FALLON
Ikicked off my shoes, trudged to the kitchen and heaved the plastic shopping bags onto the counter. Now I was home, I felt like I could finally take a deep breath.
I loved my flat. A cosy place of refuge, completely separate from the rest of the world. Yes, the radiators froze during winter, and the floorboards creaked so loudly that a good gust of wind could turn the flooring into a creepy orchestra. If I tried hard enough, sometimes I could pretend I really was the only person alive. Just me, tucked under a mound of blankets, books piled waist high against several walls, immersing you in a giant bookish hug.
After the third worst day of my life, only one thing could ease the sting of this awful day. Baileys and ice cream.
It only ranked third on the worst days list because the top two slots were immovable.
One: the day I got fired from a job I loved and marched out with my dignity in tatters.
Two: the night that inspired my greatest fear.
But if I thought about number two for too long, my chesttightened, and my skin went slick with sweat. So, today would have to stick at good old number three.
I was halfway through unpacking the food when my phone buzzed in my back pocket. Dancing Queen blared out of the tiny speaker. I had a specific ringtone for certain people, so I could instantly decide if I wanted to pick up. My sister’s ringtone was ‘The Imperial March’ fromStar Wars…. for several reasons.
The rich notes of ABBA were strictly reserved for my best friend. I closed the fridge and clicked the green button, putting it on speakerphone.
‘Tell me, tell me, tell me,’ Rosie demanded. When you got so close to another person that you weren’t sure where you started, and they ended, trifling phrases likehelloorhow are youwere redundant.
Leaving my shopping on the counter, I wandered into the bedroom, threw the phone on the bed and did my best to remove the horrific contraption that was this pantsuit.
‘Tell you what?’
‘Don’t be a cow. How’d it go?’
I sighed, partly in relief from finally getting the torture device off my body and partly because I wasn’t sure if I was ready to relive my morning.
‘It… went. Questions were asked, answers were given,’ I said vaguely, throwing the suit into my laundry basket, knowing that it wouldn’t be long before I would need to pull it out again.
‘So it bombed.’ Rosie said matter of factly.
‘Utterly and completely. But in my defence, it wasn’t entirely my fault.’ I peeled off the Spanx and did the only appropriate thing with such wretched material; threw them in the bin. I undid my bra, letting the significant weight of my boobs drop to my chest. I bit back a moan of pleasure at the freedom my tits suddenly had and slipped on myfavourite Winnie the Pooh pyjamas. I didn’t care what my mother or sister thought; they made me happy.
It was only just past three in the afternoon, but I desperately needed comfort.
A twenty-eight-year-old deriving such pleasure from decidedly childish attire was incomprehensible to the rigidly sensible women. But I didn’t give a flying fuck.
‘I’m sure it wasn’t, darling. Now tell Auntie Rosie all about it.’
Pushing my feet into my slippers and grabbing my phone, I padded back out to the kitchen to finish putting the last of the groceries away and to get some of the best comfort food in the world.
‘It was going fine, well even, but then they asked why I left my last place of employment so suddenly.’
‘Oh… shit.’
I scooped two large spoonfuls of vanilla ice cream—the best flavour—into a bowl and drenched it in Baileys. Once I was satisfied, I clutched the bowl to my chest and plopped down onto the lumpy navy sofa and pulled my biggest, fluffiest blanket over my legs.
‘I couldn’t exactly lie,’ I mumbled around a mouthful of ice cream. ‘They needed a reference from my last place of employment anyway. Belinda has not been shy about telling prospective employers about my history.’ I grimaced, remembering the look on her face when she looked out of her window into the carpark to see the evidence of my anger against her son.
At the mention of my ex-bossandex-boyfriend’s mother, Rosie grumbled and cursed her out. It was a routine. The Wicked Witch, as Rosie dubbed her, couldn’t be casually mentioned without my best friend promising violence.
‘What did you say?’ Rosie asked in a tone that suggested she already knew.
‘Well, I, uh,’ I shovelled another spoonful into my mouth, letting it melt on my tongue whilst I deliberated on how best to explain my fuck up. My hesitation was all the information Rosie needed.
‘You told the truth, didn’t you?’ Rosie sighed. ‘Not only that, you told them in every gory detail.’
