Angel

'The Sense of Sight' by Master of the Annunciation to the Shepherds, early 17th century.

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I had made a pact with myself in the morning that I wasn't to mention my grief to strangers anymore.

Today was most definitely not the time to mention it.

Despite having planned my outfit in my head the entire day before, I still struggled like a parentless toddler when it came to making the final decision. Knowing that once I was out of the door, and the car dropped off, I was stuck. Exactly as I was. In the labyrinth of the shopping mall. For eight hours.

The ticking of the clock forces me to leave in what I'm wearing, and I drive to the garage, dropping the car off, before walking across a deserted car park for the shopping mall.

Already uncomfortable in my socially acceptable outfit, I decide to head for John Lewis — its familiar frontage a kind of refuge in this consumer wasteland. I used to go to John Lewis in the city every Saturday with mother, visiting all the necessary departments before she had retrieved everything she needed. I remember it being very big. Full of beautiful things mother always told me not to touch. And smiley people. I think I would have been happy if mother had lost me there.

As I ascend on the escalator, I hold firmly to the rubber side, checking my laces are tied and trying not to think about all the germs leaping onto my hand like fleas at doggy daycare. I carefully step off with a childlike hop, and head down the corridor, avoiding anyone's gaze. The lights are so bright I almost expect to see someone being wheeled to theatre on a hospital bed.

Unease starts to settle inside me. Is it a good thing or a bad thing that I’ve decided to wear make-up again? Is he watching this, laughing? Or worse — is he saying what the fuck are you doing, don’t waste your money?

Then I remember how haggard I feel, and the old don’t let yourself go shit that the psychic — the one who robbed me blind — insinuated, after whose visit I dyed my grey roots.

As I reach the end of the soulless corridor, I finally see the sign — lit up with an array of fashionable light bulbs — and I stare at the bed made perfectly in the entranceway, with bedding the Frontier would have been proud of. I feel like I’ve made it to safety.

Not anticipating that the beauty counter would be so close to the entrance, and panicking that I am making a terrible mistake, I turn around three times, almost on the spot. Realising I’ve managed to make myself appear unhinged within two minutes of entering the store, I commit my feet to the Beauty Mile.

I find the specific brand I’m looking for whilst trying to appear entirely nonchalant about the whole thing which, as I’m sure you can imagine, is not delivered with any air of success.

I hover for what feels like an eternity at the foundation section, reading the labels over and over again, trying to understand what sets them all apart. This isn’t helped by the fact that I don’t have my glasses on and don’t want to take my cap of invisibility off.

I can hear two female voices on the other side of the glowing cabinet, and I wonder whether everything has changed, and I’m expected to ask for help.

Just when I am about to walk off —

“Can I help you? Was there anything in particular you were looking for?”

I instantly take my cap off and self-consciously push what I imagine is my deranged hair out of my face. Struggling to look her in the eye but feeling reassured that she smells nice, I tell her that “someone” had recommended a foundation to me that might suit my skin. (I’d actually read it in a magazine while waiting in the doctor’s surgery to talk about my most recent bout of suicidal ideation.)

“I can’t remember what she said… something about it being lightweight… kind of glowing?” I look between her and the bottles of foundation uniformly lined up below us, hoping that one of them will rescue me from this fraudulent nightmare.

She smiles knowingly and guides me onto a chair in front of a large mirror. Feeling like I have no choice but to look at myself, I become transfixed and wonder how he ever loved me. And whether I looked like this before. Knowing that I didn’t. Some part of me is almost glad he isn’t here to see what I have become.

Turning away from myself, I watch her float around the different counters, picking things up as she goes. Her small frame suits her all-black army-style outfit with matching combat boots, and her angular blonde bob and fully made-up face make her look like an army sergeant who would give you a hug and a cup of tea at the end of a brutal assault course.

I sit on the stool, my hands tucked under my legs, twirling from side to side. When she returns I notice that she has a lot of make-up on and I start to panic. But she has kind eyes, so I don’t mind if I end up looking like Mother. I can always wash it off.

As she starts to sweep something cold across my face, the smell of roses rises suddenly into the air —and I think of my grandmother.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

Just to be clear about expectations, I make a point of saying that I used to go for a more lowkey Victoria Beckham look 'back in the day', and then quickly follow it up by explaining that I stopped wearing make up ages ago, not seeing the point any more. But that I thought it would be nice to have something — just in case. I myself had no idea what this just in case could be, but she didn't need to know that.

Which is why I kept saying —

"Well, seeing as we've done the foundation..."

and then

"Well, seeing as we've done the eyes..."

and then

"Well, seeing as I haven't worn make up since my boyfriend died."

Oh god, there it is.

Fuck.

Instantly I feel ashamed, like it's an excuse for my total ineptitude to even look socially acceptable.

Yes, sorry I look like shit...my boyfriend died.

Yes, sorry I say things I shouldn't all the time...my boyfriend died.

Yes, sorry I forgot to post your parcel...my boyfriend died.

Hence the agreement I'd made with myself earlier that morning.

Not because I was using it as an excuse, as such.

Probably because I find myself constantly hungry for the kindness of strangers.

"Oh, goodness, I'm sorry to hear that."

What else could really say, bless her.

"You know, it's always good to have a bit of something to hand, when we want to feel a bit better."

She points at the make-up accumulating on the desk in front of us. "All it takes is a little bit. I don't normally make much of an effort but this morning I went for a full face and I've never had so many compliments."

She smiles at me and I'm confused how that's complimentary.

When we'd finished and I'd paid (I got 20% off, which is good, because I'm only ever going to be able to buy it at that price once a year), she said —

"Oh hang on wait —" and popped something into my bag from a drawer. "A sample," she says, then looks me in the eye meaningfully, "I think it will be your fragrance."

When I get home, seven hours later, after the longest day in the history of days, I open up the bag and pull out the perfume sample in it's tiny beautiful star shaped bottle.

Angel.