Page 64 of Isn’t It Nice We Both Hate the Same Things
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Ivan and Dora have joined me at an apartment inspection, as I prepare for my casts to be removed next week.
‘Well, it’s no work of art,’ Ivan says, hands on hips, face tipped upwards as he looks around the place. ‘But at least Dave doesn’t live in this one.’
Two bedrooms, oak floorboards, high egg-white ceilings.
The apartment has been staged with furniture, and I run my hand over the gas-lift bar stools as we pass them.
There’s a paved courtyard downstairs, which feels a bit flash.
Long and thin, and no in-built wardrobes, the whole place can be toured in under five minutes.
‘You could afford bigger,’ Dora says, as we move through the kitchen.
Dora’s done a test run of her wedding glam – her skin fake-tanned golden brown, hair curled into a low bun with extensions for volume, a thin layer of make-up with smoky eye – and I’m afraid I barely recognised her when she arrived.
Ivan was so taken aback by her new look he was stunned into silence for a good ten seconds.
‘Not sure I need bigger,’ I say. Because I’ve had that, in Graham’s house, and I don’t crave it. Don’t feel at home in such a big place. What would I even do with more bedrooms? More space to self-loathe, I guess. How morose!
Ivan does not share the same opinion. ‘Can’t believe you never told us you lived with him.’ He shakes his head, disappointed in me.
‘It wasn’t all that great,’ I say again, assessing the bathroom from the threshold.
The doorway is far too narrow for the chair, and I fear I’ll get trapped inside if I proceed.
But I stretch forward and scan what I can from here – the black-and-white titles, the shower over the bath, the mirror cabinet.
‘Right, okay, sure,’ Ivan says from behind me. He’s now collapsed on the sofa and is flicking through his phone. ‘Grandpa had his own housekeeper .’
His own housekeeper, cleaning team, pool cleaner and grounds-keeper. But I don’t tell them that, of course. Need to keep some level of mystery (and I fear Ivan’s poor heart would seize).
I capture a brief video of the place and send it to Genevieve, and she responds straight away.
Cute!
The speed in which she replies to my messages always feels like a personal attack – a reminder that she fears I’m going to hurt her again. I miss having her nearby, but I know how happy she is to be home.
‘Oh god,’ Dora exclaims, as she walks into the bathroom and sees herself in the mirror. She turns her head – one way, then the other – and winces. ‘The lighting in here is a lot harsher. Do I look okay?’
Ivan catches my eye.
‘Too much fake tan?’ she says, stretching out her arms, borderline panicky.
Ivan and I say nothing, for a moment. She looks swish, but she doesn’t resemble herself. She’s usually so pale, and fair skinned. Hair short, thin and flat. Fingernails, unpainted. Ears, bare. Eyebrows, unsculptured and certainly not as dark as they are today.
‘You look good,’ I say. And Ivan nods, although he cannot look at her directly.
‘Not too orange?’
I consider being honest. Then, instead, say, ‘You look fancy.’
‘Is that a good thing?’
‘Fancy is good,’ Ivan says, and then he ducks off into the bedroom. I fear if he stays any longer, he’ll start being honest and then we’re all in trouble.
‘What about my make-up?’ she says, fingers pressing gently on her cheeks.
‘It looks nice.’
‘Just nice?’
I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. She looks lovely. But she looked lovely before.
‘This is the first time I’ve had acrylic nails,’ she says, extending out her hands. ‘Maybe they’re too long—’
‘Right then,’ Ivan says, re-entering the room. ‘Shall we head?’ He’s jittering, bored. Never can sit still for too long.
All talk of Dora’s new look ceases, and we tell the real estate agent, who until now has been hovering near the door, we’re ready to leave. ‘Thank you,’ we all chime, and he nods. It’s remarkable how well-dressed all the agents are – primed and sleek.
Angling towards Dora and Ivan, I say, ‘Thank you for coming.’
‘Of course we came,’ Dora replies. ‘We’re friends.’
It’s the first time she’s said that about me – friends . And it makes me smile, makes me giddy. Friends . How juvenile, for me to hold onto that word. But how lovely it is to hear someone say it for the first time.
Before we exit the apartment, I grab her hand and hold her back.
‘Your wedding photos,’ I say. ‘Your parents will frame them and put them all around their house. They’ll live on your social media, and every year, on your anniversary, you’ll see them as a reminder.
It’s inevitable. So, you need to be happy with how you’re going to look on the day because if you don’t , you’ll wish you could go back in time to this moment’ – I point at the ground – ‘and tell yourself to change it.’
She is rooted to the floor for a moment, looking down. Then, she quickly ducks into the bathroom again. Takes one brief look at herself and loses the plot. ‘Cleaver’s going to think he’s at the wrong wedding. I look like my great aunt Cynthia.’
Ivan hides a laugh.
She is still horrified. ‘I’m going to tell them to strip it back. This isn’t me.’
‘I think that’s a good idea.’
I laugh, and Ivan steps forward. Places a hand in front of him, as he delicately chooses the right words. ‘Does this mean I have permission to make fun of you now? Because your skin is the colour of clay.’
Dora howls with laughter, hands straight to her face in shame.