Plain Jane
Jane nestled into the squashy velvet sofa at her favourite coffee shop, waiting for her order. She came here often to lift her spirits before heading to work the place always smelled of cinnamon and strong, hot cappuccino, and the carrot cake was legendary.
Outside, a slow, steady drizzle misted the window. Jane took a greedy sip from her mug, letting the warmth slip down her throat. At the next table, two women clearly old friends were deep in conversation.
I bumped into my exs new girlfriend the other day, one whispered, voice sharp with incredulity. Honestly, she looks like shes been dragged through a hedge backwards! What did he see in her?
Perhaps she makes a cracking shepherds pie? Or is a marvel in bed? the other chuckled.
Oh, do behave! Here, look at her picture on Facebook face only a mother could love.
They both giggled, heads close. Jane froze, swamped by the echo of her mothers words, overheard years ago as a sneaky child behind the kitchen door: Our Janes no beauty, bless her. Bit plain, but lets hope she makes up for it with good deeds.
Growing up, grown Jane paid close attention to her clothes and makeup. Yet, no matter how she tried, she always felt that she simply wasnt pretty enough. Her mother would often say, Chin up, love. If youre not a looker, youll have to dazzle with your brains. Always do your best, so you wont end up alone.
At school, Jane had hidden from the boys, conscious of her awkward frame and unruly hair. At university, she learnt to dress with style, to line her eyes just so. She even found herself a boyfriend. Strangely, though, he made wisecracks about her flat bottom and giant feet. Jane realised, with a sharp twist of disappointment, that she might never be truly loved, no matter how clever she was. Eventually, she accepted it and carried on.
After polishing off her cake and coffee, Jane dashed to work. At lunchtime, she stopped by her friends flat to feed the cat and water the houseplants Alice had jetted off to Tenerife for a fortnight, and her husband was barely ever home. Alice had departed without worry: Even if they cross paths, my Mike wont give Jane a second glance, shed thought, locking her suitcase.
At Alices place, Jane filled the cats bowl for sleepy Basil, then fussed over the daffodils on the windowsill. From the apartment next door, music drifted in an old pop tune from her childhood. Smiling, Jane sang along softly: Theres a star in the sky tonight, a world away from home In that drowsy, warm room, surrounded by blooms and gentle melody, Jane felt oddly light, as if she might float above the carpet. Without realising, she began dancing in little circles, humming to herself, admiring the flowers and, shyly, her own reflection in the window.
Suddenly, voices echoed down the hall.
Jane whipped round to see two men. There was Mike Alices husband and another fellow she didnt know. Both looked stunned, caught mid-step. Oh, dear God, how utterly mortifying, Jane thought, cheeks burning.
Hello, Jane, Mike smiled kindly, introducing his friend. This is Tom. We just popped in for some paperwork. You were properly dancing we couldnt tear our eyes away. Sorry for the intrusion.
I um Alice asked me to look after things, Jane stuttered.
Panicking, she headed for the door, not noticing Basil sprawled underfoot. She tripped spectacularly, sprawling face-first to the carpet. Blackness spun around her.
She awoke in a stark, lemon-scented hospital ward.
How are you feeling? Im Vicky your roomie. Just a mild concussion, doctor says nothing too serious. A courier came by for you, and a chap with flowers, Vicky grinned, dimples showing.
Thank you, Jane croaked, still foggy.
Slowly, she padded over to the windowsill. There was a little bag: apples, orange juice, and a box of éclairs her secret favourite. Surely a gift from Alice and Mike.
She reached for the flowers, snowy chrysanthemums, and caught sight of a note tucked inside. Dearest Jane get well soon. A girl as charming as you doesnt belong in hospital. Join me for the flower show? No excuses. Tom.
Jane buried her face in the petals, eyes tight with delight, and leapt onto Vickys bed for a hug.
Beauty doesnt have to shout. Every woman has her own kind sometimes, it glows quietly from somewhere deep inside.
