Gold & Blue

A Short Story - Written by Ayla Melville

The rail squeaks as I drag it across the shop floor. It’s heavy and awkward. The plastic bags that protect the clothing billow as I pause under the aircon unit. It’s a perfect day outside. Blue sky and twenty-four degrees. Everyone in town is wearing sandals and vest tops. And I’m stuck, inside, processing delivery, recycled air drying out my throat. I pull the rail the rest of the way into the Men’s section, pushing it against the wall by the fitting rooms. The set rails are always stripped and security-tagged before we start anything else. It’s a tedious job. A tedious job I hate. As I begin to rip apart the plastic bags, there’s a tap on my shoulder, accompanied by a familiar, intoxicating scent.

‘Hello, you.’ I turn around quickly, off-balance. Emily stands in front of me, wearing a long, flowing dress with a purple flowery pattern. She looks incredible, her shoulders golden.

‘You’re back!’ I scramble to collect myself. ‘I thought you weren’t back until – how was it – your trip?’

The photo I’d seen on Instagram of her lounging poolside, in a bikini, flickers through my mind. I fight to block it out.

‘Amazing. We drank, ate, sunbathed, swam.’

‘Sounds perfect.’

‘It really was. And that was before Eric proposed!’ She holds out her hand, showing me the ring on her finger. I’m so taken off guard that my mouth falling open is entirely genuine. Falling. That’s all I feel.

‘Oh my god,’ I manage to get out.

‘I know!’

‘This is…This is amazing. I’m glad for you.’ I force a smile.

‘Thank you. I was so excited to tell you.’ She means it too.

‘I best be invited to the wedding.’

‘Of course, you all will be.’ She beams. ‘I’m going to pop to the office to talk to Andrea about the new window displays. But I’ll be back soon, to help you with the delivery.’

‘Sounds good,’ I say, turning back to the rail of clothes. ‘And congrats, again.’

She pats my arm affectionately, then turns and walks across the store, over to the digi-locked door that leads to the back of house. As soon as she passes through it, I barrel into the nearest fitting room and lock the door behind me.

There’s a small pouffe in front of the mirror and I sink down on it, catching a glimpse of my sweaty hair and red face in the reflection. What was I expecting? She’s your deputy manager. She’s ten years older than you. She’s been with him for years. She’s your deputy manager. These are things I know. Things I have known for almost two years. And yet. I’ve still fuelled the fantasy. Dinners. Wine bars. Nights on the sofa. Mornings spent in bed together. Morning sex. I thought that all the conversations, all the jokes, all the time we spent together, meant something to her. I probably spent more time with her than he did. Probably knew her better, even. I notice my hands have become fists, my knuckles blanching. Why did she give me all that special treatment? Was it all just a little game she’d been playing? She must think you’re such an idiot, following her around like a little lost puppy. Everyone else must think it too. Alex who’s never had a girlfriend. Alex who has no life. Alex who doesn’t know his arse from his elbow.

Andrea’s voice crackles over the radio.

‘Alex. I need you in the office. Now.’ She sounds curt, even for her. No doubt another bollocking coming for something I’ve done wrong.

‘Coming,’ I mutter.

I let the fitting room door slam shut behind me.

I hate the back-of-house corridor. It’s always a mess. People leave plastic packaging and cardboard boxes everywhere that I always have to break down and tidy away. I kick a half-unpacked box of shoes out of my way. Doesn’t she realise? We’d be so good together. Happy. I pass by the lift that’s been broken for months. The doors open and close incessantly on their own, crashing into each other every few seconds. What if I make her see? What if I show her how I feel? My anger twists into excitement. That’s it. I’ll go see what Andrea wants and then I’ll go find Emily. I’ll take her into one of the stockrooms… tell her exactly how I feel. How I know her – how I know she belongs with me. I speed up, adrenaline coursing through me.

As I cross the threshold of Andrea’s office, my eyes fall on something strange. A mannequin? On the floor, facing up to me. How strange? I look down, without really seeing it, and seeing it with perfect clarity. Not just from where I stand, but as if I am lying down beside it, taking in the side profile. Her long golden lashes. Why is she lying here? On the floor? The blue hue of her lips is disarming. Such an unnatural colour for lips to be. Like they’ve been bruised. The kind of bruise you expect will fade to an ugly yellow. It isn’t just her lips. It’s her cheeks too. And the point of her nose. Where has the pink gone?

‘Alex! Alex. Look at me!’ Andrea’s arrival is so sudden, it’s as if she’s an apparition.

Her hands are crossed over each other on Emily’s chest. Pressing, pressing, pressing.

‘Alex! I need you to help me. I need you to help me now.’ A strap of Emily’s dress has slipped off her shoulder, down her arm. I want to reach down and pull it back up.

‘Alex. Please. Take the phone from me.’

I notice the phone in the tight caress of Andrea’s shoulder and cheek. Her cheeks are red. And wet.

‘Please. Take it!’

Somehow the phone is in my hand, as though my arm knew what needed to be done.

‘Hello?’

‘Is someone else with you now?’ It’s a woman’s voice on the other end, calm but direct.

‘Yes. Alex. I’m a… I work here.’

‘Hello Alex. Help is on the way and it’s not far now. Can you please tell me what’s happening?’

‘Andrea, my manager… she’s doing… she’s doing compressions.’

‘Can you tell me about the state of the victim?’          

‘She’s… blue.’

‘Your colleague told me about her medical condition. Do you know if she took her medication today?’

‘Her what?’

‘Your colleague has a heart condition, Alex. It sounds like she has had a cardiac arrest.’

The phone is shaking in my hand. My whole body is vibrating. A heart condition?

‘Alex. I need you to take over with the compressions. You need to take it in turns until the paramedics arrive.’

‘I can’t.’

‘I can tell you how over the phone.’

‘I know how, but I can’t. I know I can’t. Where is it? Where is the ambulance? Where are they? They need to be here now.’

‘The ambulance is really close, but we do need you to take over the compressions.’

‘I’ll do it wrong. I know I’ll do it wrong.’ I am choking on my own breathing. Andrea looks up at me from the floor, her eyes black.

‘Tell them I can do it. It’s fine. I’m fine,’ she pants.

The other voice in my ear insists: ‘This is really important, Alex. I need you to listen to my instructions, we’ll go through it together.’                                        

‘If I do it wrong, she could die. Because of me.’

‘Put the phone on speaker or give it to your manager, we can do it together. I promise you, you won’t do it wrong.’

Emily’s eyes are glass, unmoving, unblinking. Andrea’s arms tremble over her body.

‘Okay,’ I almost whisper.

I crouch next to Andrea. She looks at me, desperate, unsure, but without another choice. I hold out the phone to her, feeling like my arm is not mine. Like my body is not mine. Like I’m watching myself through the window of a car like when I was small; trees rushing past, watching the moon chase me, wondering if I looked as small to stars as they did to me. She takes it.

As my hands hover over Emily’s chest, I hesitate, then place them over her breastbone and press. It takes more pressure than I thought it would. There is more resistance. This is not like the dummy on the floor of the first aid class. There is no empty cavity under my hands. This is a living person. Full of blood and bones and organs. This is Emily. My Emily. I begin to count in my head. Not to thirty, like I’m meant to, but on and on and on and on. At some point the counting becomes pleading. Press. Please. Press. Please. Press. Please.

Andrea rests her hand on my shoulder, urging me to keep going through escaping sobs, telling me I’m doing well. Now that I’ve started, I can’t imagine ever stopping. My hands and arms work of their own accord, keeping time to the beating in my head.

Press. Please. Press. Please. Press. Please.  

There’s a loud rap on the door and Andrea rushes over to it. I keep pressing as the paramedics unpack their equipment around me. One pulls a pair of scissors from her bag and tells me to remove my hands. She severs Emily’s dress from the neckline down to her bellybutton; the blade slicing the fabric with ease. Cutting the bra at her breastbone is more difficult; she has to use both hands to force the wire to snap. Emily’s breasts are a translucent kind of white. Her vulnerability terrifies me. I think of my sister, whose nudes got sent around when she was fourteen. How she cried until she made herself throw up. There’s a twisting and wrenching inside me. I’m instructed to start again, and I feel sick. I want to say, no. I want to say, I can’t. But the paramedic has turned back to her equipment. This is not a choice. I say a silent apology before placing my hands on her bare skin. There’s a birthmark at the top of her ribcage, shaped almost like a crescent moon. I look only at the mark as I press, tears pouring from my face.

When the paramedic returns with defibrillator pads, I snatch my hands away, burning. She gestures at me to move and I back away, to the corner where Andrea sits on the floor. The paramedics give instructions to each other as the pads are placed on Emily’s body. When they seem satisfied, they step back so they aren’t touching her. One presses something. I stare at a patch of carpet where the pile has worn away, revealing the padding beneath. My periphery betrays me with the sight of her legs bouncing off the floor. I know her whole body is jumping, convulsing sickeningly like a doll. They stop. Then press the dial again. I shut my eyes and pray for the first time since I was a kid. Please. Bring her back. Please don’t let her die. I can see her soft smile, hear her tinkling laugh, feel her bursting happiness when she showed me her ring. Let her live.

The paramedics stop again, and the room is silent for an excruciating few moments. Then one speaks, almost matter-of-factly, to the other.

‘She’s breathing.’

There is a kind of collapsing that occurs in me, and Andrea too. She’s shivering so hard I can hear her teeth chatter. I’m glad I’m sitting down; I don’t think my legs would’ve held me. My hand must be crushing Andrea’s. We cling to each other like children. I take a deep breath and force myself to look. Emily’s eyes are closed. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, colour is returning to her, the lightest dapple of pink.

I can feel the blood pumping through my own body. My hands throb with it.