Coraline didn't much fancy going back out again.
She'd been home no more than thirteen seconds before that constant, shrill beep of attention had greeted her from across the room, the red digits on her answering machine flashing. It didn't do much for her migraine.
She slammed the front door closed and carelessly tossed her handbag over the clean white sofa, lamely swiping at the Play button on the machine as she did so. The comforting robotic voice informed her that she had received six messages as she waltzed into the open kitchen and switched the kettle on.
"Message received: today, at: two, thirty-three, pee-em."
"Coraline! Hey!" The warm, strong, masculine voice sung from the little grey module, "Hope you had a great trip! Just calling to say I might be home a little earlier, so can you leave me out some Chinese or something? Bye, love you!"
"Message received: today, at: two, fifty-seven, pee-em."
"Cooorraalliiinneee!" his voice faltered on that slightly flat C - Coraline giggled as she dropped a teabag into her mug. He always did that. "Just making sure you weren't home already and just avoiding me. Turns out I do have to stay a little late. Don't worry about that Chinese. Love you!"
Coraline tipped the steaming water from the kettle into her mug and crossed into the living room, idly stirring her brew with a silver teaspoon. She was vaguely listening to the other messages on the machine (received: yesterday, at: three, oh-six, pee-em / "Hey, baby! Welcome home!"), but more focused on finally being able to kick off those dreadful black heels her publicist made her wear, and let her toes greet that welcoming softness of the shag carpet at the base of the lounge suite.
She looked at the window, and gazed across the drab, gray cityscape stretched beneath her apartment. She'd been here more than five years, but she'd still not got used to the rain. It was rather depressing, she often observed.
Coraline sipped at her strong cup of tea as the machine alerted her that her string of messages had come to a close. So, instead of going through and ringing back all those people (well, mostly just Robin) like she was supposed to, her long, slender fingers scrambled across the soft, cool leather and found the remote control that activated the rather pompously large television that stood in the corner of the room. At once the bright animated colours spread across the blackness of the screen; some stupid ad about something called 'Snuggies'.
Coraline flicked.
A children's cartoon: five menacing blobs, fake smiles plastered on their Styrofoam faces, dancing along and singing about parties in tummies.
Coraline flicked again. The phone rang.
The exasperated woman swept her mop of short, shiny black hair off her face and let a loud sigh of exasperation escape from between her lips. The telephone on the coffee table behind the sofa vibrated and sung for her attention, letting out two wavering calls in short succession, taking a breath, then letting out two more. Coraline reached her right hand up behind her and blindly felt her way around the various bits and bobs, until her fingers landed on the receiver.
"Hey, you're home!"
Coraline huffed good-naturedly. "Hulloh, Robin."
"Hey babe. How was the signing?"
"Exhausting. I really wish that I hadn't written that stupid book."
"Awwh, don't say that! If you hadn't written it, you wouldn't have met me."
"Yeah… I guess you're right. Any chance you're coming home? I'll order us some Chinese."
"Sorry hun, there's no chance of me getting out of here before ten, at the earliest. But leave me some out, if you do order in."
"I'll be sure to. You have fun now."
Robin chuckled half-heartedly. "Doubt that. Oh!" Coraline jerked back in her seat, spilling a little of her tea on her jeans. Robin's sudden cry had startled her; she mustn't be that awake at all.
"What?" she asked.
"That place called the office today. Said you weren't picking up at home."
"What place?"
"You know, the one with the gardens and stuff. The one you called up about the wedding. They've got an opening in June."
If it hadn't been for her nearly full cup of tea, Coraline would've jumped onto the carpet and kicked the sofa over in happiness. But she settled for a loud exclamation of joy instead, that sent quivers of radiation down the telephone lines and almost deafened poor Robin on the other end.
"Are you serious!?"
"Yeah. Too soon?"
"N… no… I dunno… we can talk about it later…"
"If you're not sure about this…"
"No! No, no! I do want to marry you. I'm sure."
"Hah, what a relief. Anywho, I've got to get back to work and drain the blood out of my ears. Have a great night. Love you."
The phone crackled, and a dull, monotonous set of beeps followed. Coraline could not contain that goofy, childish grin that was now creeping outwards from her cheeks. It was as if she was eleven again, planning her wedding. Eleven… that's when... no, no, the therapist had told her to channel it out, it wasn't real, none of it was real, and it was just a wacky idea… but hey, it hadn't been all bad. She wouldn't have been able to afford such an awesome house without it.
Coraline sighed and threw the cordless phone onto the other unit of the sofa, instead of tucking it back into its cradle like Robin had expressed she should on so many occasions. Finally acknowledging her cup of tea, and her comfortable sofa, and the large diamond ring perched on her finger, and the blaring colour of the news report, Coraline slowly drew herself back into the long, droning world that was her adult life.
"… And in other news, the hunt continues for Molly Malloy, who disappeared into seemingly thin air from her home in Ashland, Oregon."
Coraline had heard that. And suddenly, she was fixated upon the woman in her crisp white coat, wearing a stern, stony expression. She began to speak again, but her face could not be seen: instead, on the screen, was a picture of a tall, rickety old pink country house.
"It has been almost two weeks since the disappearance of nine-year-old Molly, and not a trace can be found of her. Research into the history of the home shows that there have actually been three separate previous disappearances of children; all aged between the years of six and eleven. If you have any information on the whereabouts of Molly Malloy, please call this number."
A white slide replaced that of the old house - Coraline's house – displaying a combination of stern black numbers. But Coraline was hardly paying attention by now. She had long since retreated into her mind, still staring blankly at the screen, but not registering anything before her eyes. Everything that had happened… twenty years ago… it was all so faint before, just her wacky dream, just her novel, just her perfectly fictional best-seller… but it was coming back. The house… the garden… the ghost children… the buttons.
But no… the Beldam couldn't be back. Coraline had witnessed the splintered mechanical fingers fall to the bottom of the well, the stiff black key tumbling with them, and she had heard the haunting 'splosh' as the bundle had hit the water. No, she'd seen it, she'd heard it, it had happened. But… there was that cloud. That dark, foreboding cloud silently drifting through Coraline's memory… that wasn't good. There was that uncertainty looming, and despite how much she told herself that She couldn't be back… she couldn't believe it. She was lying to herself.
Without a second thought, Coraline launched herself from the sofa, placing her half-full mug onto the coffee table and switching off the television. She looked around for her shoes – not those horrible black heels that made her feel so fake – and rested her gaze upon the scruffy red sneakers tucked under the coat rack. As she tugged them on over her black stockings, Coraline silently thanked herself for not unpacking from her book-signing tour, and also for staying true to herself and keeping a pair of jeans in amongst the suits and skirts.
She'd rushed through the door and tucked her key under the Japanese lily in the pot that stood proudly beside the doormat (it read: Here lies 'Coraline and Robin') and waited impatiently as the elevator chuffed down from the top level where she lived, down to the busy streets of New York, which she secretly despised, and she stood, angrily hailing a taxi, as the sudden appearance of rain (that foreboding uncertainty) beat down upon her, plastering her ebony hair to her forehead. At last, a bright yellow vehicle stopped before her and she clambered in, puffing indignantly.
"Where to?" the shifty-looking guy asked her gruffly.
"Airport." Was all she had to offer.
"Five hours?! There's nothing sooner?"
"I'm sorry, Miss Jones, but that's the quickest way there. Shall I book you a seat?"
Coraline nodded angrily. Here she stood, here she'd waited for thirty minutes in the queue, and she had to wait yet another five hours until she could board a plane to take her back to Oregon. The blonde girl who sat behind the desk tappity-tapped away at her keyboard, being especially careful not to let her acrylic nails graze the firm plastic. Finally, the printer buzzed and whirred, and an oblong of rigid board ejected itself. The blonde girl tore it off by the pads of her fingers, and handed it to Coraline, who snatched it away. She tucked it into her pocket and made to exit the queue, but the blonde girl cleared her throat loudly. Coraline froze, then spun around.
"Sorry to bother you Miss Jones, but you do have quite a bit of time…" the blonde girl reached under the desk and retrieved an A-3 sized novel, about two and a half inches thick, and slid it across the shiny marble top. Coraline stared down at it, and then back up into the hopeful, yet remarkably blank eyes of the blonde girl. "Could you please sign this? I'm a huge fan."
Coraline put on her brave, professional face and withdrew a silver pen from within her shoulder bag, and peeled back the hard cover of her book. Her round eyes flicked up to the girl's nametag, and she scrawled her default-setting message onto the title page:
'Cindy,
Enjoy the read.
- Coraline Jones'
... Then snapped the cover shut and handed it to Cindy, who smiled gratefully. "Thank you so much!" she exclaimed. "Enjoy your flight."
"I will," Coraline said, her dry voice riddled with lies. She hitched her suitcase up onto the conveyor belt, tucked her pen back into the deep, dark abyss of her bag, and strolled off into the terminal's mini mall. Five hours and counting.
Coraline weaved her way through the clusters of people, not exactly enjoying it, but enthralled regardless by the clash of foreign tongues that met her ears amongst the frenzy and bustle of the travelling crowd. As she passed the book store, she cupped one thin hand over her face in order to conceal it, for a tall, glossy poster of her cheeky grin was plastered in the display window, proudly advertising her literary success.
She stopped in the centre of the food court, searching her surroundings for something that vaguely resembled food. Instead, she withdrew her wallet in the queue at the vegetarian place, and got herself a cheap, bland salad.
As she sat amongst the crowds of foreign people, head down over her dinner, Coraline remembered something. Robin. She hadn't bothered to call him. She whipped out her phone, and made to dial his cell phone. But then erased it. She wasn't in the mood for is prying questions, her agenda going under his scrupulous lawyer microscope. Instead, she dialled her home number.
"Hi, Robin. I'm so sorry, but… there's… family troubles, back in Oregon, and I've had to go visit. I might be gone a little while, but I left some money out for Chinese for you. You probably won't be able to get a hold of me, so I'll call you when I'm coming home. Love you."
Lies. Oh, Coraline Jones, you devious, lying, cheating witch. If you didn't notice, you actually just told your fiancé a whole bunch of lies that will eventually come crashing down on you, and then what would your therapist think? You have a knack for lying these days, don't you?
Coraline desperately tried to mute her conscience as she crunched determinedly on her salad, blocking out her voice of reason with a jaunty tune. She continued this way, denying her mind, until the last of her lettuce was gone, and all that was left were seven little olives, rolling about the bottom of the plastic dish. Coraline had always hated olives. So she levered herself up out of the uncomfortable plastic chair, tossed the remains of her dinner into the bin, and continued on her arduous patrol.
Coraline had wandered into the pharmacy, for lack of anything better to do. She thought she could probably pick up some Aspirin, or something, to ease the thumping caused by her steady neglect of her inner voice. That was, until she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror perched precariously atop the make up stand. She took in her tired eyes, her furrowed, thirty-one-year-old brow, and her neat black bob. It wasn't her real colour; it had never truly returned to that mahogany brown after she started dying her hair at age eleven. But the style, the last thing in her appearance that reminded her she was still her, and not just a shell of a woman plagued by her childhood. That had never changed. But still, she did remind herself of her mother, when she had been young.
Coraline studied the shelves and shelves of beauty products, her radar eyes finally focusing on her intended target. She sauntered over to the shelf of smooth rectangular boxes, and skimmed down them until she reached the tall tubes of those wacky colours all her fans sported. Her fingers curled over one in particular, and she bundled it up into her arms. Then she ascended back up the shelf, and plucked out a box that featured the smiley, carefree bottle-blonde woman. For good measure.
Once her goods were done and payed for, Coraline asked the nearest staff member to direct her to the bathrooms. He told her that there were two located on each floor, and her nearest one was across the food court. But Coraline took the escalator instead, to the very top floor, where barely a soul drifted.
She let herself in to the big, empty white room, and stood over a basin, tugging on the tap, and letting the water warm until it she thought it might scorch her fingers. She ripped some paper towel and soaked it, rolling it up into a wad, and blocked the drain to fill the basin. Then, she emptied her purchases across the counter. She cracked open the bleach, and hastily combed it through her hair. There she sat for all of thirty minutes, playing Tetris, until the alarm she had set sounded, echoing in the deserted bathroom. Coraline snapped on the cheap plastic gloves that had come nestled in with the dye, and craned over the sink, letting the warm water engulf her stinging mop of hair. She massaged her scalp slowly, enjoying the quiet peacefulness of the empty bathroom, and knowing that there were thousands of people beyond this room below her. Once the water ran clear, Coraline tossed her wet bob back, and stared at herself. It hadn't gone blonde, more a coppery colour. But it would do just fine.
Coraline reached for the other bottle that lay strewn amongst the mess she'd made in the public restroom. She squeezed out its contents and covered her hair with it, making sure she got all her roots, her tips, and – with the aid of her palm-sized mirror – the back. She'd always got her mother to do the back before, but now Coraline was a big girl, and she could dye her hair all by herself.
She sat crossed-legged in the stall furthest from the door, perched on top of the toilet, thumbs twiddling away on the keypad of her phone, biting her lower lip in concentration as she attempted to line up the squiggly red block with all the others, thus earning her a mass amount of points. She played through her half-hour alarm, and the alarm that came ten minutes after that, choosing to leave the colour to seep into her roots for a more violent shade. Finally after an hour of 80s arcade fun, Coraline tucked her phone back into her bag and proceeded to rinse out the colour.
And what stood before her now was no Ms Coraline Jones, aged thirty-one, dry-witted author extraordinaire with Robin the Lawyer perched on her arm. Instead, when she looked in the mirror, she saw only Coraline Jones, aged eleven, plucky wannabe-explorer, whose low maintenance bob sported a ferocious shade of electric blue.