of false lashes that is my eyes.
I make it to the kitchen countertop and climb onto the high stool. Picking up my iPad I Google how best to remove lash adhesive with minimal damage. Reading through eyelids that are mostly stuck shut I discover that apparently the answer to my false lash problem is olive oil.
Quickly, I grab a glass bottle of Extra Virgin from the cupboards. It’s a good thing I just so happen to love olive oil. It tastes great and has so many other useful applications. Feeling my way blurrily —through stuck shut eyelids— I head towards the loo. I drip olive oil onto tissue and start rubbing it into the stupid smashed lashes on my lids.
“Oh my god it’s working!” I’m so pleased to be able to see clearly again, I have to cry out loud. I can finally open my eyes.
Glancing in the mirror I’m now shocked to realise that my semi-permanent lashes now look like spiders after they’ve been stepped on. It’s as though I’ve got insect legs sticking out at all angles atop each of my lids.
“Bugger this.” It’s not a good look.
I dab more olive oil onto yet more tissue. I have to rub with a gentle pinching motion at each individual clump of false lashes. They slide off easily enough, but I’m left with such sparse real lashes afterwards, I’m wondering if I’ll need new semi-permanent lash replacements after all.
“Bollocks to that!” What am I thinking? After this eyelid fiasco there’s no way I’m ever getting such ludicrous extensions again!
“Emily, are you here?”
Oh bloody hell, what’s Brenda doing here? Blinking rapidly I glance into the mirror. My reflection shows a woman with greasy eyes and no more glamour lashes.
“There you are.” Brenda pokes her head round the loo doorway. She frowns when she sees the bottle of olive oil that’s perched near the basin. When she glances up at my face and notices my shiny eye sockets, I’m wondering what could possibly be going through her mind.
“I had to remove my false lashes, Brenda.”
“Oh, I see.” She crooks one eyebrow upwards. “Why on earth would you have had those things stuck on in the first place?” With a nonchalant wave of hand she swishes off into the kitchen. I follow her, bottle of olive oil in hand and wads of tissues in the other. I’ve got to bin this bog roll straight away. I wouldn’t want Callum to come home and find them sitting by the cloakroom sink. He might think I spend my days off work sitting at home pulling off spider legs and frying them up with olive oil. He knows I’m a chef, but insect cuisine might be pushing it in the quest for new seasoning ideas.
“I’ve got great news!” Brenda boasts. “Thomas is no longer employed at the Meli Spa, so your workouts there won’t be pestered in the slightest.”
I harrumph loudly. “Did the boy get fired for stalking blonde women?”
“No, dear.” Brenda admonishes me. “He did get sacked though, he didn’t just quit. He wasn’t turning up for his lifeguard shifts, and I know how you’ve been panicked that the boy’s obsessed with you.”
Does she think Thomas’s stalkery of me is just in my imagination?
“Either way, you don’t have to worry about him. So come on.” Brenda crooks her hand through my elbow. “I’ve got a new exercise-ball class that I think you’ll gain loads from. Or should I say lose loads?” She makes a point of directing her gaze to my hips. “Yep, this class is exactly what you need for those child-bearing sized hips of yours!”
Gritting my teeth, I ignore her insults. After all, she’s probably right. I’ll take any chance at working out that I can get. My wedding day is fast approaching and I don’t want anyone to think I’m getting ready to give birth when walking down the aisle. Just because I’ve got shapely hips doesn’t mean there’s already a bun in my oven.
When we arrive at the Meli Spa the first thing I can’t help noticing is that Kirsten is here in the large gym. What’s also here is her boombox bot. That is, her robot is by her side until she spots me.
“Well done, everyone” Kirsten screeches at all the ladies in her Zumba class. She claps her hands together once and I’m assuming she’s just finished instructing a session.
I’m about to complain about her presence of robot, when suddenly I don’t have to. Without glancing my way a