Tonight she would be her full and proper self. It was the only way to do this, fearlessly, boldly and as beautiful as she could be.
The decision had come like an epiphany. Standing behind the counter at work, dealing with some young guy who was giving her the usual look. He saw what she was, even through her daytime disguise, and maybe he liked what he saw.
Some of them did, but not many, and she knew the ones like him were a threat. Full of their own dangerous complications; want and repulsion, lust and regret. Yes, she’d met plenty of men like him and she knew what they were capable of.
If it wasn’t for that last, appraising glance he shot back across his shoulder when he left, the touch of his tongue to the point of his incisor, which accompanied it, she might have continued with this sad compromise forever. Always hidden, always guilty, trying and failing to gather up the spilled pieces of herself which scattered across the cobblestones the night she thought she’d died.
Some of her had, but enough survived. A piece too big to hide but too small to sustain any real kind of life. She’d tended it and indulged it, brought it up to this sanctuary and patiently rekindled it like the embers of a faded fire. There was a long way to go but she would have got there.
Now all of that care was for nothing, because of Corinne and Evelyn and her own naivety.
Evelyn was pursuing her. She’d called once yesterday and twice today, a couple of text messages for good measure, because that was her style. She ground you down, kept going until you agreed that she was wise and all-knowing and you caved to her demands.
‘You need to come clean to the police.’
She’d put the phone down straight away but Evelyn called back and gave the rest of her speech to voicemail.
‘This isn’t just about you any more. I know you’re scared and I know you feel you have too much at stake, but I promise I will see you through this. This is the right thing to do. For them and for you. We need to give them everything we can to help them catch this bastard.’ A sigh and the sound of cut-glass chinking. ‘You must want to see him punished for what he did to you. Please, just talk to me if you’re not ready to talk to them yet.’
Yet.
Meaning it was inevitable that they would come for her again and that Evelyn was on their side. No huge surprise but still it hurt to be manipulated by her like that. The woman she trusted, who had seen her through so much, preparing to throw her to the wolves.
So, they were coming.
She didn’t know much about police investigations but she watched enough television to realise they would be under pressure to find Corinne’s killer, even if they hadn’t pursued her own attacker. An assault was just another point on the crime statistics. A murder was news.
And as the days kept passing with no arrest they would start to become desperate, pursue anyone they thought was holding out on them.
Evelyn must have spoken to them already, maybe told them more than she had herself. She didn’t know everything but what she did know would expose contradictions – outright lies – and that would be enough to pique their interest.
Sergeant Ferreira saw right through her anyway. She’d backed off eventually but there was a hardness hiding behind her own daytime disguise that suggested an arrest would always outweigh the safety of any given individual standing in the way of it.
They would want statements. They would want her to appear in court. Expose herself to her attacker and the judge and the jury, open herself up to the ridicule of the public. They didn’t care what happened to her after that, the damage it would do, how it would rip apart her life and those of the people she cared about.
Her mobile rang on the dressing table and she checked the display, no intention of answering but she needed to know who it was just in case Evelyn was on her way, bringing the police with her, about to storm her sanctuary.
But it wasn’t. It was the other ‘her’ in her life – the screen showing a selfie she’d taken with her eyes squeezed shut and her lips puckering towards the camera. It felt like so long ago now. She still smiled and laughed but not with such sincerity or spontaneity, was watchful and calculating in a way she hadn’t been a year ago, suspected she’d been lied to about the attack but wasn’t quite brave enough to vocalise the nature of her suspicions.
The ringing stopped and a few seconds later a message came through – About to take off. Call you when I can. xx
She sent back three kisses and an exploding heart, tears welling in her eyes, then switched off her phone.
A bottle of rosé sat on the table next to it. A very good bottle, the most expensive she could find, flecked with pieces of real gold that shimmered and twinkled as she raised her glass to the light. She thought of the glimmering specks already in her system, imagined them suspended in her blood, gilding the walls of her heart and lungs.
In the bathroom she felt a split second of surprise on seeing her reflection, still not used to the mirror being back in place. It was a painful sight but she steeled herself for it, knew it would be her only company for the rest of the evening.
She picked up the bone-handled straight razor she’d bought when she first started to shave. It was just like the one her father and grandfather owned, a real man’s implement, and she’d always felt a fraud when she used it. Like she was playing out a version of masculinity they’d drilled into her, their ideas fortified by films and adverts.
Now she would subvert that.
Carefully she lathered up her face and shaved every last bristle, feeling a swell of contempt as she rinsed the blade, seeing the hateful black hairs dirtying the water. It was a tricky job, one she’d long since given over to an electric razor, but tonight it was the right tool, and by the time she was finished her skin was smooth and glistening.
Except the spots where—
No, she wouldn’t let him in here again. She refused to see the damage he’d done to her. Not now. Not tonight. He would love to know she was thinking of him, that he could still touch her, across the city, after all of this time.
She closed her eyes for a moment, pushing away the memory of the icy cobbles under her cheek, the pressure on her back and the smell of his breath as he told her what she really was. She focused on the music. The right choice tonight, only happy songs, ones for women as fierce as she needed to be.
Without looking at herself she reached for a pot of face cream and worked it into her skin, the rose scent calming her a little more. While it sank in she went back to her desk, poured another glass of wine and switched on her laptop.
The words were waiting for her. They’d come so swiftly and easily that she realised they had been inside her for years, ready to be written down when she needed them. She had them memorised now and she ran through them under her breath as she stood in front of the mirror once again, looking at herself properly.
You couldn’t feel your way through this part of the process. You had to be rigorously honest about yourself and your flaws, or else how could you paint them out?
She took up a jar and brush and started to cover the scars, two thin layers of cosmetic filler in each one, that was how you made them disappear, then she switched to a palette and painted contouring lines to narrow her brow and jaw, make her slightly too big chin recede. She lifted her cheekbones and slimmed her temples, leaving her nose until last. She’d had a good nose before but now it was kinked and no amount of clever tricks could disguise that.
Let it stand, then. It would be testimony to the act that brought her here, a symbol of hatred and prejudice marring what was otherwise perfection.
The rest was easy and even though she hadn’t made herself up since it happened she could have done it without a mirror, her hands holding the memory, conditioned by thousands of applications, countless hours of transformation. She watched herself come in to being once again, this face emerging from the other one, lashes batting, lips pouting, just as beautiful as she had always been.
In the bedroom she laid out the clothes she would wear, a decision which had taken the better part of two hours, but she knew the outfit would be analysed and picked over, that she would be judged more harshly on that than her words if she got it wrong.
She’d settled on a chic, slate-grey bodycon dress with a faint plaid running through the fabric. A Roland Mouret copy. Not exactly cutting edge but this wasn’t a fashion statement she was making. Understated, almost sombre; it signalled her intent.
On went the tight, flesh-toned knickers, and for a moment she just stood there with her hand cupping the curve of her pudenda, saddened by how right it felt and how completely impossible it was to ever truly have. She took a deep breath and pulled a black silk pair over the top, then the matching bra, and finally stepped into her dress, finding it slipped on just as easily as the last time she wore it, on a shopping trip to London, back in the days when she was brave enough to go out like this, walk down busy streets and into clothes stores; perfectly credible, enviably attractive.
Those days felt as if they were part of another person’s life. More like witnessed events than memories.
Another mouthful of wine and she climbed into her high black suede heels, feeling her whole body straighten, like someone had pulled on an invisible string running down from the top of her skull and through her spine. Her shoulders went back, her hips jutted forwards, all poise and defiance as she strutted into the bathroom to raise a silent toast, then drank down the last of the gold-spiked rosé.
This was it.
No more hiding, no more lies, no more fear.