I laid my scrapbook out on the desk and went and found myself a mannequin.
‘Hello,’ I said quietly to her as I arranged her to the side of my desk. Then I went to the drawers at the back of the room and began riffling through until I found the colours that matched the scrapbook design.
I had just set the material down on the counter when I heard my phone ringing. It was a local number, not an unrecognised mobile. I remembered that the lady from social services had said she would call and I hoped it was her.
‘Hello,’ I answered.
‘Is that Regi?’
‘Hi, yes.’
‘It’s Carol from the children’s services at Richmond Council. I believe you have called twice asking about a referral?’
‘I… I had some concerns over a boy who lives next door to me.’
‘Okay, well we can’t give you any information on the case, only to say that a social worker has been there and assessed the situation and we have no concerns.’
‘So, so, that’s it? Nothing more can be done?’ I felt my gut wrench at the thought of the poor child next door.
‘No, because as I said we have no concerns.’
‘But the crying? They never let him out.’
‘If that’s all then? Okay, thank you, goodbye.’
And she hung up before I could finish my sentence.
I felt the rage build and I looked at my work in front of me. I just needed to throw myself into it. That was what I was here for anyway. But instead I flicked my phone onto Instagram and looked for a recent post from Mrs Clean. I knew this would calm me the way it had been doing so well. She had uploaded a post and a couple of stories. I settled down on a stool and began browsing them. Her latest was a picture of the end of her bed, showcasing a new throw. NOT AN AD, she had written in bold writing.
It was something she had picked up from Ikea.
She was talking about how cheap it was, yet how effective. I had to agree. It looked good on the pure-white bedsheets.
Even Russell agrees, she went on to say as half of her ragdoll cat was in shot.
As usual I looked for the negative comments, and then halfway through I found one from lucybest65.
She should be able to afford a lot better on the money she gets in sponsorship.
I imagined she was right, but wasn’t one of the purposes of the account to show people what you could get for your money and how to dress a house without having to pay out thousands?
I could write that in in the comments if I wanted to, but I had been put off responding after the cryptic message I received from Lucy.
I looked at Mrs Clean’s Instagram stories: one was a boomerang of her watering her plants, another one was the cat walking past her perfectly manicured foot as she sat in the garden.
I could have imagined her living alone had I not seen that toddler boot. Had I really seen it? But, of course, there was no other evidence of any child in any of her photos. And now I would never be able to see the image again as it had gone for good.
I put my phone down and found that half an hour had passed since I had taken my materials out of the drawer and become distracted. But it was a good distraction.
I placed my phone down on the desk and decided I would focus fully on the work I had come here to do.
Before long, I had fully immersed myself in the fabrics. I enjoyed working with the glue and the sewing machine, adding piece by piece to the coat that would be a statement artistic piece, not really something practical and wearable. But it would play its part in the whole exhibit, which would focus around my autumn theme.
Time passed in a haze of reds and yellows and oranges, with the sound of the sewing machine buzzing gently and lulling me into a meditative state.
Eventually, I looked up at the time. I needed to use the toilet. It was almost nine. I had about an hour left to use the room. I downed tools and hopped off the stool and headed off down the corridor to the closest ladies’ toilet, which was at the very end. The sole of my Doc Martens were squeaking against the lino floor with every step; it started to form a little beat in my head, and so I went out of my way to move my foot outwards slightly as it landed to make it squeak even more. As I did this, I was sure I could hear another squeak on the off-beat. I looked around quickly, but the corridor was clear. There were bound to be cleaners doing their rounds, but I had yet to see one. The door to the toilet made a loud screeching noise that I would never have noticed during a busy college day, but now made me flinch at the sound. A small stirring within me drove me to lock and unlock the cubicle door six times. Then I used the toilet and when I came out I stood at the mirror, looked down and washed my hands. I looked back up and for a second I saw movement from the corner of the mirror. I looked behind me to my right. There was nothing there. It was late. And
