Bellamy's Redemption

“But you’re crying,” said Betsy.

“I’m fine. I’d better go,” I said, giving them both hugs. I smiled bravely to prove I meant it. They looked skeptical.

“Seriously, this is the best show I have ever seen in my whole life,” Lauren yelled. Betsy and Rachel rejoined them. I waved to Lauren and Judijean on my way out; they were too enthralled in Antonio and Alanna’s elaborately choreographed dance routine to be interrupted with hugs.

I walked the seven blocks to my apartment, through freshly fallen snow, wishing I’d brought along some comfortable shoes or boots. By the time I reached my door, I could barely hobble up the stairs. Before I sat down at my computer or sifted through the mail scattered in my foyer in front of the old-fashioned mail slot, I turned on the bathwater and added some lavender oil. My feet were throbbing. Even worse than the pain was the realization that I would need to wear sensible shoes for the next several days while today’s blisters healed.

My apartment was cold and dark. I

wished I had a cat or dog, but I knew it wouldn’t be fair; I’m never home. I turned up the heat and ate a piece of leftover pizza while the bath filled and the radiators clunked into action. Snow was gathering on my windowsills and swirling flakes twirled beneath the street lamps. I imagined for a moment that tomorrow might be a snow day. I got into the bath, plotting out the details of tonight’s snow turning to ice and the entire city being shut down.

Tomorrow’s clients were all out in the suburbs. I was scheduled to meet with Mrs. Norman Fillmore (as she primly referred to herself) at ten o’clock, to discuss the remodel of her entire downstairs. Although she was so elderly that I half-questioned the ethics of engaging in a revamp that may not be finished in her lifetime, she seemed mentally intact, so I was going along with it.

Nothing in her home had been touched since the 1980’s when the house was built, and even then she was old, with a fondness for old-lady tchotchkes. Walls and surfaces were drenched in worn, faded, peacock blue decadence. When she first met with me at my office, I thought there was hope. She had just lost her husband after being his caretaker for many years. She seemed like a fragile old rose, ready to dip her toes back into the water. We had looked at fabric swatches and had taken a fieldtrip to a furniture store. All was well until she discovered houndstooth. “Oh, myyyyyy,” she’d crackled, “I remember this pattern. Is this back in fashion?”

“Houndstooth is always in fashion. It’s considered a classic, and when the two colors are similar and muted it can even be considered a neutral. We can incorporate some touches of this pattern into your design.”

“I want to steeeeer cleeeeear of bluuuue this time around,” she said in her strange way of annunciating certain words very slowly.

“We can do that,” I assured her.

“But I still looooove goooooooold. And red. I want it to feel riiiiiich.”

“Mixing colors and patterns works in moderation,” I said, wondering how I was going to reel her in.

Then she went nuts, pointing out every houndstooth patterned item in the store, and branching out to love checks, plaids, and backgammon triangles. Anything devoid of pattern was red or gold. Bright red drapes with heavy gold trim. Brass lamps with red velvet shades. Her home was quickly turning into something from Alice in Wonderland. I was dreading seeing her again, since the time had come to convince her to learn to edit.

In the afternoon it was Felicity Snell, whose industrial kitchen remodel was on target to be slightly less cozy than the set from the movie Saw. Having never cooked, or apparently eaten, she didn’t see the need for cupboards, a pantry, drawers, or any other form of storage. So far the design incorporated high-end stainless steel appliances with wine racks and one exposed shelf of petal thin, asymmetrical, white ceramic dishware. I was not sure where a bag of potato chips or a can of soup could go, and I was dreading the fight that would ensue when I tried again to discuss this with her.

I added some more hot water to the bath, opening the tall, frosted glass window a crack. Cold air and the city noises came rushing in as I peeked out at the snowy winter night, enjoying the juxtaposition of my private nakedness and the cold city.

“I want to be here tomorrow,” I said aloud. I closed the window since my bathwater was rapidly cooling. I added even more hot water, trying to get the image of the tasseled, harlequin patterned overstuffed ottomans that Mrs. Fillmore was in love with out of my mind. “I’m doing it,” I whispered. Calling in sick. I never did anything remotely irresponsible, but what the heck. I would say I had food poisoning. No, I’m such a bad liar. Maybe I could have a personal emergency. But that might make me seem crazy. The weather could be my excuse. Obviously it would have to be the weather. I needed a break, and Mrs. Fillmore and Felicity Snell could wait another day.

As soon as I’d decided this, and firmly convinced myself that I really would go through with it, an unexpected wave of relief washed over me, relaxing me more than the bath had been capable of. I must really hate my job, I realized. But I didn’t. I loved it. I loved design, anyhow. And I loved the pride and satisfaction of a great end result. And I loved making people happy, and impressing them with my skills. It was just all the work it took getting there that I hated.

Feeling rejuvenated and like I no longer needed to get right to bed, I stepped out of the tub, put on my robe and slippers, and went out into the living room. My office is in a tiny alcove filled with windows that used to be a porch. It’s well insulated enough that even on a night like tonight it’s the perfect place to sit and work, watching the traffic below. I checked facebook and then checked my email. Nothing was happening. So I googled Bellamy Timberfrost. I needed to see his face again.

His brown curls and blue eyes appeared on the screen, imploring me to love him. I swear, they seemed to be looking right into my soul. Next I logged into my favorite celebrity gossip website, hoping to see some candid shots of Bellamy at Starbucks or leaving the gym. Those are always my favorite pictures because I can imagine myself there with him. “It’s a little pathetic how attached you’ve gotten to him,” I said to myself. And then I wrote firmly with a black Sharpie on a yellow Post-it note Stop talking to yourself and stuck it on the corner of my computer monitor.

“Tune in tonight to hear Bellamy’s side of the story!” said the caption beneath his photo on celebstalker.com. I panicked, checking the clock. Had I missed it? Not yet. I don’t have a television because I think they make people dumb, so I ran next door to my neighbor Pete’s apartment.

“Pete, it’s me, Emma,” I yelled, pounding on his door. He answered the door in a flowered, vintage bathrobe, nibbling on some string cheese. His blonde hair was smooshed against one side of his stubbly face. He looked cute and dirty, as usual.

“C’mon in.”

His apartment is a sad reminder of what mine would look like if I had not made it over to the pristine temple of gray and white simplicity that it now is. And to think the landlord gave me a giant discount off rent and reimbursed me for supplies, for doing what I would have done anyhow.

“Cheese?” asked Pete.

“No thanks.”

“Well, at least have something to drink,” he said, handing me a Capri Sun.

“Thanks Pete. I appreciate it. I’m here on important business. Can we watch The Late Show with Bobby Maze? Bellamy Timberfrost is going to be on. It’s starting any second.”

“Help yourself,” he said, handing me the remote.

“No Pete. Too many buttons. You’ve got to help me out. Hurry!”