by Rosa Temple
For most of my day-to-day trials and tribulations, relationships, and work matters there was always Anya. But she wasn’t due back for a while, especially since she’d said that she and Henry would be taking a long break after her film shoot. Besides, this wasn’t something I wanted to Skype or FaceTime about.
So that only left Anthony and with us being so snappish with each other I might as well have said I was on my own with my grief. And it felt like grief. Different from when we lost Nana but grief all the same.
Without realizing it I was slouching around the house in black: black trackie bottoms and a loose black sweater, worn constantly since the Friday after the procedure. I’d mooched around the house, day and night, in and out of bed in the same clothes for four days. I’d rough-housed my big hair, into a shaggy pineapple with something elastic I found next to the bin in the kitchen. I suspected it was the elasticated string used to truss the raw chicken I got out for dinner a few days ago but couldn’t be bothered to cook. My hair was probably alive with salmonella poison but it didn’t bother me in the slightest.
I’d splashed my face and brushed my teeth, which was the sum total of my personal hygiene routine for days. If I was going to go back to work, and my telephone buzzing with messages from Riley told me that I must, I’d have to be detoxified in antibacterial substances and have a hair specialist thoroughly wash the chicken germs out.
As I lay under the duvet, wondering if anyone had invented a carwash that humans could be put through, I heard the bedroom door creak open.
‘Magenta? Darling? Are you asleep?’ asked Anthony.
‘Too many questions – I can’t cope.’ I pulled the duvet off my face. I’d probably need to bring it into my human carwash with me. Anthony sat at the side of the bed.
‘You know the gallery called and asked when I’d be coming in. I told them tomorrow. Is that all right?’
‘You didn’t have to be off, too. You should have gone in.’
‘I thought you wanted me around,’ he said, tentatively reaching a hand towards me. I didn’t want to be touched.
‘Oh,’ I said looking up at a crack I’d never seen in the ceiling before. ‘I see.’
‘Will it be okay? I mean, when do you think you’ll go back to work?’
‘Soon.’
‘Well, I don’t think you should leave it too long.’
‘And you became a grief counsellor, when exactly?’ I shot a look at him.
‘Can we …? Please, let’s not fight again, Magenta. I’m tired.’
‘And so am I. I can’t get over the fact that we lost a baby.’
‘It’s not like we planned to have a baby.’ He threw up his hands. Actually threw them up.
I sat up straight. ‘So, I should care less that I had a miscarriage because I wasn’t planning to get pregnant?’ I said.
‘No, that’s not what I’m saying.’ Anthony closed his eyes, shook his head.
‘It’s exactly what you said,’ I told him.
He got off the bed and shoved his fists into his jeans. ‘I’m only saying that at some point you’re going to have to get some normality back into your life. It isn’t right to mope around like this.’
My face began to contort; my bottom lip was quivering.
‘It’s not moping, Anthony, it’s sadness. Sadness and pain.’ I threw myself back onto the bed, buried my face in the pillow, and sobbed.
After a soft sigh, Anthony sat again, stroking my back and rubbing my shoulders.
‘If you don’t want me to go back to the gallery, I won’t,’ he said. ‘I’ll stay and look after you.’
‘I don’t need you to look after me,’ I said into the pillow.
‘I can’t leave you like this. I’m worried about you, Magenta.’ He leaned his body onto mine, his lips finding my ear. ‘I love you. I can’t handle seeing you like this.’
‘Then go. Go now. Just bloody well go.’
There was a sharp edge to my voice. How could I have been so cold? What made me think that the best way to deal with our situation was to drive him away? Ironic really when the one person, out of the list of anyone I could have gone to to listen to my agony about the baby, was – and should have been – Anthony. But I was driving him away. For some deep-rooted reason that I couldn’t even fathom in my own head I wanted to make sure he was hurting.
That said, I was heartbroken when I felt Anthony’s weight shift. He pulled away from me. I suddenly felt a shiver of cold when the pressure of his body left mine and the bed adjusted so it was only supporting me. I didn’t even hear the bedroom door open – or the front door, come to that. Anthony left the house and left me to my tears.
I must have cried myself to sleep and not for the first time.
I woke, groggy and out of sorts. I looked around the room with a feeling of not belonging but of being transported there from some other unknown place. Then it hit me again. That lonely, empty feeling that seemed to be reserved only for me, and I was shrouded in sadness.
I somehow peeled my tired body off the bed and slumped down the short flight of steps into the small corridor of our house, wondering which room to go into. My mobile phone rang from upstairs. It was still under the duvet, where I wished I’d been, but I didn’t go back up for it. It was most likely Riley. One of the senior staff members would have to help her out. My intention was to ignore the phone for the rest of the day. What I couldn’t ignore, though, was that I shouldn’t have sent Anthony away like that.
The front door creaked open when it was dark and Anthony appeared in the kitchen doorway where I’d sat sipping tea, having lost all track of time.
‘You’re up.’ Anthony was still bundled up in a thick, dark jacket, a scarf wrapped twice around his neck. He began to strip down to his sweater and paint-splashed jeans. I looked up and smiled. Anthony’s face felt cold and made me jump when he kissed my cheek.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s bitter out there.’
‘You’ve been out all day.’
‘I know.’
I reached for his hand as he passed me on the way to put the kettle on.
‘I’m up,’ I said. ‘And I’m sorry. I’m out of control and it isn’t fair.’
He kneeled beside my chair. ‘Magenta, I …’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m glad you’re up.’
He made himself tea, and another for me as well as some toast, which we ate while watching a late film on television. It wasn’t long before we both gave in to fatigue and went to bed.
In the morning Anthony got ready to go to the gallery. There was no reconciliation as such, just an understanding between us that since I was out of bed and looking through my wardrobe I must be a little better than the day before.
‘I’m glad we’re talking again,’ he said. But I would hardly call it that.
I should have cooked a special breakfast, served in bed and followed with lots of apologies to compensate for my awful behaviour. But Anthony had toast and was in and out of the shower in seconds – and seconds later he was gone. With a gentle kiss on my cheek he was out of the door on his way to the Slater Gallery.
My morning was a bit more of a challenge. I’d listened to Riley’s messages on my voicemail that morning and felt even more tired than I had when I got out of bed. But I couldn’t go on moping around the house. I should at least get some air. Something. Two weeks ago I had been all systems go, full on with the business and up for anything.
Normally I would have been up and out in the early hours of the morning, running regularly as part of a lifestyle change I’d adopted a year ago. Maybe it was what my body needed; a run might clear my foggy brain. My early morning sessions before work always left me recharged and rejuvenated so it was time to give my heart and lungs an aerobic kick up the butt.
I swapped my old black sweater for one of Anthony’s black hoodies. It looked bitter outside and with a long sleeved T-shirt underneath I could protect myself from the D
ecember morning. I put on some running socks, noting how dirty my feet had become since plodding around the house barefoot for days and not having had a bath. My trainers felt weird on my feet but I pushed on, grabbing a pair of gloves on the way out of the door.
There wasn’t much green space to run around but if I stayed around the back streets I should have a fairly quiet run. It was less of a run, actually, more of an unhealthy hobble. My body seemed to have lost all power in such a short space of time and I was pretty exhausted by the time I got to the top of the mews, about fifty metres. Regardless, I continued my slow stagger around the corner and turned down a long street lined with terraced Victorian houses, each with railings outside and steps up to the front doors. I stopped several times, sitting on front steps and hanging on to railings.
Most of my problem was not having eaten for days or having had anything much to drink. That morning I’d had a cup of coffee, which would only have dehydrated me further.
Not too far from home I decided to turn back. Each plod of my foot on the pavement made a booming sound in my head. Turning towards the direction of home I was being approached by a trio of children on scooters. They scooted like crazy towards me in brightly coloured puffer jackets and woolly hats. I didn’t expect children out on a weekday but realized that schools must have broken up for the Christmas holidays.
A woman, possibly their mother, was half running, half walking to catch up with them. She was carrying an overstuffed bag for life in one hand, looking harassed and probably wishing the Christmas holiday was over already.
‘Slow down!’ I heard her say but the trio of puffer jackets seemed to speed up. I’d have to do some nifty footwork to avoid them but hoped they’d have the manners to form a single file to let me by. How wrong was I? The little darlings carried on at full speed, not having noticed me or, if they had, probably expected me to jump up onto a front step to clear the track.
Thankfully, one pulled ahead of the others, forming a space between them. At the rate I was trundling along I could quite easily skip through it. I did a hop and skip towards the gap but must have misjudged the width. I tripped over a scooter or a child’s foot and fell to the pavement with a bump before rolling onto my bottom.
Just beside me the mother stopped with her bag for life, bellowing at the top of her voice. ‘Didn’t I tell you to slow down?’ She was red-faced. She dropped her bag, offering her hand so she could help me up. The children scooted back to us and dropped their scooters near my feet. I couldn’t move.
‘It’s all right, I’m okay,’ I said, a little dazed. But I just sat there on the pavement, looking at the dust on my gloves and at the faces of the concerned people in a circle around me. The mother extended her hand further. I took it and tried to ease myself up. The children rushed to assist, pulling at my hoodie and scooping me up under the arms.
‘Mummy, her hair stinks,’ said the little girl.
‘Don’t say, “stinks”,’ said her mother, ‘Say, “smells”.’
‘She smells,’ said the little girl.
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ asked the mother as I got to my feet.
‘Absolutely.’ I straightened up my hoodie and smiled. ‘I am. I’m really all right.’
In that moment I made the decision to go back to work.
I limped off home. The little girl had made a poignant remark. I’d never let my appearance get so bad and I’d never worn the same clothes for more than half a day, let alone five in a trot. I stepped in off the street, looking at my wild hair, dry skin, and oversized clothes. Anthony had been sharing a bed with a bag lady for days, without complaint. It was time to tackle the issue of hygiene head on.
I stayed under the shower for an indeterminate time. I started on my hair, single-handedly, no professional intervention. I tried to tame my curls with half a bottle of conditioner and a wide-toothed comb, coming close to wanting to shave my head a few times. My eyes were stinging and pink by the time I emerged and I nearly slipped a disc clambering out of the shower because the floor was awash with giant bubbles from the deluge of product I had to administer.
I ate toast while holding the diffuser to my head and drank a cold cup of coffee left over from the brew Anthony made earlier on. I stepped into the wardrobe to find an appropriate outfit and chose a simple, black Victoria Beckham crew neck and matching knit skirt and long boots.
‘No more tears,’ I said to the mirror in the small corridor as I pulled a red woollen hat over my still-damp hair. I pointed a gloved finger at the woman reflected back at me in her Dolce & Gabbana coat saying, ‘It’s time to work.’
Chapter 14
The Designs
Because of the run and the lengthy ablutions I arrived at the office close to midday. I was nearly knocked to the ground by Riley who rushed from her seat in reception, her feet stomp across the marble hallway to greet me when I walked in. She held me in a death grip around my waist, her head buried in my boobs. She was strong for a small person.
‘It’s great to have you back,’ she breathed.
‘It’s great to be back,’ I gasped because Riley was constricting my airways. Lowering my hands from their position of surrender I patted Riley’s head and tried to peel her off me. ‘It’s only been ten days, though, Riley.’
‘I know, I know but I missed you. There are tons of messages, but I’ll only give you today’s for now.’
I followed her back into reception and she began to reel off the morning’s messages as I undid my coat.
‘That Cassandra woman asked about the reference … again. The manufacturers want to know when they can have your completed bag designs. I want to know if I can have Friday off – that’s two days away so I hope it isn’t too short notice. And your mother called to ask if you could meet for lunch today. Did she not know you were off work? Anyway, I didn’t let on you weren’t here. I wasn’t expecting you today either. Are you sure you feel better? Can I get you anything?’
I took the list out of her hand.
‘I’m here, I’m fine, and I’ll see to this.’ I waved the list and went up to my office.
I closed the door and took a deep breath. My smile had been on the verge of cracking and I knew that without it I wouldn’t make it through the day. I sat at the desk and began to prioritize my list.
I needed to finalize my drawings, get them enlarged and copied up as soon as I could so they could go off to the team to make up the samples. They’d had Clara’s designs weeks ago and, as I’d already given the manufacturing team a deadline to have samples ready by, all they were waiting on were mine. As my Every Woman bags were going to be the headlining designs, I needed to get my skates on. The advance-viewing meeting I’d arranged with the main buyers was one month away.
Then there was Cassandra. I’d forgotten all about her, to my shame. She would have to go to the top of the list because I should have had her reference to her last week. She’d told me that the reference needed to get to the company with the application form and the deadline had been and gone. I called her to give her my deepest apologies but my call went to her voicemail. I tried to apologize in a text, asking her to ring me straight away, letting her know she could pick up the reference as soon as it was ready.
She sent me a text saying: My application is in and they will accept the reference as soon as possible. I sighed with relief when I read her text. I was off the hook, but only just.
I went into my design room to remind myself where I was at with my drawings. Sketches on A3 and A4 paper were pinned around the room like an art gallery. Some sketches lay on a desk in one corner of the room and a work in progress sat three-quarters of the way completed on my drawing table.
I walked around, taking in my work and ideas. Some were very basic; some were coloured with little notes to detail grades of leather, sizes, and fastenings. Some more intricate designs of interior and exterior detail were clipped to a large whiteboard by the window. I took them all in as I paced the r
oom, imagining the finished items. The drawings were encouraging; many more designs than I’d remembered were complete. I could get them to the design team very quickly and that filled me with a sense of joy and a determination to get my working life back on track.
As long as I made the deadline I could then start to focus my attention on marketing. I imagined I shouldn’t have too much of a problem; I’d got a lot of experience targeting my male market so the female side shouldn’t be too much of a challenge. I’d have so much to keep me focused. There was no way I could be sad, or stay mad at Anthony.
Next was Riley wanting Friday afternoon off. That was easy – of course she could have it. As for Mother, I’d call and arrange to meet her for lunch. I was pretty sure all she wanted to do was check to make sure I wasn’t overdoing it. She’d been concerned about how bedraggled I’d looked at the family get-together. I kept my conversation with her on the phone short and sweet so she couldn’t ask awkward questions and we arranged to have lunch on Friday afternoon. I’d figure out how to act normally around her when the time came.
Once I’d sorted out the list I put my head down and worked flat out for the rest of the day.
‘Caffè macchiato,’ Riley announced at least twice that day and when it came to four o’clock and I hadn’t left the design room she came in with a much-needed tortilla wrap from Jimmy’s, which she kept warm by rushing straight back and not stopping to talk to the man himself.
‘You look as if you could do with one of these,’ she said. Her hair was up in Princess Leia buns and she was wearing bright red lipstick. ‘You’ve done so much today. You must be feeling better.’
