Outward Appearances

Her expensive shoes – last season Marc Jacobs kitten heels in powder blue – click on the tarmac as she walks down the street. She places one foot in front of each other a little carefully, but no-one notices – she’s practised at walking in heels, of course, just like any glamorous young woman should be. No-one can tell, but the backs of her feet are raw, rubbing painfully against the straps of the shoes she paid far too much money for.

She pauses for a second, makes sure her handbag is shut. Her nails are false, pale pink against the black of her leather bag. There are little diamante swirls on each of her thumbs. No-one can tell, but under the false nails, her own are bitten down to the quick with frustration and nerves.

She looks up, spots her bus coming around the corner, hurries her pace, her heels clacking across the road as she flags it down. Her arms are draped fashionably in this season’s must-have, bought from a high-street store last week at a bargain price. No-one can tell, but under the fashionable clothes, she is extraordinarily skinny: under her expensive shirt, all twelve of her ribs are countable.

She sweet-talks the bus driver, smiles at him as she shows him ID, maybe flirts a little as she buys a ticket. He grins sappily after her as she boards the bus, her angelic laugh making the whole atmosphere of the vehicle seem a bit lighter. He can’t help but think that she must like him, to flash that beautiful, sincere smile in his direction. The other passengers think similar things: she must be happy. She must be content. She must be perfect.

(She must be perfect. she must be perfect. shemustbeperfect…)

No-one can tell, but she has just killed a man.