pretend I don’t care what’s inside.
But I can’t help it—I do care. I know it sounds ridiculous, but I was almost looking forward to coming home this evening because of that damned letter. I’m sure it’s just the anticipation of what might be inside—it’s probably just a boring letter from Cressida’s granny or something. But I can’t help thinking that that letter and the Soho House program somehow link me with a world that I’d never be able to touch normally; if I open it, I might discover the door to a world that includes Nobu, Soho House, and great parties and doesn’t include Laura or Pete or anything else that gets me down. I’m not expecting an Alice-in-Wonderland-style “Eat This” pill or “Drink This” bottle, but it’s like a birthday present—however much you know it’s going to be another set of handkerchiefs, you still can’t wait to open it up, just in case.
I really must just throw it away and be done with it.
Although I did promise I’d hold on to it.
Suddenly I have an idea, and pick the letter up, running my fingers along the thick, creamy paper. Then I take it into the bathroom with me and prop it up next to the taps. The bath is nearly full, and as I lower myself into the hot, steamy water, I glance at the letter furtively. If it gets steamed open by accident, that’s hardly my fault, is it? It could happen to anyone.
An hour later, I’m red and wrinkly. The letter, on the other hand, is still infuriatingly smooth, creamy, and perfectly sealed. Annoyed, I get out of the bath and dry myself, slathering on body lotion.
Body lotion. Now, there’s an idea.
I pick up the letter again, and accidentally-on-purpose smother the back of it with lotion. It’s grease, right? That should open up a letter, shouldn’t it?
The envelope doesn’t budge. Frustrated, I stare at the bottle of lotion as if it were failing me on purpose. There on the front, as if it’s mocking me, is written “Non-greasy, Non-stick.” Bloody stupid lotion—that’s the last time I buy that brand.
Well, sod it. I don’t need to read the stupid letter, anyway. I have much better things to do with my time.
Like . . . I look at my feet. Of course—like, paint my toenails. Purposefully I put on a toweling robe, pick up the letter and some red nail polish, and plonk myself down on the sofa. As I carefully vamp up my feet, I studiously ignore the letter, which is now propped up against the arm of the sofa.
I wonder what I should wear to Canvas. I know Julie will be wearing some stunning Westwood creation, and Lucy is probably the most beautiful person I’ve ever been in the same room as, so I’m going to have to find something pretty spectacular in my (still cluttered) wardrobe. Well, at least I will have pretty toes to show off, so that means sandals.
I stretch out my legs to admire my work, and notice with irritation that there’s a smudge on my big toe. Leaning over to dab at it with a tissue, I knock over the nail varnish and in a flash it starts seeping out all over the sofa. And all over the letter. Shit—I knew I shouldn’t have left it there.
Cursing myself for being so clumsy, I pick up the bottle quickly and try to scoop as much of the polish back in, but in doing so I manage to spread it all over my hands. This is a bloody disaster.
Why am I such a klutz? Grabbing some tissue and nail polish remover from the bathroom, I do what I can to clear up, then stand back to survey the damage. The sofa cushion is only ruined on one side, so I turn it over quickly, then sit back down heavily. My poor toes are now a kind of stained pink—they look raw and injured, not glossy and groomed. And as for the letter, well there’s no way I could give it to the landlord now, with the name and most of the address completely smothered in glossy red gunk.
Although . . . I look at it more closely. Covered in nail varnish, you wouldn’t actually know who the letter was for. I mean, you can’t see the
But I can’t help it—I do care. I know it sounds ridiculous, but I was almost looking forward to coming home this evening because of that damned letter. I’m sure it’s just the anticipation of what might be inside—it’s probably just a boring letter from Cressida’s granny or something. But I can’t help thinking that that letter and the Soho House program somehow link me with a world that I’d never be able to touch normally; if I open it, I might discover the door to a world that includes Nobu, Soho House, and great parties and doesn’t include Laura or Pete or anything else that gets me down. I’m not expecting an Alice-in-Wonderland-style “Eat This” pill or “Drink This” bottle, but it’s like a birthday present—however much you know it’s going to be another set of handkerchiefs, you still can’t wait to open it up, just in case.
I really must just throw it away and be done with it.
Although I did promise I’d hold on to it.
Suddenly I have an idea, and pick the letter up, running my fingers along the thick, creamy paper. Then I take it into the bathroom with me and prop it up next to the taps. The bath is nearly full, and as I lower myself into the hot, steamy water, I glance at the letter furtively. If it gets steamed open by accident, that’s hardly my fault, is it? It could happen to anyone.
An hour later, I’m red and wrinkly. The letter, on the other hand, is still infuriatingly smooth, creamy, and perfectly sealed. Annoyed, I get out of the bath and dry myself, slathering on body lotion.
Body lotion. Now, there’s an idea.
I pick up the letter again, and accidentally-on-purpose smother the back of it with lotion. It’s grease, right? That should open up a letter, shouldn’t it?
The envelope doesn’t budge. Frustrated, I stare at the bottle of lotion as if it were failing me on purpose. There on the front, as if it’s mocking me, is written “Non-greasy, Non-stick.” Bloody stupid lotion—that’s the last time I buy that brand.
Well, sod it. I don’t need to read the stupid letter, anyway. I have much better things to do with my time.
Like . . . I look at my feet. Of course—like, paint my toenails. Purposefully I put on a toweling robe, pick up the letter and some red nail polish, and plonk myself down on the sofa. As I carefully vamp up my feet, I studiously ignore the letter, which is now propped up against the arm of the sofa.
I wonder what I should wear to Canvas. I know Julie will be wearing some stunning Westwood creation, and Lucy is probably the most beautiful person I’ve ever been in the same room as, so I’m going to have to find something pretty spectacular in my (still cluttered) wardrobe. Well, at least I will have pretty toes to show off, so that means sandals.
I stretch out my legs to admire my work, and notice with irritation that there’s a smudge on my big toe. Leaning over to dab at it with a tissue, I knock over the nail varnish and in a flash it starts seeping out all over the sofa. And all over the letter. Shit—I knew I shouldn’t have left it there.
Cursing myself for being so clumsy, I pick up the bottle quickly and try to scoop as much of the polish back in, but in doing so I manage to spread it all over my hands. This is a bloody disaster.
Why am I such a klutz? Grabbing some tissue and nail polish remover from the bathroom, I do what I can to clear up, then stand back to survey the damage. The sofa cushion is only ruined on one side, so I turn it over quickly, then sit back down heavily. My poor toes are now a kind of stained pink—they look raw and injured, not glossy and groomed. And as for the letter, well there’s no way I could give it to the landlord now, with the name and most of the address completely smothered in glossy red gunk.
Although . . . I look at it more closely. Covered in nail varnish, you wouldn’t actually know who the letter was for. I mean, you can’t see the
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