“It’s . . . Let’s just say it’s not even.” Mike tried to conceal a smile.
“What? How bad is it?” I asked.
“Mmmm, you know how a leopard has spots?” Ash teased.
“Nooo!” I yelped. “It can’t be that bad!”
They all looked at me again, all trying to hold back smiles. I ran for the closest bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror in horror. I looked ridiculous. My face was spotty, as if I had contracted some kind of exotic rash.
“I can see why you don’t drink on first dates,” Emelia said, with a chuckle, when I returned. “Wouldn’t want them to start thinking you’re contagious.”
Ash smacked her on the arm. “Hey. That’s rude. She doesn’t lookthatbad . . .”
I gave them all a deadpan look. “Really?” I asked. I ran my hand in big circles around my face. “This doesn’t lookthatbad, does it?”
At that, all three of them laughed, and, before I knew what was happening, I laughed too.
The rest of the evening was strange. But nice. Me and my red, splotchy face enjoyed a massive bowel of pasta and more red wine—despite the fact that, every time I had a sip, a new red splotch appeared and everyone pointed it out—and then we all “retired” to the sitting room, put some logs on the fire and sat and watched the flames, like primitive man might have done. We laughed, we told each other stories from our lives. Ash and Emelia shared the story about how they’d met and fallen in love. Emelia had, on a strange whim she said she couldn’t really explain (must have been fate, she concluded), decided to drop out of big-city life and move to a small town and set up a pastry shop. She’d hired Ash to paint her shop sign and, from the moment she’d seen her up that ladder, splattered in paint, she’d known! I then shared the story of my previous public shaming and humiliation at the hands of my cheating ex. They said they remembered “cunt-gate” (as they dubbed it) and all those internet memes it had sparked. And they all showed such instant hatred for this man that had wronged me! It felt good. I hadn’t had a group of people rally around me like this before—a group that, on my behalf, despised the man who had done that to me. They also agreed that I should never have phoned his fiancée and, had they known me at the time, they would have all seriously recommended against it. Mike and Ash then started debating which room in the house they should renovate next, and what color they should paint the walls, and whether or not they should redo the dining room and host events in it, like weddings and parties. It was a conversation about something so seemingly banal and normal, but, to me, it was magical. To be sitting there, listening to them talk about their day-to-day things—it made me feel included in a way I don’t think I had ever felt.
When the evening was over, we found ourselves all walking back to our rooms.
I said my goodbyes and walked towards the door, feeling a little skate-y on my feet. As if they weren’t really walking, heel to toe, heel to toe (as they should be), but sort of moving from side to side, as if on ice or something slippery—like the squashed grapes one might use to make wine!
“Well, aren’t you going to walk her to her room?” Ash piped up, and I turned around and looked at them all.
“Who?” I asked.
“Him!” Ash said, pointing at her brother. “It’s the gentlemanly thing to do.”
“It is,” Emelia confirmed.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Big girl and all. Been walking myself to places on my own for many years.”
“Still, it’s a long, dark corridor. It might be fraught with danger,” Ash teased, as she draped her arm around Emelia’s shoulders.
“Fraught with danger,” Emelia echoed.
“No one uses the wordfraughtanymore,” Mike said.
“We do.” Ash gave her brother a small push.
Mike walked towards me. “Fine.” He opened the door and held it open for me. “Shall we?” he asked.
“Aaaah, so chivalrous,” Ash said.
“Clearly, it’snotdead.” Emelia pulled Ash and they started walking up the stairs together and disappeared.
I walked into the dark corridor that separated the houses, and Mike pulled his cell-phone light out and lit up the path in front of us. I tried to walk in a manner where my feet skated less and did what they were supposed to. I seemed to manage okay and soon we were standing outside my door.
“Thanks,” I turned around and said to him.
“Pleasure.” He looked at me and turned the torch off, plunging us into the soft, warm glow from the crystal chandeliers above us.
“Right . . .” I reached behind me and opened my door.
“Right,” he repeated.
“This was a really nice night,” I said softly, as I began pushing the door open. “I really enjoyed it. Thanks for having me.”
