by Ruth Harrow
She leaves me standing foolishly beside my car. I watch her cross the car park into the distance where I see her familiar azure car. A flash of light shoots across the door as she opens it and drives away.
I watch the area where her car disappeared for a while, breathing heavily and erratically. I don't feel strong enough to do anything at the moment – I just need a few minutes to compose myself. I lean back against the sleek metal of my four-by-four and take long, steadying breaths, listening to the endless buzz of traffic coming from the main road on the other side of the weedy shrubbery.
I don't know whether it is two minutes or ten, but eventually, reality sinks over me like cold water and I realise I have somewhere to be as well. Looking at my watch, I realise with a horrible jolt that I'm way behind schedule now.
There isn't any time to go inside the supermarket and get flowers. My only hope is that maybe I can make up time on the journey and find somewhere closer to my destination.
No problem, I tell myself with forced confidence that takes way too much energy to muster; the blooms will just be fresher, that's all.
I get back into my car and settle into my driving seat, praying the traffic gods are on my side.
63
Fortune seems to smile on me for the rest of my journey down to mid-Wales. The roads are relatively clear and problem-free and I don't face any more hold-ups.
However, I don't think of it as lucky; really it just feels as though things have stopped going wrong for a few hours.
My heart hammers when I realise that I only have a spare half-hour or so to find a shop that sells flowers, arrive at the apartments and get everything set up, as well as do one last check before my final meeting this afternoon with John and Ian.
On top of all that, I now feel weak and shaky with hunger, interspersed with a sick jolt that punches at my insides every time I think of the phone call from James.
The roads become narrower as I drive and I scrutinise the age-worn and rusting signs at the side of the road as I pass, trying to find a supermarket.
If I had more time, I would retrieve my phone from my bag and use Google Maps to help me, but I can't really afford to stop or slow down.
I have to make up time. The finishing touches will make such a difference to the atmosphere when John and Ian walk in; I know it will. That could be the difference between winning and losing the once-in-a-lifetime project.
The roads become more winding and I feel almost like I'm on a slalom, turning this way and that. The single lane track is narrowing and I have but a second or two to react as oncoming traffic appears in front of me suddenly. We both slow down and squeeze past each other with a cursory wave.
The repetitive motion of the driving is starting to make me feel drowsy. I sit up straight and grip the wheel tighter as though trying to cling onto consciousness. I open a window for some air and it helps a little.
My mind wanders across the sloping hills towards the town ahead. Will they have any suitable flowers? Will they have enough for every room to match? Or will I have to mix them up?
The time on the dashboard is slipping away and I increase my speed on the straighter stretches of road.
As I approach a bend in the track, I am forced to press the brake pedal with a surge of frustration. It is easy to think that everything that has happened recently has been put in place to test me. Disappointingly, I know I only have myself to blame.
My eyes blur again as the memory of all the times I could have done something to prevent this outcome with James flashes before my eyes. I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand and take another deep breath.
I'll have to allow some time to compose myself before my meeting. The apartments should have running water by now if Lisa has finished the bathrooms.
With a start, I catch sight of myself in the rear-view mirror. Why did I have to choose today to be heavy-handed with my makeup?
My mascara is smeared all around my eyes in embarrassingly cliched panda circles and there are track marks and black smudges down my cheeks.
I bet that has been visible to the other drivers I have passed along this country-track. Nausea overcomes me at the thought that Gemma saw me like this too.
I tug at my sleeve with my fingers and rub ruthlessly at my eyes, ignoring the discomfort, trying to lessen the black smears as best I can in between glances back at the road.
My foot applies pressure on the brake pedal as I approach another blind bend.
Without warning, the face of a dark-green Fiesta appears in front of me and time seems to slow down.
A split-second reflex causes me to grip the steering wheel with both hands and slam my foot down on the brake as hard as I can.
My conscious mind seems free to watch everything happen. The brake pedal is flat to the floor, but I push down my foot harder anyway. Leafy hedgerows continue to stream past and I see the look of horror in the other drivers face through the windscreen as she swerves in a failed attempt to avoid me.
There is a terrifyingly loud bang and I hear glass smash.
I squeeze my eyes shut, unable to watch any more.
64
After a few long moments, I force myself to open my eyes. My hands withstood the jolt on the steering wheel and I grip it harder than ever, my fingernails dig into the tough leather and I find myself staring ahead into the back seat of the other car where I see a toddler squirming in a pose of silent screaming.
Then I realise he isn't silent – over the blood rushing in my ears I realise I can just about hear his crying through my open window. I can't remember now how it got open, but I'm glad of the breeze on my hot cheeks.
Another bang makes me gasp out loud and I see the woman emerge from the driver's seat, squeezing between the gap between our doors. The screaming is suddenly louder. She ignores me and examines the injury to her vehicle.
I follow her gaze and realise the damage.
My car has scraped along the back half of hers, leaving rough silver gouges in her patchy green paintwork.
None of her windows are broken so I'm guessing the broken glass came from my headlights.
Finally, the woman straightens up and glances at the front of my car before she frowns through the windscreen at me. 'I bloody well hope you're insured!'
'Um... yes... I am – of course I am.'
I notice she has a chip in her yellowing front teeth and as I tear my eyes away from her mouth they settle on what looks like a coffee stain on her bright pink bomber jacket. The way her hair is pulled back into a wet-looking severe bun makes her rough features stand out.
'Right, well you had better write your details down, then,' she hisses at me while jabbing an aggressive finger in my direction. 'That was your fault, that was!'
'Well, I don't think... I don't think it was anyone's fault. Look, is your child all right?'
She glances over her shoulder so briefly she can't possibly have taken any visual information in. 'Yeah, he's fine. Look – I'm not being funny, but I'd worry about yourself if you want my advice – this is coming off your insurance, you know!'
She retreats into her car to jot down some details. As she does, I get an unwanted flash of her underwear through her unfeasibly thin and bobbly black leggings.
I realise I'm still shaking when I rummage in my glove box for some paper and a pen and write my details down too.
The woman shoves a crumpled scrap of brown paper through my window. Her details are scribbled in what looks like eyeliner pencil in large round handwriting.
I thank her vaguely and she slams her car door and drives off with what looked like a shouted 'shut up!' over her shoulder at her still-crying son.
As she pulls away, I notice a large dent in the back of her car and more scratches that I know weren't caused by me. I look again at the paper in my hand wondering whether the scrawl across it is even worth the shred of brown paper bag it is written on.
My trembling fingers start the ignition. I realise I should probably inspect the damage to
my car, but I can't do it on this bend and besides, the other driver hardly glanced at my vehicle, it surely can't be that bad.
I take extra care as I follow the road further. My speed drops below the limit and the first tinge of warm relief floods me as I can see the town of Aberystwyth in the distance.
I glance at the time and dread clenches my insides – there isn't enough time to find a shop now.
I pull up outside the holiday apartments instead and I'm relieved to find the car park otherwise empty.
Inside, I enter the first ground floor apartment on the left and sweep through to the bathroom. For a moment, I stop and stare around at the décor. Lisa really has done a great job in here. My heart sinks further.
I lift the handle on the tap and find that no liquid gushes out onto my ready cupped hand. I repeat the motion with the hot tap and find the same problem.
Damn – the water supply hasn't been connected yet.
My frantic brain sends me scrambling to my car where I think I saw an emergency bottle of water in the glove box. That will do, I think, as I hurry out the front door.
On the threshold, I almost walk straight into someone coming in.
Lisa.
'Oh, hiya, Heather. Goodness – what's wrong? Are you all right?'
She stares thunderstruck at my smeared face. I must look dreadful, but I somehow muster a smile that makes my face feel stiff.
'I'm fine, it's nothing, really. Dust allergy. I just had the worst reaction – it really got me in the car just now.'
'Oh, right.' She glances behind her to where my white Hyundai is a little more hastily parked than usual. 'It looks like you've had a bit of a prang.'
'Oh, that,' I manage to throw in a casual wave. 'Someone was speeding around a blind bend. You should have seen the car she was driving – wasn't her first accident.'
'Right, yeah. I think I might have passed her on the way down here.' She shudders animatedly. 'Well, glad it wasn't me!'
'I'm sure you are.'
'Hey – could you be a dear and put the door on the wedge for me – I need to bring some things in before John and Ian get here.'
I prop the door open and retrieve the water bottle from my car. As I close the glove box, I see Lisa carrying a large crate of flowers into the building.
My mouth falls open and I feel an unamused smile twisting over my lips.
I watch Lisa as she carries in another crate – this time filled with elegant glass vases.
Bottle in hand, I pass her in the ground floor hallway as she takes the empty crates back out to her car.
She smiles broadly at me. 'Finishing touches make all the difference don't they?'
'Yes. Yes, they do.'
'I always say that ornaments and accessories are like the jewel in the crown of any room,' she says, quoting something I know for sure I wrote in a recent blog post.
She squeezes past me and I watch her stride across the car park. Her hobble seems a little worse today and for once in my life, I am not sorry she has it.
The lukewarm water I splash on my face is most refreshing and it does the trick to remove my ruined makeup; not so much for the bags beneath my eyes, but at least the redness has gone down.
With the strictest of judgement, I scrutinise my reflection in the wide rectangular bathroom mirror. This is not how I want to face an important meeting, but I have little choice.
I can do this, I tell myself firmly.
'I can do this,' I whisper out loud, trying to ignore the voice inside that says otherwise.
65
Ian had arranged to take delivery of the carpets himself after the problems I'd had and the floors look immaculate now. The issue had caused John to delay the furniture and appliance deliveries too, but they are all now perfectly in position in each apartment too. The place looks comfortable and welcoming, waiting for people to make it their home for short periods of beautiful weather.
Lisa bustles around setting up the vases of flowers in each bathroom of the apartments. I move around too, adding cushions to the sofas, making sure curtains are straight and that furniture surfaces are clean and dust-free.
I don't have much left to do. Mainly I keep moving to avoid being in the same space as Lisa.
Luckily, we don't have much time to fill. The unmistakable sound of car doors reaches me as I rub my sleeve on some smears on the kitchen taps in a ground floor apartment.
I make sure that I am in the main hall when John and Ian arrive. I hold out my hand towards both of them in turn, but they reply with a stiff, 'Hello, Mrs Peterson.'
Lisa comes down the stairs just in time and gives both men a firm handshake. They beam back at her.
John claps his hands together, addressing Lisa. 'Well, it's the big day, isn't it? Nervous, Lisa?'
'Oh no, of course not, John. I think you'll love what I have done with the place.'
'Well, let's see, shall we? After you.'
The men follow Lisa into the first apartment with no backward glance to me and I am left to trail inside after them.
John looks around the apartment, his faded blue eyes taking in every detail, but says nothing. Once he gets inside the bathroom, however, he is very complimentary towards Lisa, who once again quotes the line from my blog and I feel the heat rising in my face.
My fingernails dig into my fists and I take a deep breath.
John seems upset with me, but I can't think why. True, I've neglected my blog lately; I haven't been as communicative, or as forthcoming with gifts and dinners as I have with other clients. And then there is the fact that I didn't ever come up with that photograph or blog post of the family holiday John requested.
But is any of that really the cause of his sudden umbrage with me?
When we go through to the next apartment, I am again at the rear and Ian doesn't bother to hold the door open as he did for Lisa, instead letting the front door swing into me.
John appears not to notice. He stands in the middle of the living room and stares around as he did in the first apartment. His stomach seems to bulge more than ever against the blue polyester of his shirt.
'John,' I say, not sure where I'm going with this. 'Listen, I know I've neglected my blog a little recently, but I have been working down here a lot, driving back and forth. I wanted to make sure everything was finished in time for the deadline. I mean, despite the flooring issue and everything.'
John looks as if he is going to smile but it comes out as more of a grimace. 'I think you've done more than enough posting on your blog lately,' he says, with a dark glance at Ian.
'No, I've been so busy this past week or two and haven't managed to get around to publishing anything. But now that this property is finished, I'll definitely get back to it.'
'Don't worry yourself about it, Mrs Peterson. That article you put up last night wasn't much to my taste,' John replies, now moving forward to unnecessarily test the sturdiness of the dining table.
'What post? I haven't posted anything new recently...'
He exchanges another look with Ian and Lisa too seems to adopt the smug, all-knowing look I have come to hate so much.
I actually start scanning my brain for recent memories of me at my laptop. Did I post something? Maybe I had scheduled something for yesterday and forgot about it? But why would that make John so cold towards me?'
Ian appears at my side with a tablet he has produced from the black zip-case he was carrying. He loads up my blog on the screen and turns it so I can see.
'So, you're saying this is isn't your website?'
'Yes, of course it is.' I smile at John but he looks instead at his shoes.
'So it must have been you that posted this article last night?'
Ian scrolls down with a careless finger to a post and I glance at his stony face before looking back at the screen.
At first sight the article looks like part of my blog, but as I start reading, I realise I definitely didn't write the headline, nor have I ever seen the text beneath before.
> The headline reads:
Five Things Working With Jones and Stanton Has Taught Me
Underneath is a written introduction to the project.
Sun. Sand. Sea. That's what we all remember when we think back to our childhood memories of holidays, isn't it? That's what my boss, John Stanton wants me to recreate for my latest project. Sounds like a lovely image, doesn't it? Well, just think of John as an eccentric Willy-Wonka type character. Except, well, think bald and much more overweight.
My mouth falls open. 'I-I didn't write that. I don't understand how this has happened...'
'Oh,' says Ian with a look of mock confusion. 'Is that like with the mix up with the carpet order?'
'Well... yes, I suppose...'
Ian scrolls down further and I catch sight of a photograph that looks completely unfamiliar. After a few seconds of staring at it, I realise that this isn't the first time I've seen the image.
My stomach sinks and I feel as though someone has just thrown hot water over me.
My parents smile back at me from the screen in Ian's hands, caught forever in a perpetual wave. And beside them, looking awkward and sulky is my fifteen-year-old self.
66
I open my mouth and glance across at John who stares resolutely at the floor. Why did I have to tell him my parents were killed when I was only five?
The lie hangs in the air, burning my cheeks.
The more I read, the more horrified I become. The rest of the text dissolves into an even more insulting rant, comprised mostly of personal attacks on John and Ian.
I look up and see Lisa watching the scene with relish as though it is from a riveting television program.
In complete disbelief I shake my head and look from John to Ian. Lisa looks back and forth between us, waiting with clear delight for someone to say something.