Yes. All this has escalated quickly. Not in a Bradley way. In a bad-without-any-amazing-moving-stairs way.
Back in my bedroom, life seems completely grim. I’m a bad daughter to my mum and a useless friend, I hurt lovely men, I’m a bad feminist or a good one that’s bad (I can’t decide which), and I’ve forgotten to give my cat her one-drop flea treatment, and she’s currently scratching in a way that says she needs it.
How do I even have the nerve to do an advice vlog?! My life is a total and utter mess. I want to ring my mum, but that will just remind me that I don’t get along with her, either. Her answer to everything is to tell me to come home. I can’t go back there. I can’t go back to that level of clean.
Perhaps I’m a grot, too.
The fact is, I have failed at just about everything. I have upset everyone who has ever been lovely to me … and now I am looking at Aunty Teresa, who’s standing at the end of my bed dressed as Queen Victoria. She has frills, bum and tum pillow padding, and everything.
“Hello, Mills. Your dad and I have had this idea that we want to put to you … we want you to come and join us. Be part of what will become the biggest ghost tour in the country. We want you to do ALL our social media. We thought we could get you to pretend on your advice vlog that you had someone write to you about having a ghost. THEN you get me on to talk about what you do when you have a ghost in your house and THEN, at the end, you say, ‘Thank you, Teresa, poltergeist specialist, who organizes the ghost tour every Thursday and Tuesday from six o’clock, concessions available, and if you do book as a group, a can of Coke is included in your entrance fee.’ It’s not proper Coca-Cola—it’s the cheap supermarket stuff—but we don’t have to mention that, do we? I don’t think so.”
Aunty Teresa doesn’t realize that I’ve been crying, so I just say, “I don’t think I’ll be doing a vlog for a bit.”
“Okay,” she says, “but there’s something else. We’d like you to join us on the ghost tour. You see, we need a younger female character to play a little match girl that dies horribly in Victorian times from being just really cold without a decent duffel coat.”
“It’s called hypothermia,” I say.
“Yeah. That!” Teresa says. “So you just have to basically stand there and moan a bit and say stuff like, ‘I’m freezing’ and ‘Would you like to buy some matches? It doesn’t matter if you don’t smoke. You can use them to light your scented candles.’ What do you think?”
“I don’t think they had scented candles in Victorian times.” This sounds ridiculous, even for Teresa.
“Whatever!” she says excitedly. “You can freestyle. Shiver a bit. You can moan, too. It’ll be really”—Teresa pulls this superserious face and twiddles her fingers—“eerie.…”
Usually I would be shouting “NO WAY,” but my mouth hurdles over my brain and says “yes.” Perhaps it’s about time I did something for someone else. I want to take my mind off everything. Ghosts will do. And let’s be honest: I’ve reached peak dork on the vlog. What could possibly be worse than that?
“Just promise there’ll be no photos shared on the Internet. ANYWHERE.”
“I can’t promise that completely, as anyone can be snapped these days, but I will say no photos of the match girl, as it’s dangerous to take photos of our workers whilst they are channeling spirits.”
“Just to be clear, Teresa,” I say, “I’m not pretending to channel anything. I’m only doing this as a favor.”
“I know.” Teresa hugs me very tightly. “And I really appreciate it. I know you’ll just be doing this for us.”
That’s not completely the truth, though. Doing something, ANYTHING, will make me take my mind off things. Even if that anything is pretending to be a starving, underage worker in a vintage dress.
“Oh,” Teresa adds quickly, “and, by the way, we start tomorrow night. Hope that’s okay for you. Here’s your tray. All you have to do is tie the ribbons around your neck and pretend to be ill. Try some flour on your face. That got me out of school every week, I looked so ill. I’ll leave your costume out for you tomorrow. See you at six o’clock outside the old church that’s been converted into a posh block of flats opposite the driving test center.”
Teresa disappears very quickly.
I may die a social death but not an actual death. Being a starving Victorian match girl will hopefully remind me that life isn’t so bad, though it’s terrible at the moment.
I’m having a sensible burst again. I’m still in there somewhere!