The Cloud. Episode 12

2019. Portobello,Edinburgh

A week after the meeting, Janet stood in her hall staring at the intercom system. They were late. They should have been there at 12. It was quarter past and still no sign of them. Perhaps they wouldn’t come. They’d have lost interest. Moved on to another cause. They’d be picketing the Parliament. Or climbing a rig in the North Sea. Or locking themselves to a chemical plant. Not wasting time inspecting the home environment of a pet cloud.

Janet walked into the bathroom, looked at herself in the mirror. She frowned, pulled the thin silver string of her eyebrows together into a single curved line then forced her mouth into an artificial smile. She needed to stop worrying. Assert her authority. She’d been someone once. Someone to reckon with. An opinion former before the influencers came along with their pointless trivia and their turquoise highlights and their Instagram accounts. She’d been a woman who was invited onto panels. A woman who appeared in newspapers. A woman who was interviewed on the radio. Five whole years of it on and off. And then, soon after the second inquest, they’d dumped her. Moved on to a higher scale of misery. Two lost lives weren’t enough. The men in desert boots and bulging waistcoats wanted tsunamis. Earthquakes. Pandemics. Twin Towers. The falange of microphones had left as fast as it had arrived.

‘For God’s sake,’ she said to her reflection. ‘They’re young enough to be your children.’ She pushed her shoulders back, stood on her tiptoes, took a lipstick from the shelf, opened her mouth and painted her lips cherry red. Cherries in the Snow. Imagine having a job naming the colours of cosmetics. She smacked her lips together. Dabbed the excess waxy paste off with a tissue. The neighbours’ kids had given the lipstick to her for Christmas. We know you love cherries, Janet, the two of them had said to her in chorus. And it will make you pretty.

She ran her fingers through her hair and tousled her fringe. Her hair was thinning back from her forehead, exposing the dry scaly skin of her scalp. She turned to Cyril who was draped over the shower head. ‘What do you think, Cyril? Will I do?’ The cloud dropped a shower of tiny ice crystals into the bath. They bounced and tinkled on the enamel. ‘I guess that’s a yes, then.’ The intercom buzzed. ‘That’ll be them, Cyril. Look happy will you. And stay up on the ceiling. Just in case.’