—’
‘Thanks,’ she says. ‘Ooh! There’s my phone! Got to go!’
She skips inside and closes the door.
Chapter Eight
There’s a new tenant in Nikki’s room. Barely time for her sheets to get cold. Thin and nervous-looking, creamy skin – Scottish blood, perhaps? Or Irish? – thick fair curls pulled to the back of her head with a rubber band and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She doesn’t look as if she belongs here. But then, he wonders, which one of us
does
look like we belong here? Maybe that’s what all the people who live in houses like this have in common: that we all look like we’re just passing through. And, of course, most of us are.
I’ll have to get to know her, he thinks. Find out her story. She looks… interesting. Like she might have a tale or two to tell. Like she might be one of those strangers who could one day become a friend.
He thinks about her as he makes his preparations. Marianne, with her long dark hair and her scarlet manicure, watches him silently from the armchair. Today, she is dressed in an olive-green silk shift dress, size ten from the Monsoon sale. It hangs off her in folds, far too large, but it’s a good colour and an elegant cut, and he can always take it in; he’s become handy at many skills, over the years. He picked it based on the labels in the clothes she was wearing when they met, but of course she has lost weight since then, gone down to the level of emaciation you generally only see in famine zones, or Hollywood. He needs to remember this, for the future. His lovely friends are thin. Fashionably thin, and then some.
He has bought a new set of plastic sheeting from the builder’s merchant off the Balham High Road. The Lover doesn’t like to attract attention to himself by buying his supplies too close to home, or too many from the same source. It’s time-consuming, but he knows it’s worth it. He could, for instance, have bought the bicarb at £29.99 for twenty-five kilos on eBay, the washing soda at the cash and carry, but he doesn’t want to do anything that will cause remark. So every day, he goes into each supermarket he passes and drops a single pack into his Bag For Life, carries it home bit by bit to store in his cupboards. The bicarb he buys from the craft shop, two, three, kilos at a time, along with bottles of essential oils, which work wonders for smells. The nice, home-knit ladies behind the counter believe he has a hobby business making bath bombs which he sells on Etsy. It’s an unorthodox pastime for a man, but in this increasingly metrosexual age, not odd enough to attract attention.
He rolls out his plastic sheet. It is heavy – the heaviest gauge he could buy – and transparent, so the faded flower pattern on the carpet shows eerily through from beneath. As he crawls across the floor, he brushes Marianne’s shin with his elbow.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, my darling,’ he says. ‘Excuse me.’
The skin on her legs looks dry, today, her hair low in lustre, her make-up faded.
‘I’ve been neglecting you,’ he apologises. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve been busy… you know how it is. I hope you won’t hold it against me.’ He needs to pay her a bit of attention once he’s finished his ministrations for Nikki. It’s not fair to give someone else all the love, when Marianne has been with him so long, been so pleasing. Tonight, when Nikki is safely stowed, they can watch
Big Brother
together. He’ll maybe paint her nails and brush her hair through. He bought a bottle of spray-in shiner at Sally Hair and Beauty when he was up in Soho the other day. Hopefully it will make all the difference.
He’s judged the size of the sheeting wrong, and has to fold it under itself when he reaches the bed. No matter, really, and definitely preferable to leaving a gap. This part of the process is always messy. There are always spillages, however careful one is. He smooths the plastic out, tucks it in, and goes to get the rest of
‘Thanks,’ she says. ‘Ooh! There’s my phone! Got to go!’
She skips inside and closes the door.
Chapter Eight
There’s a new tenant in Nikki’s room. Barely time for her sheets to get cold. Thin and nervous-looking, creamy skin – Scottish blood, perhaps? Or Irish? – thick fair curls pulled to the back of her head with a rubber band and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She doesn’t look as if she belongs here. But then, he wonders, which one of us
does
look like we belong here? Maybe that’s what all the people who live in houses like this have in common: that we all look like we’re just passing through. And, of course, most of us are.
I’ll have to get to know her, he thinks. Find out her story. She looks… interesting. Like she might have a tale or two to tell. Like she might be one of those strangers who could one day become a friend.
He thinks about her as he makes his preparations. Marianne, with her long dark hair and her scarlet manicure, watches him silently from the armchair. Today, she is dressed in an olive-green silk shift dress, size ten from the Monsoon sale. It hangs off her in folds, far too large, but it’s a good colour and an elegant cut, and he can always take it in; he’s become handy at many skills, over the years. He picked it based on the labels in the clothes she was wearing when they met, but of course she has lost weight since then, gone down to the level of emaciation you generally only see in famine zones, or Hollywood. He needs to remember this, for the future. His lovely friends are thin. Fashionably thin, and then some.
He has bought a new set of plastic sheeting from the builder’s merchant off the Balham High Road. The Lover doesn’t like to attract attention to himself by buying his supplies too close to home, or too many from the same source. It’s time-consuming, but he knows it’s worth it. He could, for instance, have bought the bicarb at £29.99 for twenty-five kilos on eBay, the washing soda at the cash and carry, but he doesn’t want to do anything that will cause remark. So every day, he goes into each supermarket he passes and drops a single pack into his Bag For Life, carries it home bit by bit to store in his cupboards. The bicarb he buys from the craft shop, two, three, kilos at a time, along with bottles of essential oils, which work wonders for smells. The nice, home-knit ladies behind the counter believe he has a hobby business making bath bombs which he sells on Etsy. It’s an unorthodox pastime for a man, but in this increasingly metrosexual age, not odd enough to attract attention.
He rolls out his plastic sheet. It is heavy – the heaviest gauge he could buy – and transparent, so the faded flower pattern on the carpet shows eerily through from beneath. As he crawls across the floor, he brushes Marianne’s shin with his elbow.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, my darling,’ he says. ‘Excuse me.’
The skin on her legs looks dry, today, her hair low in lustre, her make-up faded.
‘I’ve been neglecting you,’ he apologises. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve been busy… you know how it is. I hope you won’t hold it against me.’ He needs to pay her a bit of attention once he’s finished his ministrations for Nikki. It’s not fair to give someone else all the love, when Marianne has been with him so long, been so pleasing. Tonight, when Nikki is safely stowed, they can watch
Big Brother
together. He’ll maybe paint her nails and brush her hair through. He bought a bottle of spray-in shiner at Sally Hair and Beauty when he was up in Soho the other day. Hopefully it will make all the difference.
He’s judged the size of the sheeting wrong, and has to fold it under itself when he reaches the bed. No matter, really, and definitely preferable to leaving a gap. This part of the process is always messy. There are always spillages, however careful one is. He smooths the plastic out, tucks it in, and goes to get the rest of
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