"All I wanted was a bit of excitement.
All I did was apply for a job.
And then all of me fell deeply and irrevocably in love with him."
Natalie Moon applies for an unknown job, and falls straight in the lap of One Direction. More specifically, Harry...
As I pack my art stuff into a black duffel bag I found stuffed at the back of my wardrobe, I can't help but think the whole situation is a little sketchy.
I've been offered the job, which is incredible, and the money is substantially more than what I'm currently making at the pub. It's a live-in job, so I won't have to commute, and I'll basically be doing what I already do for myself( cooking and cleaning) but getting paid for it. It definitely seems too good to be true, and I wouldn't be surprised if I turn up at the given address tomorrow afternoon and find the whole thing has been a scam.
But it's been a long time since I've thought 'fuck it' and done something out of my normal routine, so I'm not going to give up just yet.
I whizz through my nighttime routine and settle into bed, letting the sound of traffic in the distance lull me to sleep.
Bright and early the following morning, I use the last of the bread for a couple of slices of toast and make myself a coffee, puttering around the kitchen as I eat. I throw all perishable food into a bag for the bin men to collect, not knowing how long I'll be gone and not wanting to have to clean mouldy food whenever I do return.
I dress in my newly purchased 'work clothes': dark fitted trousers and a pale blouse, hoping a professional demeanour will help me transition into this new job, though, having showed up to the job interview in paint splattered trousers (I genuinely couldn't find anything without paint on it), I get the feeling they aren't too worried about how I dress. Or about me in general, to be honest.
Brian didn't ask any personal questions, he just wanted to know whether I had experience taking care of other people, which I have, and whether discretion would be an issue. I said to him that considering I don't have any social media and no-one to miss me, I didn't think it would be a problem. I got the impression he approved of those facts.
I packed the last of my stuff into a second bag, scoffing to myself that almost all of what I own fits into just two bags, and a good portion of that is painting stuff.
Finished paintings lie against just about every wall in the small house. I've always liked to imagine that one day I'll be able to make a living off of my art, but I have absolutely no idea how one even begins doing such a thing, so canvas after canvas lies dormant, gathering dust. It makes the house colourful at least.
A favourite piece of mine, one of the only ones that I actually got round to hanging on my bedroom wall, catches my eye, and I stop and stare at it.
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It's a painting of my mother I did not long before she died. She was so natural, sat in the kitchen laughing at me, and I knew immediately I wanted to paint her in that moment, to immortalise her in a moment of joy.
I almost threw it away when she passed. Every time I looked at it I felt this dull, throbbing pain deep in my stomach. But beauty deserves to be remembered, and sometimes the saddest things are the most beautiful.
