And because it’s early in the day to be so intense, I kiss them on the lips to shut them up, luxuriate in their touch for as long as possible, am left bereft from the lack of it when it’s gone.
Alone, I get down to the business of sorting my face. I put makeup on almost every day with the intention of hiding my tired eyes, covering my cystic acne in the lead-up to my period – if Brian paid attention, my clear skin alone would let him know I was lying. The lotions and powders I apply are about presenting as someone who looks fine. Today, I am trying to make the most of myself in a way I only do for special occasions. The images of me on the show will be viewed by hundreds of thousands of people when it’s broadcast and then scrutinised by anyone I’ve ever met who sees it or shares screenshots of it in their group chat. This version of myself, the improved and powerful Jemma, has to be immortalised. If all these bastards I killed get to live on through their few minutes of fame showcasing the worst of humanity, I at my best deserves the same treatment.
Halfway through the ordeal, wiping off and reapplying my eyeliner for the fourth time – the small cat eye I am trying to achieve impossible; I am incapable of matching my right eye to my left no matter what I do – I realise, too late, that I should have paid for a professional to do this. I persevere until finally something like symmetry is achieved. My determination to be captured looking as beautiful as possible keeps me focused as I hurry through contouring my cheeks and nose and lining my lips.
The dark-green shirt dress I’ve chosen for filming has been hanging on the hook of the back of my bedroom door since I ironed it after it was delivered last week. It’s midi length with a tie around the waist. It sets off my pale skin; my fuchsia lipstick pops with it. Wearing it, my shoulders inch away from my ears. My reflection shows me what I already know: I look fantastic (for me).
In my huge black leather tote I pack the vital items for today: all of the makeup I’m wearing, should I need to reapply it; a pair of leopard-print heels to swap for the trainers I’ll wear on my walk; my notebook with my estimations of costs for the property I’ll be filmed in; a travel size of my favourite perfume; the hammer as a talisman, double-wrapped in old carrier bags and antibacterial wipes. The weight of it all means I have to hold the bag by the handle rather than carry it over my shoulder. Its heft doesn’t bother me. Today nothing is going to bother me. By the time I’ve walked to the solicitors’ office I’ve a red welt across my palm; it nips as I switch into my heels. Still, I am unbothered.
Solidifying that is the message I receive from Gavin as I sit in the reception area of the solicitors waiting to go into my interview. Opening it up, I expect it to be a good luck, best wishes, you’ll do amazing kind of text. Instead, it reads:
Police here AGAIN. Don’t freak out but this time they said they would like to talk to you. I said I thought you were at home. Was that the right thing to say? Let me know if I should have said something else as she’s in with Brian again now and can sort once she’s out x
A woman, who I think is a girl I went to school with that has become middle-aged before her time, calls my name and invites me to follow her to the meeting room. All I need to do is get through this interview and be filmed forFixer Uppers Go Under the Hammer.After that, I’ll either get a new job or be arrested and a new chapter will begin.
40
The cameraman switches on the light on top of his camera and another on a thin stand next to me. The sudden influx of illumination in this dark hallway makes me thrust my head back; I cover my eyes like I’m shielding them from the sun.
‘Sorry, is that bright?’
‘Aye, just a bit.’
He adjusts the settings, reducing it to something manageable. I dab away where my eyes have watered, trying not to smudge my makeup. Behind the camera, next to the cameraman’s shoulder, is Pippa, reading her phone.
‘The buyers are still an hour away.’
The cameraman stops fiddling with the light. ‘So, what, late finish, then?’
‘Yeah. Maybe. Let’s get this in the can and then we have the second agent to do and we can see how we go.’
The sound recordist has already had me feed a microphone wire up the inside of my dress, sticking it to the fabric against my chest, the battery pack for it attached to my knickers. The weight of it tugs at the top of the elastic waistband like a slow-moving, persistent lover. I put my arms at my side to keep it in position.
‘Can you move your arms back to where they were before?’ the sound guy says. It takes me a second to realise he’s talking directly to me. Up until now I’ve been treated like a prop, put on a cross of fluorescent orange tape on the floor and left to stand there while the crew decide what to do with me.
My arm in its approved placement, the cameraman checks. ‘Pip, you happy with the shot?’ He’s from somewhere not a million miles from Hamilton. His accent is the same as many men I know, which makes Pip’s cut-glass English ‘Fabulous’ sound all the more foreign and wrong in this rank wee house we all find ourselves in.
The sound recordist asks me to tell him what I had for breakfast. ‘Just a coffee.’ Proof I have not eaten well is given when my belly chooses now to growl its emptiness. Whether it’s that or something else, he doesn’t like what he hears. He comes over and adjusts the microphone hidden under my dress. ‘And what are your plans for this evening?’
Like the breakfast question, I don’t expect he actually cares about my answer so I tell him the truth. ‘The usual. Have some dinner. Watch a few episodes ofFixer Uppers Go Under the Hammer. Wait for the police to take me away.’
He gives me awkward laughter, not understanding the joke but assuming there is one. Everyone else is engrossed in their phones. After a minute or two, Pippa puts hers in the back pocket of her jeans. ‘Ready?’
‘As I’ll ever be.’ I smile, run my tongue over my teeth in panic in case some of my lipstick has transferred onto them and push my hair behind my right ear, which I believe is more fetching than my left.
‘I know you know what we’re looking for.’ This is sort of true. Her email gave me a few prompts to think about how to describe the property. I didn’t need them; I’m an expert on what makes it to the broadcast episode. ‘Just try to be as concise as possible. So, can you sum up the current state of the property?’
‘Sure.’ I pause, knowing this first word will not be used. With a grin plastered on, I give my response in my slowest, clearest voice. ‘I think it’s safe to say the condition of the property is fairly poor. It’s going to need a full renovation, top to bottom. A lot of similar properties in the area have benefited from losing the dividing wall between the small living room and the kitchen to create a roomier, open-plan space, and I think that would definitely benefit this home, too.’ I keep smiling, maintain my gaze on Pippa.
‘Wow.’ Pippa’s enthusiastic word is not delivered with the matching intonation. ‘You ticked off the next question about proposed work in the one answer. Have you ever been filmed before? You’re a natural.’ Again, she doesn’t sound genuine. Maybe it’s the accent.
‘Right, next question. There’s obviously a very large building site close to the property–’
A pneumatic drill kicks in here to make the point.
‘Are you getting that?’ Pippa asks the sound recordist.
He pushes his headphone closer to his ear, as if the sound is possibly not intrusive when it is all that fills the room. ‘Yeah, we’re picking it up.’
