‘A bit later, say, six-thirty? I’ll get some nibbles in.’
‘Perfect!’ She waves and disappears back into her flat.
I close the door and exhale with such force that my vision whites out for a second. I feel rough, and I really do not want to spend tomorrow evening talking about roof-repair quotes. I can already feel the awkwardness of forced small talk lubricated by cheap Rioja and supermarket hummus. I know I should do more to make my neighbour feel welcome, but everything feels so hard lately, like I’m watching my life from behind a thick screen.
I’m halfway through towel-drying my hair again when there’s another knock at the door.
I open the door, and this time itisReece, out of breath but grinning, wearing the dark suit I once told him made him look like a hitman. And the shirt I gave him last Christmas, the one with the subtle navy polka dots that he claimed was ‘too playful’ for work. He’s obviously worn it this evening to try and butter me up, to get me to forgive him.
‘Hey. Sorry about last night, Bells.’ He’s holding a small bouquet of supermarket tulips, wilting at the tips. ‘Really. It was a dick move. Should’ve been there for you. Promise I’ll make it up to you tonight.’
‘Come in.’ I don’t respond to his apology because I’m still pissed off about his lack of support. Instead, I point at my hair and say, ‘Need to finish getting ready.’
He sprawls on my king-size bed, watching me.
I hold up two tops for him to inspect: ‘Black or green?’ I stare at the mirror to avoid looking at him directly.
‘Black,’ he replies immediately. ‘Sexier.’
Sexy is the last thing I feel. As well as hungover from last night’s solo drinking session in Southampton, I’ve had another anxiety-ridden day at work.
He’s booked a table tonight, so I know he’s really trying to make things up to me, but the truth is I would have much preferred a pyjama night on my own, maybe an Uber Eats and some Netflix – anything but an elaborate dinner that will require three layers of make-up, uncomfortable underwear, and pretending not to be exhausted. I’m not in the mood for performative coupledom tonight. But if I bail, Reece will only think I’m sulking.
I slide the black silk top over my head and wriggle into my favourite jeans.
‘Jeans?’ He doesn’t even try to hide the judgement. ‘I booked The Carousel. You know, that new swanky place down by the Quay.’
‘You didn’t say there was a dress code,’ I reply.
‘Well, no, but . . . it’s kind of . . . formal?’
I sigh, and go back into the walk-in.
‘I mean, you look good in the jeans, but—’
‘It’s fine,’ I call back grumpily.
I pick out a cream silk pleated skirt and my tan boots. But now the top’s all wrong. Where’s my Mulberry handbag? I’m sure it was on this shelf. Goosebumps prickle the back of my neck. There’s a strange smell in here, like a fruity body spray – something that definitely doesn’t belong in my flat. Has someone been in here? Surely not.
‘Reece, can you come here a sec?’
He does as I ask, a quizzical expression on his face.
‘Does it smell weird to you in here?’ I ask, and immediately feel ridiculous.
Reece takes a deep, theatrical sniff. ‘Weird how?’
‘Like, chemical? Sweet?’
He shrugs, unbothered. ‘Maybe the cleaner used a different polish?’
‘No. Kayleigh only comes on Thursdays, and it always smells like those eco-friendly wipes. This is more... synthetic. Like cheap perfume.’
‘I can’t smell anything.’ Reece takes a step towards me. ‘Except you.’ He nuzzles my neck, but I step away.
‘I need to dry my hair.’
‘You’re still mad at me, aren’t you?’ Reece folds his arms.
