Imperfect Strangers Read Free Page B

whisper.
    Right now I couldn’t be any further removed from my little-Sally-lying-awake mornings. My parents are not preparing breakfast in the kitchen, their voices muffled by ceilings and closed doors. They’re not singing along to the breakfast radio. There’s no rumbling boil of the kettle. No clatter of crockery. The heart of this house is silent. Those little-Sally-lying-awake mornings that were so comforting are now so long gone that they seem to have belonged to another. I felt safe, cared for, and would only come down when the smell of bacon became too strong to resist, its sweet yet charred scent drawing me like a bear to a picnic. I miss it so much, I realise, as I lie here, listening, my lips pinching tighter with every drip that falls onto the recently new carpet – Ivory-velvet-plush – £38 a square metre .
    When I reach for the bedside lamp an orchestra begins tuning-up in my head. A wash of pink-haze floods the room, and despite its muted quality the light rips through my pupils like razor wire. Screwing my eyes I listen to the drip, drip, of rich-red Barolo: a robust wine– according to the label – complex on the nose, with subtle notes of violet and pencil lead accenting the cherry and plum fruit. Its fragrance reminds me of the recent break to Florence. The street-music is absent, however, as are the art galleries and the man who took me there.
    I sit up and slope against the faux-suede headboard.
    Faux ? I think. Faux ! with a snipe of sarcasm.
    Faux ! meaning false. Fake. Manufacturers and retailers using the French to make their product sound fanciful. Oh it’s faux-suede madam , the assistant had said. Why not just call it fake, I had replied, not quite meaning to, not realising I’d even spoken out loud until I noticed the look on the assistant’s face.
    I have no problem with what it is, but it isn’t suede, so don’t pretend that it is. At least be honest. Call it fake. False-suede. Like Steve : a false boyfriend. Faux boyfriend: not as reliable, luxurious or long lasting as the real thing. Looks good initially but soon wears out. Faux: not genuine – a fancy looking lie.
    In the mirror, my eyes not yet fully functioning, I see only tempestuous hair around a grimacing expression as I command my lids, heavy with yesterday’s makeup, to attention. On the dressing table, my perfumes, ornaments and brushes stand before a bevelled mirror; I have them arranged just as one would expect them to be in a shop display. And from the mirror, as I lean forward, my eyes coming to focus, stares back the image of what looks to be an Alice Cooper fan who’s woken in the wrong room.
    T he cause of the breakup is scattered across the floor. The photographs. Tears begin to roll, adding to the mascara tracks on my cheeks. Torn into pieces, is the image that caused my fury and led to me kicking Steve out and downing two bottles of Barolo – well almost two. The carpet has absorbed the last half-glass of the second bottle. Ivory-velvet-plush with a splash of burgundy blush! It’s the latest trend madam, produced with only the finest vintage and guaranteed not to fade. Faux-spillarge. Lends a certain decadence to the room in which it is fitted, therein demonstrating a kind of devil-may-care disregard for convention, no? I almost laugh.
    Almost.
    “Shit!” I snap at the carpet, and, “shit, you shit,” to the section of the photograph that captured Steve’s image – him in the background, his lips melting into the bridesmaid’s face, his hand attached to her bottom, the pale blue satin reflecting light around his fingers demonstrating the depth of his grope.
    I had been taking a photograph of my young nieces, innocently oblivious to Steve’s skulduggery in the back-of-the-room-shadows. Bad things happen in shadows, I think, before recollecting the fun I’ve had in them too.
    It had been a good night. I’d envisaged my own wedding; I often do when attending someone else’s. My heart had actually