Chapter 18

18

It’s day four. Day four of ten and I’ve yet to even speak to Jonah on Earth, let alone charm him into kissing me. My stomach swirls with anxiety at Merritt’s ticking clock and the thought of what lies in store for me if I don’t pull this off. I have to make a connection with him at the life-drawing class tonight.

I sit up in bed, hair damp with sweat. I check my phone and groan when it tells me that today is going to be even hotter than yesterday. The first few days of the heat wave were pleasant enough—it was nice to see the sun after months of grey sky. But now it’s getting uncomfortable and I long for the rain. I notice a text from Mum and eagerly open it up, wondering what her response will be to the news that I’m going to a life-drawing class.

Here is a pic of me with Larry the NYC art curator. He has a gallery in Brooklyn and just adores my work!

She must just be busy.

I’m not sure if Mr. Yoon wants to see me, but it would be the responsible neighbour thing to do to at least check. Not because I care. Not that much, anyway. I’m just checking on the very old man next door is all. I grab some eggs and bacon from my fridge and take them across, knocking first and then peeking my head around the door. Mr. Yoon is sitting at his table, looking at the crossword, pencil in his mouth, cigarette in his hand.

“Give me a sign if you want me to leave,” I shout into the room. “Wave, or stamp your feet—I know you’re good at that.”

Mr. Yoon gives me a blank look but his expression is no longer furious, so I take it as a good sign. I head straight to the kitchen and notice that he hasn’t managed to clean the dishes. I give them a quick wash, then put some eggs on to boil.

I almost jump out of my skin when I feel a warm, dry hand on my bare shoulder. It’s Mr. Yoon. He pats me twice. His eyes soften as he gives me a small apologetic smile. To my surprise my instinct is to hug him, but I don’t want to overwhelm him again. Instead I just nod. “Don’t worry, it’s fine. I get on my own nerves sometimes too.”

As Mr. Yoon returns to his crossword, I sniff the air. Not good. I think…I think that’s Mr. Yoon. He is ripe. Is he forgetting to bathe now too? How long has that been happening for?

It’s scorching today. He can’t sit all day in his own stale sweat.

I prepare our breakfast first, and as we sit and eat it, I casually say to him, “You’re gonna want a cool bath in this heat. It’s gnarly out there.”

He nods his agreement, and so when we’ve finished breakfast, I lead Mr. Yoon over to the bathroom, instructing him to get undressed and telling him that I will close my eyes as he steps into the bath. I close the walk-in bath door, and once he’s sitting down—privacy intact—I turn on the taps, pouring in a heathy glug of bubbles for extra cover-up.

I position myself on the corner of the bath, grab the showerhead, and run it over Mr. Yoon’s hair. When I shampoo it, he sighs, and I hope it’s because it feels pleasant and not because I’m scrubbing too hard. I mean, I’ve only ever washed my own hair.

If Mr. Yoon feels uncomfortable in any way, he doesn’t show it, but I feel uncomfortable lots of times in life and don’t show it either. So I try to keep up a breezy conversation and tell him about last night.

“And then Cooper told me I was spending too long on the shading so I—”

As I say Cooper’s name, Mr. Yoon glances round at me, head full of fluffy suds.

“You know Cooper?” I ask him. “You’ve seen him about the building?”

Mr. Yoon nods once.

I lower my voice. “He’s a bit obnoxious, right?”

Mr. Yoon nods twice, which sends me into a huge peal of laughter. “You agree. Anyway, I think he was just jealous of my superior artistic skills. We lost the game. But it was his fault. If I’d have been paired with Amy or Malcolm, I would definitely have won.”

Once Mr. Yoon’s hair is rinsed, I grab a flannel and soap from the little wooden shelf above the bath taps.

“I’ll leave you to wash your…you know. Ain’t no way I’m doing that, and I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t want me to.” I hand Mr. Yoon the flannel, and he nods his understanding.

Once Mr. Yoon is out of the bath and wrapped in a clean robe, I dry his hair using my hair dryer from next door and then comb it into a perfect side parting. When I bring him a mirror to take a look, he smiles at his reflection and gives a little laugh. I bring his deodorant spray out of his bedroom and mime spraying it on myself. “You’re gonna need a whole bunch of this today,” I tell him. He takes the deodorant from me and pats me on the arm once more. I smile and pat him back. Then he pats me back again because he must have forgotten the first time he patted me. I pat him back and say, “Whoever stops patting first is a loser.” Mr. Yoon pats me back, his mouth opening into a silent breathy laugh. He clutches his stomach with it, causing me to dissolve into a fit of giggles.

There’s something about laughing—it makes any awkwardness disappear because you’re both in on the same thing. I’d forgotten that.

---

When I get back to my own flat, I take another look through my mother’s bag of clothes to find a wealth of skimpy dresses as well as some shiny nylon shirts straight from the nineties. I unearth a tan skirt made from suede. It’s soft and pretty and would have me melting into a puddle of sweat in under thirty seconds. I put it back.

Eventually I find a thigh-skimming button-up white dress dotted with tiny silver daisies. Perfect.

I imagine Jonah kissing me, running his hands through my hair. No-one can run their hands through braids this tight. I think about how Merritt said I might look better with my hair down. I take every bobby pin out so that my hair falls in thick waves across my shoulders.

Hmm. I don’t look much different.