Reinvention

She’d always believed in reinvention: she was paper scrawled on with would-be-profound words so many times that she’d ripped. She’s making small talk with a stranger in a bar trying rather too hard to be minimalist, and contemplating the aluminium stool she is leaning against. Her companion for the evening had brought her over here, and she had followed out of pure curiosity. It’s quite possible that she’s lying to him, but the line that segregates fantasy and reality has been erased so roughly that there’s only a smudge of graphite description and a few errant rubber shavings left. Besides, boundaries of truth only serve to limit the imagination. She smiles flirtatiously at him, unsaid promises waiting on swollen lips. He’s asking her for her name, and she reluctantly drags herself out of her mind to consider him. He’s tall, dark and handsome in the stereotypical and oh-so-arrogant way. Worth a story, at any rate.

‘It’s Annie, Annie Parks.’ It’s not actually, not even vaguely close, but she’s had ‘The Sun Will come Out Tomorrow’ stuck in her head for the last twenty minutes. Ever since the baby faced weather guy on the flat screen television blaring on the wall made some sort of pathetic joke about the song. He’s gone now anyway, and it’s switched to a football match, but the contrast’s way too high and the pitch is a sickly green. Not unlike the cocktail she’s pretending to drink. Anyway, there’s a park across the road, well, across and up a little, so it seems she’s been re-christened. Of course, for that theory to hold she’d have had to have been christened in the first place.

**

I kick the door shut as I cross the threshold, chucking my keys on the hall table and giving myself a cursory glance in the mirror.

’12.25, that’s early for you. How far did you get?’ I roll my eyes at Alex as I saunter into the open plan living room. She’s curled up on the sofa, watching a drama of some description, fingers wound round the stem of a wine glass.

‘That’s for me to know.’ I collapse next to her, grabbing the remote and changing to the news.

‘Hey, I was trying to watch that.’ She sounds half hearted at best, so I continue to flip through channels. ‘So, who were you?’

I sharpen my voice to an eloquent, faux genteel tone. ‘Annie Parks. Daddy works in pharmaceuticals, and Mother breeds Arabs and does charity work up in Hampshire. Of course, my younger sister goes to boarding school, but Daddy says I should try and become independent, so he brought me this flat in central London for my 21st. It’s simply awful of him, he even threatened not to pay my bills. It’s just after that silly credit card problem with Prada.’ Alex snorts.

‘Oh, how demure.’

‘Hey, don’t judge me, he was that type. Very mummy’s boy, trying out a dangerous phase.’

‘Score?’

‘About a 7, but that’s mainly for the hair.’ I slide my feet out of my heels, toes grazing the fluffy rug on the hardwood for before I shove them unceremoniously into slippers.

‘What was his name?’

‘Mark… no, Martin. Matt? Oh gosh,’ I fake concern ‘It’s something in the ‘M’ family…’ Alex grins.

‘You’re awful, you know that?’
‘Oh Alexia, you hurt me, you do. And the Church shall forever frown upon me.’ I’m dripping with sarcasm as I heave myself off the sofa and pad towards my room. ‘Don’t wake me up tomorrow.’ She mumbles an affirmative as the door to my room clicks shut.