by Ruth Harrow
How many people have seen this? My face burns hot as I realise the stretched, silver-toned image looks like a close up of one of my candle holders.
Frantically, I tap back to my original post on Instagram a few days ago. My desperate fingers pinch at the screen as I enlarge the image of the bathroom candles shot.
A sick pounding rises in my throat and I realise that I am indeed visible upon enlargement of the photo.
My face and body are broadened, but it is very clearly and obviously recognisable as me.
Frustrated by how my phone seems to suddenly load every screen slowly, I dismiss the image from my notifications, but I know it's already too late – bunny90158 has already drawn the attention of my followers to the close up they cropped and uploaded and the image is still stubbornly on their page.
Most of all, I'm furious with myself for being visible in a shot. I'm always so careful to get the perfect photo. I've worked with reflective objects before; it should have been obvious to check before I uploaded.
Have Ian or John seen the shot? What about Lisa? My skin prickles all over unpleasantly at the thought of her seeing me looking such a mess. In recent times, she has only seen the smart, polished version of myself I am happy for the world to see.
My suspicion that Lisa Richards is following me via my social media presence rises again.
What if it was her that cropped and enlarged the picture?
I feel like she has reached into my house somehow, beyond the locked doors and distance between our homes. Although I'm not entirely sure where she actually lives; I can't remember her disclosing that information during Nicole's grilling.
Was that one of the questions she managed to smoothly dodge?
I can't remember.
19
My mental to-do list is forgotten for the rest of Saturday. I scroll obsessively back through every message I have received on Instagram and through the comments section of my blog, trying to find anything by bunny90158. It turns out, they have been a regular follower for quite a while, their comments dating back over a year.
Perhaps that means the user isn't Lisa, after all.
Or does it?
I can't bring myself to decide either way.
This person has never had anything nice to say about me, but what they have posted has ranged from passive-aggressive to, on occasion, just plain aggressive. They criticised my mason-jar lantern tutorial for being overly-simple, then they outright hated the subway tiling I added to the otherwise farmhouse style kitchen, calling it “out of place”.
I don't know why I never noticed this person before; the comments are always cutting, and always address me sharply by my first name and are never without some kind of put-down.
My mother always used to do that whenever I did something wrong. It feels odd for some faceless stranger to do it.
Whoever bunny90158 is, they are doing a great job of keeping their identity a secret. They have the default, grey avatar on whichever site they frequent and give literally no information away on their Instagram profile. The only blog they post on is my own and don't appear to follow any others.
I would ask Nicole to look into it for me, but I don't want her to find out about the photo.
I haven't heard from Nicole for almost a week now, not since I had the boiler fixed, so I send her a tentative text, asking her if she wants to have dinner tonight.
Really, I want to know if she has seen bunny90158's post.
Nicole has always been impressed, in-awe even, every time I achieve something in my career, sometimes even more excited than I am. I don't want her to see me in such a negative light.
So far she hasn't said anything, so I think I'm in the clear, but I want to be sure.
My phone buzzes with a new reply from Nicole.
Can't – busy babysitting at Jeff's house for the weekend while he and Her Ladyship bugger off to a B&B. It's actually nice in their house when they're not in it – Lilly agrees! Thinking of suggesting I adopt her permanently. Do you think that will go down well with my brother and his delightful wife? x
A grin spreads across my face before I type my response.
Probably not! Some parents seem to be attached to their children. We'll have to catch up in the week instead xx
I set my phone down and think of the work I had planned to do. Now I have the rest of the weekend alone, I will have plenty of peace and quiet to get lots done.
My phone buzzes again with a new text, again from Nicole.
Sure, I'll be free on Wednesday. We can try out that refurbished pub. It's supposed to be much nicer since they did it up. Ask James if he can get an extended lunch break and join us like he used to. Is he there with you now?
I tap out my response, eager to get to my work.
No, he just popped out to drop off his dry cleaning from his Middlesbrough trip. The place was shut by the time he got back late last night. He should be back soon, but I doubt he will be able to make it for lunch with his schedule. His boss is really working him at the moment. See you next week xx
Another buzz.
If you say so. But tell him we have to meet up soon for drinks – the three of us like it used to be xx
Really it was the four of us that used to go out together before Nicole split up with her boyfriend Dean at the beginning of December.
Jaunts didn't feel quite the same without him, not just because Nicole was clearly still so upset. She'd found out he had been cheating; she had inadvertently read a text on his phone while he was in the bathroom.
Nicole tried to put on a brave face and carry on as normal, but I'd known her too long not to see through it.
At one point, I had considered cancelling my Milan trip. There were several reasons, but for one thing, I could have stayed around to console my best friend, even though I felt like my earlier attempts hadn't done much good.
She seems much more like her old self since I got back though. I think the time has done her good.
I throw myself into work on Sunday morning, producing a new blog post on how to create the illusion of space and light with mirrors.
I am overly diligent in taking the photographs – enlarging them on my laptop screen and scrutinising every section of pixels for any obvious errors. Even if I happen to appear in these new images, I have been careful to style and dress in a way that prepares me for the public.
As early evening approaches, I get a piece of news that cheers me up no end.
My request to Instagram to remove bunny90158's post is approved and I double-check to find the image gone. In the support desk's message, they acknowledge that as the copyright holder of the original image, I'm well within my rights to have it taken down.
I rotate my shoulders, feeling like a weight has been lifted off them. I'm in such an improved mood, that I decide to prepare the home-cooked meal I have been craving in the form of a stir-fry.
At the cooker, I add some oil to a frying pan. Then I move over to the marble chopping board in front of the window and I start chopping ingredients.
Outside, the sun is setting. The red glow is illuminating the clouds visible above the weedy, clawed arms of the woods at the end of the garden.
I add the garlic and spring onions to the pan and begin chopping mushrooms. As I pick up my knife, a flicker of movement catches my eye and I look up into the fading green of my garden.
Something just moved behind the boiler building outside.
It happened so fast, I have no idea what it was. Now my mouth runs dry and the hand gripping the knife handle feels cold.
I'm reluctant to set it down, so I move towards the glass door of the kitchen with it still in my hand and peer outside.
Nothing.
I hover for a few moments, indecisive. The last thing I want to do is go outside, but I need to know if there is someone out there.
I pause, listening intently and I hear a faint rustling noise. I start turning the key, slowly so as to not make any noise.
Outside, th
e sound is louder and I follow it. I reach the side of the boiler building and pause, before making the last step.
A gasp escapes me when I see what it is – a fox rummaging around in a packet of stale bread I had thrown away.
At the sight of me, he bolts with the packet and disappears over the low fence at the bottom of the garden seemingly in one fluid movement, leaving the surrounding trees completely unruffled.
I stare after him for a moment, heart hammering, relieved. but then a piercing high-pitched sound reaches my ears.
The smoke alarm.
The kitchen is filling with a grey pungent smoke emanating from the hot pan of garlic and onion as I rush inside. I hurriedly slide it from the heat and onto a marble board beside the cooker.
Grabbing a stool from the island, I hurry into the living room where the shrill beeping is coming from. I clamber up, feeling wobbly, precarious as I unclip the plastic casing.
Batteries now in hand, I'm annoyed that I didn't take the pan from the heat. I'm even more annoyed that I didn't follow my usual rule of keeping the doors leading off from the kitchen shut. I've always been adamant about that since James and I moved in.
A memory wraps itself around me, weaving its feelings of anger, and now guilt around my gut. An image of James appears in my mind's-eye.
Years ago, I padded through the kitchen doors one morning to find him preparing me breakfast in bed. I know the notion was romantic, but at the time when I was met with the excessive smoking of bacon permeating throughout my newly decorated house, I didn't see it that way. The browning meat spitting fat everywhere, all over my then brand-new work surfaces.
Shame rises in a hot wave over me as I remember how I lost my temper, how we argued and I ruined his gesture.
Now, I've done the same thing; made the same mistake. But no one rushes forward now to tell me off. My house is filled with the acrid smell of burned garlic and I have no one to blame but myself.
I replace the stool at my island and move through the house, opening windows. My nose crinkles as I reach the upstairs landing and I'm annoyed by how fast the unpleasant odour travelled through my home like a parasitic worm.
Cold winter air weaves its way through the rooms and hallway, fresh and biting and forces me back into my sweatshirt.
I pull on James's oversized wax jacket for good measure and sit on the sofa with the warm M&S sticky toffee pudding I had planned for dessert.
When my stomach demands more, I tell myself I wasn't that hungry anyway.
Before recent times, I would have thought that skipping meals would make me more pleased with how my body looks. But now I realise that busying myself at my desk, taking flights and the car all the time only cause my muscle tone to disappear leaving me flat and shapeless.
I really should make time to join Nicole on her regular workouts.
Later on, I make sure the windows are shut for the night and prepare for bed. As I do so, I realise my hair and clothes are tainted with the disgusting smell of my failed dinner and I decide to scrub it off myself in the shower.
I'm in such a habit of always washing in the shower, I rarely use my free-standing bathtub. James is the same. When I was deciding on the model to choose, he complained the design was impractical; He had wanted to have a bathtub with an edge, handy to put his soap and wash things on.
That only led to another disagreement when I said that objects resting around the bath looked scruffy.
I didn't tell him why, but it reminded me of my parent's house as I was growing up, when scruffy was the way everything was.
Through the wet glass of the shower cubicle, I eye the bath. Maybe I could have it changed? James would like that. It would show him I'm willing to change too.
Sitting on the bed with a towel wrapped around me, I pick up my phone and ignore the new notifications from Instagram.
Amiss as to what exactly to say, I tap out a message to my husband.
I delete the part where I put “I miss you” and try to ignore the fact it all feels so formal before I tap send.
Hi Hunny,
Thinking of you a lot today. Guess what? I tried to make myself dinner earlier and burned it. The whole house smells of garlic now. So much for my cooking skills! Makes me appreciate yours ;)
Looking forward to seeing you soon xxxx
Anyone reading this would think I hadn't spent the last twelve years of my life with this man.
I sit for a while on the bed with my phone; scrolling, checking emails, wasting time while I wait to see if there is a response.
But I know there won't be.
20
The whole night is absorbed with unsettling dreams and waking to look at the clock to see that the hour should still be well and truly dedicated to sleep.
At one point, I'm drifting back off into a light sleep after waking yet again. As I slip, I convince myself that the set of headlights I see appear vaguely through the curtains is James driving home.
The sound of the engine is so familiar and I push myself off the bed and over to the window to pull back the curtains, only to see the fading glow from a similar vehicle moving away up the track.
It must have been another lost tourist, no doubt heading home after a weekend exploring the area. I'm jealous that another couple or family have nothing to worry about except getting up for work the next day and uploading photos of their adventures to show people when they get home.
Vaguely, I wonder if Nicole was disturbed by it when they turned around at the end of the lane in front of her house. She must be back from babysitting by now unless she stayed over at her brother's place.
It is a real relief when time has drifted on enough to be declared morning.
The first thing I notice is the powerful ghost of yesterday's would-be meal, so I shower again, paranoid that my hair has absorbed the smell again overnight.
When I emerge from the bathroom, I switch on my phone and see I have a new text, sent just after midnight.
My heart leaps when I see that it is from James, but plummets again into a pit of dread as I take in the short message.
Why do you keep doing this, Heather?
That's it. No other parts of the message, none of his usual kisses. Nothing. My eyes sting as I hit delete; it's the only way to stop my eyes roving over the words repeatedly.
With all my energy, I take a deep breath and try to remember what I had planned for the day.
I need to drive into the city and find some fabric to make some sample cushions for the apartments.
The Jones and Stanton project – that's what I need to focus on now. I need to make sure I win the contract John has been hinting at.
My future depends on it.
Once the hour is more sociable, I get ready to leave the house, sweeping quickly from room to room checking the windows are shut.
I triple-check the back door is locked in the kitchen and decide that leaving the key on a shelf not visible through the glass will add an extra layer of security.
My phone buzzes and I snatch at it, thinking it is James with a follow-up call.
Perhaps he realised in the harsh light of day that his message was too short and snappy and regrets sending it.
It's only Nicole.
'Hello,' I say, flatly, unable to keep the disappointment from my voice.
She tuts. 'Hello to you too, Heather. You could sound a bit more pleased to talk to me. I wanted to see how you are. Besides, I thought it might be nice to speak to an adult after babysitting all weekend.'
'Right, sorry, Nic. I just – I thought it was someone else, that's all.'
'Well, it's nice to know I'm wanted. I've given myself an hour or two away from my workload and I was wondering if you want to go for a quick run? We can pop into that courtyard cafe on the way home and undo all our hard work if you like?'
'That sounds nice, but I'm just on my way out the door. I've got to go to Sheffield. They have a great market for fabric and I need some to produce some sample furnishings.'
'They have a Monday market? I've never heard of it.'
'Yes, it's the best in the area for what I'm looking for. Anyway, I thought you liked babysitting Lilly? You were talking about adopting her the other day.'
'She's great, but only in small doses.' Nicole drops her voice to a whisper. 'Don't tell anyone I said that.'
I laugh. 'My lips are sealed. I have to go, but I'll see you soon.'
The drive into Sheffield is peppered darkly with thoughts of James – the last time I saw him; the latest text from him; the last time I heard his voice on the phone.
He left me flowers for when I got back from Italy.
He knows I love flowers, red roses being my favourite. They were even prepared in the vase I bought on our honeymoon.
But the water the stems were standing in was murky like it had been there for days. Had it? James wasn't due to leave until the day I arrived back. Why would the water have become murky?
He left me chocolates. But he hadn't removed the ones I dislike as he always does.
What did he mean by it all?
I suck air through my teeth sharply when I realise I have missed my exit on the motorway.
It probably doesn't matter though. It's nice to be out of that empty house, remind myself that other people exist. Other people with their own lives, devoid of any real problems.
It is grounding to think that to my fellow drivers, their own hardships are expanded in the bubble surrounding their heads. To myself and other strangers, they appear non-existent.
To them, I must seem the same. I just wish my problems were all in a bubble I could just pop.
The entire morning is spent trawling the city streets looking for the fabric I want. The approximate image is in the concept designs I showed John and also in my head, but I can't seem to find it anywhere.
There isn't really the Monday market I told Nicole about. I love my best friend, and it hurts me to lie to her, but I couldn't let her see me with the red and blotchy eyes I tried and failed to cover with makeup this morning.