On her fourth day on the job, WPC Gill Prescott is having a cry in the loo.
She's furious with herself, even as the tears stream down her face and her breath gurgles in through her nose as an ugly snort. She balls her fists, lets her fingernails dig into her palms, hears herself make a noise that's halfway between a wail and a whine.
She'd thought she was done with this, thought the training had beat it out of her. Silly little woman, thinking she could do a bloke's job. That's what they'd all thought. What they'd said, either in words or pinches on the arse or condescending smiles. She'd turned to steel, she'd thought, fuck 'em all, only this is so, so much worse than her fellow trainees behaving badly. These are the people she respects, the people she wants to be, and the smirks and the leers and the make us a brew, sweethearts are so much worse coming from them.
Gill wipes at her eyes, sniffs again. Enough of this. She'd known it was going to be tough, right from the start. Doesn't mean that it's wrong that it gets to her - the entire system is fucked, would get to anyone, she's allowed to be bothered by it - but she has to get back. Can't sit in here for an hour blubbering. She feels the sting at her eyes again, but this time she fights it. Grabs a wad of toilet paper, blots her eyes, gives her nethers a wipe (have a wee and a cry, never let it be said that I can't multitask), stands and tugs her knickers up and flushes the toilet with finality. Done.
Then "shit," when she sees her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Her eyes and nose are red, and the mascara she applied this morning is running down her cheeks and smeared beneath her lashes. "Fuck." She grabs a handful of paper towel, soaks it in water, tries to rub the mess away. Mascara comes off in black smears, but somehow there doesn't seem to be any less on her face. A panda staring back at her, or perhaps a coal miner, bloodshot and soot-stained.
Gill scrubs harder, begins to make some headway, but of course the rest of her makeup is ruined now, streaked and blotchy. She knows she'll have to lose it, dampens more towels, scrubbing at her face. It looks pink and raw underneath, and she looks so desperately young without it, a little girl in her too-stiff uniform shirt, still starchy from the packaging.
She realises she's crying again when she hears the door open.
The woman who comes through it is also in uniform (thank god), probably a few years older than her. Her jacket is neat but creased around the edges, moulded comfortably to the shape of her. She wears it with a confidence that Gill can only hope to one day possess. She takes in the sight before her - Gill's blotchy face, the mound of makeup-smeared towels on the bench beside her, the brand new uniform - with one measured flick of the eyes.
"You all right, kid?" she asks.
"I..." Gill's voice falters, fails her. Half of her doesn't know where to begin, the other is struck dumb by being called 'kid' by a woman who can't have more than three years on her. She's not sure whether to be insulted or not.
When she doesn't respond, the other woman speaks. "It's rough, the first few months. Rough for the whole first year, more or less. But you've obeyed the first rule, haven't let them see you cry, so you're doing okay."
"Yeah," Gill whispers, voice thick. "It's gonna be a fucking mystery, isn't it, what I was doing in here. I've made a mess of myself." She turns away, dabs at her eyes again, tries to rub off a stubborn black smear. It hardly budges.
"Hey," her voice is both sharp and soft as she steps forward, touches Gill's elbow, waits for her to look up. "Nothing that can't be fixed if you stop clawing at yourself. Breathe, will you? Properly."
It isn't until the other woman draws attention to it that Gill realises that her breath is fast and shallow, and that her heart has answered it, pounding hard. Now aware, she makes a conscious effort to breathe deeply, measuring the seconds.
The other woman wets a towel of her own. "Let me," she says, touching Gill's shoulder to urge her around. Gill shifts, allowing herself be directed, and watches as the other woman twists the end of the towel in large hands, making a ball at the end. "Here." Her hand lifts, and a moment later, Gill feels the damp paper against her cheek, dragged under the eye with a firm pressure. She blinks, tears in her eyes again, and the other woman grunts.
"No more of that, all right? We'll get you fixed up, and no one will be any the wiser." Gentle, steady fingers grip Gill's chin, lifting it up. The towel goes to work beneath the other eye, and Gill feels pinned, but not in a bad way. The other woman's features are focused, concentrating, but on Gill's cheeks rather than her eyes, so it's less uncomfortable than it could be.
Gill takes the moment to study the woman. She's tall, almost a head taller than Gill, with a strong, square chin that matches the broad set of her shoulders. Handsome, Gill thinks, not sure she's ever met a woman she could describe that way before. The look gives her a natural authority that she reaffirms with her manner. Gill's built like a bird, all points and flapping elbows, and she envies this other woman her sturdiness.
"What's your name?" the woman asks, working at a stubborn spot on Gill's cheekbone. "How long you been on the job?"
"Gill Prescott," she answers. "Four days."
"And what have the sods on level three been saying to get you so upset?"
Gill sighs, mind filling up with all of it again, barely registering surprise at the fact that this woman knows which level she works on. "It's just...everything, you know? Like I'm breathing different air or something. Just..."
"Yeah," her voice is an understanding sigh and her chin moves in a tiny nod.
"The next one who calls me short stuff, though, or tinkerbell, or sprout, is liable to wind up with my fist in his throat."
Fingers lift her chin higher and the cloth runs along her jawbone. The woman's eyes - hazel, sparkling - flick up for just a moment to catch Gill's, as her lips quirk up in a smile. "Could you reach?" she asks, before dropping her gaze again.
Gill feels her eyebrow lift, but somehow, it doesn't make her angry, coming from this woman. Feels her own lips twitching upwards, actually. "Bet your arse. I'd climb 'em like a tree if I couldn't."
That earns her a proper laugh, from down somewhere in the other woman's insides. She's got a deep laugh, deeper than her voice. "That's the spirit." She gives Gill's chin a wipe, releases her jaw. "There, you're clean."
Gill half turns, surveying herself in the mirror. Clean she is, but still pink-faced and bare, where before she'd been put-together. "Thanks," she says, but hears a sigh come out at the end of it. "Still look a wreck, though, like a little kid playing dress-up."
"Did I say I was done?" the woman asks, taking a half step back to tug the strap of her handbag and pull it round to the front of her. Looks up at Gill as she slips a hand inside to rummage around. "I learned the hard way to always have supplies. If it's not having a cry, it's some low-life tosser spits in your face." She gives a tug, and pulls a red makeup purse out of her bag. "You're basically the same colour as me. Might not be perfect, but it'll be good enough that the lads upstairs won't know the difference."
Gill watches, then, as this woman - bloody guardian angel, more like - unzips the purse and lines up what's almost a full makeup kit on the bathroom counter. Foundation and powder, blusher, eye pencils and lipstick. Gill can't help but laugh - an astounded sound, high and strange. "What are you, Superintendent Slap?"
The woman chuckles again. "WPC Slap, more like. Help yourself."
Gill does. Reapplies foundation and powder as the other woman uses the loo, and immediately feels less ridiculous. The blusher, she's sparing with - her face is pink enough underneath that she doesn't want to draw attention to it. She forgoes the lipstick - not her colour, and she does have her own with her in her bag, which she left upstairs. She's uncapping the eye pencil when the other woman emerges from the stall, but she finds that her hands are still shaking just enough that she's wary of it. Stands there by the sink while the other woman washes and dries her hands, trying to stare her trembling fingers into submission.
"You want me to do that for you?" the woman asks, glancing sideways.
"Could you?" Gill responds, holding the pencil out in frustration. It changes hands and they maneuver again, turning to face each other, up close.
"You won't poke my eye out, will you?" Gill asks, trying for playful but just sounding vulnerable.
"Doubtful. 've got three sisters, so I have done this before. Granted, Sal's only got one eye, but that were hardly my fault."
Gill laughs, a rapid-fire burst, then sobers. "You're kidding, right?"
The other woman blinks slowly, face deadpan, then says "Yeah," and then they're both laughing.
"Okay." A smile, lifting the pencil, when they've both recovered. Fingers under Gill's chin again. "Look up." Gill does, and feels a thumb touch her bottom eyelid, tugging gently, and then she's fighting the reflex to blink when the pencil comes at her. The hard tip tickles at her lashes as it drags across, and it's bizarre, letting someone else do this. Gill blinks as the thumb and the pencil move to her other eye, reflex not so strong this time, and then her gaze focuses back on the other woman's face as, finger under her chin, she studies Gill briefly, evaluating her handiwork.
"All right, you're good," she smiles, finding the pencil cap and slipping it back on. Gill turns, glancing at herself in the mirror as the makeup is collected back into its red bag. She nods at her reflection, satisfied, then turns back to face the other woman again.
"Thank you for this," Gill says, and she's not sure she's ever meant anything more in her life. "I hope you'll let me buy you a drink sometime, say it proper."
"It was no trouble," the other woman says. "But yeah, if you like. Whenever. I'm over the road, most nights. Come by some time."
Gill smiles, glances at her hands. There's a mucky streak of mascara running along one finger. She turns on the tap to give her hands one last wash. Glances at the other woman first. "Do you have a name, by the way? Or should I just go on calling you Slap?"
A smile. "It's Julie. Dodson. But you can call me whatever you like."