by Ruth Harrow
John presses his hands onto some project folders in front of him. 'Well, I'm very excited that both of you are here. Your past experience is very impressive and we would love to have either one of you on board. If I can just give you these...' He hands Lisa and I a folder each.
I flip mine open and flick through the pages.
'As you know, we are looking for someone to design the interior for our Aberystwyth holiday apartments. These are what our existing designer has already come up with, but we both feel they are a little too, well, corporate. We're building holiday stays by the sea, not executive homes.'
Beside him, his son adjusts his position in his seat and I am given the impression that he was fine to go ahead with the first designs.
'We want something a little more warm and family-friendly,' John continues. 'To be honest, that's the target group I see staying at these properties in the summer and in the Christmas holidays too. But obviously, they need to be a pretty high spec to justify what we'll charge for a week.'
Lisa pipes up. 'Yeah, I see what you mean, John. It's all very clinical, isn't it? Not my cup of tea myself.' She laughs and I'm sure it must surely come across as fake to everyone in the room and not just myself.
'I understand your problem with the initial designs,' I say, studying the dark blue walls, mahogany beams and chrome lamps. 'It's very cold for somewhere so picturesque.'
I'm trying my best to politely ignore Lisa, but I'm hyper-aware of her scrutinising my every word. 'My approach would have been to use warm colours,' I say. 'Something that would enhance the sunlight to amplify it, not absorb it like all that dark colour would. Some softer furnishings wouldn't have gone amiss either.'
Ian looks up sharply. 'Well, we want to stay away from too much of that. It's important that these apartments have as little maintenance as possible.'
'Well, of course,' I say smoothly, wiping my palms on my trousers discreetly under the table. 'I applied the same approach in Milan, where I've just completed a villa for an Italian businessman–'
Beside me, it's Lisa's turn to shuffle.
'–He too, stressed that he wanted something that was low maintenance, easy to clean. He was very happy with what I created for him.'
John looks impressed. 'Well, that sounds ideal.'
Lisa obviously feels under pressure to try and outdo me. 'I totally get it,' she starts, sitting up straighter in her chair. 'Last year, I worked closely with the Hotel Catalonia in Spain to redesign their lobby and ground floor recreation rooms. They were delighted with what I did for them.'
As Lisa talks I notice how white her smile is, making me wish I'd done something more to hide the damage done by relying on coffee seven days a week.
'Well, excellent,' John smiles. 'Both of you are wonderful at what you do, so if you are happy, I would like to see some draft designs. I'm really excited to see what you can come up with. Shall we say first drafts by Monday?'
Lisa and I both agree.
'Now, I'm not sure how you feel about it, but we may find that we like some elements from you, Lisa, and some from you, Heather. In that case, we would be more than happy about you both working on the project together. Would you be all right to proceed in that manner?'
I wonder if John senses an atmosphere. I hope not. I pride myself on professionalism.
Lisa is the first to recover, even though I sensed a silent, internal groan from her. 'Sure, no problem. That sounds great.'
'I would be more than happy.'
For the first time, I catch Lisa's eye as she finally looks in my direction. It is more than obvious by the look she gives me that she would like nothing less.
To be honest, I can't say that I blame her.
5
It is a relief as I push myself against the glass entrance door to Jones and Stanton and allow the dry warmth of the building to dissipate around me, leaving me standing out in the now-drizzly lunch hour in Salford.
I stand outside for a moment, unnecessarily checking my phone and taking as long as I can.
After discussing further details with John and Ian, Lisa and I had left. I allowed her to move on ahead and take the lift, while I took what I thought was a slow pace down the stairs.
Unfortunately, she seemed to have gained fellow passengers on the way down, and Lisa and I found each other heading to the exit at the same time – exactly what I was trying to avoid.
Of all the people that could have been at the interview. I hadn't ever imagined she would have gone into the same profession as me – I haven't seen her since school.
One of life's more twisted coincidences.
I see her walk on ahead, cross a wide road and disappear down a red-bricked side-street. I let out a low breath I didn't even know I was holding.
For the first time in years, guilt pulsates at the intensity I had felt it all through my teenage years – Lisa had still been walking with a limp just now.
After an unwelcome plunge back into long-forgotten secondary school woes, I feel almost like I have been dismissed from the last class of the day; I can almost believe I could reach up to my neck and remove my school-tie for the walk home. But in reality that was a long time ago.
Now I am just a woman in her thirties, shivering in the cold January air, small in the outskirts of a big city.
Despite the fact the meeting with John and Ian had gone so well, I feel the need to be cheered up, distract myself.
James is away at Middlesbrough, so a lunch together is certainly out of the question. Nicole is still up to her eyeballs in her clients' accounts, so I probably should let her get on with it. She confessed she is behind enough as it is.
I drive into Manchester and decide on some shopping to take my mind off things. I'm drained after my meeting, so maybe I'll grab something to eat and engage in some retail therapy. Yes, that would be nice.
The First stop is Caffè Nero before I hit the shops in the rest of the centre. Unfortunately, it is the lunch time rush and the place is absolutely heaving. Normally I would hate that, but today I actually embrace it.
Hundreds of people bustle around me, each absorbed in their own lives; they are mostly comprised of office workers enjoying their short snippet of freedom from the bindings of their desk.
I think of James. What will he be doing for lunch? Will he be at a place like this with his colleagues? Or does his training event provide catering? I hope he doesn't end up with food poisoning.
My hand reaches into my bag for my phone, running my thumb over the glossy screen, considering sending James a message to let him know I'm thinking of him. That's the sort of thing we used to do in the earlier years of our relationship.
Messages would fly back and forth between us, telling each other how we missed the other and what we would do once we saw each other again.
I miss those days.
As I let go of my phone and slip my hand back out of my bag, I notice how dry the skin around my fingernails is. I rummage around in my bag for my favourite tube of moisturiser, but my fingers don't close around it. I'd thought I had left the little tube in the basket of lotions in the bathroom, but I haven't been able to find it since I got home from Italy.
Now I've finished my chicken and pesto panini and my coffee cup is empty I decide to move on.
I should get going. I'll cheer myself up and find a nice new outfit, something James will love; something that will make him look twice.
*
I can't seem to help myself when I'm shopping; I over-do it every time. And these days, since we bought the house, I can't ever leave the homeware section unexplored.
I've ended up coming away with more than one new outfit. I found a great design of jeans that I loved so much I bought one of each colour. I also bought another two jumpers to last me through this last stretch of cold weather before spring.
I managed to pick up a new kettle to replace the broken one, a couple of large, scented candles and a new reed diffuser. Since returning home from Italy, I have found that my old on
e has lost its strength, leaving my home smelling rather unfamiliar, different even.
Lastly, I picked up something quick and easy for dinner later.
I push through a door into the waiting area for the lifts.
Walking with my vast shopping haul isn't all too slick, and I am just in time to see doors of the middle lift opening for a woman with a large pushchair and screaming toddler whose high-pitched cries for sweets reverberate off the walls, making my head ring.
I fall back, deliberately slow and wait for the thick metallic doors to close, instantly muffling the ear-piercing shrieks.
I wait for a few moments, before pressing each of the three call buttons in turn with difficulty – the bag handles bearing the weight of my many new clothes and large candles dig into my forearm leaving bloodless lines.
Every lift seems to be hovering on the furthest floor from here.
As I wait, I am aware of a shuffling movement from behind me.
Glancing over my shoulder, I see a bald, heavyset man almost directly behind me. I am unnerved to see when I turn around, that he is looking directly at me, unblinking. His face is grey-skinned and stubbly and he wears a stony expression.
His proximity is odd, considering we are the only two people in the waiting area.
I pad along to the furthest lift to regain some personal space on the pretence of pushing the third call button again. The pointed heels of my ankle boots echo loudly in the otherwise quiet.
Alarmingly, the man moves along closer to me, so that he is once again at the very edges of my vision.
I glance over my shoulder again at the stranger, and he stares back blankly, expressionless.
My eyes dart down – his clothes are scruffy; dark and baggy. A few streaks of what looks like white paint smear the thighs of his cargo trousers.
I wonder if he is drunk.
The lifts are still two floors away and feel like they are taking forever to get moving again. I imagine more people on the other floors piling in and out, more pushchairs and wheelchairs. People putting out a hand to stop the metallic doors sliding together to allow more people to hurry in.
Come on.
I wish someone else would turn up.
I can feel the hairs on the back of my neck lift, my skin crawls.
I chose to pull up my shoulder-length, mousy-brown hair into a tight bun today and now I wish I hadn't; the delicate area of skin on the back of my neck feels exposed, vulnerable.
On a whim, I turn on my heel and push my way through the door to the staircase instead and move downstairs swiftly.
Barely on the staircase, I am aware that the door swings open again and the bald man moves through and heads towards me.
I hasten to take the steps as quickly as I can without obviously rushing, or slipping. Now I regret my shopping spree.
Why did I have to buy so much in one go?
The glass jar holding my candle swings back and forth, hitting me painfully on the leg as I descend.
Two flights down I hurry through another door and once into the gloom of the deserted underground car park, I wonder if I should have just returned to the shops instead.
My heels make up a hasty rhythm, echoing off the concrete walls and dusty beams. As I try frantically to remember where I parked, I become aware of muffled footsteps and shuffling growing closer behind me.
I quickly round a row of cars shining dimly in the dingy light and almost walk right into a couple in their fifties who are arguing as they walk.
'S-sorry,' I manage to spit out, breathlessly. They come to an abrupt stop and their eyes flick over me in surprise.
I look back over my shoulder as explanation, only to see the back of the heavyset man disappearing back through the swing door to the staircase.
Safely centrally-locked in my car I take a deep breath and pull my jumper off, dropping it onto the passenger seat to let out the heat from the stuffy shops and my impromptu jog.
Nothing like a bit of terror to warm you up on a chilly winter day.
The engine is off, but my hands grip the steering wheel as I think back to what just happened. There was something unnerving about the man's face – his eyes in particular. His blank expression seemed to amplify the round, bulging eyes in his head.
What chills me the most now is how much he forced me to think of Lisa Richards.
My thoughts slide back to the interview again, and the dread I had felt at seeing Lisa so unexpectedly this morning.
Was that a coincidence that I was followed just now by someone who looked like her?
It surely is all in my head.
Unseeingly, I stare at the licence plate of the blue Audi opposite me, delving into my deeply-buried school memories. Did Lisa have a brother?
I shake my head to forcibly snap myself out of such thoughts.
My fingers start the ignition without even thinking about it and I roll the car forwards, only to be met with a loud, extended beep from a black Toyota.
Sorry, I mouth, hand up in apology as they pull back to let me out of my space ahead of them.
As I leave the car park and trundle back into the humdrum of the cloudy day, I conclude that my mind is only leading me astray.
Letting my paranoia get the better of me is asking for trouble. After all, it can only be a coincidence that the stranger bore a slight resemblance to Lisa.
6
The promise to myself (and Nicole) that I would cook more gets easily broken before I even get home after driving back from Manchester.
The sky outside is already a dark, inky blue when I walk in through the door.
Although the house is warm and well lit, I still feel a vast emptiness that makes me feel uncomfortable; I've never felt anything like it before; almost like a stranger is living in my body.
I've thought a lot about my teenage-self on the drive home and it is like at some point on the journey we switched places. Like that young girl has walked in the door instead of the present day version. What does she think of coming home to this house, with its expensive furnishings and décor – large, premium and empty?
No parents, siblings or partner to call out to. No one to be greeted by. Not even a pet grateful for some company. Just silence and loneliness in a stylish facade.
I've worked and worked on this house. Every element from the width of the skirting board, and stairs, to the carving and elegant sweep of the oak bannister.
Ignoring James's protests that it was an unnecessary cost, I had the boiler moved to a dedicated rear outbuilding.
Now there isn't even the sound of the machine whirring away in the background and for once I almost regret moving it. The white noise it would have faithfully delivered would have been a welcome distraction from the silence and the thoughts spinning around my head.
In the kitchen, the first thing I do is examine the vase of roses. Now that I look more closely, I see that the flower heads have opened generously.
How long had it been standing there before I saw the bouquet upon my return?
I pierce the ready meal lid and slide it into the microwave. I'm so drained after the day's events I think I deserve a little comfort food, so I cut some crusty bread to go with the spaghetti bolognese I'm heating.
I can almost hear Nicole's voice in my head, reprimanding me for doubling up on carbs.
Nicole is the keep-fit fanatic. There was a period when we never used to miss a run together, doing the circuit of the surrounding fields in identical running shoes.
Now, however, I find I don't have time. Being a one-woman operation, there is always something that needs to be done – a blog article, Instagram post, attention to be sought from potential clients. My work absorbs my time like a thirsty sponge.
While I'm waiting for my food, I sit on a stool at my kitchen island and slide my phone towards me.
I'm not sure how to put seeing Lisa Richards into words. I'm not even sure how I feel about it yet.
Or what it could mean.
Hey, Nicole. Y
ou wanted me to let you know how the interview went – I only just got back. They loved my work and want me to produce concept designs! So excited xx
My fingers hover above the screen, wondering how to word the weird incident that happened as I was leaving the shopping centre. In the end, I decide not to mention it.
Nicole would just say I was being paranoid, letting my imagination run away with me. She didn't see the chilling expression in the man's eyes. I finish the message by saying we will catch up later in the week.
A beep announces that my dinner is ready. I serve it steaming hot in one of the brand new pasta bowls I bought before my trip.
I shave some block cheese over the top, grind on some black pepper and carefully select some shapely basil leaves from the pot on the windowsill. I place them elegantly on top, vivid green and delicate.
When I'm happy with how it looks, I retrieve the lamp from the corner and adjust it so that the steam rising above the bowl is illuminated. I take a variety of snaps from as many angles as I can think of. It takes me longer than I expect to get it just perfect.
Then I scroll through and find the best one for my Instagram followers.
Dinner for a busy executive after a long working day. I'm super excited to be working on a new project! Can't wait to share the details with you all. For now it's top secret... ;)
Job done, I sit on my favourite stool at my kitchen island and start to eat my now-lukewarm dinner in silence. Every clunk of silver on china seems overly loud and there is nothing else to punctuate the quiet, other than the shuffling of small animals in the woody bushes outside the kitchen window.
7
Another gloomy grey morning doesn't do much for my morale, but nonetheless, I get started on the new concept designs for John and Ian.
I sit at the oak desk in my office and stare out the window at the green sweep of garden visible from the window that spans the entire room above my desk.