But I feel like I could trust Dolly with it, somehow. Maybe that’s just wishful thinking? Or, most likely, the assortment of feelings I’m having about her.
She doesn’t rush me, but she waits. Most people try to fill my thinking gaps with more words, which just slows down the conveyer belt of thoughts even more. Every bit of sensory information has to get processed in order or the conveyer belt grinds to a halt or explodes, so sometimes it takes me a minute to process.
It’s hard to think when I can smell the heady, glorious musk of her perfume. I tend to wear anything that smells like sherbet or Parma violets, but on her, the deep ouds and leather notes seem almost delicate.
God, I need to get a hold of myself. I came here for a reason, and that reason is on the other side of the warehouse waiting to meet me.
‘Um.’ I test out my voice, and it seems to have returned to normal. ‘I’ll be out in a moment. I think I needed the sleep.’
‘You must have. I was clattering about this morning and you didn’t stir even a bit.’
Her eyes don’t quite fall on me, which, while typical for me, is unusual for her. Am I making her feel uncomfortable? Perhaps she can sense the weird attachment feelings coming from me? Or maybe my questions last night made her feel strange.
‘Are you feeling nervous about today?’ I ask instead.
To my surprise, Dolly barks a laugh. ‘Yes. No. Probably. I’m dressed in bridal colours for some reason.’
‘It’s a lot, isn’t it.’
‘All a bitBlind Date.’
‘I don’t know what that is,’ I say, a little embarrassed.
‘Surprise, surprise? Our Graham?’ she says in an extremely good Scouse accent. ‘Cilla Black? Liverpudlian icon, red hair, nasty little Tory?’
‘Not ringing a bell, sorry.’
Dolly waves a perfectly manicured hand, the tips of her nails rounded and dipped in soft pink. ‘It’s an old dating show from like the nineties or something. The contestant would pick between three people, the walls come down, and ta-daaa, yer man is there. Or woman.’
I resist the gulp in my throat.
‘Anyway, it reminds me of this whole situation.’
Her accent is back to plummy, and I wonder once again why a girl from Liverpool, who can do such a perfect Scouse accent, sounds like she does. Maybe I’m projecting by thinking it’s a kind of mask. Maybe she got a scholarship to a fancy school, or maybe her mum sounds like that too.
I wish that people came with Wikipedia summaries you could look up, and then ask them questions about. It would make getting to know people much easier. I just want to know everything about her.
Is it odd that I haven’t thought that about Lina or Bridget, though?
‘I was thinking moreLove Is Blind,’ I say quietly.
‘I’m not sure we’re allowed to say that name in these hallowed halls,’ Dolly says with a smile. ‘Need anything else?’
‘No. And thank you for all this,’ I say, and I push the blankets back to communicate that I’m getting up, and give her an out to leave. I’ve taken up more of her time than I should have this morning, after all.
When she does go, I feel hollow again. Maybe I’m just destined to feel scooped out, whether she’s around or not. Lonely.
Perhaps one day I’ll narrow down what the variations of that feeling actually mean.
I’ve had my reveal day outfit picked out since before I got here: a cream silk pussy-bow shirt under a forest green wool dress with a wide circle skirt, with sensible brown round-toed shoes. It’s the sort of outfit that I hope says I’m a smart woman with my life together.
It’s vintage librarian chic. Librarians always seem so grown up. They’re pinnacles of information, bastions against the disinformation cycles, people who know how to abide by systems and rules. That’s who I’m trying to be.
I wonder what he thinks I dress like, given he knows I work on a farm teaching children and adults. Probably bright dungarees, patterns, big wellies; not inaccurate.
But I can look like a nice man’s wife too.
Now I just have to feel the part.
