Under My Skin

by A. E. Dooland

  It wasn't me who I wanted desperately to kill, it was her.

  That broken and spent woman in the mirror, with tears running down her cheeks and the weight of a thousand expectations on her shoulders, this had to be it for her. It had to be. This was the end of her stressful, miserable existence. After all her suffering and all of her struggling, it was finally time to lay her to rest.

  I watched her face crumple in the mirror, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks as I reached out to the glass to touch her fingertips. It wasn't her fault. None of this was her fault. She didn't ask for this, and she'd done the best she could. “I'm sorry,” I told her, our voices shaking. “I'm so sorry.”

  I dropped the pills on the counter and had to brush them off my palms where they'd stuck, and bent down to retrieve my scissors from the floor.

  This was it. No turning back now, unless I actually felt like pitching myself off the balcony or choking to death on my own vomit.

  Goodbye, I told that woman, and then held the scissors to our hair.

  Goodbye.

  The blades were dull and as I squeezed and dragged them through my hair, the strands crunched and tore between the shears and I needed both hands to get through it all. My thick hair got caught in the join and it pulled and I seethed and endured it as I kept cutting.

  I watched my reflection transform as that woman disappeared, taking with her the dreams so many people had for her. White wedding dresses. A private honeymoon on a tropical island somewhere with beach sex and skinny-dipping and laughter and kisses. A blue cross on a pregnancy test, maternity wear, baby showers and one final push and the sharp cry of our first born. Henry's joy as he held our baby, Mum's delighted smile as she held her grandchild for the first time, a grandmother, and family portraits of four generations of Lees on the wall of her house in Seoul. Promotions. Presentations and pay rises. Upsizing to four bedrooms in the suburbs, and then school and graduation and downsizing to a little cottage in the hills. Retiring together to sunsets and slow walks through fields paved with wildflowers as we reminisced about our happy, domestic life and held our own grandchildren.

  As I cut, all of this fell away. All of that disappeared, and as I lay that woman who'd been my reflection for twenty-five years to rest, I laid her to rest with the shattered dreams of the people who loved her. I ended them, and I ended her stressful, dutiful life.

  So I could finally start mine.

  When I was done cutting, I had a fistful of hair like a severed limb in my hand. It weighed maybe a hundred grams at the most, but I felt like a thousand, million, billion tonnes had just been lifted from my shoulders.

  And even though I'd well and truly fucked up my hair, and even though I was still wearing a dress, when I looked in the mirror I finally saw something of a person I recognised. And all the money and all the accolades and all the promotions in the world couldn't compensate for how much of a relief that was: to finally look in the mirror and see someone familiar.

  Tears poured down my cheeks, but I was smiling as I dropped that handful of hair into the bin where it belonged. 25 years. 25 years, I'd wasted. But now, now I still had the remainder. There would be consequences for this, I knew, but fuck them. I was alive to face them.

  I was still shaking when I walked out into the kitchen and checked the time; 9:42 pm.

  Wasn't that little hairdresser on the corner open until ten? It couldn't take that long to do a men's cut, could it?

  For the last time ever, I took off a dress and tossed it onto the mess that I'd made of my bed. I pulled on my binder, my jeans and my hoodie and then grabbed my purse and headed down onto the street. People stared at me because of the frighteningly bad job I'd done on my hair, but I just smiled right back at them.

  The city lights were so bright and so colourful and as I looked upwards towards the night sky I imagined painting them spiralling around me. I felt like I was seeing them for the first time, and they were beautiful. Everything was beautiful, and the night air was crisp and fresh and I breathed it deeply into my lungs and smelt all the pizzerias and the salty harbour and burnt diesel fuel from the cruisers. Couples walked arm in arm, laughing with each other, and I was so happy for them.

  Frost HQ loomed over the skyline, the big snowflake-diamond logo lit against the dark sky. I stopped to look at it before I went inside the hairdresser, and for once I didn't feel heavy. I didn't think about my deadlines, or my workload, or my mother. I didn't feel anything.

  Diane was probably riotously angry about my disappearance right now, and I was pleasantly surprised by how little that actually bothered me. It was tempting to never go into work again after all the pain and suffering they'd caused me, except that I think I actually wanted to. I wanted them to meet me, and I wanted to see their reactions. After everything those assholes had put me through, there was something satisfying about the thought of arriving at that critical pitch dressed as something Jason had expressly forbidden me to be.

  I smiled indulgently at the thought of his red face and all his veins popping out, and then pushed the door of the boutique open.

  The woman behind the counter was already packing up for the night, but she froze when she saw me. “Oh, dear,” she said, her eyes fixed on my head. “Should I ask what happened?”

  My own eyes were so puffy it was probably obvious I'd had a breakdown and hacked off all my hair. As if I was going to say that, though. Instead, I deadpanned. “If you think this is bad, you should see the other guy.”

  She snorted and gave me a mock stern look. “Let me get my gear out,” she said, and then started to unpack everything again.

  I sat down in the chair, surprised to see a grin on my face in the mirror. I was excited. And as the woman asked me what I wanted and showed me pictures in men's magazines, I had butterflies in my stomach. It felt like I was about to get my very first haircut, and just in time for the pitch.

  I'd been terrified about this stupid pitch tomorrow for so long, but this was the first time I'd felt any type of excitement about it. Because it didn't matter what happened now. Signature or not, it didn’t matter. I'd chosen. I'd lose my job. I'd get evicted, but it was okay.

  Because I was going to do it all on my terms, as me.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  As I lay on the couch, I thought long and hard about whether or not I should actually go into work tomorrow. On one hand I didn't want to expose myself to another second of being treated like a pathetic fuck-up, but on the other, that wasn't how I wanted them to remember me, either. Calling in sick, making mistakes, crying in bathrooms. That was not who I was. If I left now, I left as that person. I didn’t want it to be like that.

  The couch was uncomfortable and with that one question circling in my head I found it really difficult to sleep. So, after a few hours of trying, I decided to just lie awake and do some more research on Sasha Burov, thinking that maybe I would figure out a solution.

  We'd already researched his work and his collections to death, and I'd already read interview after interview. I read them again, focusing on how he responded to questions. I already knew he wasn’t put off by flattery and was impressed when people showed good knowledge of his work, but I wanted to know more about what type of interviewer he engaged best with. He was overconfident and very forward in just about everything I read, and by the early morning, I'd already decided how I was going to play this. I was going to take a big risk, and that was in addition to showing up dressed as a guy and hoping he didn't recognise me.

  I was going to try and pull off a Grand Theft Pitch.

  Diane and Jason were obsessed with everything going smoothly and according to plan because that’s how they saw this contract getting signed. Jason had emphasised again and again that we had to appear like a well-oiled machine to Burov, and despite all our differences we had to come across as a cohesive team. Well, if that was the case, there was no way either of them would try and fight with me in front of him, no way. And they wouldn't let him guess I was female, either. I actual
ly disagreed that 'conservative' was the best way to interact with Burov, but as long as Diane and Jason believed it was, there was a possibility I was going to get away with attempting a heist.

  Fuck, though. This was so unlike anything I'd done before. I wasn't cocky. I wasn't super-confident. And the thought of doing something brash and naughty was both terrifying and exhilarating and I couldn't sleep. I just lay there with my stomach fluttering, hoping I could pull it off.

  The following morning I disregarded the expensive dresses spread all over the glass-littered floor of my bedroom and put on Henry's spare suit. It fit me, right down to the same weathered belt notch. Even the Y-fronts Mum had bought him 'on sale' that he hated fit me. I hardly needed to touch my short hair—except I did anyway because I loved it—so I stood back to admire myself.

  I looked great. I felt great. Every little detail was perfect, from the top of my head to my Windsor knot, all the way down to... the sagging crotch of these fucking suit pants, I swear to god. I made a face.

  Maybe I could fill it with... I turned slightly towards my bedroom, second guessing myself. I probably shouldn't use the packer, though. It was big, it might look a bit pornographic, like I was casually walking around Sydney with a semi. I stood there arguing with myself over it, and then eventually decided that the only way I could settle this was to try it.

  I did, taking it from the bottom of my wardrobe and slipping easily into the Y-fronts. I zipped everything back up and looked down my body to the new bulge and felt... a bit weird about it, actually. It didn't look pornographic at all, it looked completely natural. I didn't feel natural about it, though. It made me feel self-conscious and I would have preferred not to be able to see any sign of it on the smooth planes of my front.

  I sighed at my new bulge. Whatever, though. I was so over stressing about my body and what should or shouldn't be part of it. The important thing was that I passed as a guy and the packer completed the picture, so that was enough. I let myself out of the apartment with nothing but a few cards and my phone in my pocket.

  I was leaving a lot later than usual this morning—the pitch was at ten and I didn’t need to arrive early—so the crowds of business people in suits had already dissipated into their offices. In their place, there were hordes of tourists around Circular Quay. That made me a bit conspicuous in my sharp suit. I would normally have hated standing out, but I didn't anymore. Not dressed like this. And the looks they were giving me weren't because I was only an inch or two shy of being a human skyscraper or because I was different, not at all. They were, 'hey, check him out'. By the time I'd walked into Frost HQ, I'd already decided I really needed to buy a few suits of my own. I liked this.

  No one recognised me as I swiped my card at the security gates or as I got into the lifts. Everyone was on their phones, anyway, so I took mine out as well to check the time again. I noticed I had a message from Sarah.

  “Hey, are you okay? I only just got your message—last night was totally crazy. Burov is so full of himself, his ego is bigger than Jason's. He put a $5k bet down and when he lost he was like, ‘Guess I better work an extra 15 minutes today!’. Anyway, I haven't seen you yet, are you in? Jason is about ready to decapitate you if you are and he's going through all your USBs. He won't say why, might be about the complaint. Or it might be because he's a dick.”

  I guessed Diane didn't suspend him like she was supposed to, I thought. Good. I wanted him to be part of this, too. I texted back, “Yeah, I'm here. Tell Jason I've finished the presentation and I'll be up with it in two seconds.” I hadn't, and I was going to take longer than two seconds, but that wasn't the point.

  I checked the time: it was a bit too early to go in yet. I needed to be late. I was just staring at the lift panels and wondering how I was going to kill ten minutes when my eyes fell on '35'. On impulse, I pushed it. Maybe I'd regret it, but I wanted Henry to see me like this before anyone else did. It was the least I could do since these were his clothes.

  I was the last one out of the lift, and 35 was quiet, really quiet. I went straight to his office, my heart pounding every step of the way, only to find it empty. All the offices were empty.

  “If you're looking for HR, they're doing orientation in the auditorium right now,” a familiar voice told me. I knew that super friendly, super warm tone, and it belonged to someone who wasn't either. My hair stood on end as I turned towards the voice.

  Fucking Sean had his suit jacket on and was clearly heading somewhere — our pitch probably — when he'd bumped into me on his way to the lift.

  He didn't recognise me at first, and I didn't tell him who I was. I didn't do anything, in fact. I was so surprised to see him and so fucking angry and so betrayed that I just stood there paralysed while he double-took and looked delighted.

  “Min!” he said, standing back to look me up and down. “Wow, you certainly look different! It must have taken so much courage to come to work dressed like that.” He flashed me a smile. “You look great.”

  I didn't smile. Shut the fuck up, you lying, psychopathic asshole, I thought, internally seething. I wanted him to burn in the fires of hell for what he'd done to me, and I opened my mouth to say exactly that to him in probably just as many words, when something occurred to me: he was being nice to me because he didn't know I knew he was a lying two-faced fuck. I closed my mouth.

  He thought I was the same person as the one who'd cried in his office yesterday and that I was fragile and upset and stressed out of my brains. And while I was staring at him, I had an idea. If I wanted to really get revenge on him, it wasn't by telling him to go fuck himself right here and right now, as satisfying as that would be. No, that wasn't how I was going to get him. I had a better idea, and one that stopped him from sabotaging the pitch.

  I could use this.

  I forced what I thought was a bit of a shy smile. “Thank you,” I said, and then pretended to look self-consciously down my body. “Do you think it's a bit much, though? I don't want to look overdressed.”

  The bastard had the gall to put a warm hand 'comfortingly' on my shoulder. “Don't worry, it looks great,” he said. “And anyway, even if it didn't, it's a bit late to go home and get changed now, isn't it?” I pretended to be clueless, and he chuckled. “You don't need to hide it anymore. I know, I checked room bookings. You've got that pitch on now.”

  “Oh!” I said, trying my absolute hardest to look like I suddenly realised what he meant. “Oh, yes, that's today. It's not now, though. The clients had a big night last night and opted to delay an hour, so I thought I'd come and visit Henry and get his opinion on this suit.”

  From Sean's expression, he bought my story. And why wouldn't he? The Min Lee he knew was a diligent, hard worker. She'd never be late for a pitch. “I'm sure he'll be disappointed he wasn't able to give it,” he said. “I'll give you mine instead, though: you're not overdressed. Russians are less casual than Australians in business so I think you'll find you fit right in.”

  I smiled appreciatively at him. “I hope so,” I said. “I did hop onto the Impressions website to take a look at the publicity shots to see what they all were wearing,” I said, brushing my front down. “Good, I'm glad I made the right choice. Okay. I guess I'd better go pour over the materials one more time to make sure everything's perfect. Thanks.”

  Sean didn't miss my 'slip', I saw something pass across his face when I said Impressions. He also didn't draw any attention to the fact I'd said it, either. “You're welcome,” he said, and then watched me leave.

  I stood waiting for a lift, expecting at any second that he'd come and stand alongside me and follow me anyway. He didn't, though. He'd gone back to his office, probably to call his contact in Vladivostok and ask what the hell was going on. That made me smirk... until I remembered how quickly he'd gotten onto his contact on the day the pitch was cancelled. I probably didn't have much time.

  Well, that just meant I had to do a really good job, didn't I? I got into the lift and headed down to the floor with t
he media rooms.

  As I walked out onto it, it really sank in what I was about to try and do, and my heart was pounding. I felt like I was about to rob a bank. I cycled through a series of 'I can't do this's and 'sure, I can!'s until I finally settled on 'too late to back out now just keep walking'.

  This is it, I thought. This is it. Take a deep breath, Min. There’s no reason to stress out: you have nothing to lose.

  As I approached the suite, the door was open and I could hear talking inside. I walked straight in the room, shut the door and very subtly locked it. Then, I turned around to face all the people seated in front of me.

  It was everyone. Diane, Jason, the rest of my team including Sarah, and Burov and his entourage. The Frost employees all looked up with curiosity, wondering why some guy had just walked in here.

  And one-by-one, all their jaws dropped.

  Hi, guys, I thought, and took advantage of their shock.

  “Thanks for waiting, everyone,” I said in the most gender neutral voice I could manage, bustling confidently over to the projector and fitting my USB into it. Once I'd done that, I stepped around the lectern and over to Burov, focusing intently on him and extending my hand. “Min,” I said as he shook it. “It's great to finally meet you, Mr. Burov. I've been admiring your collections for years. Particularly the ones you hand-picked for the Royal wedding. And that necklace you commissioned last week for Isnakov's daughter?” I nodded appreciatively. “Beautiful. Was it all your idea to choose baguette cuts?”

  I stole a glance at Jason. His face and neck had gone bright red, but he couldn't say anything about what I was doing. Not in front of Burov, not without ruining the 'cohesive team' illusion.

  Burov didn't recognise me or my name. And, just like he had in the video conference, he looked impressed and a bit flattered by my knowledge of him. “Of course I chose the cuts,” he said, and then inclined his head towards my shocked compatriots. “What's wrong with them?”