‘The tag?’
‘In the back of the top. It’s just… so loud.’ Carys points at the middle of her back with skewiff arms.
I peer round, careful not to touch her, and see a very square-looking tag sewn into the back that is sticking out at an odd angle. I reach around to the back of my own vest top. The tag is stiff and itchy and kind of gross to the touch now I’m prodding at it.
These fucking pyjamas.
‘I’ll get it out. Hang on.’
I risk going back into the bedroom, and find what I need immediately. I’m a meticulous packing cube user, so a fresh pair of ear plugs, my spare sleep mask and my manicure kit are all in the same handy bag.
Warren sleepily opens an eye as I take it from the bedside table. ‘All okay?’ he mumbles.
I nod. ‘I’ll tell you in the morning,’ I whisper, and his eyes close again.
As I walk back to Carys’s spot, I catch her humming on the breeze. It’s a familiar song, I grew up watching all her films with Mum.
‘Marilyn Monroe, huh?’ I say as I sit down beside Carys.
‘Some Like It Hotis my favourite film,’ she says.
‘I thought perhaps you just had a thing for blondes,’ I say glibly.
It’s probably not the time to make jokes about our prior entanglement when she’s so overloaded. Me and my big gob are always stepping in it.
But to my relief, she snorts. ‘Maybe.’
No more barbs, Dolly. This should be a banter-free zone, for many reasons. Namely because you love banter.
‘Okay, I have all the supplies. Are you ready for me to cut this tag out?’
‘Should I take my top off?’
Before I can shut my stupid mouth I say, ‘I won’t stop you.’
‘That’s how we got into this mess in the first place,’ she replies with a sigh. ‘Are you going to cut this thing off me or just wave those nail clippers at me?’
‘Turn round, will you?’ I wedge myself at an angle behind her so I can see her back better. ‘I can do it without you getting naked. You’re an engaged woman now, after all. You’ve got to be demure and mindful and chaste.’
‘These pyjamas aside.’
I laugh and I can’t help it, because I’d forgotten how funny she can be when she’s not giving me daggers.
I try not to pay attention to the long lines of her neck, the sprinkle of freckles across her bare shoulders. When she moves her cinnamon hair out of the way, there’s the ghost of a mark, just now visible. A reminder of my last visit to this particular position.
God, is this what the next few years of my life are goingto be like while I’m in heterosexual mode? So desperate for anything that I’m turned on by the sight of a woman’s bare shoulders?
I gently fold out the seam at the back of the top, the material catching just under her shoulder blades.
This close, I can smell the sugar of her perfume. I’ve missed it.
Luckily, the label isn’t sewn in particularly well – probably part of the problem to be honest. I could cut the thing off, but then it’d likely leave an even sharper edge. The skin where it must have been touching is angry and red and raised into little hives. I make a note to find some insect bite cream as that might soothe it for her, though I definitely should not offer to put that on for her. That’s Patrick’s job now.
Working with the nail scissors is painfully slow, one stitch at a time. I wedge my phone in my top, the torchlight guiding my snips. It takes a little physical contorting, but I manage, very slowly.
God, imagine if they’re filming this debacle.
I notice goosebumps begin to gather along her bare upper arms, as Carys’s calmer nervous system finally registers the cold.
