“Utterly tragic,” Lynn says, under her breath but loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Utterly tragic.Put that in your Tinder bio!” shouts Ryan again.
“Oh, fuck off,” I say, this time laughing.
I stare down at my chewed nails and pick at the flaking polish. “Samira, do you happen to have any nail polish remover?”
Samira stands up immediately and then shows me her nails. They are long, oblong, and shaped into near claws, painted a bluey, milky color with a single silver star on the tips of her ring fingers. “Wait here.”
When she returns the storm is in full force, the weight of the gusts causing the building to groan as the huge waves engulf the edge of the pool below us. It is as exciting as it is scary. Samira pulls out what I think is her makeup but turns out to be a nail polish bag complete with nail-grooming kit, hand cream, and multiple shades of OPI color.
She grasps my hand, puts it on top of a cushion, and gets to work. “Choose a color,” she commands as she dabs nail polish remover on each nail, rubbing down in a rhythmic motion.
I look through the different ones and hold up a bright pink.
“No,” she says, pulling it out of my hand.
I try a pale pink.
“Absolutely not,” she says, throwing that one straight in the trash bin.
“This?” I say, holding up a mustard yellow.
“Ugh,” she replies, and picks out a dusky rose shade, holding it up to my face. “You’ve got that very English rose complexion. Pale with pinky undertones and natural pink-red lips.”
“Oh, thanks,” I say, instinctively trying to hide my face with my hand as I blush.
“You need more of these kinds of dusky tones. The black you’re always wearing? You think it makes you disappear, but it ages you. I’d love to see you in some bold color with all that dark hair and pale skin.”
“Samira has been trying to get me into cream linen blends for the last eighteen months,” says Lynn. “You needn’t be bullied.”
“No, it’s fine,” I say, smiling at Samira. “It’s helpful. I’m kind of embarking on a bit of a makeover, as it happens. A Mara 2.0, if you will.”
“Oh, I will,” she says, her eyes sparkling at the thought. “Pleaselet me help.”
She looks down at my nails and sighs. “It will be my greatest-ever achievement. I’ll turn you from this into something less... depressing.”
I laugh, but she isn’t joking. “I’m serious, Mara. Can I do those eyebrows first, though? My God.”
“Fine,” I say, “you can be Stanley Tucci and I’ll be Anne Hathaway.”
“Devil Wears Prada,” she says, grinning.
“The Michael Caine to my Sandra Bullock.”
“Miss Congeniality?” she says, and I nod.
“Pretty Woman, without the sex work,” I say.
“Or the credit card,” she says grimly.
She looks back at my nails, and my eyes linger on the glossy black hair she has pulled back in a tortoiseshell grip, and I marvel at the easiness of her style.
“Where do you get your hair cut?” I ask.
“Happy Hair. Ask for Jackie,” she says, glancing at my own hair, which is currently pulled back in a loose, messy bun and not in a fashionable way.
“So whydidyou move to Broadgate, then?” she whispers, leaning in to me so the others can’t hear. She then begins a very brutal filing session, her headshaking and tutting intensifying as she makes her way through each broken and unkempt nail.
