Chapter 16
GREG
I’m an easy bloke to get along with, I think. Laid back, nothing much bothers me. Except mess. And Isobel, bless her pink neon thermals, is actually a bit of a pig. Maybe even a lot of a pig.
I stare at the state of my bedroom. The pile of dirty clothes half hanging out of her bag, the massive makeup bag on my dressing table, a collection of used cotton makeup wipes spilling from it. Because her makeup bag doesn’t house her makeup.Oh, no. That would be too conventional. Not to mention tidy. Heractualmakeup— lotions and potions, bottles and compacts—is scattered across the wooden surface of the restored 1920s dressing table. Restored by me, the burr walnut polished until it gleams. And now it not only gleams, it glitters in patches. Patches where Isobel has spilt some sort of powdered makeup ... shit.
‘I just don’t get it,’ I mutter, drawing my finger through the sprinkling of iridescent pink powder. ‘It’s not like she’s even wearing the stuff.’
‘What was that?’ I don’t look up at the sound of Isobel’s voice, though I answer.
‘Your makeup—you have it everywhere, and you’re not even wearing the stuff.’ I rub my fingers through the peppering of powder somewhat dispersing the mess as I note how some has sunk into the natural knotting of the wood. As I lift my head, through the mirror, Isobel stands at the bathroom door. She’s wrapped in a white towel that doesn’t leave a whole lot to the imagination, though it still makes me wish I’d bought even smaller ones.Like hand towels.
‘I do wear it.’
‘What?’
‘My makeup. I wear it. Every day.’
‘I’m not talking about when you’re at work.’
‘Neither am I,’ she protests. ‘I’ve worn makeup every day I’ve been here. Not a lot, but I still wear it.’
‘You look the same with or without it,’ I answer, confused.
‘Thanks.’ She might saythanks, but by her tone and expression that’snotwhat she means because that one little word? It’s weighted with a boatload ofwhy don’t you just fuck off.
‘What I mean to say is, you wake up and you go to sleep looking as beautiful as you do during the day. Beautiful all day long.’ As I speak, her expression softens. I’m winning, so I’ll leave it there. I’m not so green as I’m cabbage looking, y’ken? Also, I happen to be telling the truth. ‘You’re away for a shower, then?’
‘Yes. Is that okay?’ she asks a little hesitantly.
‘Of course. There’s no shortage of hot water. I’ll just turn down the bed.’ Like a hotel turndown service. ‘And tidy the room a bit.’ Just call me housekeeping, hen.
‘Oh, sorry.’ Fingers grasping the towel at her chest, her expression twists. ‘I’m a bit of a nightmare house guest, aren’t I?’
‘No, not at all.’ God strike me down for lying. Though not really. I like having her around. I’d just like it a whole lot more if she was a wee bit tidier. And if I’m getting to add improvements to her stay, then I’d also like it if she was naked all the time.
‘Don’t tidy my mess,’ she protests, though not very vigorously. ‘I’ll do it after my shower.’
I nod, my gaze sweeping over the room. ‘I’ll just put your clothes back in your bag properly.’
‘A place for everything, and everything in its place, hey?’
‘Aye, something like that,’ I reply, looking up and sending her a wry smile.
‘Just so you know, there’s a place for you here in the shower .. . ’ Then with a bold look of invitation my way, she steps into the bathroom, leaving the door ajar.
That was an invitationnotto be refused. And I won’t—refuse it, that is—but the tiny wee angel on my shoulder suggests I shove her clothes back in her bag.
For peace of mind.
For a wee bit of orderliness.
So I don’t break my neck falling over it in the middle of the night.
In the bathroom, the shower door clicks open, then the sound of running water echoes off the tiles.
I grab Isobel’s leather bag from the floor and dump it on the bed.
