by Jo Watson
So I opted for a far more relaxed job (it was the only one I could get). I got work at Patel and Son’s Dressmakers, a family-run business that did everything from shortening pants and sewing on buttons to creating colorful saris for weddings and other special occasions. It was a small, cramped shop inside the very unglamorous Oriental Plaza, located in a rougher part of Johannesburg. It was tucked between a store that sold every plastic item imaginable and a spice store. Sometimes the smell was so pungent and overwhelming that it would give me an instant headache. But it was also loud and colorful and full of life there, too, and on certain days going to work felt like walking onto a Bollywood film set. I was always waiting for someone to break into unprovoked song or bust a dramatic choreographed move.
But some days the only thing that kept me going while spending hours hemming was imagining sewing Trevv’s nut-sack to the wall. And then there were those other times, while listening to the whirr of the machine and watching the repetitive high-speed motion of the needle piercing the fabric, I wondered if Trevv wouldn’t actually enjoy that.
A spot of pain. A poke with a sharp needle. A spank with a paddle. What else was he into? The world was filled with bizarre fetishes, after all. God only knew what else he and Tess did behind closed doors. The thought always made me feel violently ill, especially when my imagination conjured up images of a nipple-clamped Trevv handcuffed to the bedpost while Tess poked him with a cattle prod, or some such appalling device.
But the best thing about my new job was the Patels themselves. They became like a surrogate family to me, especially Granny Padma. She often brought me leftover curry, or a batch of samosas (I never had the heart to tell her that Indian food gives me heartburn).
The pay wasn’t great, though. It was barely enough to live on. I’d managed to find myself a tiny garden cottage in the student/hippie suburb of Melville. It’s amazing what happens to your priorities when you’re broke. Because, suddenly, living in the right area and wearing the right labels didn’t seem that important in the face of feeding myself. In fact, the poorer I got, the more I let go of all of it.
My landlords were typical Melvillians, as we call them. Gunter ran a small business at home selling biofuel made from discarded vegetable oil that he collected from restaurants—a very messy affair—and Helena ran a small website selling eco-friendly oral hygiene products, like bamboo toothbrushes and recyclable dental floss.
It was a totally different world. For starters I was forced to recycle absolutely everything. On one occasion they’d found a Coke can in my dustbin and acted like I’d committed the ultimate crime. I was instructed to recycle it immediately and given a book to read called Tears of Blood: Mother Nature Is Dying a Slow and Painful Death.
My social life became nonexistent. At first I obliged my friends, who had insisted on getting me out of the house and back on the horse. I went out with them a few times, and even went on a blind date. Let’s just say it didn’t go well. It had ended with some loud wailing cries, humiliating public displays of intense emotion, and lots of runny mascara. He’d been very polite, though…
“I’ll call you.”
Only he didn’t call. Needless to say, I finally realized that I was not well enough for polite society and started seeing less and less of my friends—and certainly no men—in favor of my couch and Facebook stalking Trevv and Tess.
I was basically having a cyber-relationship with them; they just didn’t know it. I even went away with them on that romantic getaway to Paris—talk about masochistic.
What was wrong with me? This must be what addiction feels like. Hating something so much, but needing and wanting it at the same time because it’s all you know. And maybe you think it’s all you deserve, too.
But one night, after canceling on my friends yet again, they all blasted into my house and forced me to cyber–break up with Trevv and Tess.
We all sat down together and I took one last masochistic look at the photo of them cuddling by the roaring wood fire and pressed block. It was like the final little death, the last nail in the coffin. Jane held my hand and I cried. Val cracked open the wine—I suspected she needed it more than I did. Lilly provided the snacks, and Stormy put a crystal outside my front door to trap the negative energy before it came in.
And so began my months of stay-at-home TV binge watching, and self-help books for company. But after a month of reading about journaling, gratitude, and the need for a personal mission statement, whatever that was, I started feeling the need to do something else. I wasn’t sure what exactly, which was typical in my current state. I’d gone from someone who was sure about everything, someone who knew what she wanted and made bold decisions like changing careers, to someone who questioned everything. I hated this new uncertain Annie.
The idea had come to me by accident. I’d been climbing out of the car when the strap of my handbag caught in the seat belt. I’d heard a ripping sound, followed by the clank of a million things falling onto the ground.
“Shit.”
My lipstick had rolled under the car, and I was forced to lie on the dirty ground and stretch my arm into unimaginable lengths and shapes to retrieve it. Some of my other things had rolled right under the car and out the other side only to be crushed by the tire of a passing car.
The whole experience had left me highly pissed off, not to mention covered in black grime. I got home that night, and since money was a problem, decided to fix the strap of my bag. But after ten minutes of looking through still-packed boxes and bags of crap, I realized that my sewing machine was at Trevv’s house.
I suppose it was inevitable. The moment when I had to face Trevv again was finally here. It took me about ten minutes to compose a message to him. I read and reread it so many times that the words were no longer making any sense to me. They were a jumble of meaningless letters.
I felt as if I couldn’t even trust myself to write a message to him. I questioned every word and analyzed the tone: too desperate, too angry, too friendly? Before sending it I decided to consult Stormy-Rain; she’s an actress after all, she reads lines all the time. Maybe she could tell me if I’d infused my message with a meaning I definitely didn’t intend.
She confirmed the message’s neutrality, but left me with a warning; “Do not let the enemy see the weakness in your eyes. Dogs can smell fear.”
And she was right. I had to remain cool and calm and completely unaffected when I saw him. I could not give him the satisfaction of knowing what a mess I was. I finally messaged him after another ten minutes of staring at the now-blurry words.
Hi. It’s Anne. I left my sewing machine in the spare room. Can I come over and fetch it?
He’d messaged me right back. I wasn’t surprised. He basically had his phone surgically attached to his hand, or that’s how it had seemed anyway for the last few months of our…
Suddenly it clicked. How the hell had I been so blind and stupid? It was only in retrospect that I could see all the signs. I imagined all the hushed, whispered, sexy conversations he’d had with her while I’d been downstairs or in the bath.
The pain of knowing that I’d been deceived for so long, and the embarrassment and anger I felt for being so ignorant was overwhelming but I needed to get this done.
When I finally arrived at his house, it was so surreal walking in after all that time. All the traces of me were gone, as if he’d taken a giant eraser and rubbed me out. Tess was everywhere, though.
The expensive lawyer-y coat that hung by the front door, the vase of fresh lilies in the entrance hall, and then there was that pair of high-heeled shoes propped up neatly on the floor. I stepped in.
“Sorry, if you don’t mind…” Trevv looked down at my feet. “We take our shoes off now before walking in the house.”
“Oh. Okay.” I was taken aback by this but slipped my pumps off and reluctantly put them next to Tess’s.
“It’s better for feng shui,” Trevv muttered from above me.
Feng fucking shui. Since when
was Trevv into anything like that? He was far too obsessed with money and status to care whether the positive vibes were flowing freely though his house.
“Is Tess…I mean…?” I stuttered, despite the fact that I’d sworn not to show any signs of weakness.
“No, she’s at Pil-oga.” Trevv flashed me a smile and I swear his teeth seemed even whiter. “Cross between yoga and Pilates, very good for your core, you know.”
“Mmmmm,” I muttered as I followed Trevv through the house and into the spare room, which had clearly been turned into a gym in my absence. I felt a slight pang of guilt at the sight of the treadmill and sucked my stomach in. I hadn’t seen the inside of a gym in months. I found my sewing machine neatly packed up and ready for me to take. I was just about to grab it when Trevv’s hand shot out.
“Allow me,” he said, sounding so thoughtful and kind, as if carrying my not-that-heavy sewing machine to my car would somehow exonerate him. What a shithead. I waited for him to move, but he didn’t.
“So…” He looked at me intently. “How are you, Anne?”
The question completely threw me, and I felt my stomach twist into knots. The last thing I wanted to do was talk to him. But…Show no weakness.
“Great! Good.” I nodded vigorously. Too vigorously.
“Glad to hear it.” He sounded sincere, but I knew him. This line of questioning had nothing to do with genuine concern for my well-being, but rather everything to do with his morbid curiosity. He was probably going to tell Tess tonight what a loser I was. How terrible I looked, despite the fact that I’d spent hours doing my hair and makeup before coming. “Never let the enemy see you looking weak.”
“So, where are you staying?” he persisted, and my stomach continued to twist.
“I was staying with Jane for a while, but I’ve found myself a nice garden cottage now.”
“Lovely. How quaint.” I could hear the subtle mocking quality to his voice and I wanted to lash out and slap him, or something worse. He was getting to me. Creeping and crawling under my skin.
“Yes, it’s lovely.” I tried to sound the right mix of upbeat, yet aloof—if that’s even a thing.
“And are you seeing anyone?” As the question was out, all the cool aloofness I was trying so desperately to put on vanished. I flicked my eyes up, and for a second, they locked with Trevv’s. I knew exactly what he wanted to hear.
No, I wasn’t seeing anyone and my life was terrible without him. I was lonely and insecure and my life no longer had any meaning. (Sadly, it was all kind of true.)
I nodded again. God, what the hell was I doing? “Yes. As a matter of a fact I am.”
For a second he looked surprised, but quickly corrected. “That’s good, Anne.”
“Yes, he’s great. Really great.”
“Would I know him?” Trevv asked, looking genuinely curious. He was probably hoping it was some wildly unsuccessful loser that he could boast about being better than. Everything with Trevv was always a competition.
“No,” I said quickly, and then, without thinking, I started digging my own grave. “He’s from out of town.”
“Really? Where?”
“He’s from, from…uh.” And then it happened. I scanned my brain for any other place but here. Any South African city would have done, any. But my mind drew a blank. I scanned the room hoping for a clue, and before I could apply any rational thinking to it, I saw it, OUTBACK TREADMILL AND FITNESS EQUIPMENT, and the word came flying out of my mouth.
“Australia.”
“Australia?”
Fuck! “Sydney, actually,” I said confidently.
“How exotic.” Trevv was mocking me. “What’s his name?”
“His name?” I repeated.
“Yes. His name?”
“Right, his name.” Blank. Totally, utterly, stupidly blank.
Of all the millions and millions of men’s names out there, my mind struggled to find one. I scanned the room again. A shopping bag in the corner caught my attention. SISSY BOY.
“Boyyy-den. His name is Boyden.”
Trevv nodded suspiciously. I couldn’t blame him. Was that even a name?
“Boyden from Sydney, Australia?” he asked.
“That’s right, and come to think of it”—I raised my watch to my eye (I was such a bad, bad actress)—“look at the time. Running late for my date with Boyden and you know what they say about Australians…” I paused. What did they say about Australians? Why had I said that? What was wrong with me? A look of panic must have flashed across my face as I desperately grasped for something to say.
“Always on time!” I declared triumphantly. “Australians are never late. Punctual people.”
And now I wanted to burst into tears. The hole was getting deeper by the second and I might as well have buried myself in it right there and then. Without saying another word (I couldn’t afford to), I grabbed the sewing machine out of Trevv’s hand and ran toward the front door.
“Anne,” Trevv called after me. I stopped dead in my tracks.
“Yes?”
“There’s no need to make up boyfriends and dates. I would completely understand it if you—”
“Boyden is very real!” I swung around so violently I almost dropped the sewing machine. “He is so, so real!”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you.” He smiled smugly and suddenly I wanted to rub my imaginary relationship in his face.
“And guess what?” I snapped viciously.
“What?” He still looked vaguely amused and I wanted to cut him down to size.
“He is amazing, and kind, and good to animals and children and very, very successful, and he is also better than you in bed!” I screamed that last word and instantly regretted it.
I was coming across as the mad, scorned woman. Maybe I was mad! I needed to go. I turned and ran out the door, climbed into my car, and pulled away as quickly as I could. As soon as I was out of sight, I stopped my car on the side of the road.
“Boyden from Sydney fucking Australia!” I put my hands over my face. How embarrassing. I wanted to crawl under a rock; no doubt he and Tess would laugh about this later over their organic, feng shui’d dinners.
“Poor, sad, pathetic Annie, making up imaginary boyfriends from Down Under.”
I felt a strange sensation on my feet and looked down. I was barefoot. I’d left my shoes at Trevv’s. I sighed and drove off. They could stay there. I never wanted to see him again and I certainly couldn’t afford to bump into him, either, what with Boyden from Down Under not being on my arm.
That night I got home feeling extra sorry for myself and started mending the bag. There was something so satisfying about putting it back together. I couldn’t fix my life, but I could fix this bag, and I could make it even better, too. And I did. I’d transformed the bag from functional to fun and funky, and that’s when it hit me. This. This was something I could do in the quiet evenings. Something to busy my hands and take my mind away from all the many things I didn’t want to—and still wasn’t ready to—think about.
Nothing on the cutting edge of fashion or anything. Nothing that would appear on the arm of the fashionable elite, or grace the catwalks of the world, but bags I liked. Large, colorful totes and beach bags. In fact, the more colorful and bedazzled they were, the more therapeutic I found it.
I imagined Sonja’s face when she saw them. “Kitsch and nasty” is what she would say. So with every colorful ribbon, shiny swath of fabric, and big bright button, I defied her and everything she stood for. The more over-the-top the bag, the more I felt like I was driving a stake through the beating heart of the fashion industry I once loved and so desperately wanted to be a part of.
“Take that, Sonja!” *Clicks the Bedazzler*
“Die, bitch, die!” *Glues on another kitsch sequin and slaps on another colored fucking feather for good effing measure*
I guess it makes sense that I would find solace in bags. They were the reason I went into fashion after all. You see, when I was
about ten, I had a life-changing moment. I walked past a store and saw, all perfectly poised and elegant in the window, a Louis V.
Big, lush, plump, and sophisticated. It was so luxurious. I wanted one.
But trying to convince your parents that Santa should bring you a genuine Louis Vuitton for Christmas when you’re just ten years old is not an easy task. So when I got Malibu Barbie instead, I vowed that one day I would own that handbag.
And I did. And now it was listed on eBay. But my rent was two months late, and you can’t live in a handbag, as much as I’d like to!
And so I sat in a kind of torturous limbo that seemed to drag on forever. It was painful. Which is why Lilly’s suggestion of a tropical girls-only holiday literally made me cry with excitement!
“Why don’t we all go to Mauritius? We can lie in the sun, sip cocktails, and sleep in late.” she’d said one night.
“Sounds a bit expensive,” I said faintly.
“Don’t worry, I’ll pay”—she gave me a wink—“and when I mean I, I mean Damien.”
Her boyfriend, Damien, was the most unusual trust fund baby around. He drove a totally unassuming car, wore sneakers that should have been thrown away in the 90s, owned clothes with authentically acquired holes in them, and worked as a physics lecturer at a community college. But when it came to spending money on friends and family, Damien’s trust fund came blissfully blazing to life.
“And if you feel bad for one second, you’re wasting your time. Trust me, Damien would love to do this. You know what’s he’s like.”
“Okay,” I said before letting out a loud shriek.
“Let’s phone everyone and see if they can come.” Lilly was practically jumping up and down. “We’re going to have such a blast. We can get outrageously tipsy on coconut cocktails and dance to cheesy ABBA at the local disco and maybe we’ll find you a holiday fling.”
