Page 20 of Love Beyond Repair
London is amazing for delivery service; this weekend, I’ve managed to get every meal prepared and delivered to my door. It’s been a relief not to run the gauntlet of meeting anyone in the kitchen. I don’t need their pity or words of wisdom. I just want to wallow for a few more days or weeks, whatever it takes to forget.
This is my second week working at my new school, and I’m looking forward to it. My plan of how I want to take my students forward is clear in my mind. My colleagues appear to be supportive and don’t take themselves too seriously.
Walking into the staff room, I meet up with one of the other English teachers in my department. Wendy gave me a great impression the moment I met her. She was warm and open, welcoming me into the team enthusiastically. She has taken me under her wing, fussing around to ensure I’m settling in and have everything I need to conduct my classes. She was very liberal with her advice, pointing out the disruptive students and the teachers to keep at arm’slength. Her bluntness and boldness make her impossible to dislike. I think Wendy and I will become good friends.
“Happy Monday, Bex,” she calls from her seat on the sofa. It‘s only the two of us in the staff room. “How was your weekend?” I grimace at her question, shake my head, and raise my eyes to the heavens.
“Don’t ask,” I say, trying to sound light-hearted and failing miserably. She frowns.
“That bad, huh? Come sit down. I’ll get you a cup of coffee. Then you can offload on me. Can’t have you starting the week down in the dumps.” She smiles, and I sigh in defeat. This woman makes me talk. I can’t help telling her what’s on my mind. It concerns me as I’ve only known her a week, but I already trust her implicitly.
“Black, two sugars?”
“Yes, please,” I respond, semi-impressed she remembered.
The thought of a good cup of coffee lifts my mood. She appears from the tiny kitchen, which is in what used to be a storage cupboard. With us taking a sofa each, Wendy sets the two cups down on the old, worn table.
The staff room is bleak, gray, and boring. Old, uncomfortable sofas sit around coffee tables that are on their last legs. The stained walls are littered with posters and leaflets about meetings or school events, most of which are at least two years out of date. Most of the window blinds don’t work anymore, which doesn’t matter as the staff room is inthe darkest part of the school that barely receives daylight, never mind sunshine.
“So, Bex, what happened?” Her eyes survey me, but she stays silent, allowing space for me to speak. I know she isn’t going to utter another word until I tell her what happened. And somehow, that makes me feel safe.
“Where do I start? Friday night turned into an absolute crock of shit. I’d award it the title of the worst night of my life.”
My mind does a quick flick through all my terrible and embarrassing nights out. There are plenty. But it agrees that, yes, Friday night was the worst ever.
Wendy sits quietly and waits for me to elaborate. I take a deep breath, roll my eyes, then jump into the story in all its embarrassing detail. I ramble on and on, my emotions raging to the surface. Getting angrier and more upset with each word. Wendy takes my hands in hers, giving me a kind smile.
“Bex, honey,” she says, “we’re going to fix this.” I narrow my eyes, confused. She continues. “Stand up and let me look at you.” I do as she instructs, and she walks around me. “You’re a striking woman. You just have to know how to use it. This Friday, after work, we’re going shopping. Clear your calendar. I won’t take no for an answer.”
There’s a steel in her voice, zero room to argue. With that, she turns and struts from the room. I watch her depart, and a sense of relief washes over me. This womanis going to make me do something radical to myself. She won’t take no for an answer. And maybe, just maybe, I don’t want to say no. Excitement and fear bubble in my stomach.
What have I just gotten myself into?
***
The week has gone well overall. I had a few issues with a challenging student in year ten, but after some negotiation, we’re moving forward. Wendy and I are heading off shopping today. I’m terrified. All she has told me is to bring an open mind and my credit card. I wait patiently in the staff room. Half of me wants her to arrive, the other half hopes there will be a diabolical incident so we will have to cancel. My stress started this morning when deciding what to wear.
Right now, my bedroom floor is a sea of discarded clothing after trying on what felt like three thousand outfits. I decided on my trusty black fitted pencil skirt and pink satin blouse teamed with thick black tights and flat black ballet shoes. This outfit says professional and feminine. Wendy took one look at me, half smiled, half laughed.
“That outfit is bloody awful. You will be a different woman when I’m done with you, Bex, and not just in the way you dress,” she said. My stomach lurched. The wordsthemselves were mild, but the tone was fierce. I knew I was in for an interesting night.
Ten minutes later, Wendy struts in wearing a fitted dress that sports a bold blue and white checked pattern. The neckline is cut low enough just to expose the top of her breasts. Sexy, but professional. She’s wearing heels, not quite high enough to be called too high for a work environment. Her legs are bare, and her black hair is styled into short, sharp spikes. She wears makeup that’s relatively natural, apart from a strong red lip. She looks like a woman in control and at ease with her body. Everything I’m not. Yet. If I ever will be.
Within minutes, she marched down the three flights of stairs to the staff parking. Her bright-red sports car with only two seats and a soft top sits waiting. She beeps the button to unlock it, and we climb in. The inside is the complete opposite of the spotless exterior.
The floor of the passenger side is littered with fast food containers. She moves a pile of paperwork off my seat by throwing it on the floor, telling me to watch where I put my feet.
We head out of the school gates to a mall on the edge of the city. One of those huge places that has everything from a supermarket to hairdressers to high-end restaurants. She spins the car around the parking garage at breakneck speed, finding a space as close to the doors as physically possible. Turning to me, she gives me a megawatt smile.
“Come on, then. Let the fun begin.” We get out of the car, and I follow her to see what future awaits me through those sliding doors.
First of all, she takes me to a large glass-fronted unit. The sign above it is neon yellow and flashes.Heathers. Inside it is a bustling hive of activity. It dawns on me: this is a hairdresser and beautician. Wendy winks.
“First things first,” she says, “let’s get the basics right. You will be here for two hours. I’ve arranged for you to get a haircut and any beauty treatments they think you need.” I look at her blankly.
“Beauty treatments?”
My skincare routine is comprised of water and perhaps some soap. She stares at me as if I’m an idiot, which at this moment, I am.
