Mount Veracity

Chapter 01

I try to reach for the damn thing, but all that comes to touch is plain air.

I open my eyes. I am not on the bed. Instead, I am on the larger-than-life armchair by the glass wall in my room. The digital clock is shining a vintage golden as it beeps out the alarm. I squint my eyes to look at the time.

4:00 a. m.

And I am still in my suit from yesterday.

A groan leaves the back of my throat. I have not slept enough.

I remember coming into this room at one in the night and tossing the briefcase where it is lying right now, on the bed. I also remember wanting a minute of peace before I changed into a night suit and finally fell asleep.

I guess that minute of peace led me to this.

I force myself off the large chair, and I feel like I have shifted it a little back in my efforts to do so. I pull the russet blazer off my shoulders and gather it over my elbow. Shifting in slow steps towards the closet, I manage to let out a yawn, stretching the facial muscles first thing in the morning. I take off the matching pants and the black dress shirt as well, bunch it all together in a ball, and then toss it in the corner basket.

Now, I am just in my innerwear in a dark room. I rush a hand through my locks and reach for the bath door with the other hand. I turn on the warm shower and step into the dimly lit drizzle of water.

~

Exactly twenty-two minutes have passed since the alarm. A towel wrap is covering my hair, my skin is redder, and I am staring right at the semi-empty fridge. I pull out a bottle of cheese spread, but then scrunch my brows together.

Nah, boy, not again.

I keep it back and shut the door. Walking to the end of the counter, I pull out three slices of bread from the container and pull a glass from the tower in the corner. Turning it the way, I re-open the fridge, this time for orange juice. I keep the bread slices on the marble counter, screw open the bottle, and chug juice right through it. After that, I realize my manners and pour some into the glass. I also take a plate of bread and sit down on one of the barstools.

4:34 a. m.

The phone is still on the island counter where I now sit. I must have left it here last night. How careless of me. I pull it near and directly go to the music app, and play Look What You Made Me Do by Taylor Swift. At least that way, I might get into the groove to move my rusty limbs a bit.

Moments later, the third bread slice is being crushed in between my jaws, and I stand up, nodding to the pre-chorus. I take the plate and head to the sink and clean it up. The bread is down my throat now, and I am full-on singing along with Miss Swift. I grab the long glass of juice in one of my hands, the phone in the other, and sing to the room.

I am in the closet, choosing my watch for the day when Miss Swift finishes her ballad of a comeback. I want more, so I shut the drawer and scroll through the playlist, then click on Blank Space. Mumbling the lyrics, I look through my outfits. One of my favorites, the suit I wore yesterday, is gone. I sigh and pull out the mint suit with the same helplessness as I chose the mint color for my company logo.

I fired all the oldies who forced me soon after. It was their retirement age anyways.

The bad thing about this suit is that I can only pair white with it, or it looks gross. So I pull out a white t-shirt and toss it on the chair with the blazer set. I grab the little white watch someone gifted me a while ago, and keep it next to the clothing. The song has finished.

I walk out of the closet and into the study, the phone still in my hand. I keep it at the corner table in the seating area and head to the study table. A notepad, a pencil, and a laptop are all that lie there. I take the notepad in my left hand, and the pencil in the right, and begin skimming through yesterday's tasks. Satisfaction is the emotion I feel when all the day's tasks are done, and I rip the page off the notepad and toss it into the trash. The next thing I do is open my laptop, and being jotting down tasks for the day.

~

At exactly 8:02 a. m., I hear the front door open, and a combination of shoes and heels clattering on the wooden floor. I stretch my arms out into the concentration bubble, push away the stack of notepads and stand up.

Time to get ready.

When I come into the closet, Pyjamas is already taking out a pair of earrings from the drawer. This is one part of dressing up that I hate so much, that I leave it for my secretary to do.

"Morning," she mutters, no smile.

She is not a morning person.

"Morning!" I chirrup. "No sleep?"

"None when you have a toddler for a child and a toddler for a boss who both sit up at ungodly hours and don't let me sleep," she snaps.

Definitely not a morning person.

I have been bearing her morning outbursts for the last five years, and even though I am technically her boss, it's the other way around- she bosses me everywhere. Monitoring my food, appointments, and sleep routines, as well as all the events I have to attend and all the projects I have to manage- Perveza Wazeer does it all, and I am grateful for that.

While she is choosing between pairs of heels for me, I step behind the privacy curtains and change into the minty suit. Perveza bought it for me during the restoration of our company, the day right after I chose the logo (and fired the oldies). She likes it, but I don't, yet I continue wearing it for her sake.

I come out of the curtains and step into my heels, and Perveza tucks my hair behind my ears and pushes in the earrings. We are both standing in front of the full-body mirror, and I glance at her outfit: a dark blue sweater over a polo tee and...literal blue pajamas.

This, my people, are the exact reason why I call her Pyjamas.

She wore it on the first day of her trial week at the office, and when asked, she outright told me she wouldn't wear anything else. I was impressed enough to keep her with me. And guess what? She actually wore white silken pajamas for her wedding. More so, it didn't even look bad; it looked just right.

Yes, pajamas.

The best possible thing Perveza has done and will continue to do every single morning for me is to choose my accessories. Because one, I hate choosing beautiful and dainty pieces of jewelry- the job doesn't really suit me, and two, I can never decide on one thing within mere minutes- I need hours and days, something I do not have.

Perveza leaves me alone to do my makeup, but I simply rub some lip balm on my lips and the tip of my nose and leave the room.

When I come to the kitchen, I see that Tariq is munching on a sandwich.

Wait, I want that.

Manners take over and I simply shut up and walk to the fridge. One good thing is that the people who work for me do not hesitate to take care of their diets, even if they have to take food from my home fridge for that. I let them invade my privacy to some extent, and most of the time I feel like it is a compensation for leaving no privacy in their lives.

Tariq and Perveza have been married for four years. They have a two-year-old toddler, who is mostly in the care of a nanny. And for all of their married life and some time before that, they have been my employees.

I hear the front door opening again and Aqsa comes inside. Her not so petite bottom shake left, and right, and left, and right...

Oh, God.

Aqsa is a mother of two with a drunkard for a husband. She cried for him over and again for about six years, before we met. After that, she dumped the douchebag for me.

Now, she works as the housekeeper here. And no, she just doesn't cook meals and wash dishes, she handles every single thing from the rotation of my wardrobe to the chandeliers at the corporate dinner, and I would be dead already if it weren't for her.

Right now, I am seriously trying to hide the sobs in my stomach as everyone, everyone is busy pouring out orange juice from my bottle and enjoying themselves, while I have to pretend to go my study and finish up my homework.

CAN I BAWL?

No?

~

Perveza hastily packs up the laptop and notepads and tosses them into the boxy briefcase. By the hassle in her expressions and the hassle in her limbs, I know that she knows we are six minutes late. I also understand that she recognizes the love of punctuality I have and that her little food feast might have taken longer than it should have.

My arms are leaning against the wooden arms of the chair. My back is parallel to the cushion stuck behind, and my eyes are revolving between the wall clock and the wristwatch.

9:07 a. m.

It takes no more time for Perveza of Pyjamaland to pack up my stuff and leave the office. It is a silent signal for me to get going as well, so I stand up. Taking the keys off a key stand by the elevator, I call for the private ride I have to the ground floor. When it finally opens its doors, I strut inside and with my over-full hands, press the button to the basement.

It has to be ironic, I think, the way I have such large pockets in my custom-tailored outfits, and yet I end up with the pockets empty and my hands full. Or perhaps it is sad because even after five years of this luxury, I am not able to get used to it.

I often fall asleep with no ventilation in the room. I don't remember using the warm side of the shower and often bathe in unsettling cold water. And even after all the sources of warmth, I can afford and access, my legs are trembling and my knee is bouncing with dead frigidity.

I drop the stuff in my hands to the floor- my iPhone, the car keys, the elevator card- and yet I don't seem to care. y hand immediately reaches over for the STOP button on the elevator panel, and with a slight hitch, the vehicle seems to stop.

I drop to my knees and clutch them tight from between the fabric of the pants. The shaking doesn't stop.

I know what I need.

No, no, no, no, no!

My hand leaves my knee and reaches over for the pocket in my blazer.

No, Ramelle, no- you can't do this.

My hand goes inside the pocket.

You are wasting the entire last week!

I don't care.

My fingers pull out the toxic cardboard box and keep it still in the palm of my hand. For a moment, my intentions falter, but my hand reaches back in the pocket for a lighter, and I sigh.

There is no way other than this.

As the sickly stick reaches my lips, all that comes to my eyes is sweet death. I see a spark, then a little flame, and I take the stick from between my lips and shake the flame off. Then I keep it back.

Sweet, sweet death.

The smell of burning flowers reaches my nose, one that brings bittersweet memories. Memories I wasn't even a part of. I inhale the toxic fumes, taking in the urge I had held in the middle of my fists for the past entire week, and then...

I regret.

The cigar drops to the marble floor of the elevator, the smoke still emanating from it. I pick up my stuff and stand up as if it were a method to take me away from the past few minutes that happened. As if I could erase it all.

My heel steps on the dying piece of paper and sin, and I twist my entire leg- left and right, left and right.

And then I stop. Taking out a tissue paper from the pocket in my butt, I dab at my lips and press the basement button again. The elevator continues to go down.

So does my life.

When I come out of the elevator and by my car, I notice Tariq and Perveza waiting for me in their car. Their gazes are as cautious as my actions. I wave at them with my right hand dismissively, asking them to go on. As the car vrooms away, I let out another sigh and unlock my car.

I throw the phone and elevator card in the passenger card and start the engine. I rev up the engine before my toes leave the brakes, so much that the roaring sound echoes back in my own ears. Then, I speedily reverse the vehicle and follow the route the others just followed.

~

When Perveza sees me entering, she comes out of her cabin and follows me to my office. None of us is speaking, and the silence is unbearable, so I immediately play a playlist on shuffle. Out tumbles a version of I Bet You Think About Me by T. S., and although I always distinguish which, I am unable to comprehend which version it actually is.

Before I know it, I am back singing along. Perveza does not mind it; she picks up a few files and takes them to her cabin, then comes back with a schedule on her iPad. I nod, still singing, and she leaves me alone. I slowly go through the schedule.

"But now that we're done and it's over,"

11:00 hrs- Meeting with the Advising Committee.

"I bet you couldn't believe,"

12:00 hrs- Lunch with Sidra Bakhtaawar at Pandora.

"When you realized I'm harder to forget, than I was to leave,"

18:00 hrs- Premiere of Waabastaa Tujh Say.

"And I bet you think about me."

22:00 hrs- Dinner with Production Team and Cast.

What a long day.

~

"I believe we need to take up more studio projects, that's-"

"This is not about studio projects, Dilaawar, this is about how everyone simply seems to agree on converting my publishing company into a production house, and I did not sign up for this," I say, cutting off Dilaawar's argument.

I cast a sour glance at all the moneymakers at the table. All that their words, their smiles, and every one of their actions call for is money and lots of it. And no matter how many times I fire this department and hire new people, I eventually land in the corner of the conference room, banging my head on the wall, crying at my ill luck.

"Y'all are dismissed," I clucked. Everyone gathers their stuff and walks out, but Dilaawar, one of our directors, still stands in his place. I close my eyes in exasperation. My head tilts sideways, and I run a finger through the center of my forehead.

"Out now, Dilaawaray. Come in half an hour."

He complies this time and walks out. I pull behind my chair and slump on it, groans leaving my lips.

I never wanted to do anything with fame and extra publicity. Yet, unfortunately, some bug got into me thirteen months ago, and I decided to help produce a film which was based on a book published by our company. It was fun, no doubt, but the publicity that came with was something unexpected and unwelcome. Nevertheless, I had to finish the film. Even though I skipped all the promotions and interviews, I was not able to push the premiere under the carpet and get rid of it.

So here I am.

At crossroads.

The problem is that my board feels good about ruining my opinions and continuing with production, and when we cast a vote, only two people were actually supporting me.

I was angry. Still am. Anger makes me do crazy things, thus the abrupt dismissal.

I don't know how much time I have lost sitting here. I stand up and pack up my notepads, then leave the room. On the way to my office, I pull out my phone from the pile of papers and switch it on.

Perhaps a song might help. This time I do not choose anything specific, and the music that plays only remains in the back of my head. At the center of my focus is the one thing I have struggled with for the past seven years.

The cigar.

Everything is a blur. I pull out the box from the blazer pocket. I pull out a stick. I keep the box back. The stick is in my mouth. The stick is on fire. The fire is gone. The stick in my hand.

I take in a deep breath, but I am so nervous right now that the breath is more of a shudder. I breathe again, and again, and the shudders turn into soft, slow, and long breaths. I put the cigar to my lips, and breathe in the noxious goodness that it brings.

As the fumes escape through the cracks of my lips, I close my eyes. The smoke engulfs my face into itself, and at the same time, another vapory sigh leaves my mouth.

"Boss-"

I don't open my eyes out of relief, maybe fear of being caught. I hear Perveza trying to say something, but then I also hear her shut up her mouth. Footsteps, and then a clearing of the throat.

"Speak," I mumble.

The music stops.

"You have to look at these," she drags. I open my eyes and push the cigar into an empty little tray, one that was once filled with some kind of pins. I turn around, but my hand is still holding the cigar. My tired eyes bore into Perveza's.

She doesn't budge.

"These are proposals from ID Films, and Raisa Vanessa is asking for a meeting. Says she wants to do another with you already. I-"

"What do you think, Perveza?" I ask, cutting her off. I am cutting off someone's speech for the second time in a day.

"About what?" Perveza has raised her eyebrows, and that is because I seldom call her by her name.

"About this?" I point out the iPad in her hand. "These...films, producers, all of this shit..."

"I think you should go for it," Perveza affirms, nodding.

A mere "M-hm" leaves my throat, prodding her to elaborate.

"You know very well that you're a perfectionist- I agree with that too. But at the same time, you have this...tendency to fulfill your commitments. You don't give up until you finish the task. You think you run away from stuff, but I know, and everyone does, that you don't. You take a break and come back stronger than before." She takes in a breath and says more.

"Don't think of yourself as anything less, boss."

It feels as though the lady just stuck a hose into me and fueled God knows what, because all of a sudden, I feel like I am floating through thin air.

Well done, Pyjamas. "I needed that," I say, a smile coming onto my face.

"You better be a nice child now and trash that box." She points out the stubbed cigarette.

I raise up my hands in surrender. "As you say, ma'am." I take the box out of the pocket, the other hand still flying in the air, and aim it for the trash can in the corner of the room. When I throw it, it neatly falls back into the empty can, pushing it closer to the wall.

"Good girl," Perveza whispers. "Now, lighter?"

I place it in her palm. The transparent hot pink body creates a pale shadow on her skin. My eyes linger on it, and then I blink away.

"I hear you've called Dilaawar to your office?" she asks.

"Yeah, he fired up at me during the meeting, and now I need to clean up." I go back to my desk, unlocking my laptop. The document from some time ago pops up, and I am happy to know that Tahir has already taken notes from the half-done meeting. I close the tab and open a list of tasks for the day.

Perveza speaks up again. "You'll be able to complete all the work by five, right? I've called the hairstylist."

"Nah, Pyjamas-" a groan leaves my mouth- "can't I do it myself?"

"Nope."

The door closes.

I click play.

~

Hours later, after a light lunch and three conference calls, the meeting day is finally over. I shut my laptop. I push my chair away from the table and stretch my arms out, yawning.

The door opens with a swift creak and in comes Pyjamas. "Five o'clock!" She says it like it is the most exciting hour of the day.

I stand up and walk to the door, skipping her over-enthusiastic expression. Our heels make a muffled chatter as walk down the corridor and into the elevator. The ride back home is also silent, a quietude before the impending storm.

And it indeed is, because as soon as the elevator doors open to reveal my home, I notice a flurry of noises colliding against my eardrums.

"Good evening, Miss Osman!" chirrups a lady. Her hair barely touches her shoulders, completely polar to the untamed length I own. They are scattered into uniform bangs above her brows, and her blush lips hold a smile.

"Good evening to you too," I chime, holding out a hand.

She shakes it with the same energy as her smile and escorts me into my own house. I notice Aqsa with a uniformed person, instructing him cautiously as he furiously scribbled down on his notepad. There is a chandelier on the floor by my dining table, which I cast a wary glance at, before walking side-by-side with the short-haired lady. By the time I come back home with six dozen guests, I believe this place will be as decorated as London's Buckingham Palace is.

In my closet, which has been converted into a makeup studio by the lady's assistants, I am given a seat in front of the mirror. The lady, whose name is Mira, I believe, carefully draws on my eyelids. She then places something cold on it, and then, something heavy. She tells me to keep my eyes closed for a while.

When I open my eyes 'a while' later, my perception of Mira's line of work changes. The glitter on my cheeks shines back at me through the mirror, and the little gems near my eyelashes have me literally whispering 'wow'.

I shake both my hands vigorously in Mira's, who is equally pleased with the look. She is even happier when I ask her to be my personal makeup artist. Perveza would handle the formalities.

I am getting into the mood, perhaps.

I slip into my pantsuit, which is a shimmery material with dramatic sleeves. The outfit is old, but the polishing and multiple rounds of repair have given enough of a second chance for it to be worn again. The pants are flared, and I wonder if the designer had looked into the future while creating this masterpiece...

...or if time repeats itself.

When I come outside, Mira gives me a round of touch-ups. She presses earrings into my ears, long threads of gold attached to a larger pearl. The last thing she does is dab gloss over my lips, and I love the way she does it- with the center of her middle finger, while her other fingers hover over my face.

After she moves away and checks me one final time, I imitate her move.

She laughs. I laugh too.

"Does this have a patent?" I ask. Who knows?

She laughs again. "You think? And I believe you look sexy doing that, sexier than me!"

I dab at my lips again. She fans at her face.

~

This is my first time on a Red Carpet.

And I don't like it very well.

Reporters buzz in front of me like sluggish bees, firing questions every other second. I do my best to avoid them as the photographers capture my face in the frame. I don't smile, and I am glad I don't.

"How does it feel, adding producer to your list of achievements?"

How does it feel while troubling an already troubled and tired person?

"We hear you have more films waiting for you!"

I hear you have privacy invasion lawsuits waiting for you!

"Is that your mother's dress?"

"Have you worn the same dress as your mother?"

"Have you worn her ring?"

"Any reason behind reusing the outfit after so many years?"

Fuck you all. I gulp. f**k every single one of y'all.

I follow an armed escort inside, trying to find oxygen in the suffocation of questions. But there is none of it. Instead, more people find me inside, watching me in awe, surprise, or envy.

Why am I here?

A group comes near me, striking up a conversation. They are praising my outfit, my makeup, and my natural beauty too. I can only nod with a smile.

I need a puff.

Minutes pass by, but the conversation once started has not ended yet. When someone turns towards me with a question, I pass a monosyllable reply, but really, I haven't taken in a word. Everyone is then escorted by their guards inside the theater.

But then, Tariq comes and stands beside me, his elbow stuck out my side. I grin, because his mere presence is a sign of relief. A strong ally in an air of unfamiliarity.

~

I glance at my watch.

12:33 a. m.

The side tables are void of glasses, but the circular stains remain untouched. The chandelier is still lit up, suspended by three heavy chains from the roof. The only thing that is not stationary, is me.

When I fall back on the sofa chair, I feel like something pinches me in the butt. I stand up and turn around, and I see...an envelope.

I pick it up. The envelope itself is plain, a dull white in a coarse material. It is bent a little because I sat on it, but maybe because someone else sat on it before me too. I turn it around, and my name is handwritten in bubbly letters on a printed line.

I open the flap, but there is nothing inside. I scrunch my brows in confusion. What the hell? Common sense knocks at my head and I turn the envelope upside down, and then shake it. Out falls a little folded paper. I pick it up and unfold it.

There are only three words, but those three words scour my heart all over again, just like they did the first time.

Come home, Ramelle.