Chapter 2 Mel
And then the memories swim back. The ones I was hoping to black out.
Léna and Erin in my shower together. Limbs so tightly entwined I could barely distinguish girlfriend from personal trainer.
But I recognised Erin’s cropped black hair, almost reached for it, wanting to pull her out of my girlfriend’s embrace.
Until something clicked and I realised it wasn’t the first time they’d fucked, their bodies were too relaxed and at ease with one another.
They’d probably been sleeping together for months.
Every time I was away for work. I’d seen Erin’s effects left here and there about the house but thought nothing of it.
She was round twice a week for circuits with me, then every Sunday for spin with Léna.
No wonder the bikes were gathering dust in the garage.
Those two clearly had an alternative workout arrangement.
My skin is tight from lying in the bath half the night and falling into bed without a lick of moisturiser.
Not only was I too pissed to consider the hydration of my skin, but I barely have any toiletries on me.
Just the near-empty containers I had in my carry-on bag, luckily stashed in my bike’s top box.
I don’t even have any fresh clothes, only the jeans and shirts I packed for between shoots, and that ridiculous satin lingerie set the agency had gifted me.
Good job I didn’t change into that before surprising my girlfriend at home.
A bacon sandwich would fix me. Or at the very least, take the edge off this banging head. I definitely can’t ride in this state, so I’ll have to pray the kitchen has the makings of a decent breakfast. If they only have muesli left, that might just tip me over the edge.
I wash last night’s alcohol-sodden memories from my skin and pull on another crumpled shirt and jeans. When I open my door, the drifting smell of rich coffee and buttered toast gives me hope.
I’m so fixated on breakfast that I almost collide with someone at the bottom of the stairs.
The curvy redhead from the reading room last night.
Something about her had seemed familiar, but it’d been hard to get a good look in the fire lit room, with her face tipped away from me.
Now in the too-bright light of the corridor I can see her in full, and the jolt of recognition catches me off-guard.
“It’s Fay isn’t it?” I say as the woman steps around me onto the stairs. She turns, lifting her chin up to look at me through her delicate oval glasses. Deep brown eyes narrowed beneath heavy lashes.
“Julia.”
“Ah, yes. Julia Fay.” Not Professor Fay, the woman whose lectures I watch online whenever I feel nostalgic about my old writing days. “I was on your master's course. Melissa—”
“Of course, yes,” Julia cuts in, wrapping her beige wool cardigan tighter across her chest. “How are you doing?”
“Fantastic,” I say, dryly, because it’s socially unacceptable to tell people that you feel completely desolate. “I saw you last night but didn’t recognise you with your hair so short. It used to be longer, didn’t it. Wavy?”
“It’s still wavy,” she says, tucking a shoulder-length strand behind her ear. A deep pink flush has spread up her cheeks, which is strangely out of character for the Julia Fay I remember: quietly assured and vaguely intimidating. “It’s just drying.”
“Right.” I try to smile, grin and bear the awkwardness of this encounter. Not think about bacon sandwiches and beelining for the dining room. “Are you here to work on a new book?”
“Yes. What about you?”
“I’m just figuring stuff out at the minute.”
Christ, we’ve entered into a terrible, forced exchange, and I don’t know how to escape it.
“They started clearing the kitchen just now, so if you’re wanting to eat…” Julia offers.
“God yes.” I glance at the kitchen, and when I look back, Julia is halfway up the stairs. “Oh, see ya,” I add as she skips up the last two steps. Wow, okay, good chat.
I don’t know why I’m surprised. She was like this at university too, always having something more important to do than talk to people.
The only time I ever heard her speak was in seminars when she would ask the most thought-provoking questions, regularly sending lecturers into an existential spiral.
I loved watching her disarm the guest speakers with a probing remark that made them question everything.
She looked so innocent with her copper, renaissance style waves and flushed rosebud lips.
But what came out of that mouth was a different story.
Naturally, I had a little gay crush on her for a while.
Hard not to find someone that beautiful and intelligent completely fascinating.
Even if they only seem to take pleasure in picking things apart.
And I’m well aware that she’s straight. I’ve read every single one of her cheesy hetero romances.
Watched every lecture she’s made available on the university’s website.
I even took notes, occasionally, though it was her face I found most captivating.
The way she relaxed out of her serious expression from time to time, enthusiasm lighting up her eyes.
Shame she is such an uptight snob the rest of the time.
Right, breakfast and see if I can scrounge some ibuprofen from Jack.
And then I’ll sober up and head into the village for a few bits.
I can’t survive two weeks in the Moors with 30 ml of shampoo and one clean pair of underwear.
Especially knowing that Julia “criticises everything” Fay is in the building.
***
The trip into Marshdale takes almost an hour winding around the steep valleys and rocky purple hills, miles upon miles of heather and spiky grey moor grass tufting in the distance.
I pull over at the highest point and get off my bike to watch the sheep going about their routine for a while.
A harsh wind whips at my hair, but as I stand and observe the landscape, a calm contentment washes over me.
It feels so nice to just exist like this, quiet and unobserved.
Simply enjoying the moment without having to document it for others.
I ride back to the house feeling wind-chapped and satisfied with a backpack of goods from the village.
I decant my new multipack cotton briefs into the bow-fronted drawers and arrange the unbranded toiletries along the shelf in the bathroom.
I imagine myself unboxing these items in front of a camera, switching on the filters and the charm for my followers.
They’d think I’d lost my mind. Maybe I have.
Because the idea of ever opening those apps again fills me with all-consuming dread.
How can I explain to three million strangers on the internet that my whole life has fallen to pieces.
That it has been slowly crumbling for a long time.
The cracks plastered over with filters and trips to escape the reality of it all.
My personal brand slowly replacing my identity, my personality, my life.
I don’t want to be a brand anymore. I just want to be myself.
But what else can I do. Write another book? I haven’t written anything longer than a sixty-second script in years. Long-form content is dead, agencies told me, focus on the now. The hooks, the attention-grabbing captions, the snippets of life.
Which is why no one ever gets to know me in full. They think they know me from my online profiles. But all they know is digital Mel, the aesthetic parts, the curated feed. No one wants to see the person behind that picture perfect persona.
When I was buying supplies at the corner shop, I picked up an A4 notepad and some biros, shoving them in my bag with a “family-sized” pack of gummy sweets.
No one here can tell me that sugar will ruin my skin or that I need to cut carbs before a photoshoot.
The realisation that I can do whatever I want in this space is liberating.
And for the first time in years, I have a curious desire to write.
***
The library room is smaller than I expected.
Six empty desks lined up like a tiny classroom, flanked by floor-to-ceiling shelves, tightly packed with clothbound books.
The reading room definitely has more space to spread out, but I can’t return to that sofa just yet.
Not when the residual taste of whisky is still in my mouth.
So, I pull up a wooden chair by the door and lay out my stationery.
I shove a handful of gummy shapes into my mouth and fold the first page back.
Something comes over me, a wave of inspiration or a sugar rush, I don’t know, but I pick up the pen to scrawl down my thoughts.
Six pages later, I hear the steady clack of heels out in the hallway, then the library door opens.
I look up to find Professor Fay standing at the threshold, evidently shocked to find someone else in the room.
I wonder if she always walks about with books clutched to her chest, pussy bow blouse tucked into a neat wool skirt, brown leather ankle boots matching her notebook.
She has the kind of chic Parisian attire that Léna would have loved me to wear, if I was not so broad and gauche.
“Afternoon, Fay,” I say, before realising I’ve mixed up her name again. Her frown deepens and those perfect rosebud lips fall open with a sigh.
“It’s Julia,” she says, and the withering look she gives me sends a strange thrill across my skin. There is something oddly satisfying about getting a rise out of her, forcing her out of that rigid professionalism.
“Gummy shape?” I swivel the plastic bag to face her, but she shakes her head.
“You can’t eat in here.” She strides past me to the desk by the window, carrying a faint scent of vetiver perfume. “Some of these books are hundreds of years old.”
“I wasn’t planning on eating the books,” I say, and the inner corners of her eyes twitch.
This makes me smile properly for the first time in days.
Weeks, perhaps. Julia prises her laptop open and starts typing something resolutely, signalling the end of our exchange, so I twist back to my desk and rummage for another fistful of sweets.
Behind me, Julia’s typing slows and I hear a nasal exhalation of irritation, which I find delightful.
Even if I don’t get an outline of a book finished, I will enjoy twanging Julia Fay’s last nerve for the extent of my stay.
***
At 7pm, a jaunty alarm breaks the silence. I twist round in my chair as Julia starts gathering her things together.
“Are you heading down for dinner?”
“Yes.” She looks up at me over her glasses, expression stern, like I’ve asked a ridiculous question. “They only take orders until seven thirty.”
“Great.” I snap my notebook closed and stand. “I’ll join you.”
Julia gestures to the half-empty sweets on the desk. “I’m surprised you’re hungry.”
“I’m a big girl.” I shake a couple of rubbery hearts into my mouth. “I’ve got a big appetite.”
Her lips press together, but it’s almost a smile, and that makes me feel far too self-satisfied.
I pull open the door and follow Julia down the long corridor, to the Lilac Room, a creaky-floored dining room with floral Georgian wallpaper and an obnoxious grandfather clock.
She pulls up a chair on the far side of the polished oak table, and I take the one opposite her.
Her eyes stay fixed on me as I settle down, then drop to the hardback book she’s opened flat on the table.
Okay, so no talking in the dining room either.
“Joining in tonight, are we?” Jack says as he enters the room.
“Can’t survive on noodles forever.”
“So, what can I get ya?”
“Risotto and a generous white wine please.”
“Coming up.” He taps the notebook and looks to Julia. “And for Mrs Fay?”
“Miss,” Julia says reflexively and I cut in.
“Professor, actually. She teaches at the University where we did our masters.”
“Associate Professor,” Julia corrects.
“That’s a bit of a mouthful.” Jack huffs a laugh. “I’ll stick with Miss. What’ll it be?”
“I’ll have the salmon, please.”
“Wine?”
“White, thank you.”
Jack scratches our orders into his flip pad then leaves us alone with the radio and yesterday’s newspapers. Julia cracks the spine on her book again. I resist the urge to make small talk, keen to avoid a repeat of the stairway debacle. Jack returns with the wines, mine considerably larger.
Julia watches him place the smaller glass in front of her and looks up at me with lips pursed. As soon as Jack has closed the door behind him, she snorts.
“Does he know you have a girlfriend?”
“You think Jack is into me?” I say, with a tad more venom in my tone than I intended.
“He gave you half the bloody bottle.”
“I asked for generous.”
“There’s generous, and then there’s favouritism.”
“I hope you know that people don’t have to fancy you to be nice.” I swirl the wine and take a sip. “Are you only nice to people you want to fuck?”
Julia looks back to the book, a crease forming between her manicured brows. “No need to be vulgar.”
I clamp my jaw together to try and hold back the rest of what I want to say, but her self-righteous attitude pulls it out of me.
“Jack knows about my girlfriend because I told him all about the breakup when I was drunk last night.”
Julia snaps her attention back to me, eyes widening. “Oh! I didn’t know—”
“How could you know? It only happened yesterday. And I haven’t had chance to do an upload about it yet.” I try to lean into sarcasm, but Julia is looking at me so intently that I can’t quite manage it. Tears burn behind my eyes, but I’ll be damned if I let them fall in front of her.
“I’m sorry,” she says softly.
“Forget it.” I swallow another swig of wine. “It’s for the best.”
The door swings open as Jack brings our food to the table.
God bless his ready prepared meals. An older man follows him into the room and sits beside Julia.
I avoid her watchful gaze as I crack black pepper onto my risotto.
The last thing I need right now is a critical appraisal from Julia Fay.
I’m here to try and escape all that attention.
Eventually she gets the hint and starts slicing through the pastry wrapped salmon on her plate.
I get through as many forkfuls of creamy rice as I can endure in the heavy silence, then excuse myself from the table. Julia watches as I stand, picking the wine glass up awkwardly like a tumbler of whisky, but saying nothing. This makes me feel worse. I don’t want her pity, her silent judgment.
“Good night,” I say, and nod to the two of them.
The older man tips his glass towards me, then returns to eating. Julia watches me with a strange expression. Like she’s trying to find the right words. Not something I’m used to seeing her struggle with.
“Night, Mel,” she says in the same gentle tone as her apology. And I cannot stand it.