‘You’d be amazed what you can learn from YouTube. Although, you’re young. You must already know that.’ She gives a small laugh. ‘But YouTube can’t give you finesse. I thought he’d get better with practice, but it doesn’t seem to be working that way.’
She directs me to the bathroom where her small floral make-up bag is sitting on the side of the basin. I bring it back into the room, along with a handheld mirror from the shelf above the toilet. To reach her more comfortably, I sit on the arm of the couch. Up close, her skin seems paper thin and dry, and her cheeks are sunken and dip in hollows at either side of her face.
She pats her face. ‘I’m probably not the greatest of canvases at the moment.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ I say, rummaging through her make-up bag. There’s a small glass jar of moisturiser and I twist off the lid and scoop some out on my fingers, then pause. I’m almost afraid to rub it on her skin.
‘I don’t break, even if it looks like I might,’ she says and she leans back against the headrest and closes her eyes.
I brush the grey wisps of curls away from her forehead, then spot the cream around her face and massage it in. Her cheekbones and eye sockets are prominent under my fingertips and I’m as gentle as I can be until the cream has been absorbed. Despite her reassurance, I’m scared the touch of my fingers will be sore, but a small smile plays out on her lips. I have another rummage around and come up with a tube of tinted moisturiser this time. Sophie hasn’t opened her eyes, so I plough on. I don’t want to give her too much colour, but if I can even out the pallor in her skin, I know she’ll feel better. The tinted cream goes some way to helping this and once I’ve swept the pink blusher from her temple downwards in featherlight strokes, her complexiondoes look improved. But I don’t think anything will fully take away the emaciated look from her face.
Her eyebrows are the one thing I’m dreading. I’m not much good at doing my own, although I have gotten better recently since trips to the beautician have been out of my budget for quite a while now. Up close, I can see she has some hairs growing back, but they’re patchy. I twist off the top of the chestnut eyebrow gel. It reveals a tiny mascara brush which I move upwards in tiny movements to mimic the direction her hairs would be in and then look at the result critically. I’ve not done too bad a job. I tackle the other eyebrow, then twist the other end of the product and use the tiny wire brush to comb through my artwork, tidying it up.
Mascara isn’t needed, as Sophie doesn’t have any eyelashes. And I’m glad of that, as I can’t even do my own eyelashes without poking myself in the eye.
‘All done,’ I say, putting her make-up back in her bag. There’s one thing left. I hold open my palm with two lip products. A gloss and a balm. ‘Would you like one of these too?’
She reaches for the lip balm. ‘My lips get very dry. This’ll be good.’ Her hand wavers as she applies it to her own lips. Then she hands it back to me and takes the mirror in return. She holds it up to her face and I almost hold my breath to see what she thinks. I really want to have done her justice.
‘Oh Ellie. Thank you.’ The gratitude in her voice changes the emotion swirling through me. ‘I look nearly human. I sometimes don’t think I’ll ever look like me again.’ She moves her head around to capture her look from different angles before handing me the mirror back. ‘Thank you.’
‘No need to thank me. I can do it any time.’ It’s not like I have anything else to do at the moment. I finish that last bit to myself. The least I can do if I’m going to feel sorry for myself, is keep it to myself.
There’re a few minutes quiet while we both stare atLoose Womenon the TV and the four women sitting behind a counter chatting away pointlessly about whether denim is acceptable for women in their fifties to wear. Why is it even a discussion what women can or can’t wear? Isn’t that up to them?
‘Jackson told me about the café. I’m so sorry you had to close it. We all loved coming in. The only reason we went walking was because we got to come in for your gorgeous treats afterwards.’
A dart sears through my chest. ‘Thanks.’ I know she means well, but I’m not sure I want to talk about it.
‘Is there any way to save it?’
I shake my head. ‘No. I don’t think so.’
‘Aw, lovely. I’m so sorry. You put so much of yourself into The Beach House. Every little detail had a bit of you in it, and it was beautiful. I loved looking at your photos. I can’t imagine how much that must hurt.’
The fracture in my chest cranks open, deepening the pain. Because she’s right. I’ve been admonishing myself for getting so upset at my business failing. Telling myself to pull it together. Put on a brave face to the world as if I could deal with it all without crumpling. After all, that’s all it is, a business. Businesses fail all the time. What makes mine so special? And yes, I’d felt like a failure and stupid for not being able to make it work, but it ran deeper than that and until now I hadn’t realised why. But Sophie is right. It was personal. I’d put my heart and soul into that space and was holding on to the hope it would make my parents proud.
I was in every bit of food that got served and every bit of the building we renovated and picture I blew up for the walls. Customers had become friends until they disappeared. It wasn’t just a business. It was an extension of me.
‘How are you?’
Her words are probing and the instant reaction to them is fortears to spring to my eyes. They take me by surprise and I’m irked by them. Her hand finds mine and she holds it, her thumb moving gently across my skin. Her touch sets something free and I can do nothing to stop a tear from rolling down my cheek.
My free hand dashes it away from my face, embarrassed at why that question has brought on such a tidal wave of emotions. And then I realise why. It’s the first time anyone has asked me how I am. People have offered to help. Asked me what I’m going to do next. Commiserated with what I’m going through. But no one has actually asked how I am feeling. I’ve done such a good job of looking like I’m holding it together, that everyone has taken that at face value and never grilled me any further.
I drag in a wavering breath and my shoulders shake as a tiny sound erupts out of me.
‘My darling girl.’ Sophie pushes her blanket to the side and shuffles to get out of her chair. She sits next to me. One arm wraps around my shoulders and the other cradles my head, pulling me to her as her fingers move rhythmically through my hair.
It’s a simple thing, but it sets something free inside me and a tsunami of emotions goes into free fall. My body quivers as I struggle to take in a breath and then the tears fall freely. I press my face into her chest and wrap my arms around her waist. She smells of floral washing powder and even in the middle of my turmoil, I can feel how tiny she is. My arms cling on to her as if she’s a life belt and I’ve been set adrift in the vast blue of the ocean, no land in sight.
‘You’ll work it out,’ she murmurs into my hair. ‘You’re stronger than you know. I don’t know what’s in the future for you …’ She moves her hand to stroke my cheek. It’s a simple, intimate gesture and I raise my head to look at her. ‘… but you will. You’ll make it all work out. I know you will.’ Her fingers smooth away my remaining tears.
‘I’m sorry,’ I start to say. It’s all I seem to say at the moment. I seem to be sorry to everyone and for everything. And it’s exhausting.
‘No need.’ Sophie smiles softly. ‘There’s nothing wrong with crying. Don’t let anyone ever tell you there is. I’ve done enough of it lately to know.’
I push myself upright and use both my hands to wipe my face. ‘Thank you.’ They are simple words, but I hope they convey the complex raft of emotions that lead me to say them, because I don’t think I could vocalise them. This is the perfect opportunity to unburden myself. Talk about how and why I feel like I do, but even now I can’t open up.
