Lost Angel (The List #1)

by N. K. Love

  “Okay, okay. I get it. You win.” I interrupt and shrug. “Let’s do this.”

  “Are you kidding? That was too easy.” The look on her face is priceless. “Earth to Bethany, come in Bethany—”

  “Nope, not kidding. I‘m up for it. Just living in the moment baby. Fuck It!” I shrug and enjoy Wills reaction.

  She can’t help but take advantage of the mood; her tone still suspicious of my carefree attitude. “Ooookay… as you’re being so reasonable and open… How about we up the ante a little and you agree to free yourself of that noose around your finger on Friday too?” She points the butter knife towards my left hand.

  I look down and rub the bottom of my wedding ring with my thumb, which is ironically a habit I have when deep in thought. I raise my eyes to meet Wills. “Fine... I agree.” My Miss Sensible frantically palming through her research to find evidence to prove it’s too soon and doesn’t fit with her predicted timescales according to matrimonial separation guidelines.

  I continue in a cocky tone. “Hey, I’m just being decisive and dominant… now where’s my breakfast biatch?”

  Wills arches an eyebrow, calmly cuts the toast whilst she prepares to pull me back to reality. She bends over the island to me, holding a triangular piece of buttered toast out between her manicured fingertips.

  “Would you like me to put it in your mouth sweetheart?” Sending my cocky tone back to where it came from by dropping one simple line… My jaw drops and I cover my face with both hands like a toddler pretending to hide. I start to remember parts aloud and Wills happily fills in the blanks over breakfast. Apparently I was quite impressive on the dance floor. I’d forgotten how much I escape when I’m dancing. My apparent Miss Alter Ego taking that compliment as her cue to start twerking her way down the full length mirror she was buffing – I really like this part of me. I think that what I refer to as my alter ego is probably more to do with the parts of me that I’ve hidden away or ignored as they didn’t fit in with my life at the time.

  Wills talks me into some yoga and after I get over my urge to giggle, it was actually great. It did wonders for my headache, well that… and the painkiller… and coffee… and litre of water. I take a long shower and get ready. Feeling refreshed I log on to catch up on work emails and make some business calls.

  I allow work to consume me for the rest of the day. I make some promising headway on streamlining some of the electronic records we keep. I also spent time looking into how feasible it’d be to extend our opening hours once a week and introduce a late night book club or studying session. I’m still just brainstorming at the moment but I have already been reaching out to a few of the lecturers from the nearby Uni that I’ve met through work. I’m considering putting a proposal together to link in with the University on a more formal basis. It’s going to need a lot more work yet but I’m glad I’ve made a start.

  Soon enough its dinnertime. I’m really hungry now after only grabbing some cheese and crackers and fruit for lunch so I head to the kitchen.

  4:49pm

  “Chop chop B, we’re gonna be late—” Willow glides past me, swatting my ass, she grabs her car keys and makes her way to the front door.

  “Late for what? I need to eat. Where are you going?”

  “WE are going to your waxing appointment, which I wrote down on the wipe board in the kitchen and I also bellowed a reminder to you this morning. Hurry up, grab your shoes.”

  “Shit, I totally forgot. I didn’t hear you this morning, I must’ve been in the shower. I can’t just go… I’ve gotta at least have a wash, you know—” Gesturing between my legs.

  “You’ve showered already, so unless you’ve been up to something other than work in your bedroom I think you’ll be fine babe. Let’s go.” She opens the door with a look that’s taking no prisoners.

  “Sorry, I’ll be one minute I promise, you go and start the car.” She exaggerates her exhale and leaves.

  5:25pm

  After grabbing some food on the way, we eat in the car. On the drive over, Wills tells me to decide between French or Brazilian, giving me the low down for each. She kindly offers to show me her “Brazi”, which I decline, having already decided on the less intrusive landing strip option as oppose to my usual trusty bikini line trim.

  “What are the beauticians like? I don’t wanna be made to feel uncomfortable and awkward like when I’m having my smear done.” I always feel compelled to fill the awkward silence with ramblings of utter shite. If it were possible, I would gladly learn how to perform a smear test on myself just to avoid the awkwardness. “Or when I have my bikini line done, the girl I usually end up with makes me feel like a hairy monster that’s inconveniencing her.” Wills shakes her head at me in annoyance.

  “B, why on earth would you continue going to a salon that makes you feel that way?” Then switches to a sarcastic tone. “No wait let me guess, because it’s convenient and fits in with your neat little schedule.” She growls in frustration and pretends to throttle me. My Miss Sensible nodding enthusiastically eyeballing and shrugging as if to say ‘And?’

  She continues more serious this time. “I hope you’re slowly starting to realise how little of your schedule was actually dedicated to you. Not Mike, not work, not your family or friends—”

  We drive in silence whilst I digest and accept the truth in her words. I have kept myself at arm’s reach for so long, it’s second nature now, until Wills points it out. Even the house was higher than me on my list of priorities. I don’t know how to put myself first or be a priority in my own life, which sounds ridiculous. There’s no excuses now. I will start working in that direction from now on.

  “In answer to your question; there’s a good reason I’ve driven past at least five other salons. This place is fab and the staff are all lovely. They’re chilled and non-judgemental.” Wills pulls into a car park and stops the car outside the salon; it’s called ‘Bella’. I don’t know Italian but I do know that means ‘Beautiful’.

  We’ve arrived just in time for my 5:30pm appointment. They shut soon so it’s quietening down. The receptionist, Becky, is super sweet; petite, about a size 14, early 20’s, blonde hair and ocean blue eyes. Willow introduces us and we stand around the desk chatting casually whilst I absorb my surrounding.

  We get lost in a conversation about Wills gym. She’s telling us how great it is and persuading me to cancel my current gym membership and sign up.

  I forget where I am for a moment until Wills nudges me to get my attention and nods her head behind me. Spinning around, I come face to face with a beautiful woman, maybe mid to late 30’s, tanned skin, flawless complexion. She has shiny jet black hair with dark chocolate brown eyes. Her breasts are perfectly shaped and surgically enhanced. Considering she’s wearing a clingy black V-neck top, it doesn’t look as though she’s even wearing a bra and her nipples look like she quite possible hires a permanent nipple erector to tweak them on tap. Between her and Wills, who hasn’t got a bra on either, it’s feeling like a freakin’ nipplefest in here.

  She kisses Willow on the cheek and turns to me. “Bethany? ‘Ello darling, I am Marcella, owner of Bella’s. Welcome, please, come with me this way.” She has a mesmerising Italian accent that makes me think I’d do just about anything she tells me to. I follow, entranced, and to my surprise so does Wills. She chats to Marcella as though they’re good friends, leaving me to try and suss out if it’s the kind of friendship that comes with or without benefits.

  The Italian goddess leads us into the large treatment room decorated in pure crisp white and lavender. It has an instantly relaxing vibe about it with a beautiful piano piece oozing out of some discreetly placed speakers. There’s two treatment tables in the centre of the room with some comfy chairs either side of the large window that’s frosted for privacy but still allow plenty of natural light to fill the room. Opposite the door is a wall of cupboards and drawers, presumably where treatment supplies are kept. There must be cinnamon sticks or maybe essential oils nearby,
it’s subtle and lovely. I notice a four-panel fold away screen embellished with intricate yet simple pictures of purple and white lavender.

  Marcella hands me a super soft fluffy white towel, cleansing wipes and a disposable G-string. She tells me to strip from the waist down, use the wipes and lie on the bed on my back when I’m ready. Then she turns her attention straight back to Wills. I’m not sure if this is because she’s being rude and is just interested in fucking Willow or if it’s just her feisty Italian professionalism. I step behind the screen to undress, whilst half listening to their conversation and decide it’s the latter.

  Marcella’s sexy accent just sounds flirtatious but her friendly laugh tells me she’s genuine. Thank God for that. I really don’t want a bitch in between my legs armed with a pot of hot wax. I wince at the thought and now I just want to get this over with. I pop the wipes in the hygiene bin provided and reappear in the unflattering G-string covered by the fluffy towel. I slide onto the bed, which is covered with a paper sheet, leaving the towel over my crotch area. Wills is positioned beside me so she’s not at the business end.

  Marcella seamlessly involves me in the conversation about some guy she’s apparently been “screwing like a dog on heat”. I love how she just talks freely, similarly to Wills. I almost blush as some of her comments, even though I’m not in the slightest bit offended or uncomfortable. She is so at ease with herself it helps me to try and feel the same. Pulling on her rubber gloves she checks everything’s prepared on her trolley.

  Wills mentions that I’m newly single.

  “Oh darling, your pussy is in the best hands possible. I will make sure that she impresses anybody that comes into contact with her, including myself... So what will it be?” She rubs her hands together as though she’s about to rustle us up some cocktails.

  “Erm… well I’m not sure anybody is going to see her anytime soon but I’ve decided on the French waxing please… if that’s ok with you? If it’s not possible… then um… perhaps just a tidy up—” I shift about under the towel not liking the spotlight on me. Not that Marcella isn’t lovely, she is and this place is great too but how is having my pubic hair pampered going to make me feel any different?

  “Nonsense, nonsense, I own this salon for a reason. I am capable of making even the most disgraceful looking vaginas look desirable. Nothing is impossibile! ” She lifts up the towel. “Can we lose this?” Then pulls the G to one side. “And this? If you don’t mind please darling. I know it’s the rules but I work so much better when I can see my entire canvas.” I nod and shrug, mesmerised by her accent once again. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m at ease with Marcella or I’m petrified of her, but either way – fuck It. Glancing at Wills she raises her eyebrows and smiles. Marcella folds the towel and places it on her lap then tears away the G with an experts touch, disposing of it in the bin on her trolley.

  “Right then—” She is studying my pubic hair in the exact same way my hairdresser looks at my hair when I haven’t been in a while. “Well, this is definitely a neatly pruned married pussy darling. She is screaming for me to release her potential. With a body and a face like yours, you will be fighting the men off so let’s make sure you’re looking incredibile everywhere.” Marcella indicates for me to put my left leg in the frog position and then applies cleanser and powder. Then comes the familiar pleasure and pain; pleasure of the feeling when the spatula spreads warm wax over my skin and pain when the inevitable strips are ripped away.

  I hold my leg up from under my knee so she can tackle underneath and I’m surprisingly unfazed when usually I’d be cringing to death, waffling on about the weather. I dig my nails into my leg a few times when the more sensitive areas are done. The easy conversation keeps me distracted, Marcella keeps trying to persuade me to have some pubic crystals. I swear she takes so much pride in her work that I wouldn’t be surprised if she gets a permanent marker out to autograph me.

  Marcella’s professional work makes the session fly by and soon enough my right side is done too. She applies soothing balm all over and inspects me closely, using tweezers to pluck me to a perfectly formed thin landing strip “worthy of the red carpet” apparently.

  “Finito, sei bellissima! Bella Bethany!” Marcella shows me her handy work with pride via a handheld mirror. Impressive stuff, I think I may go for the pubic crystals next time. She encourages Wills to critique as though it’s an art exhibition. “I now pronounce this pussy officially divorced.” At least she doesn’t have to wait for two years! “Congratulations! She looks good enough to eat.” Laughter erupts once more, drowning out the speakers. I slip off the bed and get dressed, without bothering with the screen this time, rendering it a pointless formality now after all that.

  Before we say our goodbyes I find out that the enchanting piano piece that’s been playing in the background the entire time is by an Italian pianist called Ludovico Einaudi. It’s a must have for my car.

  6:34pm

  Wills is working tonight so we plan for me to go over to Stryders later, after I’ve been to see Mike.

  When we get home we both disappear to get ready. I’ve already text Mike to remind him that I’ll be popping over at some point tonight. I even asked him if there’s anything he needs picking up from the shops on the way. Not quite sure if this is a friendly gesture or an old habit of wanting to take care of him. I’m hoping the former but I guess I’ll only know when I see him in a bit.

  I find myself rifling through my drawers and flicking through the clothes in the wardrobe indecisively. I have a burning, perhaps irrational, desire to want to make him lust after me. What the hell? Miss Sensible is calmly stating that ‘it may blur the boundaries and cause confusion for both of us.’ But it’s no good because Miss Fierce is too busy finger snapping saying ‘let’s show this dude what he’s missing out on biatches’. I think Miss Fierce has developed a don’t-mess-with-me American accent, which suits her down to the ground.

  First things first, I house my new French wax in a cute lemon lace thong that comes with matching lacy racy bra. Not that anybody will be seeing my underwear but it does help to warm-up Miss Seductive. I was wrong earlier. Having my pubic hair pampered has made a difference to how I feel. Although nobody is going to be landing on my strip anytime soon, it’s boosted my esteem just knowing I look good naked. I feel sexy.

  I pull on a short floaty floral maxi dress that hits mid-thigh at a push. It’s clear to see Miss Fierce won the battle, otherwise I’d have a lot less skin on show! I opt for knee-high tan leather lace up heeled boots and a short blue denim jacket that just covers my ribcage. I brush my hair, leaving it down – Mikes favourite – I slide in a pretty hairgrip at the side. Smearing on soft pink lipstick to match my nails, which still haven’t chipped and I add a flick of mascara. A quick spray of deodorant and a spritz of perfume and I’m good to go!

  8:04pm

  In the car I had to drown out my apprehension via a reggae remix, which I’d cranked up way too loud but it forced me to chill out – I defy anybody not to relax to the sounds of the legendary Bob Marley.

  As I pull up outside my house, his house, a flurry of fluttering butterflies take unwelcome refuge in the pit of my stomach. I’ve parked on the road rather than pulling onto the driveway, wanting to avoid too much familiarity. My mind has been working overtime since Saturday and I can’t shake the feeling that this bubble is about to burst. I guess I’m nervous that when I see Mike I’m going to feel an unwanted pang of regret. If I start to doubt our decision then I’m fucked because the fact that I don’t feel regretful, is what’s making this transition so much less complicated for me.

  I kill the engine and the silence feels somehow louder than the music. Here goes…

  I knock on the front door, which feels bizarre, then Mike answers a few seconds later with a big smile and a simple “Hello you”. He is still wearing his work clothes, a black suit with pale blue shirt. He’s typically removed his tie and undone the first few buttons on his shirt revealing some c
oarse black chest hair. I step forward smiling and we hug. The moment of truth—

  It just feels normal. Thank heavens for that. It’s the best normal I’ve ever felt in my life. I needed normal and the trespassing butterflies get the message and fly away realising they’re not needed anymore. A platonic friendship. Relief washes over me, there’s no sexual sparks or yearning to slip back into the comfort of old habits and I’m so so grateful. I breathe a mahooosive sigh of relief as I follow him to the sofa in the sitting room.

  I’m too relieved to let being a guest in my own home bother me. In actual fact, I never truly felt this was my home so detaching myself emotionally hasn’t been a difficult ride for me. I know that I felt that way because the house used to belong to his parents. So even though financially I own half of it, I’ve cleaned every inch of it, decorated it and treated it as ours, I never admitted until now that I would’ve preferred to have started afresh in a home that held no memories except the ones Mike and I made together.