Sushi for Beginners - Marian Keyes [143]
Alternately mocking and soothing, Lisa dried his hard shiny body. It was an activity that she’d always loved, though some parts of his body got more attention than others.
‘Hey, Lees,’ Oliver eventually said.
‘Mmmm?’
‘I think my thighs might be dry now.’
‘Oh… yeah.’ They shared a wry look.
As they got dressed, across the room she suddenly noticed something almost as familiar as herself. Before she could stop herself, she’d exclaimed, ‘Oi, that’s my LV holdall!’
And it was. He’d used it to pack some of his stuff the day he’d left.
Instantly the room was dense with the ugly emotions of that day. Oliver furious–again. Lisa angrily defensive–again. Oliver objecting that theirs was no longer a proper marriage. Lisa sarcastically telling him to divorce her.
‘I’ll give it you back.’ Oliver proferred the holdall hopefully, but it was no good. The mood was sombre and, in silence, they finished getting ready for work.
When she couldn’t stall any further, Lisa said, ‘Well, bye.’
‘Bye,’ he replied. To her surprise she had tears in her eyes.
‘Aw, don’t cry.’ He bundled her in his arms. ‘C’ mon, Editor-Girl, you’ll smudge your make-up.’
She managed a wet giggle, but her throat ached as if a big round stone was stuck in it. ‘I’m sorry things didn’t work out for us,’ she admitted, in a low tone.
‘Well,’ he shrugged. ‘Shit happens. Did you know that –’
‘– two in three marriages end in divorce,’ they said together.
With effort, they managed a laugh, then disengaged.
‘And at least it’s amicable now,’ she said awkwardly. ‘Like, we’re, you know, talking to each other.’
‘Exactly,’ he cheerfully agreed. She was distracted by the sheen of his lilac linen shirt against the silky chocolate of his throat. Jesus, that man knew how to dress!
As she pulled the door closed, he called, ‘Hey, babes, don’t forget.’
Her heart lifted and she opened the door again. Forget what? I love you?
‘Get a lawyer!’ He wagged his finger and grinned.
It was a beautiful sunny morning. She walked through the buttery sunshine to work. She felt like shit.
41
Lisa suddenly realized that no one had mentioned the shows. Or should she say, The Shows!!! She could never think of them without seeing them lit up in neon. They were the highlight of an editor’s job. Twice a year, jetting off to the buzzy hub of Milan or Paris. (She flew everywhere else but the shows were so glamorous that naturally one ‘jetted’ to them.) Staying at George V or Principe di Savoia, being treated like royalty, getting front-row seats at Versace, Dior, Dolce & Gabbana, Chanel, receiving flowers and gifts simply for showing up. The four-day circus teeming with egomaniac designers, neurotic models, rock-stars, film-idols, sinister millionaires in gold, chunky jewellery, and, of course, magazine editors – eyeing each other with savage hatred, checking out how high their seat was in the pecking order. Party after party, in art galleries, nightclubs, warehouses, abbatoirs (some of the more cutting-edge designers just didn’t know where to draw the line). Where you simply couldn’t be more at the centre of the universe if you tried, dear.
Of course, it was written in stone that you bitched that the clothes were unwearable nonsense designed by misogynistic wankers, that the post-show presents weren’t as lavish as the previous year’s, that the best hotel room was always bagsed by Lily Head-ley-Smythe, and what a huge pain it was having to travel a mile outside the city-centre to see some young hotshot display his groundbreaking collection in a disused bean-canning plant, but it was still unthinkable not to go. And it hit her like an avalanche of Kurt Gieger loafers that there had been no talk of the shows at Colleen. Seeing Oliver must have triggered thoughts of them.
It was probably all in hand, she soothed herself. There was likely to be a budget provision for both herself and Mercedes to go. But what if there wasn’t? The freelance budget she’d been given couldn’t accommodate the costs. Not even close. It could barely have paid for a croissant