From Velvet’s Dressing Table

I woke beneath my satin quilt with Celeste curled beside me in a cloud of ginger silk and solemn Persian dignity: the two of us, symbiotic hot water bottles for a time. Cool May light drifted through my bedroom windows overlooking Bluebell Park. Outside, birds sang from the branches, some clothed in blossom, some still bare. Further below, quiet green shoots peeped above the soil in the flowerbeds. The surrounding park grass lay like a shaggy green carpet awaiting the first cut of the year. The trees stood at intervals along the path, and from my bed-nest I imagined buttoned-up, coated people walking between them. The chill air seeped into my room, making me burrow for a moment longer beneath the covers. Thick socks warmed my feet while Celeste purred, as though she approved entirely of my reluctance to rise. Symbiotic hot water bottles.

There is a particular loneliness, I think, in beginning again.

Not a sad loneliness exactly, but something quieter. A solitude chosen carefully, like perfume dabbed only where one wishes to be remembered.

After the storm of a love that sought too often to confine me — to dictate, to demand, to diminish — I have come to treasure my freedom with something almost like reverence. My fourth-floor one-bedroom sanctuary at 44 Hawthorn Crescent may sometimes feel hushed, but it is mine. Its original Art Deco features speak to me in stories: the geometric balustrades of the staircase leading to my front door; the circular window in my hall; the frosted glass panels above the cloud-like inlays of the internal doors, and so on. Though my imagination has always been fervent, I cannot help but feel that places remember.

My baths are long. My evenings are my own. My thoughts are no longer interrupted by sharpness.

So perhaps this journal, this dressing table chronicle of satsuma lotion, polished toes, scented rose waters and beauty rituals, is my way of pressing a crimson kiss upon the future.

This morning’s bath was especially lovely.

Steam curled around the room in pearly ribbons while rose oil shimmered atop the water. I stretched out slowly, admiring my own slender ankles beneath the surface. My freshly lacquered crimson toes catching beautifully against the delicate whiteness of my feet. I do so adore this contrast.

There is something endlessly feminine about well-kept feet — soft arches, elegant curves, the delicate line from heel to polished toe. Mine looked especially pretty today, glistening with bathwater and lotion, each careful stroke of my pumice and brush restoring them to their loveliest form. Such small acts of devotion may seem frivolous to some, but I find them quietly powerful.

To care for oneself, tenderly and without apology, is its own sort of rebellion.

Today is Wednesday, my day off work. I now write for a monthly salary at a fashion magazine called Melina. Gone are the empty-fridge days of a struggling freelance writer.

Later this evening, I shall meet Jonesy downstairs before we walk together to our weekly chess session at Café Nocturne. Safe, witty, impossible Jonesy, with his artistic eye and his darling chihuahua, Winston, trotting at his heels in blue-and-green tartan. Sometimes he brings his camera and photographs us patrons. I expect proffered toasted-cheese sandwiches, or a second hot chocolate, as shameless attempts to distract me from my opening moves.

Roz will, I’m certain, have gossip for me tomorrow when I return to work.

And next week…

I cannot wait!

A fashion shoot with a certain exquisite shoe designer, whose heels, with their signature curve, height, and gloss, are currently the most talked about. Heaven, surely, for any woman who understands that shoes are never merely shoes. They are pure art.

For now, though, I remain here in my satin, secluded, sanctuary above the park, clad in velvet lounge wear with Celeste’s warm body against me, and the faint scent of roses still clinging to my skin.

Perhaps this is how beautiful things begin. Not with noise. But with warm bathwater, red polish, and the quiet decision to reclaim oneself completely.

And so, dear reader…

Welcome to my dressing table.

I wonder what lovely adventures await us?