~

One
Sparkle
Tia Green stood in the hammering rain in the middle of a street. She looked to the side of the road; the footpath was a few feet away. There was no-one around, there was no wind and no sound. She had no idea why she was there. A moment ago she was at work.
The rain stopped. The sun came out. The birds began to sing.
She was wet, almost to the skin. Why hadn’t she put up an umbrella? What was going on in her head, it was pathetic. She hadn’t been at work, she was going to work. It was first thing in the morning, a little after eight. Hadn’t she left home on time?
Her heart sprinted as she looked up and then bolted for the footpath. What a ridiculous bloody idiot. As she trudged towards the train station, her feet squelched in cold, scuffed shoes, her teeth chattered, shame filled her burning cheeks, her head was hung low. She must have lost her marbles to be standing vacantly in the middle of the street for all to see.
A woman roughly pushed past her.
“Sorry,” Tia said, quietly.
Wait a minute, the woman hadn’t pushed past her, she had rudely pushed in front of her. Who did the old bat think she was? She should say something, stand up for herself. Instead, she dug her chipped nails into the palms of her hands. What would be the point in making a scene? Stupidity was something she excelled at, why encourage it.
She looked at her black plastic watch, but was unable to see it properly, her glasses were wet. She hunted for a tissue, even a torn, scrunched up used one would do. Her train was going to be here any second. Come on, come on. The man at the front of the queue left, latte in hand, and ran for the platform. Was that wheel squeal she could hear in the distance?
“Erm, now, let me see,” the woman who had pushed in front of her said loudly. “What do I want?”
A poke in the eye? A stamp on the foot? A dig in the ribs? Take your pick.
“Hmm, yes, I’ll have a skinny cappuccino.”
The doors slid closed with a resounding thud just as Tia was about to jump on the packed, graffiti-ridden train. Damn it. As the train pulled away, she caught sight of the rude woman, stood by the door, sipping her cappuccino. Perhaps she’d burn her throat.
Fifteen minutes later, and five minutes late, another train arrived. She glared at her watch, willing the second hand to slow down. Maybe things would be fine, there was still time to be on time. The train doors slid open with a pained screech and a groan, and a dozen tired, sullen faces glanced wearily at her. A couple of boys listened to mp3 players turned up to eleven, workmen in their dusty and paint stained t-shirts and ripped jeans sat on rusty tool boxes, while sharply suited men and women strained to read newspapers, or just stared blankly at the carriage’s grubby, wet floor, masterfully avoiding each other’s glances. Well, it didn’t matter how many were on the train, she had to get to work.
The doors slid closed and trapped her black raincoat. A quiet, still voice in the back of her mind knew that giving it a good hard tug was not the thing to do, and the material ripped loudly as she did so. Oh, now that was just wonderful. She couldn’t afford repairs; it was days until payday, and even then, she couldn’t afford it. It was muggy, she was wet, the people around her were wet, the person next to her had seriously bad breath, she was perilously close to running late and now her coat had long tear in it.
As the train inched painfully slowly towards the filthy city, she glanced up and stared at a tall man’s greying nasal hair.
The train slowed to a stop.
“Sorry for the delay,” the driver said, “this is due to …”
The sound faded to silence. It didn’t matter what the driver said, for it meant only one thing, she would be late. Her teeth clenched as she stood rigid, her breathing racing.
It was eleven minutes past nine. She furiously shook her umbrella, yanked the door open and just as she was about to pelt it into the office, she saw Nick marching toward her. What possessed people to invent open plan offices? Why couldn’t there be just a little room for her to duck into so he could simply wander by without noticing her, but no, little rooms didn’t exist anymore. It was a conspiracy. Now the weasel would see for sure she was late.
Her glasses promptly steamed up as she stepped into the overheated office. She glanced over the thick lenses and could just make out Nick’s pursed lips and exaggerated a stare at his bony wrist. Perhaps if he shook his head a bit more vigorously it would fall off. Wouldn’t that be fun?
“I’ll talk to you later, Tia,” Nick said. He should have been born a drill sergeant.
“That bloody man,” Tia spat, as she took off her dripping coat and held it in front of her, the rip was a good ten centimetres in length. “All I wanted was some coffee.”
“I’ve often wondered what it would be like to just say a few words and have the whole world understand you.”
“Michael, I’m sorry.” She turned to her colleague. “Some geriatric idiot pushed in front of me in the coffee shop and made me miss the train.”
“Why’d you leave it so late?”
“I … I hadn’t.” Even if there were eight or nine people in the shuffling queue, she had always managed to buy a cup of steaming coffee and be on the platform for the train a good five minutes before it pulled up to the platform.
She looked at Michael and shook her head in bemusement. He smiled at her, kindly, warmly. He had a gorgeous smile and a beautiful face. Actually, come to think of it, he really wasn’t that good looking at all: he had a funny chin and thick eyebrows, but there was something seriously hot about him. That cute little ass, maybe. No, stop it, now. He had a wife. Not to mention her boyfriend, Craig, was in her creaky bed sleeping off his night shift.
She sat, sighed, and turned to her aging computer.
“Yes, is that the I.T. helpdesk?” Tia asked, cradling the slim phone against her shoulder. “I can’t get into my email again … It won’t open … It just won’t open … No, I don’t know.” If I knew what was wrong would I be phoning you? “I just can’t … okay … right.” Double click on this. “Yep.” Double click on that, and, well what do you know, zilch. “Nothing, once again.” What was it with her and machines? “Reboot?” How original.
“Bloody hell,” she spat, as paper jammed in the ancient printer … again.
Another file was dropped in her overflowing in-tray.
She knocked a plastic cup of water over her keyboard.
Inside, she screamed and screamed until her head exploded.
Her gaze was on the indifferent white tiling, as she absently stirred her instant coffee. The hell with it, she added another heaped teaspoon of white sugar. And then another. Loving sickly sweetness, how could I not adore you? If only everything could be sweetness. But then, why was it everything she loved was so terribly bad for her? The hell with it, with each sip, she relaxed another delicious degree. Caffeinated sugar was a wonderful way to calm the mind.
“So -” She jolted, spilling coffee on her arm. “- why were you late?”
Pain charged through her. Was that really necessary? Her hands shook as she slowly and carefully placed the mug on the counter and turned to Nick, who stood tall in the tight doorway to the office’s confined kitchen, arms folded, exit blocked. The stinging gave way to throbbing.
“Well?” he asked.
Her breathing steadied as she wiped the cooling coffee from the sleeve of her white blouse with a tissue. “Look, I’m sorry. I missed my train, I didn’t mean to.” Just don’t ask about the keyboard.
“With this much work to do you will make an effort to be in on time.”
With this much work to do why aren’t you out there doing some of it?
“This isn’t the first time you’ve been late this month, is it?”
Her cheeks burned as she looked up at him, shaking her head vigorously. That wasn’t true and he damn well knew it.
“Your appraisal is due tomorrow and I’ll be the one writing it.”
Her heart pounded, she felt sure it was threatening to leap out of her chest. “Yes, I know.” She couldn’t face another year without a pay rise or a bonus. She desperately needed to get her credit card bill cleared, and she worked as hard for the damned company as anyone else. And that included the office tramps that regularly dropped their designer pants and miraculously received healthy pay rises.
Nick looked back into the corridor, and then stepped into the kitchen until they were toe to toe. His face softened.
“You do know it’s not me, it’s the pressure Rita puts on me.”
She nodded her head as she backed into the kitchen counter. He ran his hand over her arm, his fingers skirting the damp patch. It was as though every cell in her being had locked.
“I want to give you a great appraisal.”
She wanted to shove a red hot iron in his face.
He smiled crookedly.
Huffing, she slumped back in her chair, her face dropping into her hands. Her brow creased and her stomach tightened as a lump promptly grew in her throat. No, no and absolutely no to public displays of pathetic weakness.
It was one twenty. Well, she was damned if she was going to work through another unpaid lunch hour. Cooling air was needed, a brisk walk to clear out the rancid energy from her veins. Actually, what she really wanted was a little therapy, or perhaps even a lot.
She held out the short black skirt before her. It was perfect, divine. She had just the pair of delightful, strappy party heels to go with it. All eyes would be on trim Tia as she danced sensuously on Saturday night, her trusted girlfriends from way back would admire and complement her taste, and chiselled men in elegant suits would but her cocktails and ask for her number. Rubbish. Even if it was black she’d look fat in it. It would certainly show off something: stumpy tree trunk legs that stuck out from below a giggling mountain sized arse covered in black material stretched to near tearing. Not to mention the fact she couldn’t afford it. A tin of beans would be luxury.
God, if only she was a size eight. And while on the subject, if only she was a tall, curvy bombshell instead of a bumpy, little thing in desperate need of some serious exercise. If only she had light, bouncy blonde hair instead of the boring straight brown mess lumped indifferently on top her itching scalp. If only she had luscious full red lips and crystal green eyes instead of pale thin lips and sagging black bags under mud coloured eyes. A sprinkling of faint freckles over silken skin would be nice as well, instead of thick cheap make-up to hide the three huge spots that were on the verge of erupting across her face. A cute, little heart shaped bum to go with her full, well shaped …
Who or what was she kidding? Her wardrobe was ridiculous, pitiful, and she certainly didn’t have flash strappy heels for a foxy skirt. Why did people think shopping made them feel better? Did it make her trains run on time? Did it solve the fact she wanted to rip Nick’s throat out? Did it make Craig treat her any better?
Her mind’s eye saw her workload piled higher than a skyscraper. She grunted and hung the apparently gorgeous skirt back on the rail.
“Hiya hon,” she said to Miranda. “Oh, I just need to chat.” She stared at her monitor. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb. Are you in tonight?” Her brain was slushy, sloshing mush. “It’s just work and, you know, stuff that grinds.” What was she doing in this deathly dull job? “All right, sweetie, I’ll call you later.” Refusing to put the receiver down meant not having to look at the spreadsheet. It was elegant logic.
“I know,” Marie said, to Tia’s right. “I said to her, Liz, he’s not going to like it and she said, well, I don’t care and I said, well you better, there are girls here that don’t like it when you’re flirt with their boyfriends and she said …”
“I know, I know,” Julie interrupted, stood next to Marie. “Have you seen her after just one glass of wine, she’s all over them like a rash with her tight tops and her skirts that look like belts? I tell you, John wouldn’t stand for it if I was like that. Not that I care about what he thinks. He can go and …”
“Don’t get me started on men,” Anna said. “My Jason’s as bad as you’re John. Four pints of larger and he thinks he’s God’s gift. I tell you, when he’s drunk, if his thing was half as enthusiastic as he is I’d have no complaints.”
It wasn’t laughing; it was the cackling of gnarled witches as they were about to fly off into the night hunting prey. Tia glanced at the gossiping girls from the corner of her eye and saw them with the years piled on, their skin slack, mottled and wrinkled, white hair in plastic curlers under worn and faded headscarves, their taste in decency long gone, still wittering on about so and so and what he or she had done and when and how and why it was so terrible because they had said and behaved in such a way and, I know, Martha, tell me more, more, more rattling, prattling, rolling bloody noise, for God’s sake why wouldn’t they just shut up? Why was this endless conversation over glossy magazines full of pictures of perfect teeth, perfect spouses and perfect lives so fascinating? Why couldn’t she connect? Why had she been born a mouse?
Aloneness prowled the backdrop of her mind as emptiness echoed through her. She stared at her screen, the spreadsheet had become a blur of colour and random characters that vaguely formed letters and numbers.
“We don’t see her very often …” No, no. “It gives me great pleasure …” Not quite. “She graces the covers of our …” Nope. “Truly one of the brightest stars in the galaxy today, and we don’t see her give interviews very often, so, ladies and gentlemen, it gives me great pleasure to welcome the enigmatic, the vibrant, the dearly loved, Tia Green.” The audience goes wild, as she gracefully enters from stage left and throws a little wave, casually dressed in a designer silk blouse, blue jeans and cowboy boots. Another file landed on the top of her in-tray with a sickening thud.
There were fifty copies of a thirty page report to copy and bind. The melodic sound of the grey behemoth soothed her mind; finally she stood restfully still as the photocopier happily munched its way through a rain forest. It was a pause in which peace had managed to make an entrance through a side door. She smiled.
Nick’s hand lightly brushed her buttocks as he walked by.
Bastard.
There was a bang and a puff of acrid smoke from the photocopier, followed by the lights going out with a moan as a groan rippled across the office.
In the semidarkness, she picked up the phone and dialled home. They had been forced to sit at their desks twiddling their thumbs for over an hour without power. The gossiping girls revelled in Nick and Rita’s distress, as they acidly commented on their attempts to sort out the loss of electricity. The line connected and bleeped in her ear. Engaged again. What was keeping Craig on the phone?
Michael sat down opposite her. She couldn’t help it, she smiled broadly. It was criminal the way her heart lit up when he was around.
“Well,” he said, “I think Rita’s going let us go.”
Her feelings were ridiculous.
“Oh?”
Would he be kind to her, gentle?
“Yeah, I managed to catch her in the corridor; she’s been on to head office.”
Did he make love slowly, tenderly?
“Uh-huh?”
Or would he be passionately rough with her?
“Maybe in ten minutes or so.”
Either would be fine.
“Good.”
She fanned herself with a cardboard file, then picked up the phone and dialled home. Engaged again. And besides, married or not, his wife with child or not, Michael would never want her, not in a million. What would possess him to be interested in a short sighted, unfit, boring, almost thirty, size fourteen data processor? I mean really, she was just so desirable.
“If I may have your attention, please.” It was Rita, the office manager. She always avoided Rita, even though she appeared to be a kind person. How did that explain Nick? “We’re letting you go. I would like volunteers to come in early tomorrow. We have a lot of work to catch up on and the sooner we get started, the better. Overtime will be paid.”
She shook her head, of course she’d come in; the credit card wasn’t going to pay itself. It was three forty. Well, at least she’d be home early for a change.
The door alarms bleeped loudly as she sprinted for the train. She stepped into the filthy carriage just as the doors slid shut with a hiss and a slam. Perhaps her day was improving. There were only a few vacant seats left in the newspaper strewn carriage.
She slumped into an empty seat and gladly closed her eyes. Wave upon wave of tiredness seemed to ooze from her limbs. True happiness would manifest in the stillness of the suburbs. A muddy boot brushed her tights. She looked down; well of course they’d laddered at her ankle. The culprit was a stick-thin, spotty teenager with greasy, brightly coloured hair. He wore smudged sunglasses even though it was overcast and looked like rain. He bobbed his head and murmured off key, his mp3 player blaring at full volume. A young woman sat next to him in a black business suit, she read the early evening paper while eating a thick, glistening burger. It stank like rank sweat.
In her mind’s eye a giant snarling, scaly monster, with acidic drool dripping generously from its blackened, six inch fangs, leapt out of her body and bit the heads off the teenager and the business woman. She turned her head and looked out of the scratched window, trying not to laugh.
She shook her umbrella and stepped into her building. Not one drop of rain while she was on the train, and then, just as stepped from the carriage onto the platform, the heaven’s opened up and emptied a freezing ocean on top of her. Bloody typical. She kicked off her sodden shoes and tiptoed down the corridor, then stood before her front door and hunted for her keys. They were undoubtedly in the deepest, darkest corner of her ancient handbag. Ahh, there they were.
She froze. Now that ‘Ahh’ was in her head, right? Except for the rain battering down outside, there was silence. Her paranoia knew no bounds these days.
“Ahh.”
There was no way on the face of any earth that those groans were in her head. Her breathing bolted off the blocks as adrenaline flooded her body. She knelt quietly and slowly lifted the letterbox lid and listened.
“Ahh.”
There were two people in there and one of them was without question female. She ground her teeth as rage tore through her bones radiating anger to the hairs on her skin. She forced the key into the lock and burst into her flat to see Craig climbing off Miranda.
It wasn’t true. She couldn’t believe it, didn’t believe it, desperately needed to deny to it. But reality forced its way onto her retina. Her boyfriend and her best friend were naked, beneath her sheets, staring at her, horror on their glowing faces. No, no, it simply couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible. It must be a terrible mistake. It had to be. He surely wasn’t … she surely wasn’t … they weren’t. Her stomach clamped tight.
Her body went numb in a lightening wave from the tips of her toes to the crown of her head. Then, there was constriction in her stomach and a tickle in her throat. The remains of lunch would soon be on her carpet, which, she saw, was strewn with clothes.
She dropped her bag, shoes and umbrella, turned and ran.
“Sweetie,” Miranda whispered.
“Tia,” Craig called.
There was no direction, just down one street and then down the next. Her feet were soon bleeding, her tights long destroyed on the concrete. Still, she ran and ran, as the cold, sheeting rain lashed at her face. She didn’t feel it. She was soaked to the skin, her suit likely ruined, she didn’t notice. As energy began to haemorrhage from her, her jog drifted down into a walk, her limbs grew heavy. She stopped, dead still, in the middle of the street.
Pure, blissful peace washed through her, cleansing her, lifting her. She felt herself shrink into a miniature ball of white light, untouched and unstained, as though she was in her mother’s womb. The ball exploded into blazing fire.
The bastard. The bitch. How long had they been mauling each other? How many ‘sleep ins’ had he used to cheat on her? It was unbelievable. She wanted to push Miranda into a corner, to stare her down, to yell at her, slap her around a bit, rip at her clothes and call her a slut, a liar, a filthy betrayer. She wanted Craig on his knees, his head low, begging for pity. She wanted to kick him in the teeth and then grab his crotch and squeeze and squeeze.
The coursing storm dissipated and she laughed out loud. A moment later, she howled with laughter, her cheeks and her sides hurting. It too subsided as quickly as it had arisen and she slumped to the ground, curled up into a tight, foetal ball and sobbed.
They’d been together for almost a year. He had only just moved in with her. She trusted him. And as for Miranda, they went to school together.
She pushed herself onto her hands and knees, to find herself drained, and her mind perfectly still, without even a single thought to ruffle the placid surface of her mind. It was as though she were a blank sheet of paper, like the future was suddenly wide open to endless possibility. Clear light surrounded her; it was warm, loving, all pervasive and endless.
She forced herself to her feet and stood in the hammering rain in the middle of a street. She looked to the side of the road; the footpath was a few feet away. There was no-one around, there was no wind and no sound. She had no idea why she was there. A moment ago she was at work.
The rain stopped. The sun came out. The birds began to sing.
She was wet, almost to the skin. Why hadn’t she put up an umbrella? What was going on in her head, it was pathetic. She hadn’t been at work, she was going to work. It was first thing in the morning, a little after eight. Hadn’t she left home on time?
Frowning, she turned through a slow three hundred and sixty degrees. Her handbag hung from her shoulder, her unopened umbrella was in her left hand, shoes were on her feet and her tights were smooth and unbroken. She looked down and opened her palm. A sparkle of curling, flickering, diamond light danced in her right hand. It tickled.
Looking up, her heart sprinted as she bolted for the footpath. What a ridiculous bloody idiot. As she trudged towards the train station, her feet squelched in cold, scuffed shoes, her teeth chattered, shame filled her burning cheeks, her head was hung low.
She must have lost her marbles to be standing vacantly in the middle of the street for all to see.
~

Two
Freedom
Tia stood stiffly in the long queue for coffee, her heart madly banging in the tight confines of her chest. No matter how forcefully she imposed scenes of still ponds, quiet summer days or plain old silence in a dark room, her breathing would not slow down. She should be in her home, soaking in a deep, hot bath generously sprinkled with soothing lavender crystals, not stood waiting in the cold for poor, lukewarm coffee hoping to goodness she wouldn’t miss the train to work.
She wiped her glasses again and looked at her watch for the fiftieth time in five minutes. It was a little after eight. The grubby white clock that hung askew on the train station wall matched her watch. And even if both her watch and the station clock were somehow wrong, the arrivals and departures monitor had her morning train listed as being due to arrive in one minute. And even if the monitor was somehow broken, the station was full and everyone around her was rushing toward the platform. It was without a doubt first thing in the morning.
A woman roughly pushed past her.
“Sorry,” Tia said, quietly.
Wait a minute, the woman hadn’t pushed past her, she had rudely pushed in front of her. Who did the old bat think she was? She should say something, stand up for herself. Instead, she dug her chipped nails into the palms of her hands. What would be the point in making a scene?
The man at the front of the queue left, latte in hand, and ran for the platform.
“Erm, now, let me see,” the woman who had pushed in front of her said loudly. “What do I want?”
A poke in the eye? A stamp on the foot? A dig in the ribs? Take your pick.
The woman screamed, doubled over, hopped and then held her face in her hands. Tia’s hand darted out to help her.
“Don’t you touch me,” the woman shouted hysterically.
“What?” Her blood ran ice cold. “I … I didn’t do anything.” She shook her head vigorously; her eyes locked wide, as she slowly backed away, turned, and bolted for the train.
Tia wrapped her raincoat around her and tightly folded her arms as the doors slammed closed, sealing her in. As the train pulled away, she caught sight of the rude woman stood on the platform, shaking her fist and shouting; her face red and contorted. Tia couldn’t help it, the laugh formed like a bubble in her stomach and burst out of her mouth. The old witch shouldn’t have pushed in.
She turned and faced a dozen tired, sullen faces glancing wearily at her. A couple of boys listened to mp3 players, workmen in their dusty shirts and ripped jeans sat on tool boxes, while suited men and women strained to read newspapers, or just stared blankly at the carriage’s grubby, wet floor, masterfully avoiding each other’s glances. Oh, this was joyous, she was wet, the people around her were wet, the person next to her had seriously bad breath, she was perilously close to running late and … actually, no, she wasn’t going to be late. She had in fact caught the train and she was in fact going to make it to her desk on time.
A faint aroma of fresh mint filled the carriage.
The train stopped.
“Sorry for the delay,” the driver said, “this is due to …”
The sound faded to silence. Her mind’s eye saw Nick marching toward her, a giant watch the size of a tractor wheel on his wrist, each tick of the second hand a hammer blow to the head. Her fingertips tingled.
It was eleven minutes past nine. She furiously shook her umbrella, yanked the door open and just as she was about to pelt it into the office, she saw Nick goose stepping in her direction. She jogged into the office, her head hung low, and ducked out of sight into a little, tucked away room. As her glasses steamed up, she prayed the weasel hadn’t seen her.
The door was wrenched opened. Nick pursed lips and exaggerated a stare at his bony wrist.
“I’ll talk to you later, Tia,” he said.
“Sure,” she whispered, her hands held in front of her, feet side by side.
The door slammed closed.
“That bloody man,” she spat, as she shook off her coat.
“I’ve often wondered what it would be like to just say a word or two and have the whole world understand you.”
“Michael, I’m sorry.” She turned to Michael, lovely Michael, hotter than hot Michael. “It’s Nick, he’s such a …” She took in a long, slow breath. “I don’t want to swear.”
Michael smiled at her; he was always warm and kind with her. Why wasn’t Craig like him? Actually, Craig could go to the deepest depths of blazing hell and so could Miranda for that matter. In fact, tonight, she was going to have a clear out. Her wardrobe had absolutely no need for size ten shoes, crisp white double cuff shirts or trousers that needed dry cleaning. Her building’s bins had just been emptied; she felt a delicious urge to fill them to the brim. Actually, no, come to think of it, that wouldn’t be at all fair on the other residents, her dear and charitable neighbours. Ah well, she’d just have to have a wild bonfire instead.
She grinned, broadly. The thought lit her chest with a glow that took her back to the deliciousness of morning coffee. Now there was a story she could not wait for Michael to hear. It was just as outrageous as the one that included graphic details of what she would do to him given half a chance and an empty bedroom room. She squeezed her eyes closed, as an image of Miranda climbing off Craig flashed across her mind. Her throat constricted as she slumped resentfully in her seat and turned to her computer.
“Yes, is that the I.T. helpdesk?” Tia asked, as she cradled the slim phone against her shoulder. “I can’t get into my email again … It won’t open … It just … erm … actually now it’s working.”
All the documents she needed printed out smoothly. Her in-tray was close to empty. She knocked a plastic cup of water over her keyboard. Her heart remained untroubled.
“I mean really,” Marie said, to Tia’s right. “What does George Christian see in the tramp? She’s only been in one film and that was some foreign, subtitled rubbish …”
“I know, I know,” Julie interrupted, stood next to Marie. “I even heard he’d been with that slag model, Lia Bright, the one in the shampoo ads. She’s only had half of Hollywood in her bed …”
“Yeah, but you know what,” Anna said, nudging Julie, “if I had her figure and looks and George Christian between my sheets, I tell you, I certainly wouldn’t kick him out bed if I’d heard he’d been with a few tarts …”
Tia sank in her chair and rubbed her temples. The grating noise was loud and unrelenting. How could they go on so without pause? A smile lazily curled upward as she imagined Marie, Julie and Anna talking domestic politics with as much zeal.
“Yes, but darling, if he did in fact divert the funding to health,” Marie said, “I feel sure the public would be deeply grateful. Our health system, that which belongs to you and I, is far more important to the nation than a new motorway.”
“Honey, I do genuinely see your point,” Julie interrupted, her hand held politely aloft. “But the Chancellor’s proposing to cut funding from not just one perhaps isolated project, but from three major expansions of the network. Surely, if one doesn’t recognise the need for greater road capacity now, this will impact on an already fragile economy in few short years.”
“You know, ladies, it may not be considered an election winner,” Anna said, “but I sense a shift in the public mood. I feel that higher fuel and health duties to pay for these and many more highly valued projects to come would win support. The state’s infrastructure at all levels needs to be maintained with the utmost care.”
She stared at her screen. She was not looking at the spreadsheet. Her phone rang.
“Tia Green.”
“Sweetie, it’s Miranda.”
She slammed the phone down and fled from her desk.
Black coffee dripped onto the white tiled floor as it spilled over her mug as Tia vigorously stirred it. She paused suddenly and laughed hesitantly, her eye twitching, as she then added another two spoons full of sugar, then another two, and another two. She sipped the coffee, rhythmically, over and over. It was so good. Sugar on the brain, what a wonderful way to erase the image of Craig climbing off …
“So -” She jolted, spilling coffee on her arm. “- why were you late?”
Pain sped through her, her breathing raced as she slammed the mug on the counter, and slowly, deliberately turned to face Nick. He stood in the tight doorway, his arms folded. She rubbed her sore arm as wrath torn her apart.
“Well?” he asked.
“My train was delayed. It was not my fault,” she said, in a low measured voice.
“They’re always conveniently delayed, Tia. It’s an old tale. With this much work to do you will make an effort to catch an earlier train.”
She ground her teeth.
“This isn’t the first time you’ve been late this month, is it?”
Her face flushed.
“Your appraisal is due tomorrow, I’ll be the one writing it.”
She hated him.
Nick looked back into the corridor, and then stepped into the kitchen until they were toe to toe. His face softened.
“You know, it’s not me, it’s the pressure Rita puts on me.”
She nodded her head as she backed into the kitchen counter. He ran his hand over her arm, his fingers skirting the damp patch. It was as though every cell in her being had locked.
“I want to give you a great appraisal.”
An image of Nick running through the office naked popped into her head. He was slapping his buttocks, making train noises and lifting his knees up high as he ran. Nick stood back, slipped out off his crumpled jacket and dropped it on the floor. He pulled his red pencil thin tie loose and unbuckled his trousers.
Tia stared agape. “Nick, what are you doing?”
He quickly pulled off his white shirt, kicked off his shoes, comedy socks and trousers. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his faded shorts.
“Nick.”
She turned away as his shorts landed on the floor.
“Woo, woo, woooooo,” he hollered, turned, and ran through the office toward the main door. He slapped his buttocks and lifted his knees up high as he ran out into the street and disappeared out of sight.
Tia’s body was numb as she slid down the kitchen counter and sat on the floor, staring at the little pile of Nick’s clothes.
“It’ll be all right,” Rita said quietly, as she handed her a clear plastic cup filled with freezing cold water.
She gripped the cup with both hands and gulped at the water, spilling much of it down her chin.
“Would you like some more?”
She nodded sharply, her gaze low and fixed on her senior manager’s untidy desk.
“Maggie, would you?”
“I’ll bring two,” Rita’s secretary replied, as she left the small office.
Tia looked up into Rita’s warm hazel eyes. Her boss had a weather worn look about her, but instead of it giving her an air of the bitterly defeated, which she had always assumed was the case, it had in fact shaped her into a soft and beautiful woman. There was genuine compassion emanating from her. How had she not seen or felt this before?
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
She nodded again. “Have you … found him?”
Rita sighed. “No, we haven’t, but I just received a call from the police for they have.” Her brow furrowed. “He just took his clothes off in front of you?”
Tia looked down at the threadbare carpet, her cheeks burning. “Yes.”
“What would possess him to do that?” Rita leant back against her desk back, shaking her head. “In all my years I’ve never seen the like.”
Flashbacks. That was plausible, wasn’t it? Was she seriously going to suggest this? “Perhaps …” No, she couldn’t. Could she?
“Tia?”
Maggie quietly pushed the office door closed and handed her the cups of water.
“Thank you,” she said, and gulped one of the cups dry. No, her mind was made up, she simply could not. It wouldn’t be right. Things were bad enough without her heaping more manure onto it.
“Tia, what were you going to say?”
“I … well, I read somewhere that sometimes people who have taken … say drugs, can have sudden flashbacks and do strange things.” There, it was done.
“Yes, you know I’ve heard that too,” Maggie said, as she stroked her chin.
“I’ll have to mention it to the police when they get here,” Rita said.
“Maybe they would test him anyway,” Tia said. “I mean, if it’s obvious to us then it must be to them too.” That had to be true, didn’t it? That made what she had said okay, right?
“Still, it’s certainly worth a mention. Tia, the police may need to talk to you, but after that, would you like to go home?”
She shook her head sharply. Right about now Craig and Miranda would be mauling each other beneath her fresh white linen. Her brow creased, she put her head in her hands as emotion rose in her throat. Why had they betrayed her? She wanted to curl up in a ball and howl. No, no and absolutely no to public displays of pathetic weakness. She needed some air, a rest, a walk … actually, what she needed was a little therapy.
“Maybe I could just take an early lunch.”
Rita smiled warmly. There it was again, that wave of compassion.
She held out the short black skirt before her. It was perfect, divine. She had just the pair of delightful, strappy party heels to go with it. All eyes would be on trim Tia as she danced sensuously on Saturday night, her trusted … oh, come on, even if it was black she’d look fat in it. It would certainly show off something: stumpy tree trunk legs that stuck out from below a giggling mountain sized arse covered in black material stretched to near tearing. Not to mention the fact she couldn’t afford it. A tin of peas would be luxury.
God, if only she was a size eight. And while on the subject, if only she was a tall, curvy bombshell instead of a bumpy, little thing in desperate need of some serious exercise. If only she had light, bouncy blonde hair instead of the boring straight brown mess lumped indifferently on top her itching scalp. If only she had luscious full red lips and crystal green eyes instead of pale thin lips and sagging black bags under mud coloured eyes. A sprinkling of faint freckles over silken skin would be nice as well, instead of thick cheap make-up to hide the three huge spots that were on the verge of erupting across her face. A cute, little heart shaped bum to go with her full, well shaped …
Her clothes went baggy. She dropped the skirt on the floor. And then fainted.
Tears rolled down her cheeks. Sweat poured from her temple. She clung to the edge of the sink, her knuckles white. A nail broke against the porcelain. Oh God, no, she loved her nails, at least, that was what she was supposed to think, if only … the nail repaired itself. Her mouth was open but sound did not form.
She raised her head with forceful effort to face her reflection in the streaked mirror. Her glasses lay discarded on the wet counter; her crystal green eyes had no need for them. Perfect visual acuity picked out detail like snapshots. She was a foot taller. Her figure was a trim and sensuous hourglass. Light blonde hair fell in bouncy waves. Lips were a luscious full red. An exquisite, unblemished face was blessed with a sprinkling of delightfully faint freckles.
As her breathing raced her mind sank into white hot fear. This had to stop. She had to calm down or there was going to be another collapse. Control had to be imposed, order needed to be restored. Her heart began to slow and her breathing began to ease. A flat untroubled surface gradually returned to her mind and her skin dried as if by the light of a summer sun. A restful sigh floated from her lungs. There, now that was much better.
She looked down at the coarse cotton of her short and baggy blouse. It was no longer possible to tuck it into her trousers, for the waistband was far too big. The trousers were also far too short; she could see her lower legs through laddered tights. Actually, that was all nonsense; her clothes gently hugged her figure as of course they would. Her blouse was a one-off designer number in cream. Her tailored trousers were an elegant cut that accentuated her flawless curves and showed just enough ankle to be playful. And her feet were magnificently displayed in low cut black heels with open toes. How about a cute little gold ankle chain? No, definitely not: too trashy.
She closed her eyes and took in a long, slow breath. A delightful aroma of freshly cut roses drifted over her. She was cleansed and fit, her toned muscles full of vitality. The pain of looking upon her dull, downtrodden reflection was a discarded shadow from another lifetime now thankfully quashed. She was perfection itself. Her heart broke with joy.
The bathroom door opened. Hell fire, her colleagues were going to go lose their sanity when they saw her. Come to think of it, would they even recognise her? Her lips curled into a faint smile. Of course they would recognise her, they wouldn’t know any different. But to complete the picture, she needed a tear, nothing overly dramatic, just a suggestion of ongoing distress.
“Are you all right, Tia?” Rita asked, as she placed a comforting arm around her shoulder.
Did her weak nod indicate continued unrest?
“The gentleman who brought you back from the shop has just left. He was concerned for you, as we all are.”
“Thank you.” A burst of bright, intoxicating pleasure burst in her chest. “If it’s okay with you, I’d now like to go home.” But not on my own.
“By all means, but I insist, you’re not going on your own.”
“Oh?”
Did he make love slowly, tenderly?
“I’ll ask someone to take you home.”
Or would he be passionately rough with her?
“Uh-huh.”
Either would be fine.
“Shall I ask Michael for you?”
She smiled.
Tia kicked the door to her empty flat closed and pushed Michael toward the bedroom.
“Tia, no, please, this can’t possibly happen.” Michael shook his head and raised a defensive hand. “I can’t do this, I have a pregnant wife.”
“Hush.”
She slung her arms around his neck and kissed him. His lips were locked. Or were they? Her senses exploded as he kissed her like no other had. She couldn’t wait any longer. She pushed Michael on the bed and climbed on top of him. As he ripped her blouse open, scattering the buttons, she tugged at his belt buckle.
The next morning, she awoke to find him staring down at her with puppy eyes that overflowed with love.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered huskily.
She grinned stupidly as her heart danced. And just to be sure, she turned to her ornate full length mirror. Yep, she was still blonde, still had freckles and still had a radiant, flawless smile. She lifted the sheets. And boy did she have wonderful breasts.
Michael frowned. “Are you okay?”
She turned to him. “I’m fine.” And kissed him. “We’d better get up or we’ll be late for work.”
They held hands as they strolled to the train station, a teenage giddiness in her stride. The sun shone upon them from a pristine, cloudless sky, a faint breeze kept her skin just the right side of cool.
The woman pushed past her in the coffee shop queue.
“Sorry,” Tia said, quietly, flushing with rage. With her right hand, she softly brushed the still air. The gust of wind blew the woman to the right; she lost her balance and fell over with a scream.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she shouted, red in the face, as a man helped her back onto her feet.
“I was merely assisting in the movement of a filthy cheat from the position she had stolen.”
“What gives you the right?”
“Oh, there’s no particular right.” Tia giggled. “It’s just that I can.”
It was a pleasure to see the rude old bat miss the train by a whisker, while sipping a luscious morning brew, which was truly the finest blend she had ever been served. She laid back into the antique cushions and rested in Michael’s arms. The rest of the grubby train may well be full to bursting with passionless zombies, but she shared a marvellously spacious, exquisitely furnished, first class carriage with her man.
They stepped onto the terminus’ dusty train platform. As they left the aging station, she glanced at her gold, diamond encrusted watch. It was ten past nine. Ah well. Her pace slowed, as her fingers caressed the palm of Michael’s hand. She passed the dirty blue cabs lined up at taxi rank and stepped from the forecourt into a muggy, polluted morning. Suburbia surged from the over ground trains into the claustrophobic high-rise forest, chasing after overcrowded busses, squeezing into packed trams and pouring onto cramped underground trains.
This was ridiculous. It was nonsense. It was a pointless, unending, relentless march to the far reaches of nowhere. It was too much. She hated the stinking city. She loathed the rat race it created. And she quite simply could not face one more day in the office, her overflowing in-tray, the gossiping girls, the loathsome I.T. And then there was Nick.
She stood dead still as humanity surged around her.
“I dreamt of a free and better life,” she sang at the top of her voice. Blimey, what a wonderfully warm, soulful singing voice she had. “I saw sunshine on golden rays.”
“To ease her long born strife,” Michael sang, extending his hand to her in a stage pose, “to live joy for all her days.”
“I am your guiding light for I did fight.” She twirled with a man in a pinstriped suit who wore a bowler hat. “I held true so very long.”
“She yearned and then she prayed.” A hundred voices sang to her as he held her aloft. “Her heart and will were strong.”
“I screamed, I yelled, I prayed.” He gently lowered her onto the bonnet of a car, as soaring strings filled the crisp, clean air. “Freedom for all, freedom.”
He span gracefully away as bus conductors, traffic wardens, businessmen, policewomen, builders, doctors, nurses and nuns smiled and danced with Michael and the man in the pinstriped suit.
“She is our guiding light who wills us all to fight,” the cab drivers sang in perfect harmony, huddled together, holding flat caps to their chests. “She’s a leader to believe in.”
Tia leapt to the ground and fell to her knees, her eyes skyward. A single tear rolled down her cheek. “Freedom for all, freedom,” she whispered with her hands over her heart.
“Ladies and gentlemen, she is the brightest star in the galaxy today, and, as we are all aware, she rarely grants interviews. That is why, tonight, instead of my usual three guests, I am dedicating my entire show to only her.”
The audience frantically clapped and screamed.
“Yes, indeed, you know it to be true.” The chiselled presenter took in a breath. “My dear ladies and gentlemen, without further ado, it gives me great pleasure to welcome the enigmatic, the vibrant, the dearly loved, Tia Green.”
She gracefully entered from stage left. The audience were on their feet rapt with delirious abandon. Tia wore a fitted, designer silk blouse; tight blue jeans and brown leather cowboy boots. As she approached the beaming host’s sofa, she tossed her hair, threw a smile and gave her audience a little wave. The cheering reached fever pitch.
Her heart glowed.
~