MAKE ME UP

GROCERIES AND GOODNIGHTS

Despite wanting to dive in my bed and put a pin on today’s events, my kitchen shelves are bare, so reluctantly I grab my bag for life from my boot and challenge myself to do a week’s worth of shopping in under fifteen minutes. Darting to the reduced section, I hope there is treasure to be found in the yellow stickered assortment. Jackpot. As if they had been waiting for my arrival, I find a six-pack of eggs, one onion, and two salmon fillets. Placing them in my basket, I move to the inevitably more expensive part of the shop, on the free from aisle.

It seems to me that when you have to buy food to accommodate a health need, it gives people a license to double the price, because they know you are dependent on it. It does take the joy out of food shopping having to semi-agree to being robbed while filling your basket. Begrudgingly, I place a bag of rice in my basket, followed by some spaghetti, butter beans and five packs of dry noodles, and lastly, some tortilla wraps. My dad would always say when I was growing up, I don’t know why it’s more expensive when they use fewer ingredients to take the gluten out. My mother, who often misses the joke, would then describe the different processes used to make it gluten-free, making my father and I laugh more.

When I was seven, I went to a party at Sally Hill’s house for her birthday. She had a beautiful unicorn cake with a rainbow sponge inside. We had sung happy birthday to her, and we were eagerly lining up to receive our slice of cake. It was the best cake I have ever eaten, covered in butter cream and sprinkles. By the time I had swallowed my last bite, I felt really sick. I don’t know what party games were played, because I spent the rest of the afternoon being sick in a bowl on the front step waiting for my dad to collect me. Three months later, with lots of tests in between, the doctor told my parents I had celiac disease. My mother, to her credit, read so many books she could have been a doctor on the subject, but her only interest was using her knowledge to care for me. It’s a real shame, because even after all these years, Sally Hill’s birthday cake is still the best I ever had, probably because it was the last gluten packed one as well.

Triumphantly, I place a block of cheese in my basket, shredded would be more convenient, but you pay extra for the luxury, and declare my shopping complete. Realising the time is near to nine o’clock, I go to the self-checkout. I run all the items through, swipe my points card and congratulate myself on a shop under fifteen pounds. I have to be home before ten o’clock, and worryingly I’m cutting it fine, because of the London traffic.

Thankfully, the travel gods are on my side and I manage to get up to my floor by nine-thirty. Luis is waiting at his door with my business card held up between his index finger and middle finger. I double take, and realise he’s wearing a black kimono and black stilettos, my crocs have the decency to try and hide in the presence of superior footwear. His ensemble looks incredible until I notice that Luis has half a face of make-up on, and it’s not looking very even.

“Hi Luis…” I begin.

“Actually it’s Iona, Iona Rodd.” She reaches out and shakes my hand, before getting straight to her point. “Is this your card? You only have your number on it, but I know you’re a make-up artist.”

I nod, not really wanting to offer my services if she wasn’t asking for herself, it might have been the style she was aiming for, and as long as she feels good the make-up has done its job.

“You don’t have to be polite, you can see I need help,” Iona says, as if she can read minds, or more likely facial expressions. “Can you do drag make-up? I have a few friends who would be interested, but I’m mainly looking for myself.” Iona asks me.

“I can do any make-up you like, you can show me some ideas, or you can let me freestyle, it’s your choice entirely, and I’d love it if you could let others know”. I answer.

“Could I share some of your cards with my friends? It will all be drag make-up” Iona asks, her hand already held out, but clearly checking that I knew, and accepted the brief.

“I’d love that!” I reply.

In my head, I’d like to think I handed them over professionally and calmly, but in reality I tripped over my make-up caddy, and got my foot caught in my bag for life, before I managed to juggle twelve of my business cards into her hand. Embarrassed at my own clumsiness, I put the key in my door, but I feel the need to turn around, and that’s when I catch the Luis from this morning with the sad expression.

“Hey, your kimono looks fantastic”. I compliment Iona.

“Thanks, I embroidered it myself” She said, and just like that, her glow returned as she glides back into her flat.

Having already heated and demolished the soup from before as a mini starter, I move on to my meal of the evening. The rice is ready, the eggs are fried, and the two have been mixed together. I’ve already split the salmon into four pieces, putting one on top of tonight’s meal, and the rest in the freezer. I’ve diced the onion and stored it next to the fish, so that I have at least three meals for this week. ‘Accomplishment is a home cooked meal’ my mother would say, and tonight that sentiment rings true. I put some cheese in the wrap, squirt some mayonnaise and left over tomatoes on it, and fold it into a tight quarter, ready for my lunch tomorrow. By five to ten, my pots are drying on the draining board, and I’m sitting cross-legged on my bed waiting for the worst part of my day.

I count the minutes down, and feel sick as the hands of the clock bring me closer to ten pm. Have you ever noticed how heavy dread feels? I always picture it as a globe that twirls in my stomach. I feel the same sensation every night as I wait for the inevitable event at the same time, with the same conditions. Seven months of heavy hell that encroaches on my evening, so insidious that my five locks on the door can’t keep it out.

My phone buzzes.

“Missed you today, couldn’t stop thinking about you. Sleep well. Love always, Tim X”

Instantly, like a well-trained puppy, I open the text, so that Tim can see it has been read. The sooner I acknowledge it, the sooner it will go away. Until tomorrow when it starts all over again. My flat feels cold. Despite knowing that the locks are shut, I check them anyway. My hands running over them brings me some calm. I pull the covers over me, and try to forget the text by itemising the events of my day. Contrary to my best efforts, I can’t help but think of Lincoln Huxley, and feel guilty about how I spoke to him. Needless to say, sleep won’t come easily to me tonight.