My one-bedroom, one-bathroom apartment is perfect for a single person, and probably works just as great for a couple, too, but four people?
Well, it’s a push.
It’s an experience made all the more bearable by some alcohol, and by me being the only person having to work.
Lucy works as a restaurant manager, but her boss already closed the place because of the virus and furloughed half the staff. Addison and Kim probably could have worked from my apartment just fine, but Addison totally shocked me with her no-nonsense attitude and a poker face that would give Miranda Priestley a run for her money.
She told their boss first thing on Monday morning, in no uncertain terms, that they were unable to work this week (even though I think they probably would’ve managed, if they tried, doing emails and joining meetings from their phones). She somehow negotiated them a week’s paid leave from work, without even needing to use up their vacation days, quoting “extenuating circumstances.”
I’ve had no such luck. Obviously. Of course I haven’t.
First, I have to host a DIY wedding party all weekend, and now I have to spend the week trying to focus on financial forecasts and balance sheets and meetings while the girls are giggling over a movie in the next room.
Just my luck.
I’m so jealous that Kim and Addison’s manager is so fair and compassionate and understanding. Of course, it’s an extraordinary situation, we understand, don’t even worry about it, you can catch up next week . . .
Not that I even tried to ask my boss, but still.
It’s giving me an excuse to not have to talk about the wedding twenty-four seven, and it’s a pretty decent distraction from . . . well, fine, from Addison. With her cute smile and all the sidelong looks when she’s telling a joke, like there’s some secret we’re both in on, and . . .
And not, absolutely not, like it’s even worth considering. I mean, she’s so annoying. And she’s so not interested, anyway. Obviously.
Otherwise, she’d get my name right.
There’s no work to distract me tonight, but the bucket list stuff is doing a pretty good job. Or, at least, it was.
For now, at least, I’ve got a pleasant boozy buzz going, focus on cleaning up instead of whatever “funny” story Addison’s telling now, and I’m relieved when Lucy and Kim come back into the room so we can finally get into the game of charades, which Addison kicks off.
The rest of us pile back on to the sofa, ready and raring to go.
“Movie!” we yell. “One word!”
Addison acts out what we can only assume is a scene from a movie, but it doesn’t make sense to any of us. She mimes hitting somebody, and then messes with her hair. We shout out random words: “Fight!
Fight Club! Brad Pitt! Baseball! That Madonna movie! Hairspray!
Something about a makeover! Sweeney Todd!”
She gets more and more frustrated, and eventually points violently at her face.
Yesterday, the Bridal Bucket List involved oatmeal-and-honey homemade face masks. They were gloopy and smelly and messy, but, I have to hand it to the beauty blogger who’d shared them, my skin is dewy and super soft today.
Addison, however, had an allergic reaction to something, or maybe everything, in it, because after a few minutes, she’d commented on the tingly, hot sensation none of the rest of us were experiencing, and her skin was an angry, blotchy red when she took it off.
It’s still not exactly back to normal today.
Which is why, now, I bounce in my spot on the sofa to point at her face and yell excitedly, “Ooh! I’ve got it! Scarface!”
She stops acting immediately, gawping at me, and then turns all serious like she did when she called her boss, and plants her hands on her hips. “Excuse me?”
“Is that not . . . ? Um . . . ”
I look helplessly at Lucy and Kim, who are both in fits of laughter.
Lucy even has tears running down her face, clutching at Kim’s arm as she wheezes for breath. I’m getting zero help from either of them, apparently, and Addison’s eyes burn a hole right through my skull.
Well, I think, she’s definitely not going to be interested now.
Mission accomplished, I guess?
“Tangled! It was fucking Tangled! You know, with the frying pan, and the hair,” she adds, grabbing a fistful of her very-much-not-tangled hair. Although, admittedly, it is very long and a shiny golden blond, which is about as Rapunzel-esque as it gets.
She huffs, glaring overdramatically in my direction. “Scarface. Do I look like Al Pacino to you?” she asks me, although she does it in a Robert de Niro voice, like in Taxi Driver. “Do I look like Al Pacino to you?”
I scoff, not willing to admit exactly how funny her impression is, and go to refill my glass of Kim/Jeremy Wedding Special from the jug on the dining table. When I glance over again, Addison is looking at me. She smirks, and I look away to hide the fact I’m blushing.
Which is only because of the cocktails.
That is the only reason.
Wednesday
apartment #17 – serena
Chapter Fourteen
I haven’t slept.
A pale dawn bleeds through the end-of-summer-sale garish green curtains Zach picked out that match nothing else in our bedroom, casting the whole room in a soft glow even though it’s not even six o’clock yet. It’s so quiet. I lie on my back, staring at the shadows on the ceiling.
I hear a car going past, out on the main road, and wonder who’s out this early. Someone coming home from a shift at the hospital, or someone heading out to stack shelves at the supermarket before it opens? Or is it someone trying to sneak out for a day on the coast, to escape their back garden for a few hours against all the advice to “stay home if you can”?
There are birds singing.
Normally, this would be nice. I hate those green curtains every other time, except for mornings like this, when it feels like a hazy, springtime glow no matter what time of year it is. With the birdsong and the lack of traffic, I could almost imagine we were on a camping holiday, all our worries left behind us for a few days.
Zach’s breathing is deep and even beside me. He’s splayed out on his stomach, one arm tucked under his chest and the other hooked over his head. He was out like a light last night, no problem. He didn’t seem to notice if he thought I was quieter than usual; or if he did notice I was stuck in my head about something, he assumed I was mad about something and decided it was better not to ask if I wasn’t going to bring it up.
I don’t know how he can sleep so soundly at a time like this.
He mumbles in his sleep, and I can’t help but turn to glower at him. How dare he sleep so soundly when I’ve barely managed to snatch two or three hours, when I’m lying here so wide awake?
I can’t get it all out of my head.
I just . . . I feel like such a fool.
A few endless minutes later, another car has gone by and Zach sighs in his sleep.
I can’t stay here. Not like this.
Slowly, not wanting to wake Zach up to deal with this properly just yet, I slip out from under the covers. I forgo putting on my slippers so I can pad barefoot out of the room, grabbing my dressing gown on the way, and wrapping myself up in it. The bedroom door creaks on my way out and I pause, but Zach doesn’t stir. Creeping into the kitchen, I want to make myself a cup of tea.