Chapter Three
‘I know a guy who lives in this building.’ Niamh pushes oversized sunglasses onto her head as we step into an ornate marble foyer, resplendent with gold accents. But more importantly, it’s fabulously cool after the oppressive heat outside. ‘He lives with his roommate in a two bed place.’ Her toes are dangerously close to my unruly trolley-case as she holds the door open, moving adroitly to one side.
‘Is he a teacher?’ I ask, pocketing my own sunglasses.
‘Nah, building surveyor or something. He’s fit, and I saw him first.’ As we enter the elevator, she brings out her phone, tapping the screen.
‘Niamh,’ I say, addressing her as though she’s a grade two kid. ‘I’ve told you, I’m off men. How many times have I got to say this? Not interested and not at my best, see?’ I point my index finger at my hair, the humidity giving it twice its usual volume, and not in a good way.
‘Erm, hello? Babetown,’ Niamh replies, grabbing the waistband of my Capri pants. ‘Population: You.’
An apartment is part of my employment package, and I’ve been housed in a building a few blocks from a mall so large it even has a ski slope inside. Skiing and shopping in the desert does seem just a little bit mad, but Niamh insists the weather is so extreme most of the year that outdoor pursuits are almost impossible. I suppose it makes sense that there are alternatives, but snow in the desert is a bit over the top. Thankfully, I’m not the outdoorsy type, and my building offers both a pool and a gym. I don’t suppose I’ll be skiing anytime soon, but I’ve promised myself I’ll visit the gym. Who knows, maybe I’ll even step inside. In aiming for a whole new me, Kate the gym bunny still seems laughable.
‘Who knew there were so many shades of cream?’ Niamh places her bag on the hall table as she enters the very neutral room.
‘It’svery ...’ I struggle for the appropriate adjective as I try to pull the key from the stiff lock.
‘Padded cell.’ She sniffs, unimpressed. ‘Or porridge.’
‘Oatmeal.’ I eye the sofa which is remarkably like the one I’d left in Australia.
‘What?’
‘The colour—you wouldn’t find porridge on the back of a colour swatch.’ And I’d know having looked at plenty recently. I push the thought to the back of my mind.
‘You would if you if the swatch was anywhere near my grandad eatin’ his breakfast,’ she replies. ‘He gets that shit everywhere. I suppose you’re about to tell me there’s no such a thing as l’eau d’turpentine, either?’
‘The admin woman at school said it was newly renovated,’ I answer, making my way to the nearest window to let in some air. ‘Oof,it’s stuck.’
‘It just needs a bit of colour,’ Niamh advises, waking around the room. ‘Some bright throw cushions, maybe a couple of candles. Bring a bloke back here and he’ll think you’ve brought him to the psychiatric ward.’
Again with the man thing. I try not to pull a face. Or roll my eyes.
‘It’s fine,’ I insist, because it is—it’s more than fine. ‘Just a bit impersonal, that’s all.’ I wheel in my solitary case, placing my purse on the kitchen worktop, which happens to be very close to the front door.
‘At least it’s all new,’ she says, lifting a pale cushion from the sofa, distractedly plumping it before placing it back.
‘Are all the apartments like this, do you think?’ It is small and very plain. And a bit like a dentist’s waiting area. Not that I’m complaining, just curious. ‘What about your friend’s place, the one who lives here?’
‘Remember that old movie with Tom Hanks where he’s a little boy trapped in a grownup’s body?’
‘Big?’
‘Is he ever!’ And now I know more than I need to. ‘I dunno,’ she says with a sigh, ‘I’ve only been inside his place once and it was far too messy to tell.’ Her gaze travels the room. ‘We’ll go to Ikea or something at the weekend, and I’ll come and pick you up for a bit of grocery shopping tomorrow, yeah?’
‘Thanks. I saw a mini-market on the corner on the way in, that’ll do for now.’
‘Grand. I’ve gotta love and leave ’ya, babes. I’m off to have my brows threaded. The traffic’s bound to be mad.’
I push the hair back off my forehead, eyebrows comically high. ‘Why do your brows need sewing back on?’
Unimpressed, she picks up her purse. ‘A social life, Kate, requires effort and grooming, especially out here. Now, haul your arse and make a bit of effort yourself. Go catch some rays by the pool. Any paler and you’d be on the slab.’
‘Pale says the ginger from Dublin.’
‘I’mauburn, not feckin’ orange. And I’m supposed to be pale. Or freckly, and I know which I prefer. You, on the other hand.’ She eyes me disparagingly. ‘Aren’t you Aussies meant to be all bronzed and gorgeous after living on the beach?’
‘You know I hate the sand,’ I mutter.
