MAKE ME UP

IONA RODD

Dragging myself from bed after a night of tears and hardly any sleep, I decide to make the most of my mind’s unwillingness to rest. The building next to mine, has letter boxes on the ground floor entrance, and with a determined attitude and the mantra of ‘a new day, a new me’ propelling me forward, I spend the first hour of my day sliding my business cards into each slot. Feeling accomplished, I rush home to make a hearty breakfast of eggs and toast from the gluten free bread I managed to get on prescription from my doctors. I had been nervous about setting up with a new GP, concerned I could be tracked down. Eventually, I had to remind myself that as conniving as Tim was, he could break into software to hunt me down, and confidentially was a corner stone of a medical practice. Once it had been sorted, I felt foolish for worrying about it in the first place. Feeling ravenous from not eating the night before, my breakfast doesn’t last as long as I wish it would.

Early, for once, I park up at BTC and say hello to the receptionist, who gives me an acknowledging nod. Intercepted by floor manager Mike, he ignores my smile and simply instructs me to follow him. He leads me all the way to the forty fourth floor, where the executives are waiting for me.

“Miss Jarvis, I am afraid to tell you that you have failed your probation, by wilfully ignoring the confidentiality clause of your contract, and alerting Lincoln Huxley of our planned interview yesterday.” He summarises, but his tone is angry.

I know I have lost my job, but I’m unable to accept it without some attempt at pointing out how wrong they are.

“I would have thought you’d be glad of my intervention. The company nearly damaged a man’s reputation yesterday, on the word of a woman who seemed more like a stalker, and was a self-proclaimed liar”. I argue, but they simply shake their head.

“We need to trust all our staff, and you have shown yourself to be untrustworthy”. He finalises, and extended his hand for my security pass.

His words hurt. I’m many things, but I pride myself on being honest. I’m so honest that it has just cost me my job. I put the fob on his desk, and walk away from him without giving him a second glance.

Pulling out onto the road, I’m using the most decorative language to describe those bumbling, blithering, bollock-rubbing bastards. Clearly, in my agitated state I’m not making the best choices, because I the have the bright idea to ring my parents.

“Hi mum, are you OK?” I asks, when she answers.

“I’m over the moon, you know like I’ve always wanted that wall panelling that you see in fancy houses? Well Tim spent all last night doing it. It looks wonderful, he stayed for his tea. It was just like old times.” My mother carries on.

Admittedly, my mother is about to get the built up anger from me unfairly losing my job, as well as her own deserved portion, but I think the last of my tolerance just flew up the Shard when I passed it.

“It’s really not appropriate for Tim to be coming around to do your DIY. We aren’t together, and even though I know you wish it was different, he’s not your son. Don’t you see how hurtful it is, when you say it’s like ‘old times’, but I’m not there? That’s one of the many reasons I ended things; I was becoming invisible. Not that I’m surprised you feel that way, for the past decade I’ve felt that my attendance to anything you invited me to with Tim has been as an optional extra”.

“Darling, you really are dramatic. You have a good man waiting for you here, and you’re running off, not even giving him a good explanation of why you don’t want to be with him, meanwhile he’s pining after you”. She defends him.

I just hang-up.

As I park my wheezing car at my flat, I wonder if there is a word for what is happening at home. Tim is manipulating my mother, and acting the DIY hero, painting me to be the villain. Simultaneously, he is able to gaslight me through my own family. Gas lighting by proxy, perhaps? The guilt I feel is profound. He is only able to do that, because I can’t be honest with them. I can’t tell them what he is really like, or explain the hold he has over me. He is a two-faced reprobate, and I’m shouting at the victims.

Somehow I’ve made it to my door, although I can’t remember taking the elevator. My head is swirling with so many emotions that I’m unable to filter them out. Frustration, concern, shame they all feel like they are pushing me down, and in my undiluted anger, I kick my door.

“Right, you need to have a good chat with someone”. I feel an arm comfortingly wrap around me, and I’m vaguely aware that I’m heading into Luis flat, but it’s not Luis: it’s Iona.

She hands me a tissue, and gives me a moment to compose herself, while she taps on her phone. She’s wearing a purple cocktail dress, but I can see it is a work in progress as there are pins in the hems and waistline. Still, Iona clearly has a talent for fashion, she looks magnificent. When I look up, she’s smiling.

“Are you OK?” Iona asks.

“I lost my job today”. I reply.

With that one sentence, I suddenly find myself flooding all my troubles on to the faux fur rug. I start with the arsehole boyfriend, but leave out the ongoing issues with him. I tell her how I need more work, but I can’t use social media, and that there’s only so many letter boxes I can post through, and only so many business cards I can afford to get printed. Patiently, and sympathetically, she listens, until a knock at the door pauses my emotional cleanse. Iona returns with two huge pizza boxes.

“This pizza does have your name on it, gluten free right?” I nod. “Pizza is the panacea for all problems, especially those that start because of patriarchal pricks who want their gifted partners to be cooking beef wellington instead of following their dreams”. She concluded, opening her box.

Iona was perceptive. I hadn’t mentioned the non-negotiable Sunday roasts Tim insisted on having, yet she could imagine it nonetheless.

Silence follows as we demolish the food.

“Why can’t you promote on social media?” Iona asks me.

“I don’t want anyone to know where I am.” I briefly explain.

“There’s more to that story, but I’ll wait for you to tell me”. Iona answers. “On the upside, you have a job booked in for next week. I need my make-up doing for a gig I have been booked in for. I make my own outfits, and style my own wigs, choreograph my own routines, but I can’t get the make-up right. Could you help me?”

Just like that, my first, uncomplicated, friendship in London is made.