changing rooms by a girl who looked as if she’d picked a fight with a brick wall and lost? I wasn’t exactly a walking fashion statement on the best of days, but I wasn’t usually a kaleidoscope of bruises with the mental capacity of a zombie, either.
When I couldn’t put it off any longer, I climbed out of the bath and dried off gently, wrapping the fluffy towel around me to walk the short distance to my bedroom. I couldn’t resist staring at my body in the full-length sliding mirror that concealed my wardrobe. The bruising looked even worse than before—‘angry’, even. My gaze fell on the phone perched on my bedside table. Oh, God! Why did I have to think of angry?
Painfully aware that my time was running out, I changed into my own pyjamas, soft and cuddly ones with teddy bears all over them—so
not
grown-up—then sat on my bed and picked up the phone, scrolling through my contacts until I reached the Ts. I hit ‘call’ and dialled the shop’s phone number for the second time ever, the only other time being when I’d applied for the job in the first place.
My heart was beating so fast, I could see the veins pulsing in my wrist, the blue threads brought to the surface by the hot water. I couldn’t sit still and ended up pacing the room despite the aches. By the time my boss came on the line, I’d worked myself into such a tiz that I very nearly was sick, in the literal ready-to-hurl way, not just the I-can’t-come-to-work way. What was wrong with me? This wasn’t like me at all.
Hmm …
Come to think of it, I was acting more like Gemma in full-on drama-queen mode, when I was usually the cool, calm and collected one. I stopped pacing and took a deep breath, already feeling calmer. Instead of feeling overanxious, now I just felt silly, even more so when ‘calling in sick’ turned out to be a perfectly straightforward exercise.
The call was over in five minutes flat and most of that was my boss asking me over and over again if I was all right and if I there was anything I needed. She even said to take the next Saturday off as well, full pay, no arguments. By the end of the call, I’d regained enough composure to ask her to warn the other girls to be on the lookout, too. Maybe I could do the grown up thing after all?
With the rest of the weekend to myself, I closed my curtains, then hobbled back to my bed, crawling beneath the thick quilt and resting my head on the pillow. I stared up at the ceiling and replayed the conversation with my boss. I’d been working at Topshop for coming up a year now, every Saturday without fail, with extra shifts during the holidays as well. In all that time, I had never taken a day off sick, so why I felt guilty was anyone’s guess.
Maybe for underestimating them, too?
As well as yourself?
Ugh! I pulled the quilt over my head, then sat back up to grab my iPod. I spent most of Saturday with my MP3 player on low, the headphones jammed into my ears to block out the usual daytime sounds, catching up on missed sleep to the background music of Ed Sheeran, Rihanna, Olly Murs and the
Twilight
soundtrack. My constant stream of painkillers continued, and, when I did drag myself out of bed for meals, Mum and Dad made a point of not mentioning …
it
.
Too exhausted to dream, I woke up on Sunday morning feeling fully rested. I thought about going out and getting some fresh air, but decided against it in the end. I’d had quite enough the other night and wasn’t quite ready for the big bad world yet. My bad mood was instantly wiped when Gemma turned up unannounced at my bedroom door. She’d figured I needed pampering more than Ben needed cheering on at rugby, so came bearing face masks, her trusty pedicure kit and three tried-and-tested chick flicks. Best of all, she’d brought the ultimate in comfort food, consisting of a bag of fresh pain-au-chocolat and a steaming hot hazelnut latte from Donovan’s, our favourite coffee hangout.
Sheer bliss
.
She didn’t even chew me
When I couldn’t put it off any longer, I climbed out of the bath and dried off gently, wrapping the fluffy towel around me to walk the short distance to my bedroom. I couldn’t resist staring at my body in the full-length sliding mirror that concealed my wardrobe. The bruising looked even worse than before—‘angry’, even. My gaze fell on the phone perched on my bedside table. Oh, God! Why did I have to think of angry?
Painfully aware that my time was running out, I changed into my own pyjamas, soft and cuddly ones with teddy bears all over them—so
not
grown-up—then sat on my bed and picked up the phone, scrolling through my contacts until I reached the Ts. I hit ‘call’ and dialled the shop’s phone number for the second time ever, the only other time being when I’d applied for the job in the first place.
My heart was beating so fast, I could see the veins pulsing in my wrist, the blue threads brought to the surface by the hot water. I couldn’t sit still and ended up pacing the room despite the aches. By the time my boss came on the line, I’d worked myself into such a tiz that I very nearly was sick, in the literal ready-to-hurl way, not just the I-can’t-come-to-work way. What was wrong with me? This wasn’t like me at all.
Hmm …
Come to think of it, I was acting more like Gemma in full-on drama-queen mode, when I was usually the cool, calm and collected one. I stopped pacing and took a deep breath, already feeling calmer. Instead of feeling overanxious, now I just felt silly, even more so when ‘calling in sick’ turned out to be a perfectly straightforward exercise.
The call was over in five minutes flat and most of that was my boss asking me over and over again if I was all right and if I there was anything I needed. She even said to take the next Saturday off as well, full pay, no arguments. By the end of the call, I’d regained enough composure to ask her to warn the other girls to be on the lookout, too. Maybe I could do the grown up thing after all?
With the rest of the weekend to myself, I closed my curtains, then hobbled back to my bed, crawling beneath the thick quilt and resting my head on the pillow. I stared up at the ceiling and replayed the conversation with my boss. I’d been working at Topshop for coming up a year now, every Saturday without fail, with extra shifts during the holidays as well. In all that time, I had never taken a day off sick, so why I felt guilty was anyone’s guess.
Maybe for underestimating them, too?
As well as yourself?
Ugh! I pulled the quilt over my head, then sat back up to grab my iPod. I spent most of Saturday with my MP3 player on low, the headphones jammed into my ears to block out the usual daytime sounds, catching up on missed sleep to the background music of Ed Sheeran, Rihanna, Olly Murs and the
Twilight
soundtrack. My constant stream of painkillers continued, and, when I did drag myself out of bed for meals, Mum and Dad made a point of not mentioning …
it
.
Too exhausted to dream, I woke up on Sunday morning feeling fully rested. I thought about going out and getting some fresh air, but decided against it in the end. I’d had quite enough the other night and wasn’t quite ready for the big bad world yet. My bad mood was instantly wiped when Gemma turned up unannounced at my bedroom door. She’d figured I needed pampering more than Ben needed cheering on at rugby, so came bearing face masks, her trusty pedicure kit and three tried-and-tested chick flicks. Best of all, she’d brought the ultimate in comfort food, consisting of a bag of fresh pain-au-chocolat and a steaming hot hazelnut latte from Donovan’s, our favourite coffee hangout.
Sheer bliss
.
She didn’t even chew me
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