The Show Must Go On

Chapter Thirty-Two: Lipstick

Chapter Thirty-Two Soundtrack: Lipstick by The Venice Connection

I am a god. I am a hero. I am the bravest woman who has ever lived and I should never doubt myself again.

These are just a few of the compliments Mei paid me, so it goes without saying that I'm feeling pretty smug on the way into work.

After all, I have just been very, very brave.

And I am still wearing my ring around my neck, not pressing into my finger, even though I fiddled with it in the shower this morning and nearly gave in. I am moving on. Soon, I will even be dating.

I am also walking through London in the pouring rain and so I am quite damp, but that won't bring me down.

The rain drips down my hair and soaks it through, so that I shake like a dog as I enter the lobby. A lawyer entering behind me grumbles.

When I left home, I turned my collar up against the wind, but that only funnelled the rain down my short hair and into my neck. It slides in thick drops down my spine.

I'm about to take my coat off as I enter the lift—it's a small space, but I think I can wiggle—when Nas steps in beside me. He's breathing hard, his hair flopping, as he's obviously run to catch it. He avoids looking at me and instead pushes the button to our floor, firmly, even though it's already lit.

I shrug my coat back on and another flood of water pours down my spine.

'Morning,' I say.

'Morning.'

'Good evening?'

'Fine. You?'

'Fine.'

So much lives in that Fine.

We ascend one floor and three people exit the lift. Four of us remain.

'Weekend plans?' he asks.

'None. You?'

'None.'

One more floor. Two more people leave.

'How's Mei?' he asks, and I shoot him a sideways look. 'You were in her Instagram stories last night. At Kew?'

I didn't know they were Instagram mutuals, something which I will definitely interrogate Mei about later, but I leave that for now.

'She's good. Getting married soon. I'm planning her hen, actually.'

Planning in the sense that I plan to plan it. I'm taking things a day at a time. How hard can it be?

'Sounds fun.'

'Rowdy, probably.'

'You'll be on your best behaviour?'

He is still. Not. Looking. At. Me! Who says that and then avoids eye contact?

'Always am,' I choke out.

The lift doors ding open and oxygen pours in. I inhale like I've been drowning. The space has shrunk since I entered it, the walls of the lift pressing in, which must be why I'm standing so close to him: why his foot nearly presses against mine, why his arm is braced against the side of the lift, muscles tight, to restrain himself from touching me. He leans towards me, though. His entire body tenses around me.

I feel inexplicably that this is how he always waits: braced, nearly touching me, but holding himself just out of reach. That he's pulled this near but cannot cross the final inch. That something magnetic in me attracts and repels him, simultaneously.