I catch my reflection in the wing mirror. There she is, with her smudged eyeliner and her messy hair, the tracks of her hair extensions on display, lipstick on the tip of her nose and her chin. She’s wet concrete gone hard, full of dents, reshaped into this thing, which burps and pisses and has to be washed and fed and fucked.
I look in the mirror and think: who the fuck is that? Who is she?
I finish telling all of this to the Uber driver. He asks me if I’m okay.
Hi there,
It’s been a while! I’ve been doing some exhibition prep – but I have some experimental stuff you might be interested in. I’ve been playing with effect makeup, very pretty guy, some fake glass in his face. Shot on iPhone, for the gritty realistic effect. Interested at all? I’ve attached one, could send the whole set if you like it. On the house!
Best,
Irina.
My Darling,
How wonderful it is to hear from you. Please do send the whole set, as a student of classical beauty, this man’s physique and face are highly pleasing to me.
Only, I don’t see any glass? Perhaps this is later on in the set?
I do enjoy a little ‘gore’ as the kids say, and I’d be very interested to see it.
Faithfully,
B
He’s right. I scroll through every photograph I took of ‘John’ yesterday, and there’s no glass. Certainly not in his face, and nowhere to be seen in the general vicinity. I zoom, and fiddle with the contrast, the lighting – none. No glass, no blood, just dewy, plump skin.
Hey!
You’re right! I sent you a test shot without the makeup by mistake. The set is showing up on my phone, but won’t transfer to my laptop, attach to emails, or even upload to dropbox :（ Looks like it might be corrupted. I’ve attached what I have, unfortunately all test shots. Sorry to get your hopes up there. Serves me right for fannying on with my phone instead of just using a proper camera.
Best,
Irina
Irina,
Not to worry. The test shots are very lovely.
I have sent 100 GBP via your paypal as a tip! Buy yourself something nice.
Faithfully,
B
Hey stranger.
Been a while.
Come over.
Tracked down a download of In a Glass Cage with the right subs.
You’ll hate it.
It’s Saturday. I wake up with an overwhelming feeling of dread, then remember I won’t be going to work this evening. Thank God It’s Sabbatical.
I get up, I drink a litre of water, I do my press-ups, my sit-ups, and a Pilates video. Then I shower and do my skincare stuff. Double cleanse, scrub, toner, sheet mask, eye cream, moisturiser, and a primer with an SPF even though I’m not sure I’ll go out today.
I lounge on the sofa and make my way through a cafetière while I watch a repeat of The Jeremy Kyle Show. A guilty-looking teen mother says she’s very confident the father of her two-month-old is her boyfriend, but it also might be his cousin.
It’s neither of them. With a shrug, she guesses there are three, maybe four, additional potential fathers. Insisting that she is simply very popular with the lads.
‘That Kelis song – do you know it?’ she asks Jeremy. He does not. ‘The Milkshake one. That’s me, that is.’
‘Same,’ I say.
I stick on the second August Underground film when Jeremy Kyle is finished, just for background noise, and start properly going through the photos of Eddie from Tesco. I woke up at, like, two today, and it’s gone five now. I’m getting to the point where I think I need to reset my sleeping pattern. I’ll sit up for a full twenty-four hours, then sleep for a full twenty-four hours, and wake up at seven a.m., and be a daytime person again. My empty stomach churns, but I ignore it, driving my forearm into my belly to stop the gurgling.
I check my phone. A string of texts from an unknown number, and I panic that I may have left the plastic surgeon my number, even though I know I didn’t. There’s nothing from Flo. There’s a text from Ryan asking if I can drop in for a shift, and a text from my mam asking me if I’m alive. Mam says she saw some of the photos from my night out last week and has some concerns about the outfit I’m wearing. She calls me mutton dressed as lamb.
Im 28.
Yeah 29 in nov and b4 you know it
Ur 30
And then u cant just go out wearing lace and plastic mini skirts
And you might think u look fine but ppl who know your age will look @ u and think mutton
I appreciate your concern.
More texts come through: I’m also too skinny, and I look like I’m going to snap in the middle and I should think about packing on a few pounds because being so thin is very aging around the face. And Flo looks fat; do I only keep Flo around so I look skinnier? Remember when Flo used to be a skinny little thing? Mam says skinny girls like that never learn to watch their weight, when their metabolism changes as they age, they pile it on.
I reply to her various updates with a mixture of thumbs up and clapping emojis. She keeps complaining about her friend with cancer. She’s recently been diagnosed terminal, and apparently will not stop posting about it on Facebook. Mam says she’s always been an attention-seeker.
Wow jealous I am longing for death’s sweet release r/n, I type. And then I delete it and replace it with that fucking crying-laughing face that old people use when they’re being racist on social media.
The messages from the unknown number are, mercifully, not from the plastic surgeon.
Hey its Eddie, frm Tesco/the other day?
Your business card has your mobile number on it sorry if this is weird
Any way how are you? How are my photographs? Hope i didnt waste your time the other day.
I know its shit for you not to shoot my face.
You mentioned you were into j-horror and pink films and stuff?
Have you seen All Night Long? A friend recced it to me and loaned me a copy.we could watch it together? Maybe tonight if you’re not busy. Im working till 7.
I ignore these. I replied quickly to his first couple of emails, and I want to keep him on his toes.
I look at his photo on my laptop screen, still clothed in the one I have open in Photoshop. It’s a candid shot of him contemplating the rabbit head. My stomach gurgles again.
I close my laptop and get up to check my face in the mirror, making sure I’m free of lines, and pimples, and slap on a BB cream for a little coverage. Tinted eyebrows, good skin and dyed, extended eyelashes cover the rest. I brush my hair. I put on a cute T-shirt, and the only pair of jeans I own. I look comfy. I don’t feel comfy. I took them in at the waist when I bought them because they’re a twelve and I had about four inches of bagging on my stomach. But I went a little too far and （hearing my mother’s voice ringing in my ear） I’m pushing it with them – the button will leave a deep, red mark on my belly. I stick on my only pair of trainers, too, and walk to Tesco, and feign surprise when I see him. He goes red. I half-wave, and ignore him, and grab a bag of spinach, a cucumber and some peppers. I spend an inordinate amount of time bending down near the checkouts to look at the magazines. I grab Vogue, and I go over to the till, where he smiles, and says ‘Hi!’ slightly too loudly.
‘Oh, hang on,’ I say, and I grab two bottles of red, while he scans my other purchases.
‘Do you have any ID there, young lady?’ he says, then chuckles. I make a face at him. ‘Sorry.’ It takes a moment for the wine to scan. ‘Stocking up?’