The flat is no longer familiar to me in the way it was before. That Malcolm was within its walls adds a new dimension to my comprehension of it. It’s more than the overpriced scene of where my life fell apart. I find myself looking around my surroundings as if I’ve never been here before, waiting for a conclusion on my thoughts and feelings to come to me. A message from Dave, the foot fetishist, puts an end to my pondering.
How are those toes? Haven’t been able to stop thinking about them. If you send me pics in the next hour I’ll transfer you £100. Plllsss I’m desperate.
Aren’t we all, Dave, aren’t we all. My nail varnish is textured in places from my movements; its tacky consistency has dented and taken on marks from God knows what. I have no nail polish remover, no desire to leave the flat to source some. This will have to do.
For the next twenty minutes or so I take upward of two hundred photos of my feet, trying to make them appear as alluring as possible. My ability to do that is hindered somewhat because I’m not entirely certain what makes a foot sexy. The sunlight streaming through the bay window in the living room is too harsh, making every scuff on my nails visible. I move through to the bedroom and experiment with positions and props until I have three shots I wouldn’t say I’m satisfied with but are certainly passable. They are all variations of one foot crossed over the other, strained to a point in an attempt to make them appear daintier. One is on the beige carpet of the bedroom. The second has a silk scarf artfully arranged over them with my toes peeking out, a sexy surprise. The third features my feet in the air, with the ceiling in shot to prompt the viewer’s imagination to consider what the rest of me is up to on my back.
Pressing send on my package to Dave, I am not elated that money is imminent. If anything, my mental state is worse than before. Money has always been a concern. I’ve never had as much of it as would make my life comfortable, but selling bits of my self off to the highest bidder so as not to be destitute? This is a new low. The self-loathing part of myself reminds me that this constant low-level misery I am experiencing is correct, what I am due. Punishment from the universe for having believed a comfortable-ish existence was owed to me. This experience is a reminder that having expectations and aspirations is asking for too much. I will not make this mistake again.
Dave responds that he’s:
Wanking to this now x
My repulsion at these words solidifies the emotions that have been swirling since I turned off the telly. I’m angry, yes, but I knew that already. What I want to do now is stop containing my rage. If I deserve to feel shit all of the time, so do other people.
I rack my brains for a worthy target. Amara and Nicol are never allowed to understand how injured I am from their actions. The next time either of them see or hear from me, they need to be under the impression I am not only OK after what they did to me but thriving. I am stronger than they understood; they will realise how they underestimated what I am capable of – and, if it’s not too much to ask, I’d also like to be wearing a really nice outfit and to be lit softly, the way female movie stars were in the fifties to appear as lovely as possible.
My parents, if they answered my call at all, would listen in silence and then, once I’d said my piece, they’d make an excuse which wouldn’t even be well disguised: a fictitious ringing of the doorbell, a suddenly remembered imminent appointment.
This thereby concludes the full list of people I would normally contemplate being a horror to. It takes a minute, but then, possibly due toFixer Uppers Go Under the Hammerbeing fresh in my thoughts, I remember Gavin. In other flats I haven’t had to deal with the letting agents often; in this one I’ve been contacting Gavin weekly for the past two months to try and get the dodgy bathroom light sorted. Shortly before I was jilted it became temperamental – an omen things inside the flat were falling apart. You have to flick the switch forwards and backwards quickly, as if you have a compulsion to play with switches, before it grants illumination, and even then it doesn’t always work.
In their most recent email, where the pronouns in their signature were updated to they/them, they promised a resolution ‘soon’. However they identify bothers me not one bit; what does piss me off is how useless they are at their job. Surprise, surprise, no resolution has occurred, so it seems fair to me that Gavin, who continually adds to my suffering, is who will experience my wrath.
Having never had the pleasure of meeting Gavin, as I dial the number I try to conjure an image of them but fail to come up with anything by the time they answer.
‘Perfect Property Solutions, Gavin speaking. How may I help you?’
This is the first time I’ve spoken to another person for several days; my tongue trips over my words from lack of use. ‘Hi, Gavin, we’ve spoken about the electrical issue in Flat 1/2, 12 John Street several times. I wanted to check in that you had in fact done nothing about it? Which doesn’t make sense, as that’s your job?’
They try to glide over my jagged words. ‘Ah, Gillian, sorry you’ve had to chase that up.’
‘Jemma. My name is Jemma.’
‘Sorry. Jemma. I am sorry. Can you refresh my memory as to what the issue is again, please?’
‘Are you actually serious?’
‘It’s been a bit hectic at this end. Sorry, I remember now, it was the light, wasn’t it?’
The idea that for the duration of this call they have been recollecting shreds of information irks me to the point of explosion. ‘Gavin, if I were someone who was so bad at my job my customer had to actively chase me to do it, I’d maybe not ask such idiotic questions, but yes, it was the light. How about you say you will sort it, and then once this call is over, you actually sort it. Doesn’t that sound nicer than us having to talk to one another again?’ God, getting to be horrible at someone who deserves it is really delightful. A completely underrated sensation.
‘Yes, of course. I’ll get on it straightaway. I really am very sorry. I had some personal matters that interrupted my workflow. I can assure you this isn’t normal for Perfect Property Solutions.’
Towards the end of the sentence their voice wobbles, hints that they may be holding back tears. My urge to apologise for upsetting them is strong. I don’t give into it. Although I do revert back to the pleasant, fake Jemma I would normally be on such a call while they promise to get the repair booked inasap. Before they disconnect, I hear them break into a full-on sob. For them to be this upset indicates something outside of my dodgy light switch and negative attitude is troubling them, but if they are crying because of me, I am glad someone else is miserable. For a second it makes me feel less alone.
3
The electrician is booked in for 1:00 pm the next day. If I’m being picky, this is an awkward time as that’s when I like to have my lunch. Eating at a different time is going to throw my whole day out of whack but it’s fine. I will finally have a functioning bathroom light and that is, as it stands, the most I can expect out of life.
At 1:01 pm I look out my window and don’t see any vans parked up. I double-check the email from Gavin to be sure I have the correct time and day – I do. At the precise second I click my phone screen off the flat’s buzzer goes. It gives me a start, as if the two actions are linked.
The walk to the intercom is not far, and yet the seconds I take to pick up the handset is too long for the electrician, who buzzes again in quick short bursts in a Morse code-like pattern.
‘Hello.’ My breath makes the cream plastic handset clammy.
‘I’m here to look at your bathroom light.’
At this stage I’d permit entry to Bible John if he promised he could fix it. I ask no further questions and let him in.
