The Show Must Go On

Chapter Fourteen: Float

Chapter Fourteen Soundtrack: Float by Olivia Dean

As the gala creeps closer, I realise that I have nothing to wear. I have emptied my drawers, run to the charity shop next door, and am now vibrating with stress at the end of my bed. I swipe away the news alert about the tube strikes and reopen Pinterest. Surely, somewhere on this vast app, another tall woman with wobbly arms must be sharing outfit inspiration. Surely.

How can these girls all be wearing cowboy boots? How can there be enough cowboy boots in the world to match all of their outfits?

Ughhh. I throw my phone down in frustration. Then I pick it back up and prepare to text Nas that I'm feeling sick. Then I put it back down.

It's just a gala. We've done a dozen before, they're always the same, and at least the crowd will ensure Nas can't be too rude to me.

I just have to pick an outfit.

My mother's words ring in my ears. Maybe I do need a personal trainer, after all.

I rise to inspect myself in the floor-length mirror. My hair, once blonde but now growing back mousy brown, hangs limply below my shoulders. It defies any attempts to curl. My blue eyes, without sunglasses to hide behind, look exhausted. Beneath my skirts, I know the scars still claw up my legs and wrap up around my torso. My mother approves of how I hide my body beneath layers and bright colours, as though I'm asking everyone to look at the clothes instead of the person beneath. She thinks I'm ashamed of my size. But I'm not: I'm ashamed of my scars. I'm ashamed of the questions they bring, and the pity.

In the mirror, my eyes catch on a dress tucked into the back of my wardrobe. I bought it years ago, before the accident, and it hangs unworn and forgotten. It might not even fit.

It's too late to order something else. Maybe it's too much, or too tight, or too much like Ellie Before The Accident. But it's my best option, and with a sigh, I turn from my mirror and get dressed.

*

It's eerily quiet as I cross the street to the Barbican. I always feel like a fish in a vast aquarium when I walk under the motorway here, as though enormous alien eyes are peering through the gaps between the streetlights. It's like I could scream and no sound would emerge.

I shake off these morbid thoughts. It's only the cold breeze against my legs and the looming sense of dread that's built all day, inexplicably, in anticipation of tonight. It's not even the gala: it's this precarious peace with Nas, so unlike our usual squabbling, which has left me unsettled and uneasy. I don't know this version of him.

It's always quiet along this street, but tonight I am the only person here. It isn't late enough for this silence, and for a moment relief floods me. Maybe tonight was cancelled. Maybe I can go home, get into joggers, and fall asleep on the couch without speaking to another human being.

'Eleanor!'

Or not.

I turn to see Nas crossing the road. Gone is the relief. Now my heart is pounding, as though I've just run a race, and my hands can't stop fidgeting with my dress.

'Hi,' I say feebly, because Nas is always handsome, but Nas tonight... I can't speak.

No other man should wear a suit. Not now that I've seen him in this one, black and sharply cut, with his hair still a little damp and his glasses glittering like a secret. It's all I can do to keep breathing.

'Eleanor,' he says again, stopping a step from me. His mouth opens and then closes. For a moment, I nearly laugh, because it almost looks like Nas is thinking exactly what I am: that he is just as overwhelmed by me. That he wants to devour me too.

His gaze slides down my dress, which thankfully still fits, and is scarlet and floor-length, with cascading frills that cling to my curves and swirl when I move. He gulps.

No one has ever looked at me like this. I cannot fathom that Nasir Naji, movie-star heartthrob, could look at me like this, because... look at him. Everyone wants him. But I cannot explain the look in his eyes.

'What?' I ask, just to break the silence.

He clears his throat and finally looks away. 'It's just nice to see you in something that a grandmother didn't die in.'

'Thanks, I think. Are you flirting with me?'

He laughs and hits me again with that dimpled smile. 'I'm always flirting with you.'

Of course. He flirts with everyone. I'm not special. But still... I feel warmer in my dress, despite the chill in the air, and I take his arm when he offers it.

'It's weirdly quiet,' I say as we walk down the gallery hall, and he is about to reply when the main doors swing open before us and a wave of voices crash against us.

Ugh. One thoughtless comment in and the night has barely begun. Nas chuckles softly beside me.

'Ready to go?' he murmurs. I do our usual pre-event scan.

'Tail,' I tell him, and he tucks in the back of his shirt.

'Lipstick,' he tells me, and I run my tongue over my teeth.

Then we begin.

*

this is the dress! i completely adore it so i had to give it to my girl. i wonder what nas thinks of it...