I quickly scooted up the ladder and crouched down on the third step, so only my head was peeking above the fence. I couldn’t see anyone, but the back door leading onto the patio was wide open. A gruff male voice spurted words in his native language. The voice became raised and agitated until it was punctuated by the high-pitched protests of a female. They were both talking very fast. Suddenly, a man stepped out of the door with his right hand on the door handle to pull it closed. As he stepped out, he looked upwards and made direct eye contact with me. Just before I ducked my head down, I was met with a scowl as he muttered something else in his language and slammed the door. I stepped down the ladder, shrouded in guilt. I was familiar with rows that attracted the attention of others, but those arguments had been drenched in emotions too raw, too painful, so it never sat well with me when I heard the screams of others.
I looked down the garden as the delivery guys were bringing the sofa through. It looked so much better than it did online. It had a soft linen grey cover. I had bought a selection of cushions in greys, yellows and greens, some with geometric designs to stand boldly against the plain sofa fabric.
I spent the rest of the morning organising the summerhouse, removing the cellophane from the chair, putting down a couple of rugs, bringing in a portable heater and adding some of the knick-knacks I had bought. I would head down to the preloved store later to collect the table.
Then I decided the time had come to take a photo and post it on Instagram. I tried out the diagonal angle from the doorway, managing to get in two chairs and the plant pot, and it seemed to work.
I posted it with the words, Summerhouse renovation complete. I tagged Mrs Clean in it and then felt a flutter of panic. My profile name and picture didn’t give anything away about who I was, so I wasn’t worried about anyone tracking me down and finding me. But I was still putting something of mine out into the world, and it made me feel slightly exposed. Yet wasn’t this the norm now? People posting their entire lives online?
I found my way back into the house around lunchtime. I was feeling the beginnings of hunger. Only Mini was about.
‘Where’s everyone else?’ I asked her.
‘Karen and Steve got “stuck in town” – translation, stopped for a pub lunch. Sophia has gone to Oxford Street to buy an outfit. What will you wear tonight, Regi?’ Mini was pulling salad items from the newly organised fridge, which I was surprised to see still remained fairly clean and tidy, although secretly I was already looking forward to cleaning it again. I considered Mini’s question of outfits, then it suddenly struck me that recently my social schedule hadn’t warranted any clothes that went beyond one choice. These days I had unconsciously begun wearing a uniform of sorts: jeans, floaty shirt, Converse trainers or Doc Martens and my trademark tie-dye scarf to push my face into when I didn’t fancy eye contact.
‘I don’t really have anything,’ I said ashamedly as I looked at Mini who was dressed in tight blue skinny jeans, black bodysuit and a silk wrap cardigan. What she was wearing for a casual afternoon around the house was the kind of thing I would have worn for a night out.
‘There’s a really cool clothes shop just down the high street, it’s near to the preloved shop? Do you know it?’ Mini said.
I did know the shop she was talking about, but the thought of having to spend any more time perusing shops today after the events of the morning down at the mews was not eliciting any excitement. I had intended to rush out, grab the table and come back. But Mini’s comment suggested I should make an effort. It was her birthday party after all.
As I pulled on my boots and hat, it occurred to me that this was the first time in years that I had participated in any kind of celebration. I hadn’t even acknowledged my own birthdays and had let this year’s one slip by without any of the girls knowing. The only person who had reached out to me, I wished that they hadn’t. Maybe I would go down to the shop as Mini had suggested and pick out an outfit. But the thought of treating myself, doing something to make myself feel and look better, wasn’t sitting right with me, as usual. As much as I tried to focus on the fact that I was also doing this for Mini, to help her celebrate her birthday, my mind was working on overdrive. This time I was trusting what it was telling me: you don’t deserve any of this.
11
Then
You don’t deserve any of this. His words rang loudly in my ear, long after he had left the flat, and I was alone with only my feelings. I was trying to unpick his words that were echoing around the empty rooms I wandered through, making me rethink every
