Page 68 of Did My Love Life Shrink in the Wash?
Natalie is starting to make work of Yasmin’s face with a foundation brush but looks between us wondering why she’d have been at any social gathering of mine when we obviously have such a tight bond. I am not sure what else there is to talk to her about. Weather’s turned, eh? Did you buy the school bi-centennial aqua polo shirt a few years back? My mum bought five and made us pose for a picture in her garden. Did you really sleep with Mr Baker, the design tech teacher, so he’d give you better grades in graphics? That rumour went around for months.
‘You’re wearing the trainers I gave you,’ she mentions.
‘I did. They’re a good fit,’ I mutter, glancing down at my feet. They are without doubt the most stylish and comfortable shoes I’ve ever worn though there’s no chance I’d say as much out loud. ‘And how is Dicky? Still peeing on the house guests?’
For some reason, she seems highly offended by this. ‘He’s an old dog, he’s ten.’
I don’t quite know how to reply. My sister has an old dog and he just sleeps and they have to carry him into the car. He doesn’t pee all over people.
‘He’s usually a really good dog.’
Is she inferring that he peed on me because it was my fault? Do my legs look like fire hydrants?
That assistant suddenly appears from behind us with trays of drinks and I grab at my coffee, inhaling it for the escape and the extra hit. She also has a tray of pastries and fruit, placing it on the table in front of both of us. Yasmin turns to the assistant.
‘I’m gluten-free?’
I’m not, so I take a pain au chocolat and stick it in my gob. The assistant stands there not knowing what to do. Does this mean she can’t even look at the pastries in case she absorbs the gluten through her eyes? Natalie purses her lips and I can see she’s trying hard to bite her tongue.
‘Are you allergic?’ I ask. I once had a housemate called Rich who couldn’t even sit next to bread or we’d have to get the epi pen out.
‘No. I just find my digestion is better without it.’
I continue to eat. This hazelnut chocolate is the fancy good shit, sandwiched in butter-laminated pastry. This is a reason to be alive.
‘Then leave them there, I’ll find a way to make them disappear,’ I say, trying to make the assistant feel marginally better. Yasmin watches, in disgust, as I lick chocolate from my fingers.
Meanwhile, Natalie is doing some concealer work on her eyes but Yasmin suddenly bats her hand away.
‘Don’t touch me! Tell me if I’m doing something wrong,’ Natalie replies in harsh tones. Giles, who was chatting to the photographers, wanders over to see what the fuss is about.
‘Are we OK here, ladies?’
I can’t read the expression on Yasmin’s face. Why is she so pale? She gets up from her chair, grabs her handbag and puts a hand to her mouth.
‘I just need the bathroom. I can’t deal with the smell.’
Of Joe? Of me? The gluten? She trots off and Giles emits a long deep exhalation. Was the way I was eating that pastry making her nauseated? I did wolf that baby down to be fair.
‘Party girl Yazz is back then, G,’ Natalie says.
‘I know. I thought she was over all of that though.’
My ears prickle with curiosity. Giles fills me in. ‘She was a big party girl in the day. All the drugs and the drink. I thought all this clean-eating nonsense meant she turned a corner but maybe not. Crap, the client gets here in an hour. Nat, go check on her.’
‘I don’t do vomit,’ she says, wandering off. Giles looks around frantically for his assistant, the stress and panic making him twitchy. Joe looks up at me.You mean I’ll be wearing this banana for another sodding hour?
‘Shall I go and check on her?’ I ask. ‘If you take Joe perhaps?’
I don’t know exactly why I say this. What if she’s in the bathroom smoking a crack pipe?
‘I can take Joe,’ Giles says. ‘If you don’t mind. You can report back if it’s really bad. There’s Voss water on the table; it’s all she drinks.’
Joe goes over to Giles while I grab some bottles and my satchel and drape it over my shoulders. Inside the ladies’ loo, one of the cubicles is shut and I hear a glorious retching sound. At least it looks like a sanitary place to be on all fours hurling into a loo.
‘Yasmin, are you alright?’ I ask in sing-song tones.
‘Hmmm…’ she moans in reply.
