Page 22 of 56 Days
Two more rounds later, the barman comes to tell them that he’s closing up early. He apologizes profusely but they tell him they understand. They are the only patrons, they have been since the man outside left more than an hour ago, and it’s obvious the staff needs them out of the way to get ready for opening under very different conditions tomorrow. The hazard tape has crept as far as the booth directly across from theirs.
The barman has kindly brought one more round, on the house, to soften the blow, but it’s not even nine o’clock by the time they’ve finished it.
“We could go to mine,” Oliver suggests casually.
She agrees to this plan with as much nonchalance as her tipsy self allows and then slides out of the booth with as much grace as she can muster. The amount in each case, she suspects, is nowhere near as much as she hopes. But Oliver’s eyes are looking a little unfocused and it takes him longer than it should to put his suit jacket back on, so she has to conclude that they’re both a little drunk or at least well on their way there.
She hopes his place has food in it, for both their sakes.
They arrive at his apartment complex arm in arm; she doesn’t quite remember when that happened, or who initiated it, but she’s happy with this turn of events. They’ve walked along the canal for a bit, back toward hers—although she didn’t mention that because she doesn’t want him suggesting they go to her place, not yet—and then turned left, and there might have been a park on the right at some point... Now they are outside a modern building shaped like a U, standing at its glass doors while Oliver roots for his keys.
Gold lettering above the doors says it’s called The Crossings.
She reads this aloud, adding a question mark at the end. This many drinks in, on an empty stomach, it seems like a silly name.
“Harold’s Cross,” Oliver says, by way of explanation.
“Whose what now?”
He laughs. “That’s where weare. Harold’s Cross. It’s the name of the area.”
“Oh.”
He touches a plastic fob to a sensor and one of the doors obediently clicks open. They enter a lobby made of glass; a light comes on overhead, making Ciara blink.
Through another set of doors opposite them, she glimpses a central courtyard with a little tinkling water feature in its center, surrounded by wooden benches and carefully planted trees and flowerbeds. The apartments rise up around them on three sides, each of their balconies empty, soft lights on behind wispy curtains.
“Do you have roommates?” she asks.
“It’s just me. It’s a work thing. Came with the job. Only temporarily, though. I get itrent-freefor three months.”
“And then what?”
“And then we’ll see.”
He grins in a way that makes her think he wants her to think she’ll have some part to play in that.
Christ, shereallyneeds to eat something.
She follows him past the lifts and down a long corridor ofspaced-apartdoors from whose other sides there comes no sound. She keeps a couple of steps behind because there is no way after this much time and that many glasses of wine that her makeup still looks the way it did when she left the house, and the bright white spotlights clicking on directly overhead will only make it worse.
She’s relieved when he pushes open his own door—1—to reveal a dim, softly lit space beyond.
“Come on in,” he says, waving a hand theatrically.
She smiles and accepts the invite, the heels of her boots making a hollow noise as they connect with the hardwood floor.
He takes her coat and says he’ll give her the tour, which consists of him walking her into the living room while pointing at things—the closed doors of two bedrooms and a third, partially open one which leads to awet-room-style bathroom with a monsoon shower and subway tiles.
The living space is open plan, with a glossy kitchen area to the rear. The walls are white and decorated with arty, abstract prints. (“They came with the place.”) A rich brown leatherL-shapedsofa faces a faux fire that “burns” inside a black glass box recessed into the wall once Oliver hits a switch. Above it hangs aflat-screenTV bigger than Ciara’s dining table. He pulls the curtains closed across the big windows—no, sliding doors—that face into the courtyard.
There are no things, no possessions. Nothing personalizing the space except for a lone magazine lying open on the couch. But it’s not a clinical neatness that’s going on here—more like a barelylived-invibe, as if this is a holiday home he’s just checked into for the night.
The kitchen has the same odd, cold bareness: the countertops are empty except for a bottle ofsupermarket-brandolive oil and a roll of paper towels.
“I could fit my entire place into this room,” she says.
He walks back to her. “I realize this is very muchhashtag-first-world-problems, but it’s actually a bittoobig. I feel like I’ve been rattling around in here, all by myself.” A pause. “Alone.”
