Repressed.

A Different Reflection

Eloise expected to hate the course.

She had already made several reasonable complaints on the journey there.

It was too early.

She could have been working.

Elsa had spent far too much money.

And most importantly, Eloise did not particularly enjoy entering rooms where everyone else appeared to know what they were doing.

She arrived ten minutes early anyway.

Some habits survived even a year of hiding from the world.

The studio was bright and surprisingly relaxed, with large mirrors lining one wall and workstations arranged beneath them. Brushes stood neatly in holders. Palettes, bottles and pencils covered the tables in organised rows.

Eloise chose a seat near the end.

There were seven other women in the class. Their ages varied, and within minutes Eloise realised most of them were just as uncertain as she was.

That helped.

A little.

Their instructor introduced herself, explained the course, and began with skin preparation and basic tools.

Eloise listened politely.

Then they reached colour.

She stopped merely listening.

“Your foundation isn't only about finding something light enough or dark enough,” the instructor explained. “You need to understand what sits underneath the skin. Warm, cool, neutral. Then you consider contrast.”

Eloise looked down at her notes.

The instructor continued, speaking about balance, tone, light, texture and how colours could change depending on what was placed beside them.

Eloise's pen began moving faster.

Oh.

She knew this.

Not makeup, exactly.

But the thinking behind it.

Colour never existed alone. A gemstone could look completely different depending on the metal around it. A pale stone against yellow gold behaved differently from the same stone against platinum. Shape could draw attention somewhere or pull it away. Texture changed how light moved.

By lunchtime, Eloise had filled several pages.

The woman beside her glanced over.

“Are we being tested?”

Eloise looked at her notebook.

“No.”

“Because now I'm worried.”

Eloise laughed.

It startled her slightly.

She hadn't expected to enjoy herself.

She certainly hadn't expected to become interested.

Yet when the instructor demonstrated how a few careful changes could alter the balance of a face without hiding it, Eloise found herself leaning forward.

It was design.

The materials were simply different.

By the end of the first session, she had managed a simple everyday look on herself.

It wasn't particularly good.

One eyebrow was darker than the other.

Her blush sat slightly too low.

She had also discovered that eyeliner possessed a personal hatred for her.

Still, when she studied herself in the mirror, she felt something she hadn't expected.

Curiosity.

Not admiration.

Not confidence.

Just curiosity.

She wanted to try again.

That was enough to bring her back the following week.

And the week after that.

Elsa, naturally, became unbearable.

“I told you.”

“You told me I would enjoy it. You did not tell me eyeliner was invented by Satan.”

“You'll learn.”

“I spent twenty minutes trying to make both eyes match.”

“And?”

“They became progressively worse.”

Elsa laughed.

Eloise sent her a photograph.

There was a pause.

Then Elsa called.

Eloise answered.

“What?”

“What have you done to your eyebrows?”

Eloise frowned at her reflection.

“What is wrong with them?”

“One is attending a formal dinner.”

“And the other?”

“Renewing its passport.”

Eloise burst out laughing.

“That isn't helpful.”

“I'm helping you by stopping you from leaving the flat.”

“I was considering getting groceries.”

“No.”

“It's only Tesco.”

“Tesco has suffered enough.”

Eloise laughed so hard she had to sit down.

She erased both eyebrows and started again.

The second attempt was better.

By the fourth week, the movements no longer felt foreign.

She learned which brushes she actually needed and which ones had only been taking up space in her drawers. She learned that more product rarely solved a mistake. She learned to blend properly, to work with her features rather than fight them, and to stop copying looks designed for completely different faces.

Most of all, she learned to enjoy the process.

There was something calming about sitting in front of the mirror without searching for flaws.

She was simply working.

Trying.

Adjusting.

If something looked wrong, she changed it.

There was no moral failure attached to an uneven line.

No judgement.

No voice telling her she was vain for caring.

It was only colour.

Only technique.

Only play.

And somewhere during those weeks, something else began to return.

It happened on a Wednesday evening while she was waiting for water to boil.

Eloise had left a sketchbook on the kitchen table.

She picked up a pencil without thinking.

One curve became another.

She added a setting.

Changed it.

Turned the page.

The saucepan began rattling loudly behind her.

Eloise looked up.

“Oh, hell.”

Water had boiled over the stove.

She rushed to turn it down, muttering as she wiped the mess away.

Then she looked back at the table.

A pendant had appeared on the page.

Not a complete one.

The proportions were wrong. The centre stone was too large, and she didn't like the first setting she had drawn around it.

But it was a design.

Eloise stood very still.

She hadn't drawn one in months.

Carefully, almost as though sudden movement might frighten it away, she picked up the sketchbook again.

She worked for another hour.

The design changed completely.

By the time she stopped, the centre stone had become smaller and the lines surrounding it softer. She added several notes in the margin about movement and possible materials.

It wasn't ready for Panoply.

Perhaps it never would be.

That didn't matter.

She pinned the page above her desk.

The next evening, she drew another.

Two days later, there was a third.

Her novel remained untouched, but Eloise decided not to demand miracles.

One thing at a time.

She was learning that too.

For months, she had treated recovery as though she had failed because she couldn't wake up one morning and become her old self again.

Perhaps that was never how it worked.

Perhaps you began with a Friday morning.

Then a brush.

Then a laugh.

Then a pencil in your hand while pasta water ruined the stove.

Small things.

Enough small things, and eventually they began resembling a life.

Two weeks later, Eloise came home from class carrying a small shopping bag and thinking about dinner.

She was in a good mood.

Not an extraordinary one.

That was what made it feel important.

Nothing wonderful had happened.

She had simply had a pleasant afternoon.

They had worked with deeper colours that day, and Eloise had finally managed an evening eye look without accidentally making herself resemble someone recovering from a bar fight.

She had bought a lipstick afterwards.

She did not need it.

She had wanted it.

That, she had recently decided, was sometimes reason enough.

Eloise placed the shopping bag on the dining table and slipped off her shoes.

Her phone lit up.

She glanced at it.

Then stopped.

Trent.

The name sat on the screen with an almost offensive familiarity.

For several seconds she did nothing.

They hadn't spoken in months.

There was no reason he needed to contact her.

Eloise considered deleting the message without listening.

Then curiosity won.

A mistake, probably.

She pressed play.

“Hi, Elle. It's me.”

Eloise's mouth flattened.

Yes, Trent.

She had gathered that much.

“I know it's been a while. I wasn't sure whether to call, but I wanted you to hear it from me.”

Something cold settled in her stomach.

“I'm getting married.”

Eloise stopped breathing for a moment.

Trent continued.

“The wedding's in a few months. We'd really like you to come. I know things between us ended badly, but it's been a long time, and I hope we've both moved on. Anyway, I'll send you the details. It would be good to see you.”

The message ended.

Silence filled the flat.

Eloise stared at her phone.

Then she played it again.

Not because she hadn't understood.

She needed confirmation that a grown man had genuinely thought this was a sensible thing to do.

The message ended for the second time.

Eloise lowered the phone.

“Unbelievable.”

He was marrying her.

The woman he had left Eloise for.

Apparently, after spending two years explaining why marriage was unnecessary, rushed, expensive and something they could discuss later, Trent had discovered enthusiasm for the institution.

He had simply needed a different woman.

The thought landed with brutal precision.

Eloise's throat tightened.

There it was.

The old wound.

Quick and familiar.

Of course he'd married her.

She must be prettier.

More exciting.

More feminine.

More desirable.

Perhaps Trent had been right after all.

Perhaps Eloise's mother had been right long before him.

Perhaps there were something other women possessed naturally and Eloise had simply spent her life pretending she could compensate for its absence.

Her eyes burned.

“No.”

She put the phone on the counter.

The thoughts continued.

Eloise gripped the edge of the work top.

“No.”

Louder this time.

She closed her eyes and breathed slowly.

It hurt.

There was no point pretending otherwise.

She was angry.

Jealous.

Humiliated that he could still make her feel this way.

And somewhere beneath all of that sat grief for the woman who had once believed Trent would eventually choose her.

Fine.

She could feel all of it.

That did not mean she had to believe everything her pain told her.

Eloise wiped beneath one eye before a tear could fall.

Then she laughed once, bitterly.

“I'm not ruining today's makeup over you.”

It was such a stupid sentence that another laugh escaped her.

She looked across the room.

Her work desk stood near the window.

Three new sketches were pinned above it.

Three.

Two months ago, there had been none.

The newest was unfinished. A pair of earrings this time, long and slightly dramatic, built around a dark central stone.

Eloise walked over.

She touched the edge of the paper.

Trent was getting married.

All right.

He could get married.

He could have flowers, champagne, speeches, photographs and whatever carefully arranged happiness he wanted.

His marriage was not a verdict on her.

His bride was not evidence against her.

And Eloise was suddenly tired of allowing a man she no longer even liked to remain one of the loudest voices inside her own head.

More than tired.

Bored.

She blinked.

That was new.

For more than a year she had treated Trent as though understanding what happened would eventually free her from it.

Perhaps she had simply been giving him free accommodation in her mind.

Eloise picked up her phone.

She opened his message.

Her thumb hovered over the reply button.

For one satisfying moment she imagined several responses.

None were suitable for polite society.

She deleted the message instead.

Then blocked his number.

Eloise stared at the screen.

A small action.

Almost absurdly small.

Still, something inside her settled.

She opened another contact.

Elsa answered on the third ring.

“Hello?”

“Are you free tonight?”

Silence.

“Sal?”

“Who is this?”

Eloise rolled her eyes.

“Don't start.”

“Eloise Hartford voluntarily asking me to leave the house on a Friday?”

“Yes.”

“After dark?”

“Yes.”

“Should I contact the authorities?”

“Elsa.”

“Where are we going?”

Eloise looked toward her bedroom.

Her wardrobe waited beyond the door.

So did four drawers of makeup.

And a woman in the mirror she was still getting to know.

“I don't know,” she said.

Elsa laughed.

“I do.”

Of course she did.

Eloise smiled.

“Come over first. I'm cooking.”

“I'll be there in forty minutes.”

“Thirty.”

“Bossy.”

“Hungry.”

Elsa hung up.

Eloise remained where she was for a moment.

Then she walked towards her bedroom.

She passed the hallway mirror and stopped.

Her reflection stopped with her.

Same dark hair.

Same blue eyes.

Same face.

Nothing had changed.

And yet, somehow, something had.

Eloise looked at herself for another moment.

Then she smiled.

“All right,” she murmured.

Tonight, she was going out.