MAKE ME UP

THE VIEW FROM MY WINDOW

Pulling my dressing gown tighter around me, and sliding on my slippers, I struggle to contain my yawns that are protesting about having to wake at such a horrific hour. It is imperative that I am not late on the first day of my new job, but that doesn’t stop me fantasising about diving back into the bed I am reluctantly dragging myself from. Spreading a little light on the situation, I pull open my new curtains, which are my latest purchase from the charity shop down the road. I can see my rust bucket in the car park below. Whether she will decide to wake up this morning is debatable, so I say a little prayer to the driving deities, and hope for the best. I think I’ve banked enough favours to ask for this one in advance. Each month I have lived here, I have bought myself a small item to make my flat feel more like a home. The list of extravagance is as follows: a clothing rail, a bistro table, a duvet set, a throw, a radio, a soup maker and the curtains, all pre-loved and currently cherished. A gift to myself for each of the seven months of an almost escape from a life I didn’t want.

Taking the four steps that quickly lead me to my kitchenette, I reach for the tinned peaches, draining them in the sink before covering them in the natural yogurt that I picked up in the reduced section yesterday, the use by date is today, but I’m willing to risk tomorrow as well. I love those yellow stickers. It’s the only way I can afford a decent meal. Inhaling my breakfast, I quickly tip some of the homemade soup from last night into an old recycled jar, and tuck it into my handbag. Three steps to the left of my kitchen is the bathroom. When the landlord showed me around this flat seven months ago, the size of the accommodation, which, if I am being honest, has similar parameters to a second-class stamp, was definitely off-putting. The car parking was a huge positive, but the absolute selling point is that it is a gated residence, and my flat is on the thirty-fourth floor. In short, it’s hard to get in to, and safe from unwanted guests, and I don’t mean insects. My flat is practically a fortress.

Although I want to make a good impression on my first day, I am limited in my clothing options. The only outfits I have are the ones I was able to stuff into a backpack the day I left home in the Lake District to move to London. One day, I’ll be able to afford a wardrobe and fill it with more selection, but I know that day isn’t coming anytime soon. I will love my little rail, like I do all my solutions for lack of furniture, with patience and gratitude. After all, these struggles are better than the alternative. Pulling my leggings over my hips, and throwing on a black smock dress, I swap my slippers for crocs. Comfort is everything in my job, so I will hear no judgments about my footwear choices.

In my handbag, I have my lunch, a change of clothes in case I need to make a quick getaway and can’t return home tonight, my keys, and my phone. I always double-check if my phone is there, because I cannot leave without it. Obsessively, I check my caddy has all my supplies in it. I am a professional make-up artist, and this stack of holders is my entire livelihood. I was more concerned about bringing this to London with me safely, than I was about packing underwear. I look in the bathroom mirror one last time, making sure there’s no lipstick on my teeth. My reflection seems so unusual. On my way down to the south, I had picked up a box of dye at a local cosmetics store. My hair used to be brunette, but I dyed it red to disguise me better. I’m still not accustomed to the change in my appearance, but I remind myself that there are so many things that I’m still unsure about. Just because he wouldn’t like it, doesn’t mean that I can’t either. Seven months living by myself, and I still have no idea who I really am. I only know I’m not his anymore. This is the fact that I cling on to.

Habitually, I look out of the peek hole, checking that the corridor is clear. Drawing the chain across the metal holder, it clangs against the door, the deadbolt clunks as I release it, the Yale lock clicks as I turn the knob, and my key rattles as I turn it in the hole. My father would have asked if I had the crown jewels hidden in my mattress if he could see the amount of locks I had regimentally lined up like grenadier guards. He has no idea where I am, even though he asks on every monthly phone call. In my pocket are some business cards that I saved up to get printed. It’s been these cash-in-hand jobs that have kept me afloat since I moved to the capital, and even though I have a day job now, I’m determined to keep saving. Braving the world, I step into the corridor, and lock the door behind me.

“Morning, Gemma.” Luis, my neighbour, says to me.

“Hello. Busy day today?” I ask, politely, despite being wary of this slight interaction.

“Accounts are never ending.” He replies, before smiling, and walking down the stairs.

He works as an accountant in the city, and always sets off at five thirty in the morning. He likes to use the tube, but I could think of nothing worse. It’s my northern attitude to commuting. He’s a lovely neighbour, pretty quiet, and always asks how I am. He introduced himself the first week I arrived, even though I only spoke to him through the tiny gap that my door would budge, while I still had the chain on. Perhaps I recognised a little of myself in him, because beneath his suit there is a sadness about Luis that grips on to him like a distorted shadow, and I know a thing or two about that.

Waiting for the coast to be clear, I reached into my pocket, and pulled out my stack of business cards, placing one through each of my neighbour’s letter boxes. Letting the lift take me to the ground floor, I posted a few more cards before turning my attention to the noticeboard. Purposefully, I had ensured that only my business’ name was on the cards ‘MAKE ME UP’. I had to be anonymous, it was one of the main ways of keeping myself hidden from my past. By six o’clock, I’m in my car and ready for my new challenge. Suddenly, fear grips me. Like a compulsion, I check in my bag for my phone again. It’s still there. Only after I have touched it once more do I finally turn the key in the ignition, full of relief as the car splutters to life. I shift into first gear, and head to work.