Pretty Falling Pieces by Isabelle Culpo
Chapter Three
Sunshine pours through my apartment, waking me far earlier than intended. I forgot to close my curtains when I got home.
Although I didn’t get as much sleep as I probably needed, I still feel refreshed and can muster up the energy to pull myself out of bed.
I decide to strip the bedding and chuck it in the wash. One of my favourite feelings in the world is jumping into fresh sheets at the end of a long day.
Last night I didn’t have the opportunity to settle into my apartment. So for the first part of the morning, I putter around and give the place a thorough clean. Allowing the open windows to purify the stale air. Even though I hired a cleaner to come in and dust a few times, the place is still in need of a deep cleanse. It takes me a few hours, but eventually the surfaces sparkle and any lingering dust has been wiped away.
Just as I’m finishing up, I notice the reed diffuser I keep on my coffee table is on its last legs and I make a note to get a replacement. So instead I light my favourite vanilla & marshmallow candle, inhaling the delicious fragrance.
My apartment has always been my sanctuary.
My very own little piece of heaven.
Decorated in nude and blush tones with accents of rose gold, it’s one of my proudest achievements. One of the advantages of not having much of a social life has been the ability to save a decent deposit for my first apartment. Instead of wasting money on alcohol, clothing, and festivals, I dutifully saved so that I could afford to live independently and on my terms. Money was always used as a manipulation tool throughout my childhood. For that reason, financial independence has been one of my top priorities.
When I left university, I knew I’d need a high paying job so I started working at a successful advertising agency. The job was dynamic and exciting, and allowed me to save most of my earnings, but the culture could be cutthroat.
I naively assumed that when I left school and ventured out into the “real world” my success would be measured by my work ethic and the results I produced.
Turns out that’s not the case.
While I found myself staying late and going above and beyond the expectations of my job, others would always swoop in at the last minute and take the credit.
There were countless lunches and dinners missed where I was told to stay behind and finish up on “urgent” deliverables, while my colleagues got to leave and spend the day “networking.”
Only to find they’d come back to the office, and relay everything to me so I could do my half of the work. Even though I recognised a one-hour networking lunch and 3 days’ worth of research and briefing were nowhere near equal halves, I could never muster up the courage to say something. Anytime I vented to Jess, it used to drive her crazy. She would get so angry on my behalf and feel frustrated that I wouldn’t speak up. She’d end up entering into mock dialogues of how she would’ve responded then urging me to use her words when I’m back in the office and retaliate (which I never actually did).
She’s the type of person that absorbs the feelings of those she cares about, so I always felt guilty after venting my workplace frustrations with her.
At the same time, it was hard for Jess to understand what confrontation is like in my shoes. People have always worked hard to please Jess. Her beauty and personality translate into a valuable social ally. I know it sounds a bit pathetic, but I’ve always felt more disposable to people, and that’s why I’ve never liked to ruffle feathers.
I knew I was being taken advantage of and instead of challenging the agency, I decided to channel my energy towards something else. Luckily, that decision led me to a career I’m genuinely passionate about, interior design.
Since I couldn’t afford to leave full-time work, I started taking on a few clients in my spare time. My neutral aesthetic and use of natural materials resonated with people, and I had built up a small but elite clientele in only a matter of months. Eventually, my income from designing surpassed my earnings from my full-time job.
So I quit. One of the best decisions I’ve ever made.
Now that I’m back, I’ll need to get in touch with some of my clients. Before I left, I had several projects lined up that people wanted me to start work on as soon as I returned. It made me feel so appreciated to know they’d rather wait for me to come back to New Zealand than to work with another designer.
The next few hours are spent getting organised for Monday at my home workspace; a beautiful cream antique desk with brushed gold foil edges sits facing the window. The views of Auckland City often serve as inspiration for my designs. I pull out my laptop and plug it into the charger, pouring myself a cup of rooibos tea while drafting up a to-do list to get things back on track.
Once the final email is cleared from my inbox, I flick a quick update to Matt and Nic, letting them know I’ve arrived back safely and check to see whether there have been any updates on the sanctuary.
There’s also been a call I’ve been putting off since I arrived, but I can’t afford to put it off any further.
I pick up the phone and dial my dad, praying that right now he’s somewhere in a similar time zone. I know they’re round the world somewhere but I’ve honestly lost track by now.
He answers on the third ring, “Michael speaking.”
“Hi Dad, it’s me, how’s your trip going?” Starting off by talking about him is usually always the best strategy.
Our relationship is…strained.
It’s been about a year since we last spoke, but even if it had been ten, I know there’s nothing he enjoys more than having his ego stroked.
“Ahh Imogen, nice to finally hear from you. Your mother and I wondered whether you’d disappeared off the planet. It’s been so long since you last called.”
I roll my eyes. “I’ve been in Africa for the past eight months; it was difficult to get reception there.” It’s a lie but I know he doesn’t really care. “I was working at an elephant sanctuary called Rubanza. I sent you and Mum an email with some photos. I’m not sure you got them…”
“Yes, I got them, and I wondered why you were spending your time volunteering when you should be working and saving up for a better home. Interest rates are as low as they’ll ever be and…”
“I’m aware, Dad but the work we’re doing in Africa is important. Elephants are an endangered species. I think if you just read some more about it, you’d understand why it’s so crucial.”
“I’ve been to zoos all around the world and let me tell you there’s a bloody elephant in every single one of them,” he challenges.
My fists curl at my desk but I remain calm. “Captive elephants are different to wild ones whose habitats are being destroyed and are vulnerable to poachers. It’s actually the reason I called… you’ve created a very successful business from scratch, and the sanctuary needs a stable partner to help expand and refuge more orphaned elephants. If you were interested in becoming an official partner of Rubanza, it could be great press for the company.”
In hindsight my pitch sounded a little weak, but I hope the promise of great PR will sweeten him. If there’s money to be made, he’s usually on board.
“Imogen, you’re an adult now, you need to stop coming to me for money. If you want to sink your investments somewhere you’ll see no return, that’s your choice, but the reason your mother and I are travelling the world is because I made smart financial decisions. I think with my head not my heart. If this charity is so important to you, you need to make it happen yourself and not come to me looking for it.”
I should be surprised by his harsh response, but I’m not. “I’m asking you on behalf of the charity, Dad, the money isn’t for me. It would be a great opportunity for your company, the founders Matt and Nic are going to achieve something great. If you don’t want to be part of that history then that’s your choice. There will be plenty of others who will want to support us.”
I just hope I can find them.
I hear him scoff down the line. “Good luck with that. Anyway your mother and I are looking at spending some time in the Pacific Islands for the next month or two. We’ve chartered a boat so we won’t have access to the internet for a while, but it should finally give me a chance to try spearfishing. You know I’ve always been tinny when it comes to that sort of stuff.”
I listen to him prattle on about his fishing endeavours for the next fifteen minutes. At one point, I even put him on speaker so I can draw at the same time. While his reaction was disappointing, it’s a lesson for next time. I need to be more prepared and present a more compelling commercial argument. Part of me thought that since he was my parent, and animal welfare and climate change is something I’m passionate about, the answer would be a yes, or at least a “let’s talk more when I’m back.” My mistake.
Next time I’ll do Rubanza justice.
I end the call with a headache and more knowledge of sport-fishing than I cared to know, and notice that while I was on the phone, a text must have come through from Jess.
JESS:Feel like shit today. Next time you go home early, take me with you please!
JESS:Also, lunch tomorrow @ Bazaar? 1pm?
That’s one of my favourite restaurants in Auckland, so I reply immediately.
IMOGEN: Sounds good!
Speaking of last night…Theo. Like most girls, I’ve seen cute guys before and developed little crushes. Last night was probably the first time I’d ever actually spoken to them one-on-one though.
Usually, they’re so far out of my league that the only chance I have with them is in the pretend scenarios I make up in my head. That’s about as close to a relationship as I’ve gotten. As cringe worthy as it is to admit.
At least last night was a step in the right direction; I managed to squeak out a sentence.
Next time I may even get in two.
This morning I can think of a million different ways last night’s conversation with Theo could’ve gone. It’s a shame they didn’t make an appearance till now.
Before I’m even aware of it, my fingers have typed “Coleman Construction Theo” in the Google address bar. The first Google result is their website. I follow the link.
Coleman Construction Ltd. specialises in sustainable commercial and residential developments.
Their website gallery hosts a collection of beautiful buildings across New Zealand made from responsibly sourced materials and using environmentally sound methods and business practices.
The further I scroll the more impressed I am by their climate change efforts.
After enough time spent in the industry, I can weed out organisations that aren’t being authentic on this front. The word sustainable is used like it’s going out of fashion. Many just stamp the word over their business, wearing their token participation badges with pride.
At the same time, companies like Coleman are securing the gold medal and doing so without the need to green-wash. I click on the about page to read more, and a few chapters deep, I spot Theo’s name.
Founder, Theo Coleman saw an opportunity to develop commercial buildings using exclusively locally sourced materials. In its first year, Coleman Constructions was one of the fastest growing corporations in New Zealand and it has continued to go from strength to strength.
The demand for quality, ethical builds that will stand the test of time continue is the number one priority for our clients.
Shit, he’s the owner!
No wonder he approached me. He wanted to know who was bludging off his bar tab.
I continue to read about the company, interested in all the work they’ve done so far.
And maybe I’m a tiny bit interested if there’s any more info on their founder.
They’ve received several awards and global accolades for both design and sustainability; they’ve even been contracted to undertake work in Dubai, Sydney, and Singapore.
Once I’ve scoured through every page on their website, I decide enough is enough. I’m procrastinating, and I need to head down to the supermarket to pick up some groceries. I shut down my desktop, grab my keys and reusable bags, lock up, and head out the door.
On my way, there’s a man sitting on the concrete outside the supermarket, clutching a tattered cardboard sign and empty coffee cup. If there weren’t so many people in his situation, maybe it would be a little fuller. Homeless people are treated like gum on the sidewalk in the CBD, unsightly and unavoidable.
“Any spare change, Miss?” he asks, his voice croaky and brittle.
“Sorry, I don’t have any on me.” I only carry cards on me, but I hate to turn him down.
He turns his head towards the person behind me, desensitised to the rejection.
* * *
My pre-Africa shopping trolley contained treats: ice cream, chocolate, cheese, pizza and lemonade. My post-Africa shopping trolley is…healthy. Lettuce, chicken, berries, nuts, things that I’m hoping will help me keep this weight off. Although the former sounds more appealing, I don’t want to spoil whatever progress I made in Africa. I feel fitter and healthier than ever, and if Jess’s comments are anything to go by, then I look much better without carrying around all of that extra weight.
Once I’ve paid, I hook my bags on both arms and spot the homeless man again still in his spot.
I take off one of the grocery bags and set it down next to him. It’s only a few essentials, bread, peanut butter, mandarins, bananas, and muesli bars. He doesn’t acknowledge me standing above him, just dives in to inspect the bag’s contents.
On my way back, I walk past a clothing boutique I’ve always admired from afar. The largest size they carry is a 14, so nothing would’ve fit me in the past. I’d just window shop and daydream. An hour later, I leave that shop with four hundred dollars’ worth of clothing, four sizes smaller than the last time I bought clothing, hoping none of my groceries have defrosted during my unplanned spree.
* * *
Just as the elevator to my floor is about to ascend, a vaguely familiar voice calls for me to hold it.
I manage to keep it open and one of the other residents jumps in just in time. She inhales sharply when she steps inside, then a tight expression crosses her face.
I’ve seen her round before when we’ve crossed paths in the building, but we’ve never actually spoken to one another. I have no idea where the animosity that’s rolling off her in waves is coming from. Maybe I need to introduce myself to clear the air. From memory her name is Sarah.
“It’s Sarah, isn’t it? I’m Imogen. I live on the fifth floor,” I say, offering a smile.
Her eyes narrow. “You’re Imogen? The girl that left for Africa?”
“Yes, that’s me, I was in Africa but now I’m back. I’ve only just got back a day ago.”
It’s only subtle but I notice her nostrils flare slightly. “You look different.”
Not sure how to take that I remain silent. It wasn’t exactly a compliment.
Thankfully the few painful seconds of awkward silence as we wait for the elevator are interrupted when the doors open to her floor.
She steps out of the elevator wordlessly.
Well that was rude.