Pretty Falling Pieces by Isabelle Culpo

Chapter Twenty-One

Come again?

Sarah’s a fairly common name, but only one person comes to mind, and I know she wouldn’t have had anything to do with this. We barely even know each other.

“Did she mention her last name?” I ask casually.

“No, she didn’t. Just that she represented you and she was letting me know you were no longer available to hire as an interior designer.”

“Well I don’t know who she was, Grace, but that definitely did not come from me. I work independently. I don’t even work with anyone named Sarah.”

I’m really racking my brain right now. My only logical guess is that it was another designer, trying to poach one of my clients under the alias of a common girl’s name.

“Well funny you say that because she seemed to know you. She said you’d been in Africa and decided to live there permanently. She said you felt that’s where you belonged and didn’t plan on coming back.”

My blood turns cold.

I recall sharing a sentiment like that with someone only a few weeks ago.

“Look Grace, I really am sorry about the confusion here, but I am absolutely continuing to work now that I’m back. You’re a valued client of mine, and I’d love the opportunity to sit down with you to discuss your plans.”

“Oh that sounds excellent. I’ll look forward to it. You know we just had the gender reveal party on Saturday and now that we—”

“Look, Grace, sorry to have to cut you off, but something has just come up that I need to deal with urgently. I’ll call you and we can work out a time to meet.”

“Of course, I’ll let you go then. Talk soon.” She ends the call.

I stare at my phone contemplating how I’m going to handle this situation now that I know who the culprit is. Even though it’s not yet five, and she probably isn’t home from work yet, I head back to my apartment building.

If she’s not there yet, I’ll wait.

All night if I have to.

I know I can be a pushover at times, but I won’t tolerate anyone interfering with my livelihood or career. I don’t have a clue why she would do that. As far as I know, she’s not even an interior designer.

I recite my argument a thousand times over in my head before I get there.

Each practice conversation adds fuel to the fire.

As I imagine every rebuttal she could possibly throw at me, my phone rings with an incoming call from Theo.

I hesitate before accepting.

I’m still not ready to speak to him yet but I answer anyway. “Hello.”

“Imogen, where are you? I’ve been going out of my fucking mind!” His voice is a mixture of both frustration and relief.

Now’s my chance to confess that I saw the message from Ange.

It’s on the tip of my tongue, but I make the last-minute decision not to say anything.

“Look Theo, I think we both know that things were never going to work out between us. You’re you and I’m…me.”

How articulate.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Theo cries.

It means you’re way out of my league and if you don’t see it now, you will someday.

“Never mind. Was there something you needed? I’m sort of in the middle of something right now.” I come off a little rude.

“Middle of what?” he presses.

I might as well tell him. It will at least get him off my back for now until I’ve had a chance to speak to Sarah.

“I found out someone’s been poaching my clients and telling them I’m no longer based in New Zealand. I’m going to confront them about it now.”

He once asked me to work for him as his designer full time. At this rate, it might be my only option.

“What the fuck? Who is it? How long have you known about it? Why didn’t you tell me about this before?” he rushes.

Clearly that plan didn’t work.

“I’m sorting it, Theo. It’s just some girl in my building named Sarah. She probably found my website, saw Grace’s testimonial and tried to get hold of her herself. I’ll stop by the office again tomorrow. Bye.” I hang up and shove the phone in my bag.

Immediately, my phone starts ringing again from Theo, but I let it go to voicemail. As much as I love living here, or did love living here, one thing I always found frustrating was the paper thin walls. Now is not the time to pick up that conversation again.

Out of habit, I knock on the door as soon as I’m standing in front of it, cursing myself for not taking another moment to prepare. Before he called, I had been rehearsing how I planned to confront Sarah. Now that the time has come, my mind suddenly goes blank.

I can hear rustling and movement coming from inside her apartment. It’s midday during the workweek so I’m actually surprised someone’s here. Although, if she’s planning on becoming an interior designer, I guess she could have started working from home. As the footsteps come closer to the door, there’s a moment of pause and the tiny beam of light coming from the peep hole vanishes.

Whoever it is stands there staring at me for what feels like minutes.

In fact they leave me standing there for so long that I turn to leave but as soon as I do the door opens.

Sarah is standing in the doorway.

The first thing I notice is her hair.

It’s brown now, almost an identical colour to mine.

I’ve only ever seen her with mousy blonde hair before.

“What are you doing here?” she asks.

Her question snaps me out of my thoughts, and all of sudden I’m regretting coming here to confront her. My imagination always gets me worked up on a false hype. I replay scenarios over and over in my head until I’m confident I know what to say. However, the second I actually get in front of someone, I deflate. The hot air inside of me is fizzling out like a balloon.

This time it’s too late to back out. My career is on the line.

“Look Sarah, one of my clients approached me the other day and said they’d been notified by someone named Sarah that I was no longer accepting work. Was that you? It’s okay if it was; I just wanted to clear the misunderstanding. When I spoke to you the other week I said I was now back in New Zealand full time,” I reply, hoping that my voice didn’t come off as weak and wobbly as it felt.

Now that it’s out there, I’m pleased that I managed to get it off my chest, albeit in a less aggressive way than originally planned.

She doesn’t respond and her facial expression gives nothing away. If she wants to be difficult, two can play at that game. “I know what you did Sarah and I’m willing to look past this whole thing if you just fess up.”

And tell me how the hell you found my clients in the first place.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about Imogen. Get off my property or I’ll call the police,” she threatens, then tries to slam the door in my face. Hard.

I manage to put my foot in the door and intercept it from closing fully when I feel a sharp shooting pain run across my foot and calf as I push the door back open and walk inside. Caught off guard, Sarah scrambles to push me out again but it’s too late. I storm down the hallway, even though the sudden movement causes the ache in my foot to spread.

Her eyes are so wide and glassy they look as though they’re about to pop out of her head any second. For a split second I almost feel sorry for barging into her apartment like this. “Sarah, we both know that’s not true. Please explain to me what’s going on here.”

“For the last time, I have no idea what you’re talking about. Now get the hell out of my apartment, you’re scaring me,” her grip on the door handle tightens.

Instantly I feel remorseful, and this time try speaking a little softer. “Sarah, I know you probably feel embarrassed, but if you’d just come to me and said you wanted to be a designer, I would’ve been more than happy to help you. I still am. It’s just weird you going behind my back trying to steal my clients.”

Her brows furrowed in confusion at first, then the tension visibly melts from her shoulders when she realises I’m not mad.

Well not visibly anyway.

Suddenly her hostility towards me vanishes as I watch her mouth tilt in a small smile. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Imogen; I guess I just thought it would help me get a head start. I’ll ring them all back and apologise.”

Okay, that wasn’t so bad.At least I got her to admit what she did and now I can move on with my career. “That’s okay, I understand. If you wouldn’t mind, I’d prefer to contact them myself if that’s okay? Could you let me know who you spoke to?”

Her smile widens. “Of course, I’ll email you the list. There weren’t too many people, I promise.”

As if I’d ever trust a promise from you.

She signals towards the door with her hands, trying to usher me out.

“Well I’ll get going. Thank you for being honest with me, Sarah. If you ever need help with your designs or just want some feedback, let me know. I even have some spare materials and colour wheels at my place you can have. I just don’t have access to them right now,” I offer.

“Oh that would be great, thank you. Sorry to hear about your apartment by the way. Do you know when it’ll be safe to go back in?”

My heart stops.

“How did you know that?”

“Know what?” she asks nervously.

“That my apartment wasn’t safe.”

I watch the colour drain from her face.

“We live in the same building…There’s police tape covering your door, everyone here is talking about it.”

“I know that, but why did you say safe? Why did you think my apartment wouldn’t be safe?” Most people would assume there was a break in, and the police had closed it down to take fingerprints. I doubt anyone would question its safety.

“Norman told me he thought it might have been poisoned. At least that’s what the police told him.”

“The police didn’t speak to Norman,” I say.

“You know what he’s like though, he’s always getting himself mixed up with his made-up ideas and reality. The other day I asked for a replacement key that I was going to collect from reception, and he ended up nearly giving them to another resident,” she laughs softly.

My ears start ringing.

“The spare key. Which apartment were they for?”

Her face falls, bleeding guilt.

Oh my god.

It was her.

All of a sudden, she pushes me into the wall and rushes towards the door, dead bolting it. I fall to the ground landing badly on my already injured foot, dropping my phone and handbag.

How can such a small woman be so strong?

“Sarah, I need to leave.” I pull myself up and take a step towards the door, but she holds her ground refusing to move. “Get out of my way or I’ll call the police.” My phone rings with an incoming call and Sarah freezes. “Is that him?” she asks.

I ignore her and reach for it.

It’s Theo.

My fingertips just reach it when Sarah steps forward standing on my hand. I let out a scream as I hear the bones crack underneath the pressure.

“Shut up!” she yells, lifting up her foot.

The pain is so intense it takes a couple of seconds before I can lift it off the floor to my chest.

“What’s wrong with you, Sarah? Why are you doing this?” I cry, clutching my broken hand while trying to stand up using the other.

She hovers above me then pushes me back to the ground again. I land with a thud.

“It really has gone to your head, hasn’t it?” she scoffs, her voice laced with venom.

I’m so taken aback by her reply it takes me a moment to respond, “What’s gone to my head? What are you talking about?”

Her eyes travel up and down my body in disgust, her face screwed up like someone’s shoved a slice of lemon in her mouth. “A year ago you were just an invisible tub of lard.”

Now it’s my turn to be speechless, I stand there silent as she continues, “Don’t you realise, Imogen? This isn’t about you or your fucking boring, overpriced, monotonal taste in interior design.” She cocks her head to the side mockingly. “As if anything would ever be about you.”

My phone rings again, but this time Sarah picks it up off the floor. She inhales a sharp breath when she sees the caller ID. While she’s distracted, I take the opportunity to try and get up again, clamouring to my feet.

“Don’t even think about it. You can’t ruin this for me, Imogen. I won’t let you. The sooner you get out of our lives the better.”

Our lives?