A Modest Living

CHAPTER ONE

The view of the city is breath-taking from this height.

I always thought its beauty was in the way the buildings reached out like fingers towards the sky. Entwining with the atmosphere. The sky used to fascinate me as a child. It felt so untouchable especially for people like me. Not anymore. Now, I feel like I could stretch out my hand and caress it with my fingertips. If I wanted to.

I've been given one of the guest bedrooms to use for the morning. It is much bigger than any I've been in before. I survey my surroundings, taking in every spectacular detail. I never imagined that one room could contain so many fine things. I could fit everything my family owns in here and still have room to spare. The room is square and large, with a high ceiling. The penthouse has four more just like it. There is a glass wall, on one side, that overlooks the Kensington borough.

The only pieces of green earth left in the entire city, now cover the rooftops of skyscrapers like this one. If you're rich, you get your very own private piece of laboratory produced paradise and ample amounts of clean air, courtesy of Eden Incorporated. But if you're poor, like my family, you live close to the ground where nothing grows. So the more money you have, the higher up you live.

I think of our old flat, in Islington, with its pokey rooms and damp smell. We lived on the third floor. I shared a bedroom with my brother, Liam. It was barely big enough for two single beds so that was all the furniture we had. The mottled walls and curtains dripped with the stench of stale cigarette smoke; I used to get up regularly in the night to vomit. I hated it. It was like that when my parents moved in but they couldn't afford to decorate; Paint is an unnecessary luxury. 'A modest living,' my mother called it. What a joke. I can still hear my father's response every time she said this. 'And living is expensive these days.' My father worked as an Air Filtration Engineer for Eden Inc. His job involved maintaining the Filtration Systems on ground level. They always needed repairing. He died when I was eight. One day, a dodgy unit exploded and took him and his modest income with it.

The silk of the dressing room pedestal feels soft and smooth beneath my feet. I grip it with my toes. Wonderful. I am standing in front of a three-sided mirror. Its silver frame almost reaches the ceiling. I gaze at my reflection. My curling blonde hair hangs about my shoulders in lazy waves of golden honey. I run my fingers through it and twist from side to side appraising my young body. My hair is definitely my best feature.

'Ouch!' I look down and scowl at the woman kneeling on the floor behind me. She is clutching the hem of my dress, looking shocked and apologetic. But I don't care. 'That's the second time you've done that. Are you intentionally trying to make me bleed?!' I spit at her.

'I'm so sorry miss,' she says. 'It's hard to see through all these ruffles.'

'That's not my fault. Your stupidity is not my problem.' I drop my voice to barely more than a whisper. 'But if you stab me again, I will personally see that you don't get paid.' I smile at her, 'Now hurry up and fix my dress then go away.' I don't wait for a response.

I turn back to the mirror and run my fingers through my hair again, pulling the sides up and out of my face. Up or down? Up. Or. Down? I still can't decide. I sigh heavily and start to chew the inside of my cheek. It's a bad habit but I can already feel a calmness washing over me.

'I've always liked your hair up.'

I glimpse my mother draped in an armchair next to the wardrobe, out of the way, champagne glass in hand; it's almost empty.

'You could pull it back into a bun? Show off that pretty face of yours.' Before I can utter a reply, she crosses the room and scoops my hair up with both hands. She combs the loose strands with deft fingers, working through to the ends. She is well-practiced in the art of styling hair. Although, cutting hair was never her forte. We couldn't afford to go to a proper salon, so my mother used to trim my hair with the kitchen scissors. Every time it reached my shoulders, she would cut it back up to my chin. It was uneven for years.