MAKE ME UP

CELIAC ATTACK

I’ve been at war for two days, and I’m finally well enough to attempt to cook something better than gluten-free soup. My dressing gown is dragging behind me, like I’m at the halfway point of transforming into the crypt keeper, as I reach for the fridge door. I had never significantly thought of the benefits of having such a small flat before, but being able to stir my pan of beans, pick up the mail and have to listen to my ever demanding bowels, all at the same time, turns out to be one of them. This is the humour that really did see me through the dark times when I was still counting out the squares of toilet paper. Illness doesn’t care about rationing. Reluctantly, I look down at my swollen belly. It looks as if I managed to swallow an inflated basketball, and it’s incredibly tender. I’m already self-conscious about having to go to work looking like this. I can imagine how the elastic in my jeggings will cut into me. Unfortunately, this will be one of the last symptoms to leave me, along with the rash that has crawled my body like Japanese Knot Weed. It’s difficult to win each battle when your opponent is your own overly helpful white blood cells, but for now we have come to a truce.

Steaming some asparagus with two boiled eggs bubbling on the back hob, I am salivating at the thought of dunking them in a rich, orange yoke. I leave the vegetables on for five extra minutes, to make them really soft, as the ulcers in my mouth are painful when I’m eating. I can’t help but reflect on how lucky I have been. Luis called every day to check on me, and came round with a huge bag of gluten-free shopping and painkillers. He’ll make some man a fine husband one day. Work were completely apologetic, and insisted that I took as much time as I needed, and promised that they would pay me sick leave even though I hadn’t had my contract for four months. Diane, one of the women on the human resources team, rang me every day to see if I needed anything at all. Then there was Lincoln. I know I should have been resting, but Lincoln called me after ten each night, telling me about his day, and asking about mine, although understandably there was only so much I could tell him about having long naps with intermittent toilet breaks. On the other hand, his life didn’t seem too glamourous either. His new role required him to lose a lot of weight. Consequently, his dietitian had been monitoring his calorie intake with what Lincoln had described as ‘overzealous enthusiasm’. I was laughing until the tears were rolling down my face, when he pointed out that this new film could be a significant turning point in his career, and he wasn’t likely to risk that by smuggling a doughnut in his underpants. Apprehensively, I knew that I was enjoying our conversations more than I should as a friend, but it didn’t stop me listening to all the details of his day that he wanted to share with me.

Tim’s texts had started to include pictures of the properties he was selling. He had always boasted about the profit he would make on his sales, but the tone that would accompany these photos were even more unnerving than the usual messages.

“I can see us living here. Tim XXX’

“What do you think of this mansion? Tim XXX”

“What colour should we paint our dining room? Tim XXX”

Each time I read them, I had a vision of me throwing red paint across the white walls like an enraged woman protesting against animal fur. My imaginations had a strong resemblance to Iona’s style, and I was pleased that my friend was rubbing off on me. Although I was unnerved by Tim’s strange planning of our future that I wasn’t there for, knowing that Lincoln’s call would soon follow eased my anxiety to a manageable size.

I’d just finished calling work to tell them that I would be back tomorrow, when a purposeful knock jolted me from my calm disposition. Looking through the peek hole I could see a man dressed in a brown uniform, holding a huge bouquet of yellow sunflowers. Cautiously, opening the door, but leaving the chain on, the man greets me with a cheerful salutation.

“Good evening madam, I have a delivery for Gemma Jarvis at this address. Is she in?”

Pulling the chain across the lock, I open the door wider. I really wished Luis was at home, but I know he had to go into the office today. The man passes me the bouquet, and I notice how heavy it is.

“I’ll leave you to enjoy them, good afternoon”. He calls, while heading to the stairwell.

I place the flowers on the kitchen worktop. In between the huge heads of sunflowers, were perfect sweet sunflowers. Excitedly, I reached for the card. Written in bold lettering was a message that made me smile.

“I hope you’re feeling better. I feel like the love puff has taken our friendship to a new level. Wishing you a speedy recovery. Linc x”.

I received flowers in the past. My father would buy an arrangement from the florist when I was younger for my mum, and a smaller version for me. We would always place them next to each other on the sideboard in our dining room. Tim would buy flowers every month from the florist that was next to his office in town. He had a discounted rate for their business, because he would always gift a bouquet to his buyers. Every month he would buy red roses, and we would place them in our bedroom window at his insistence. I had never really liked roses. This was the first flower selection that I really felt reflected my personality, the one I was still searching for.

Taking no time to think about it, I eagerly texted Lincoln, thanking him for his lovely gesture and telling him I would be back in work tomorrow, and hopefully we could catch up then. His response was almost immediate.

“You’re very welcome, I hope you like them. The sunflowers just made me think of you. Before you were ill, I was trying to ask you something. I would really like it if you let me take you out on a date now you’re feeling better. Let me know, and I’ll get something planned”. Lincoln replied, and my heart literally felt like it did one impressive teddy bear roll in my chest.

Logically, I should have texted him back instantly telling him to confirm plans and pick me up tomorrow at five, after I had managed to peel of the dressing gown I had been cocooned in for the last three days. Truthfully, this was all I’d wanted for a while now, for him to see me as more than his make-up artist, more than his friend. You’ll be frustrated to know that, in complete contrast to all those wishes, I closed the text window on my phone, and didn’t answer at all.

Having to get the underground into work the next day was more exhausting than completing the apartment deep clean, which I accomplished last night to prevent me from texting Lincoln a reply. The catering manager intercepts me on my way to the make-up trailer, and takes me to the canteen.

“We cannot apologise enough for the miscommunication from our staff member. I wanted you to know that training has commenced to prevent this error ever happening again. Additionally, the studio has invested in catering from an outside company that specialises in gluten-free products to ensure that your food has no cross contamination, and that you will always have a lunch waiting for you, if you so wish”. She smiled, telling me to look at the menu, so that an order could be placed.

Touched, I glanced at the menu, not eager to have a repeat of my recent misfortune. On the menu were gluten-free bagels with various fillings. Then I recognised the logo, it was from the artisan bakery in town that was famed for its allergy-friendly bakes. I knew I was going to eat like a queen for the rest of my time on set.