dissolving. I know that the tension between Jack and Georgie is all down to me. They were always so loved up, so close, but since I turned up my sister is drinking every night and Jack can’t bear to be in the house.

  I look at my phone. There are three notifications in my email inbox. Two are from recruitment sites, but the most recent one has no subject line and has been sent by someone called G@LOSTSOUL.COM

  My stomach twists as I open the email and read:

  My, don’t you look pretty. Back to your old self again. And doesn’t Dove Letter bring out the blue of your eyes. Perfect.

  22. Then

  July 2018

  The sun is already blazing though it’s barely 7 a.m. As I sit here on the roof terrace I look out across the sparkling rooftops of South London and try to clear my head.

  Today is my first day back at work since the abortion, the first step back into ordinary life. Though it’s been ten days since the procedure I still feel delicate, like I’ve lost a vital part of myself. Maybe I have.

  ‘So, you’re definitely going back then?’

  I look up and see Connor standing in the doorway. His hair is wet and he’s holding a mug of coffee.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, trying to sound upbeat. ‘I couldn’t keep putting it off. Besides, the team needs me.’

  ‘Your baby needed you,’ he says, his voice barely audible.

  ‘Please, Connor, don’t do this,’ I say, getting up from the bench. ‘I really don’t want an argument on my first day back.’

  ‘I’m not starting an argument,’ he says, standing aside to let me pass. ‘I’m simply stating a fact. I know you feel guilty about what you did, Vanessa, but I told you I forgive you.’

  ‘What I did?’ I cry, my cheeks reddening. ‘I think you played a part too. You told me you’d stopped.’

  ‘And I did,’ he says, placing his mug on the draining board. ‘But we’d had sex countless times that month, before that night. One of the condoms must have split. That’s the only explanation.’

  I look down at the floor, a familiar panic engulfing me. If only I could remember that night, but I still have no recollection of it. The one image that returns to me again and again is that of Connor guiding me into a taxi on Sloane Street, then nothing else. But maybe he’s right, maybe I got pregnant before that night. Maybe a condom ripped without us realizing it.

  ‘Look, you took matters into your own hands without even consulting me,’ says Connor, following me through the living room as I go to get my bag and coat from the hook. ‘What kind of person does that? Just sneaks off without letting their partner know. If I hadn’t found those leaflets on the doorstep I’d still be none the wiser.’

  ‘I was scared,’ I cry, my head tightening. The morning I returned to the house I’d been sure I’d thrown those leaflets in the bin, but I was so woozy and exhausted I must have dropped them. I try to imagine how Connor must have felt, seeing them on the doorstep like that.

  ‘Scared?’ he shouts, his face beetroot red. ‘Yeah, well I bet our baby was scared when you murdered it.’

  His words fall into the space between us like bullets. I stand, unable to speak, unable to move. We’ve been having a version of this argument every day since I woke to find him clutching those leaflets. So many times, that I’m starting to feel like I’m losing my mind.

  ‘Look, let’s just stop this,’ says Connor, his voice softening. ‘I’ve told you I forgive you but it’s going to take some time for things to get back to normal.’

  And every time I think it’s getting too much, he says something like that, and I give in.

  The morning passes in a blur. When I first arrived the girls had huddled around me, asking me if I felt better after the horrible flu that had laid me low, filling me in on snippets of office gossip, letting me know how the campaign for the new Spring Shimmer eyeshadow was going. Eventually, it all got too much and I had to excuse myself.

  Now, as I sit here at Anne’s weekly 11 a.m. meeting, my brain feels slow and sticky. I try my best to focus on what Anne is saying but all I can think of are Connor’s words: I bet our baby was scared when you murdered it.

  ‘What do you think, Vanessa?’

  I look up. Damian, sitting on the opposite side of the table, is speaking to me.

  ‘I … er …’

  I su
ddenly feel very hot. White spots appear in front of my eyes. It’s like the feeling you get when you stand up too quickly.

  ‘Vanessa?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, scrambling to my feet. ‘I’m not feeling too … I need some water.’

  Outside, in the open-plan office space, the air is full of voices, music, the click-clack of keyboards. I hurry to my office, closing the door firmly behind me.

  I sit on the armchair and put my head in my hands, try to remember the breathing exercises Anne is always urging us to do. As I sit here, there’s a knock at the door. I look up and see Anne.

  ‘Vanessa, is everything okay?’ she says, her eyes full of concern as she brings a chair over to where I’m sitting. ‘You look terribly pale.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say, summoning a smile. ‘I just got a bit overheated. Give me a few minutes and I’ll be able to rejoin the meeting.’

  ‘You said it was flu,’ says Anne, getting up and fetching me a beaker of water from the cooler.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, taking the water from her. ‘It was a particularly bad bout.’

  I feel terrible for lying to her but I have no choice.

  ‘Hmm,’ she says, regarding me through her smart acetate spectacles. ‘It looks to me like you’re post-viral. You know these viruses can take a good few weeks to clear up. I think you need to rest today, Vanessa. Don’t worry about the meeting. I can email you anything you’ve missed.’

  ‘Honestly, Anne,’ I say, taking a long sip of water, ‘I’ll be fine in a few minutes, really.’

  ‘Vanessa, this isn’t a suggestion, it’s an order,’ she says, taking my jacket and bag from the back of the chair and handing them to me. ‘You still look ill to me and I wouldn’t be a responsible employer if I let you stay here in this state. Would you like me to book you a taxi?’

  ‘No thank you,’ I say, slipping my arms shakily into my jacket. ‘The fresh air will do me good.’

  ‘If you’re sure, darling,’ says Anne gently. ‘But do text me when you get back just to put my mind at rest.’

  I nod my head and smile.

  ‘I know,’ says Anne as she guides me to the lift, ‘I’m a fussy old thing, but that’s what happens when you’re a mother. You just want to keep all your babies safe and well.’

  Her words stay with me as I enter the lift and a sharp, razor-like feeling of guilt slices through me. Connor was right. I am the worst possible person.

  The fresh air does seem to do me some good and by the time I arrive back at the flat my head feels a little clearer. I put the key in the lock but as I open it I hear something, the sound of muffled voices coming from inside.

  My skin prickles as I stand at the door, not daring to go inside. Then I look up and see Connor standing at the top of the stairs with a towel wrapped round his middle.

  ‘Vanessa, what are you doing here?’ he says as I walk slowly up the stairs.

  ‘Anne sent me home,’ I say, pausing to hang my bag and jacket on the hook. ‘I wasn’t feeling very well. Who’s up there? I heard voices.’

  ‘Just the radio,’ he says, fussing with the cushions as I slump on to the sofa. ‘God, Vanessa, I told you it was too soon to go back.’

  The air smells stale, like cigarette smoke. It catches in my throat.

  ‘What’s that smell?’ I say, curling into a ball, my hand clasping the fluffy cushion. ‘Have you been smoking?’

  ‘Don’t be so ridiculous,’ he says, hurrying into the kitchen where I hear him slam the roof-terrace door shut. ‘It’s the new people next door,’ he says, returning to the living room. ‘They smoke out on their balcony and the smell wafts over here.’

  My eyes feel heavy though I know if I try to sleep the nightmares will come.

  ‘Anyway, what are you doing here?’ I say, stretching out my legs.

  ‘I had a client meeting in Chelsea,’ he says, readjusting his towel. ‘It finished earlier than I expected. There was no point going all the way back east so I’ve been doing some work here.’

  I look at him. His eyes look strange and there’s a manic edge to his voice.

  ‘Anyway, I’m glad you’re here,’ he says jumpily, ‘because I’ve got a surprise for you. I was going to give it to you this evening but … give me a minute.’

  My eyes grow heavier and as I hear his footsteps disappear down the corridor I close them and feel myself start to drift.

  ‘Vanessa.’

  I look up. Connor is now dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt. He’s holding something in his hands, a small velvet box. He sits down next to me on the sofa and opens the box. Inside is a pear-shaped diamond ring.

  ‘Connor, I really don’t think …’ I begin, my head foggy with sleep.

  ‘Shh, it’s okay,’ he says, his voice less manic now. ‘This ring belonged to my grandmother. I loved her very much and when she died she left me this ring with a note telling me to give it to the woman I wanted to marry.’

  My chest tightens. I don’t understand. Only this morning he was telling me I’d murdered our child and now he’s asking me to marry him.

  ‘You’re probably feeling overwhelmed,’ he says, taking the ring out of its box. ‘I just would love you to wear it. It can be our little way of healing, I guess. After everything we’ve been through these last couple of weeks I think we need something to look forward to, some good news to outweigh the bad.’

  I have no words. I’m dog-tired and the cramps have started up again. They are not as painful as they were but sharp enough to make me feel rather queasy. I look down at the ring and laugh. It’s a nervous laugh but Connor seems to interpret it as acceptance.

  ‘I knew you’d love it,’ he says, slipping the ring on to my finger. ‘Now we can move on properly, really plan our life together.’

  I look down at the ring and I feel nauseous suddenly.

  ‘I know,’ says Connor, jumping to his feet. ‘Let’s go for a drink to celebrate.’

  ‘Connor, no,’ I say, rubbing my head. ‘I still don’t feel too good.’

  ‘We won’t go far,’ he says, grabbing my jacket and bag and handing them to me. ‘Just up to Lavender Hill. And we can have sparkling water.’

  To be honest, the thought of staying in this flat on such a warm day is not an appealing one. At least in the open air I can clear my head.

  Connor rushes me down the stairs, grabbing his bag from the vestibule by the door. The sun is blazing and I realize that I don’t need my coat. I tell Connor I’ll just take it back to the flat quickly but he grabs it and says that he will carry it for me.

  He takes my hand. As we turn on to Queenstown Road, the cramping intensifies and I clutch his arm, inhaling his familiar peppery scent. This used to be the most appealing and reassuring of smells but today it seems to stick in the back of my throat.

  ‘We should try that new little place up by the library,’ says Connor as we take a right on to Lavender Hill. ‘Some of the guys at work went there at the weekend and said the food was amazing and …’

  His words fall away as the pain gets stronger. I still haven’t fully recovered from the abortion. I should be resting. But I can’t say that to him and risk another fight. We go a little further and as we do I feel myself heating up, then my heart starts to thud violently. I can feel myself falling but there’s nothing to hold on to. With a crack, I hit the pavement. The last thing I hear as I lose consciousness is Connor’s voice.

  23. Now

  I am thankful that Georgie and Jack have decided to have a TV supper rather than a roast this evening. I feel so twitchy and nervous I don’t think I could have sat still had we gathered round the table, and then Georgie would have fretted and asked me what was the matter. At least, this way, all eyes are on the TV screen instead of on me. Not that tonight’s viewing is doing much to calm the hostilities between Jack and Georgie.

  ‘The bloody Antiques Roadshow,’ sighs Georgie, her plate of homemade chicken pie and greens balanced on her knee. ‘Is there nothing else on? Really, Jack, I do
n’t know why you insist on watching it.’

  Sundays. Even as a child I hated them. When Mum was alive she would alleviate the dread by making the day truly fun-packed. She’d take me out for a big walk up to Caversham Park pond to feed the ducks and we’d have hot chocolate with marshmallows at the cafe. Home in time for Sunday roast with all the trimmings, including cauliflower cheese, my absolute favourite, then a warm bubbly bath before bed, tired and happy. So very happy. But Sundays after she died were never the same. That was when the Sunday-night feeling intensified and the smell of roast beef and Yorkshire puddings no longer made my mouth water. Monday mornings loomed with the incessant questions from pupils and teachers alike as to how I was coping and did I miss my mum. Then home time, where I would have to navigate a sea of mothers before escaping into Georgie’s battered old VW Beetle. She still lived in Reading in those days and would leave work early to come and collect me from school then wait until Dad got back from the office at 6 p.m. And though she would try hard to do the things Mum had done – making me snacks, checking if I had homework to do, asking about my day – it just wasn’t the same. I was ten years old and I needed my mum. Georgie was twenty-three and needed to concentrate on her own life. We were at opposite ends of the spectrum, with Dad, grief-stricken and bewildered, floating somewhere in between.

  Now here I am again, running back to her like a needy child.

  ‘The Antiques Roadshow is comforting,’ says Jack, turning up the volume. ‘The televisual equivalent of chicken pie.’

  Georgie glances at me and raises her eyebrows.

  ‘What would you like to watch, Vanessa?’ she says, taking a sip from the glass of Chablis that she has balanced on the slim side table. ‘There must be something a bit more interesting on. How about we try Netflix?’

  ‘This is fine,’ I say, taking a bite of pie. The pastry sticks in my throat. ‘Like Jack says, it’s comforting.’