Isabel chewed her bottom lip feeling a pang for the wide, blue skies of Australia; she’d had such a good time putting her last few months in Southampton behind her and tripping about this last year. It had been marvellous to push stop on her real life, bundle all the crappy Connor and Ashley stuff up and shove it behind her as she flitted off to the sunshine. The feeling of liberation, of not having to make any serious decisions about anything other than where she’d like to swan off to next was one she’d relished.
For one whole blissful year, Isabel had not had to question what she wanted to do with her life or where she wanted to be. The unsettling feeling of not quite fitting into the square she found herself in had vanished. It had returned with a vengeance now though, as had the big grey cloud that had settled on top of her since making her promise to Ginny.
A hot shower would fix her, she told herself tripping over Prince Charles who’d taken up residence on the floor outside her bedroom door. He was nonplussed as she lay sprawled in front of him on the carpet and despite her expletives, his tail thumped at the sight of her. He roused his head from where it had been resting on his front paws, and his tongue lolled forth in anticipation of a tummy scratch or at the very least a pat from the light of his life. ‘You don’t deserve it; I could have broken my flipping neck.’ Isabel stated and rolling onto all fours she gave him a fuss. His little woof signalled he was listening, but if he was true to form he’d pay no attention whatsoever to what she’d just said.
‘Right I’ve got to have a shower. I can’t be tickling you on the tum all day.’ She got to her feet ignoring his plaintiff whine as she headed into the bathroom. A few ticks later she stood under the hot water. It stung the raw patches of skin, but nevertheless, it was having a restorative effect on her mind. As the minutes ticked by she was glad her dad was at work otherwise, he’d be hammering on the door. Her lengthy showers had always managed to rouse him from the couch. He’d launch himself up the stairs at a surprising speed of knots for someone who liked to profess his golden years were within his line of sight. As such he’d tell Isabel, he should be able to enjoy them without his only child giving him grief.
Watching the water swirl down the drain, Isabel pondered her lot. She’d hoped that after her year of picking up work here and there in Australia, she might be closer to figuring out what she wanted to do with herself once she got home but she wasn’t. And, now here she was trying to find work that was simply a means to an end once more. She felt as though she’d gone around in a great big circle as she squeezed a dollop of shampoo into her palm, lathering it up in her hair.
She was officially over a quarter of a century, twenty-six-years-old and life was bloody complicated. When she was little, everything had seemed so simple. ‘I’m going to be a singer when I grow up, Mum,’ she’d state, hairbrush in hand pretending it was a microphone, she’d sing along to the hit parade. Back then she’d believed that anything was possible. She’d had so much confidence as a child, but as she’d entered her teens, she’d developed an awkwardness, and shyness that had stomped all over that belief in her abilities.
Oh, she could sing, she knew that, but it wasn’t enough, not in this digital age where anybody could be famous so long as they had the self–assurance to put themselves out there. Isabel did not like to be centre stage; she liked to fly under the radar. Singing anywhere other than the shower was not for her. Her form mistress at school had summed her up in her leaving report.
Isabel is a quiet girl, with a very sensitive nature. She shows promise but needs to learn to put herself forward.
It was a nice way of saying she was one of life’s worriers and a wallflower. Her response to this had been to colour her hair. It was the most startling thing about her. The colours she chose were a point of difference that allowed her to stand out in her quiet way.
She began rinsing the shampoo out squeezing her eyes shut to avoid the suds. The problem was she’d never had a Plan B; she was going to be a famous singer, and that was that. Thus she’d spent her working career to date picking up a series of jobs, which did not offer much in the way of prospects.
It wasn’t just knowing what direction she wanted to take that had her feeling edgy though. It was that bloody promise to Ginny; she couldn’t focus on anything else. She knew she needed to find work. That was today’s plan after all, but shouldn’t she at least try to find this Constance woman? Didn’t she owe Ginny that much at least?
She wiped the water from her eyes and turned the handle around to “off”. She had a basket full of dirty laundry to tackle before she went anywhere, and stepping out of the shower she dried herself off. She’d spruce herself up later because first things first, she thought slipping into slouch pants and a sweatshirt she’d make the most of the house being empty and put her favourite Andre Bocelli CD on.
That Isabel loved opera was
