Was it a sign of strength? That Lilly didn't cry like she had the time the hairdresser, at Cleo's discretion, had chopped away at her white, waist long tendrils of hair, as the hairstylist behind her stood, in present day, hacking away at the shorter, bleach blonde style she'd worn ever since? Had it been mere days before, she would've positively winced at the sight of her hair covering the floor. Instead, she sat, stoic, as the finishing touches were applied to her makeup, and her new bob was ruffled about by tattooed, manicured fingers.
"Yeah...you're going to be brilliant!", "You've got a great look!", "Why didn't you sort this out sooner?", it was all they kept asking her, the photographer, the makeup artist, the lighting technician.
What was she supposed to tell them in reply? I lost my baby and now I'm trying hopelessly to prove to myself that I'm not the baby bird that just flew into the french doors and has landed, quirking and quivering on the patio. That I can do this, even though my first breath in the morning feels like the last of a person stuck in a burning building, even though every word I speak feels like a soprano's highest note to a tenor, and people, even when they touch me and try to comfort me, feel like cardboard cut outs. Stand in front of the camera, I can do it. Widen my eyes, open my mouth a little, I can do it. Push my shoulders back, accentuate my collar bones, I can do it.
"Oh, Lilly, doll! I just had a thought! My brother's girlfriend's got this up and coming fashion label and they're doing their first show in a week or so at this old school building. They're proper doing the place out. I think you're just what she's looking for, for the finale? Walk in her show? It'll be your first proper job! Do you think you can do it?".
My legs feel like tree trunks, every step like trying to unroot them from the ground, but yeah, "I'd love to do it!".
Go, after the headshots, with Luca Stone, back to the hospital to arrange our baby's funeral?
I can do it.
There was just one thing that Lilly didn't bother trying to pretend to herself she could do. Capsulise, without the use of at least one hundred redundant "like"s and "uh"s, how it really wasn't so paradoxical that the awareness of her own delicacy was such a devastatingly powerful force. That, she knew, she could not possibly answer.
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Trust No Bitch: Part 3
Mystery / ThrillerYou think you know the story: 4 women, a dead friend, and an anonymous texter. But think again. It's about to get a whole lot messier, as 4 British university students are about to find out. Full of sex, drugs, and deceit, you've come to the wrong...
