I was constantly looking for new things to vlog, so I decided there wasn’t a better tutorial than one of me trying to do my hair and makeup while in a cast. I couldn’t find anything similar online on my phone and thought it would get me a lot of views, especially when I explained the story behind it. I didn’t hold back with my followers. They knew everything that was going on in my life, much to Graham’s dismay.
I played with several techniques on how to do my hair and pinpointed an easy one that seemed the most efficient. I shuffled to the light switch in the room and flipped on the light. I set to rights all my filming lighting and my camera equipment at the desk on the wall opposite the bed and sat down with my blow-dryer and curling iron. I filmed my B-roll first, which was essentially me doing my hair from beginning to end. It was exhausting. When I edited all the footage, the B-roll would be fast-forwarded so my poor viewers wouldn’t be subject to all my cursing. Plus, instant gratification! Yaay!
When I had all my curls in alligator clips on top of my head, I stood and almost fell over. I decided I’d leave that footage in for kicks and reached for my makeup bag. I filmed myself doing my makeup with one hand but talked throughout the process. I could fast-forward whatever parts needed speeding up later.
I cut a different roll after my makeup was done, but while my hair cooled so it would set, about what had happened to me. I was so proud of myself for not crying and ruining my makeup. I would cut that in at the beginning so viewers wouldn’t be confused. Then I pulled all the alligator clips from my hair and shook out the curls, turning my head over and spraying them so they’d hold, before flipping my head back over and spritzing a few curls in the front.
All in all it was a dramatic look and would make for a dramatic vlog. I hoped it’d get a ton of views. Whenever that happened, I always got a few more advertisers, which would pad my pocket a little more.
I painstakingly edited my video, setting it to a few stock music pieces I used regularly, and set up my newest blog to publish when I had Internet connection then shut my laptop. I peered down at my phone. It was seven thirty in the morning and I’d already done a full day’s work. My arm ached. I stood up, gathered my crutches, and staggered out of the guest room in search of more pain pills.
I was shocked still when I caught Oli in the corner, sitting in that old worn chair next to the huge antique worktable and cabinet. He was engrossed in something.
“Good morning, chatterbox,” he greeted without lifting his head.
I limped his direction. “Oh my God, did I wake you?” I asked him.
I saw the corner of his mouth raise. “No, you did not. You can’t hear anything in that room unless you’re in here.” His bright green eyes finally met mine and it startled me a bit. His dark, longish hair was disheveled on top of his head, like he’d rolled out of bed and didn’t bother running a brush through it, but it looked fantastic. Boys were an unfair lot.
“Well, look at you,” he continued. His hands held a tool and a bit of leather in them. He let them fall into his lap. “Your hair is down.”
I felt my good hand run self-consciously through a few curls. “Uh, yeah, I was filming a new segment for my vlog and, honestly, this is how I usually wear my hair.”
“I know. I remember,” he said, remarking on our Dallas days and busying his hands. They stilled again, as if he remembered something else. He stood and pushed a big comfortable chair next to his workstation for me to sit in. He helped me down into it and I breathed a sigh of relief. “More pain pills?” he asked.
“Yes, please.”
He sprinted for the kitchen, which I thought was endearing. He returned with two more pills and another glass of water. I took them from him, downing the pills and handing back an empty glass.
“Are you hungry?” he asked. “You should probably take a bit of food with those.”
“Uh, sure,” I told him. “Are you hungry?”
“I’m a guy. I’m always hungry.” He stretched his hands over his head and the movement pulled up the hem of his T-shirt. “Stay here, Pen.”
“Like I could go anywhere,” I sarcastically bit out.
I could hear him laughing all the way into his kitchen. I heard pans shuffling around and a burner light on his stove, then something sizzling in a pan. He returned fifteen minutes later with a plate of eggs and sausage.
“Wow, this looks incredible,” I said as my stomach rumbled, making me laugh.
He handed me my plate and sat in his chair with his. We ate in silence for a few minutes, but my curiosity ate at me as well, so I asked, “What is all this?” I gestured toward his workbench and all the tools.
Oliver’s brows furrowed. “Graham never told you what I did?”
“No, actually.”
He shook his head as if he was annoyed with his friend. “I’m a master leatherworker.”
I couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled up from my throat. “What?” I asked in disbelief.
He smiled at me. “It’s a family business handed down through the generations for over five hundred years.”
I coughed on my eggs. Oli patted my back to help things along. When I gained composure again, I shouted, “Five hundred years!”
“Yes, madam, that is correct.”
“You are pulling my leg,” I told him.
“That would probably hurt,” he teased.
I studied him with my mouth agape.
“What is so hard to believe about this?” he asked me.
I looked at the top of his bench at all his ancient-looking tools. “I guess it’s not that difficult to imagine now that I’m sitting here with you and this monstrosity of a cabinet full of crazy tools and scraps of patinated leather everywhere. I’m just a little confused. What do you make?”
“My family has made all equestrian leather bags for the royal family for five hundred years. They’ve had a standing account with us for that long, and the trade was handed down father to son and so on, keeping the art alive.”
I was dumbfounded. “That is fascinating, Oliver.”
He sat his empty plate on the bench next to him and fell into his chair. “I suppose it is.”
“Suppose away, Oli.” I looked at him in a different light. “Do you only make bags for the royal family?”
“No, I sell bags all over the world.”
He stood up, disappearing into another room and returned with one of the most beautiful leather bags I’d ever seen. Somewhere between leaving for the bag and retrieving it, he’d put on white cloth gloves.
“Is that to protect the leather?” I asked, pointing to a gloved hand.
“Yeah.”
“What do you charge for one of these?” I asked.
He barked a laugh. “A lot.”
I smiled at him. “Thus the Range Rover.”
He nodded. “Thus the Range Rover.”
I made him turn the bag over so I could check it out from all angles. I was growing more and more impressed by the minute. “Are these bags the only thing you make?” I asked him.
“No,” he said, “but this one and other equestrian goods are the only things I sell.”
“What do you mean?”
“I make all kinds of things, but no one wants them. They only want the bags the royal family buys.”
“Let me see what else you make,” I asked.
He stood taller, looking down at me, his head cocked to one side. “You really want to see them?”
“Uh, duh.”
“Penny the Eloquent, as always,” he needled.
“Shut up and get the other stuff.”
“Fine,” he said, retreating from the room once more.
He emerged with a plethora of things, but immediately my eyes went to a single handbag hanging on a few fingers on his left hand.
“That!” I exclaimed, pointing to it.
“My sister designed it,” he told me, holding the bag in front of my face.
My fingers itched to touch it. “It’s like a cross between a Birki
n and a hobo or something.”
“I have no clue what that means.” He snorted. “She only told me what she wanted and I made it.”
“It’s brilliant, Oli,” I told him, sincere.
“Really?” he said, looking at it as if he’d only just noticed the most finely crafted bag ever known to man, a bag he created.
I studied the stitch work, how pliable the patinated leather was, the color, the shape, how well it hung in his hand. “Oli,” I whispered with reverence, “this is art, dude.”
He laughed at me and shook his head, then turned to put up all the pieces he’d brought in.
“I didn’t even really get to see the other stuff!” I yelled.
“Another time, Penny.”
“Fine,” I said, before I remembered I needed his Wi-Fi password. “Hey!” I called out.
“What do you need?”
“I need your Wi-Fi password. I’ve got to upload this vlog.”
He came back in the room then cut across to mine, bringing my laptop back with him and opening the lid.
“You mind?” he asked.
“Not at all,” I answered.
He typed in his password for me and turned the computer my direction.
“Hit publish?” he asked, the little pointer hovering over the button.
“Hit it.” He did. “Now go to the YouTube tab already opened.”
“Okay.”
“Upload that file there,” I told him, pointing at my recent vid.
When he was done with that, I asked him to go to the social media platform I uploaded from and he did, typing out my status and attaching the new video.
“Bugger me,” he said when it was all said and done.
I laughed. “It’s tedious work,” I told him.
“No shit.”
“Well, it makes me money.”
He studied me. “Pretty innovative,” he complimented. This surprised me, and I guessed my face showed it if his reaction was any indication. “What?” he asked.
“You just paid me a compliment, Oli.”
“So I did. I’m not quite the heartless bastard you make me out to be.”
My eyes narrowed. “You think I think you’re a heartless bastard?”
He coughed into a hand and turned toward his bench, picking up a tool and a piece of leather. “Don’t you?”
“Not at all,” I said. “I just think you sell yourself short is all. I told Graham I thought something happened to you that made you act the way you did.”
His head whipped toward me. “What?” he asked, his chest pumping air.
What is this?
“Nothing, nothing,” I said, “Never mind. Just a passing thought.”
His breathing slowed as he returned to his work. I picked up my laptop and checked all my social media accounts. I turned the monitor toward Oliver and pointed to the number of views the video on my YouTube account had already gotten.
“Holy shit!” he exclaimed. “Over three thousand views!”
“I know! It always blows me away. It never gets old.”
He reached over and hit the play button. Only a little self-conscious, I considered him as he watched the video.
When it was over, he looked at me. “Did you edit that?” he asked.
“Yeah. I’ve found when you do twice-weekly vids, though, that the editing part gets easier and easier as you practice. You know how to produce the footage more efficiently for optimal editing purposes and all that glorious stuff.”
“It’s amazing, actually.”
I felt my cheeks tinge pink. “Thank you.”
“Yet another thank you!”
I laughed then shut down the computer, setting it to the side. “When do you think you’ll be finished up here?” I asked.
“I can be done whenever I want. Perks of owning your own business and all that.”
“I just wanted to run over to that medical supply store the nurse told us about. I don’t think I can hobble around on these crutches for much longer.”
Oli picked up his phone and checked the time. “It’s probably open now. What do you say? Should we go?”
“Yeah, just let me brush my teeth, will you?”
“Here,” he said, lifting me up easily. It gave me a little head rush.
He carried me into his kitchen and sat me on top of his island, next to the most charming farm sink I’d ever seen. He left and returned with my toothbrush and toothpaste. He cleaned up his kitchen while I brushed my teeth.
He helped me find an outfit that would fit around my casts. It wasn’t the most flattering ensemble, but there was nothing I could do about that. I updated my social stuff by taking a goofy picture and letting everyone know where I was headed. We hit the road in less than half an hour and drove toward the supply store. We drove around the city block the store sat on a few times, waiting for a parking spot.
“There!” I yelled when I saw a little Ford backing up out of its space. Oli gunned it and put on his blinker.
“You’re an excellent parking space spotter.”
“Just one of my many qualities,” I bragged, pretending to wipe imaginary dust from my shoulder.
We parked and he dragged me out of the car, setting me down then handing me my crutches. I hitched myself up the curb with only one slight stumble. I was improving.
The store was full of all kinds of strange things. They had something that literally looked like a metal peg leg. You just bent your leg at the knee and strapped it to your leg. You could adjust it to your height. It looked handy, but I couldn’t justify spending three hundred pounds for something I was only going to need for a few weeks. I opted for the scooter. It was only eighty pounds. I rode it around the store, then Oli found another, and I giggled when he joined me. I don’t think the store’s owners were all that happy with us, but they said nothing.
I bought the scooter and a couple of other little things a store employee claimed would help me during my recovery. As I rode the scooter out of the store, I felt a little bit more independent, which was soothing. I wasn’t moving as slow as molasses anymore, and that was all I really wanted.
“Happier?” Oliver asked.
“Yes,” I told him.
And I was. In that moment, anyway, because I’d been distracted. But everyone knows when you are at your lowest, it’s the nature of the beast to kick you while you’re down. Everyone knows that. Apparently I’d forgotten, though.
I smiled up at Oli, but his own had fallen. He shuffled back and forth on his feet, deciding something. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Shit, Penny, I’m sorry,” he said, but before I could ask him what was up, I heard Graham’s voice to my right.
“Oliver. Penelope,” he said with little inflection.
I turned toward him, followed the line of his face, down his shoulder, arm, to his hand intertwined with another’s. I forced my gaze up to look at her.
“Why?” Oliver asked him, his hands open in disbelief.
I looked up at Oli. “Because he wanted me to see him. With her.”
Graham tried to hide a smile. “That’s sick,” Oli commented.
I turned toward Chloe. I was several inches taller than her, but what she lacked in height, she made up for in chest and hips. “Do you remember me?” I asked her.
“Oui,” she answered in French.
I compared her lilting accent to my slight twang in my head and felt my cheeks heat. I’d planned on laying into them, but lost confidence immediately. Graham stood before me, well put together as always. Chloe stood next to him with her designer clothing and shoes. She fit on his arm so well it made me feel ill. I peered down at my casted arm and leg, at my baggy pants and T-shirt. My scooter.
I cleared my throat. “Well, should we get going, Oli?” I asked him.
He looked down on me with pity. I hated it. So much. I looked toward the ground. “We’ve got a lot to do today,” he told our arsehole sidewalk patrons and led me toward his car.
He lifted me in
to his arms and whispered in my ear. “Keep it together for just a little longer,” he ordered.
I bit my trembling lip and nodded when he sat me in his car. I stared straight ahead while he loaded all my stupid medical supply stuff in the back.
When he got in, he started the car and backed up. At the intersection, we stopped at a stoplight and he checked his rearview mirror.
“Okay,” he said.
All the pain, anger, and fury that’d welled up in my body came flooding out in a desperate sob. I buried my face into my good hand.
“I’m so sorry,” Oliver said at my right. “I’m so sorry.”
I bellowed into my hand, unable to control myself. In the back of my mind I knew I was going to be mortified later, but in the moment couldn’t seem to grasp that enough to compose myself. Instead, I wept harder than I ever had in my entire life.
I don’t even remember driving into Oliver’s garage. He ran to my side and lifted me. I wrapped my arm around his neck and grieved into his shoulder.
“It really hurts,” I told him.
“I’m so sorry. Do you need another pain pill?”
“No,” I confessed. “Here,” I said, pushing my fingers into my chest. “Right here. Like an elephant is resting right here and no amount of pushing will get him off.”
“I’m so sorry,” Oliver kept repeating.
He took me back to my room and laid me down on the bed. He elevated my arm and leg then hovered over me for a moment. He ran off somewhere and returned with a warm, damp washcloth. He softly wiped my face then set it aside.
“I’m so sorry,” he soothed over and over. After a while, I decided he wasn’t even aware he was saying it.
His palm found my chest, where the pressure was overwhelming, and as if he was somehow familiar with its exact place, he pressed lightly. I closed my eyes at the relief it gave me. I wrapped my good hand around his wrist to keep it there. I breathed freely; my lungs no longer burned.
I opened my eyes, blurry from the salt of my tears. “Thank you.”