One Item Of Baggage

It may be a self-imposed limit but I’m only allowed one item of baggage tonight. I’ve opted for the old, fake-leather suitcase he gave me.

It has a convincing cow-hide texture, but opening it to create a gaping mouth on the bed before me, exposes its cheap, shiny interior fabric. The giveaway. I wonder what my giveaway is?

The case reminds me of myself, with its stretchmarks, scars and fading stickers – they’re blueish and deformed, like my oldest tattoos. The uneven zipper reminds me of the scar on my arm - the one he gave me. I’m not real leather, either. My boobs cost several thousand and my tan lines are from a spray-on I was talked into at my niece’s hen party. I protested at first, I mean, who can take a tanned goth seriously? Perhaps I protested too much. The youthful gang saw through that particular façade and I allowed myself to giggle along with them as the application started. Last weekend with the girls was the most fun I’ve had in years. He can't invite himself on a hen do.

And mid-tan was when I realised. . .

It was just a new way to disguise myself. I’m a different shape, a different size and now a slightly different colour from my real self. I’ve spent most of this decade tucked in, inked, pierced and dyed for effect. So much makeup, so much of the time. I’m not sure what my face looks like. Am I still naturally blonde? Who knows? Neither me nor my hairdresser.

Clicking the top of my Zippo open, I run my thumb lightly over the flint wheel. I stare into the mirror for a moment. It’s hung in my bedroom for at least twelve years but has it seen me change?

Forget my deep dark secrets - I am the biggest cover up in my life.

So that’s it. I’m starting with the mirror.

I reach up and unhook it from the wall, bringing it down to my waist, so it’s looking up at me. I drop my head forward and observe myself. Jet-black waves of my over-treated hair fall forward, covering my ears, distorting the carefully contoured shape of my face. It’s not just contoured, I’ve gone to town on primer, concealer, foundation and powder paler than my actual skin. Blend, blend, blend. That was before I even started on the artwork of dramatic black eyeliner, purple shadow and volumised lips. Of course it is all held in place with setting spray. 

It suddenly strikes me as odd that the personality I have developed outwardly tries to display a devil-may-care attitude, when it takes me at least forty minutes every morning just to get my hair and face looking acceptable. I’m a collection of contradictions.

The mirror can’t go first. I need it to reveal my skin. I pull my hair back into a bun with a lime-coloured scrunchie reserved for use in the shower. I reach out for cotton wool pads and micellar water and sit on the bed. As the discarded wipes build into a pile of filthy garbage beside me, the layers of makeup smudge away into blurred, murky smears, and then finally disappear altogether. My features are revealed for what they really are. For once I actually look at myself. I have wrinkles around my mouth, crows feet at my eyes and freckles over my nose. I have freckles! Freckles are cute – even at the grand old age of forty-two.

I toy with the skull-embossed Zippo again as I admire my natural look – well, semi-natural. The black hair still makes me appear pale, even with the remains of fake tan on my cheeks, but the fresh face is an unexpected improvement.

I gather up my cosmetics into their red velvet drawstring pouch and drop them into the corner of the suitcase. I remove my flaming heart earrings and the cross stud in my nose. They join the silver bat necklace next to the makeup bag. The mirror follows. I’ll get a new one, without a raven-feather frame.

I cross the room and open the wardrobe. It takes a bit of a rummage, but I locate a pair of blue jeans and a green stripey top. Long sleeves. That’ll do. Slipping off the spaghetti straps of the purple tartan hellbunny dress he chose for me this morning, I debate unzipping the back. It feels more final to unlace the front and separate the ribbon from the eyelets. The dress glides to the floor. Folding it neatly would be pointless, its got to be passionately stuffed in on top of the mirror and if the glass breaks, well, so be it. My black lace corset comes off next – the one he obsesses over. I breathe a little easier -- not just because my lungs are less restricted. Off come the New Rock boots he gave me, after a bit of unbuckling and untying. My feet are light. Is this how it feels to dance? I tear off my fishnets and bounce about the room in my lacey knickers. Maybe they should go in too.

The boots and tights make their way into opposite sides of the case and are swiftly followed by three hard bound books of holiday photos and a vampire teddy bear. It lands face down with its blood tipped teeth biting my underwear. I’d rather they bit my ass, but I’ll need that later. I slide into the jeans and stripey top. Some bright red Converse All Stars complete the new look – he might not even recognise me now.

Where did that Zippo get to? He has a thing about fire. Open fires, campfires, chimeneas. He never cared that they terrify me. Any excuse to light some kindling and grow flames around it. He burned my copy of The Alchemist, a book I’d loved for years. Tore out the pages and crunched them into balls to start a bonfire. I only smoked because of him. Once he gave me the lighter it was rude not to.

What else did he give me? I have a collection of thoughtless birthday cards with few words inside - all delivered late. There’s the letter he wrote me when he was drunk on a ‘work trip’ in Austria that turned up stinking of someone else’s perfume. How about that spider plant? Four years I’ve stared at that thing as it’s thrown out tendril after tendril hanging down the side of my bookshelves and getting in the way. I hate plants and I really hate spiders. I throw them all in, compost included.

My attention turns to the underbed storage. I pull the end drawer out to its full extent, and it reveals a collection of fiction diaries. I knew he was reading them, so after a while I only included edited highlights and outright lies. I remove the eight most recent. One for each year of him. The first seven go straight into the case. The eighth and most recent is pulled apart page by page and scrumpled into balls amongst the other items. Ah, there’s the lighter, into my back pocket.

That’ll do it. There’s more, but nothing a few trips to a charity shop won't fix. I’m only allowed one item of baggage tonight, which is ironic given that I have filled my one item of baggage with multiple items of baggage.

I zip the suitcase shut then strain to lift the luggage and drag it down the stairs. It’ll be worth the effort. Out the front door and into the boot of my black Ford Focus it goes. The “My other car is a broom” bumper sticker will be gone soon enough.

His place is twenty minutes away, and it’s Tuesday night, so he’s home. Nothing if not predictable. I switch my lights off and reverse onto the driveway, backing up towards the front door, hoping he won’t hear. I climb out of the car, leaving the engine running and the door open, and I liberate the suitcase from the boot. Lowering it as quietly as possible onto the wide step in front of his door I reach for the Zippo. Once the case is open, it only takes seconds for the diary pages to light. By the time I close the boot and ring the doorbell, there's quite a fire building. For once, I don’t care if it gets out of hand. 

As I drive away smiling, I'm already planning my next spray tan.