Chapter 39
Concerned about the lack of sleep showing on my face, I put on under-the-eye gel pads enriched with hyaluronic acid and then chug a pint of icy water in the kitchen while listening to Malcolm guest on a podcast to describe his dream meal.
He would choose sparkling water over still, warm baguette bread instead of poppadoms, and his choice of starter would be prawn cocktail.
It was a close call between that and some salt and vinegar crisps and a pot of Sainsbury’s houmous that he finds ‘strangely comforting’.
I am also quite partial to that particular houmous.
If I get to meet him today – although I can’t imagine I will – then I’ll use it as a conversation starter.
Malcolm’s describing why exactly it is he likes salt and vinegar over other flavours of crisps when Gavin’s footsteps on the creaking floorboard in the hall tell me they’re up and about. I pause the podcast, not wanting to lose any insights into Malcolm to Gavin’s chitchat.
‘Morning,’ they say, wiping non-existent sleep from their eyes. ‘Gave me a fright with whatever that is on your face.’
Not knowing what they’re on about, I claw at my cheeks, touching the cool gelatinous lumps of the eye patches. ‘Oh, these? Just wanting to look my best.’ An eyebrow is raised. Gavin’s turn to not know what I’m on about. ‘For my interview?’
‘Doesn’t matter how you look, you’ll get it.
’ They trundle off to the bathroom where, even over Malcolm’s chatter about needing a sting of flavour from a salt and vinegar and why the cheaper brands are his preferred crisp of choice – ‘Give me a Disco over your artisan Himalayan salt and organic cider vinegar tosh any day’ – because the extractor fan doesn’t kick in, I hear them taking their first dump of the day.
I’m not repelled, which is how I come to understand, fuck, I do love them, and not just because I told myself to.
Taking my thoughts away from love and defecation, I compose a brief email to Brian with Gavin copied in, as if my location will be a surprise to them, too.
Hi Brian,
Really sorry, won’t be in today. Having a very heavy, painful period.
Should be better by tomorrow.
See you then.
Jem
My stomach can’t face the bowl of cereal Gavin presents me with as I blow-dry my hair.
The crunchy nut cornflakes sit growing soggy.
If Gavin notices I’ve ignored their offering, they don’t comment on it when they leave for work in one of the shirts and suits they’ve left here in what is becoming their side of the wardrobe.
‘Good luck. You don’t need it.’ They kiss me on the cheek. ‘I love you’ drops out of their mouth like it’s been said a thousand times between us when this is its first utterance.
‘I love you, too.’
‘You’re not just saying that, are you?’
‘No, I really mean it.’
They exhale. Their body looked fine before, but after I’ve spoken they slacken, as if they were tense. ‘Good. Me too. As long as we love one another everything will work out OK. I’m yours and I’ll do anything for you because I know you’d do the same.’
‘Oh yeah, what kind of anything?’
‘Whatever it takes,’ is not the sexy chat I was expecting in response.
And because it’s early in the day to be so intense, I kiss them on the lips to shut them up, luxuriate in their touch for as long as possible, am left bereft from the lack of it when it’s gone.
Alone, I get down to the business of sorting my face.
I put makeup on almost every day with the intention of hiding my tired eyes, covering my cystic acne in the lead-up to my period – if Brian paid attention, my clear skin alone would let him know I was lying.
The lotions and powders I apply are about presenting as someone who looks fine.
Today, I am trying to make the most of myself in a way I only do for special occasions.
The images of me on the show will be viewed by hundreds of thousands of people when it’s broadcast and then scrutinised by anyone I’ve ever met who sees it or shares screenshots of it in their group chat.
This version of myself, the improved and powerful Jemma, has to be immortalised.
If all these bastards I killed get to live on through their few minutes of fame showcasing the worst of humanity, I at my best deserves the same treatment.
Halfway through the ordeal, wiping off and reapplying my eyeliner for the fourth time – the small cat eye I am trying to achieve impossible; I am incapable of matching my right eye to my left no matter what I do – I realise, too late, that I should have paid for a professional to do this.
I persevere until finally something like symmetry is achieved.
My determination to be captured looking as beautiful as possible keeps me focused as I hurry through contouring my cheeks and nose and lining my lips.
The dark-green shirt dress I’ve chosen for filming has been hanging on the hook of the back of my bedroom door since I ironed it after it was delivered last week.
It’s midi length with a tie around the waist. It sets off my pale skin; my fuchsia lipstick pops with it.
Wearing it, my shoulders inch away from my ears.
My reflection shows me what I already know: I look fantastic (for me).
In my huge black leather tote I pack the vital items for today: all of the makeup I’m wearing, should I need to reapply it; a pair of leopard-print heels to swap for the trainers I’ll wear on my walk; my notebook with my estimations of costs for the property I’ll be filmed in; a travel size of my favourite perfume; the hammer as a talisman, double-wrapped in old carrier bags and antibacterial wipes.
The weight of it all means I have to hold the bag by the handle rather than carry it over my shoulder.
Its heft doesn’t bother me. Today nothing is going to bother me.
By the time I’ve walked to the solicitors’ office I’ve a red welt across my palm; it nips as I switch into my heels. Still, I am unbothered.
Solidifying that is the message I receive from Gavin as I sit in the reception area of the solicitors waiting to go into my interview. Opening it up, I expect it to be a good luck, best wishes, you’ll do amazing kind of text. Instead, it reads:
Police here AGAIN. Don’t freak out but this time they said they would like to talk to you. I said I thought you were at home. Was that the right thing to say? Let me know if I should have said something else as she’s in with Brian again now and can sort once she’s out x
A woman, who I think is a girl I went to school with that has become middle-aged before her time, calls my name and invites me to follow her to the meeting room.
All I need to do is get through this interview and be filmed for Fixer Uppers Go Under the Hammer.
After that, I’ll either get a new job or be arrested and a new chapter will begin.