A Lonely Immortality

Moving Day

Dianna

The last few months have been nothing but hectic. I finished university, went on a job hunt, packed up my entire life to move for the new role and today I move. Moving to the big city is a little nerve wracking to say the least. I have spent my entire life in the cosy confines of either the large town I was born in or the small city where I studied. A city so entrenched in tradition and student life that it barely felt like a city at all.

Today, though, my world would change, and I would change with it, sheading my skin and becoming a sophisticated city dweller. I had been shopping for a new wardrobe, filled with smart blouses and slinky pencil skirts, spent many hours practicing walking on the heels that made my legs look shapely and added an essential extra few inches to my tiny frame.

I had made the leap from glasses to contacts over the summer break, learning to touch my own eyeballs without wincing, and I had spent hours in the salon learning how to apply soft natural makeup and to coiffure my hair perfectly.

I was ready to begin my life here in this strange, busy place.

My car filled to the brim with boxes and bags. I kissed my parents goodbye in the early morning. As they waved me off, they held each other on the stoop of their quaint cottage, thirty years together and they were still each other’s comfort and company, relationship goals!

The drive took a few hours. Maybe if the M25 wasn’t there it would have taken less, but the looping road falls into stillness in a number of places as you traverse it to your entrance into the city.

Thankfully, I had access to ‘family money’, meaning that my stay in the city would be at least comfortable and I had managed to rent a beautiful if small apartment in a good area, surrounded by parks and great transport links into the city centre. The area buzzed with life during the visits I had made to view and secure the apartment, coffee shops, bakeries and small artisan shops dotted around the larger brand high street presences.

As I pulled into the parking spot allocated to my apartment, I smiled at myself. Step one had been achieved. I had arrived.

The next few hours were taken up moving in my boxes and bags, the apartment was partially furnished, thankfully, meaning that I had a few chairs to collapse onto when the car was empty, a wardrobe to hang the new clothes I had brought with me, and a kitchen of appliances to cook with.

Sitting with a cup of tea and a chocolate biscuit, I ran through my list of to-dos. First was buying some furniture. My inflatable mattress would do for a few days, but anything more would not exactly be comfortable.

A quick search on my mobile found a few flea markets and furniture shops near by. Pulling on a jacket and my Hepburn shades, I threw my bag over my shoulder and headed out to do some serious shopping.

The streets around me buzz with pleasant conversation and the hum of passing traffic. So far, the city wasn’t all that different to the homes I have enjoyed thus far in life. The shops were amazing, the flea market was a treasure trove of trinkets and some amazing turn of the century and mid-century pieces that I haggled with the stall holders for, arranging delivery for that weekend. Eclectic but beautiful was exactly my aesthetic. Turning the corner on the long line of stalls, I stepped into a small bright area filled with old pictures. The smell of old canvas and oil paint filled her senses and brought me great joy.

I step deeper into the gallery space, mentally earmarking a few pieces that will suit the apartment space and colour scheme, flicking through the innocuous flowers and landscapes in the racks, I look up to an imposing portrait. From the dress of the man in the picture, it seems to be mid-1800’s, he’s tall, blonde, and well built, his shirt seems to be straining over his chest as he stands for the artist. I am amazed at the detail in the image, each crease in the shirt leaps from the canvas. Looking up further, I gasp as the painted eyes catch my own, they are cold, piercing and the palest blue. Sitting in the serious expression of his face, they are watching me move around the stall.

I turn briefly away from the image, catching the stall holder’s eye. We run through the pictures I wanted and agree a price. I am on the verge of leaving when I look up at the portrait again, “How much for him?” I ask, confident and calm. The price is reasonable, and I am struck by the need to have him, no, to have the picture. I add it to my order asking for any provenance and information that the seller has on the picture. He agrees quickly to send everything he has to me, spending a pretty penny with him, he is eager to please me , delivery arranged for the next day, I head out to a more modern shop to pick a bed, my mind drifting back to those blue eyes every now and then as I finish my shopping trip.

After a long day, I collapse onto my blow-up mattress, wrapping myself in a soft blanket ready to sleep. Tomorrow, I start my new job.

Dreams

Blue eyes, staring at me through the dark of the bare apartment, a soft song playing from some unseen piano, fingers running up my lower legs, a soft voice telling me it’s all OK. My heart is racing, desire pooling throughout my body as the fingers draw up past my knees.

The alarm jolts me out of the dream with its screaming urgency. I stretch out my limbs and yawn into the dawn light filling the room. Damn it, I forgot curtains, I think crossly, as the early morning sun glints into the bedroom. I grab the tiny notepad next to the bed and note ‘curtains’ on the to-do list before flipping to my dream journal.

I pause for a few moments, remembering the eyes from the picture that had appeared in the dream, flipping back to the to to-do list, adding ‘not in the bedroom’ to the note with the picture details.

Starting the day

Having woken up fully, I head to the shower, quickly washing my hair and body in a coco butter body wash and shampoo set that I love. Having dried quickly in the bathroom, I head out wrapped in a towel to deftly dry and set my hair in its natural loose curls. I apply the few makeup products needed to give me a healthy natural sheen, before heading to the pride and joy that is my new wardrobe.

I select a soft blue blouse that sets off the blue tint to my black hair, an emerald scarf that brings out my eyes, a slinky black skirt, and nude stockings. A soft black blazer completes the outfit, together with the pointed black heels that I pick up at the door.

Throwing my last few essentials into the vegan leather handbag that has been a staple since my first year at university, I step out of the door to my apartment, weird dreams and blow-up mattresses forgotten as I head to the nearby tube station.

The journey takes me past a small but snug looking coffee shop offering a breakfast special, my stomach growls at me as we pass, reminding me that I have yet to buy any actual food. While I wait on my order, I add ‘food shopping’ to my to-do list. The coffee is rich and creamy, no bitterness at all, the pastry is soft and delicious and gone in moments. I brush away any stray crumbs as I walk along the road, sipping the coffee as I search out the tube station.

The train is fast and not too crowded at this time in the morning, for which I am grateful. I had been expecting to stand amongst a jostling crowd for the entire journey.

Stepping onto the platform at the other end, nerves began to nibble away at my confident façade. This job was my dream, exactly what I had studied for my entire life and I was determined to make a good impression. Taking a deep breath or two, I pause before heading out of the station and down the road that would take me to the museum.

‘The Elizabethan’ was a privately owned museum of artifacts gathered by a group of interested parties. It was amazingly well maintained, funded beyond all expectations and open to the public on a select few days a month. The exclusivity drew crowds of the interested on those days and I had fond memories of visiting with my parents as a child. When in my final semester at university I was approached by the museum’s manager for a position in the antiquities team, I had fought my base instinct to scream yes, and had managed to broker myself an amazing benefits package, including the funds to secure my move into the city. Yes, I felt more than a little guilty at that, having the trust fund meant that I didn’t really need the help, but looking after the pennies means the pounds look after themselves, or so father always tells me at least.

The large oak doors loom up ahead and I take a deep breath, swallowing down my nerves before walking through them.

A large dark-haired man is waiting for me in the lobby. He introduces himself as John, Professor John Marlowe to be formal. He runs the whole museum and is very pleased that his HR team have managed to secure me for his antiquities team. He explains that they have a new exhibit coming up to coincide with the publishing of his colleague Professor Henry James’ new book about life in the Elizabethan era.

I grin widely at the news, his books are amazing. I tell him, I have read them all a number of times. “It is like he has a window into life in the era” I gush, John chuckles at me as though enjoying some private joke. I scrunch my forehead up a little, confused at his amusement, before shaking it off and asking for more information on the exhibit.

“Well, Janet will be popping, by a little later with a copy of Henry’s manuscript”, he tells me “If you could take some time getting to know what Henry has written about this time, then you and your team can take your time to pick the best items to show with it.” He opens the door to the archive as he finishes the sentence, it’s enormous, so many shelves and boxes to go through, I feel like a kid in a candy shop! “Jodie” he calls out, and a tiny elfin looking woman appears by his side immediately.

“Oh there you are my dear”, he grins down at her. “Meet Dianna” he motions and she takes my hand warmly “Can you get her acquainted with the vault?” He asks, she nods and then he waves us off into the huge air-conditioned room.