Emily’s Diary – Entry 33

The Bar Counter

My bar counter is finished! I can't believe that just last week I was only dreaming about it, and now I'm writing my diary on it. An off-white matte top and four elegant bar stools with curved backs and pale gray upholstery. I'm bursting with pride. I can't stop looking at it.

At first I thought I'd invite Mark and Sofia over, if only to show it off and maybe raise a glass over it. Then I pictured what Adele would say if she found out the surprise I'd planned for her had already been seen—and used—by everyone.

The fitters had it done in a single day. An older tradesman came with his two helpers, who were either his sons or his apprentices. Luckily for me, they worked cleanly, precisely, and fast.

Once they'd gone, I couldn't help myself. I grabbed a sheet of paper and wrote the date and a few lines on it.

For my visit to the pharmacy, I dressed up nicely and even put on a little makeup. I strolled downstairs and got in Grumpy's line. The moment I'd walked in, I saw his face change. While he served the people ahead of me, he kept glancing my way. He was probably hoping he was imagining things and I'd just vanish. Well, no such luck.

"Is everything all right?" he asked hoarsely, then cleared his throat. "What can I get you?"

I leaned forward, propped myself on the counter, and slid the sheet in front of him.

"I brought you something. Just a little token."

He glanced at what I'd written. First, all the color drained from his face. Then, slowly, he started turning red as he read:

A male fitter aged approximately sixty and two assistants aged nineteen at most entered and exited the apartment repeatedly between 8 a.m. and 1 p.m., in a steady stream. At times only one male was present with the subject inside; on several occasions, however, all three shut themselves in with the woman simultaneously. Highly unusual noises were heard coming from the property.

"Hurry up, son!"

"Give it to me, quick!"

"Hang on, I can push it harder."

"Push!"

"Shove!"

"Come on, kid, let's do it together on three!"

"Prop it up, it's about to tip over!"

"This stupid thing won't stop wobbling."

"Let's get all four of them up!"

By the end, he was redder than I'd ever seen anyone. His dazzling blue eyes glowed out of his head like a zombie's. That was when I noticed that his beard, which he usually keeps trimmed short, had grown out quite a bit. I looked him up and down with satisfaction, then wished him many more happy hours of peeping.

With Ben, on the other hand, everything is wonderful. We adore each other, and we're perfectly in sync. We hung out at his place several times this week. We cooked together, ate well, and made love a lot. This time I didn't ruin the intimate moments.

I've wised up, anyway: I let him steer the conversation, so there's no way I'll blunder into saying something stupid. If any of his friends come up, I only ask questions with a positive spin, and only when the situation calls for it. Otherwise, I respond to absolutely everyone with enthusiasm and admiration.

One evening after dinner we were sipping wine in the garden. It's getting chilly now, but we wrapped ourselves in a blanket.

"My sister's coming home from Italy for two weeks," he announced happily.

I put on my best smile.

"That's great!"

Oh, it sure is. Fucking great, in fact! The famous gorgeous, rich sister, every man's dream. I can't wait to stand next to her and demonstrate the massive difference between her and your average woman.

"She'll be staying with me."

Oof, a punch to the gut. I'd been missing those. I rested my head on his shoulder so he wouldn't see my smile freeze.

"That'll be so nice for you two," I gushed as best I could.

"You bet. I can't wait! She has her own place too." Nobody said she didn't. "She rents it out so it brings in a bit of extra income. You're going to love her," he murmured into my hair, then kissed the top of my head.

Well, you're damn right I'm going to love her, whatever she's like. After last time's screwup, there's no asshole he could introduce me to that I wouldn't be head over heels for. I'm Emily, if you please: number one fan of every past, present, and future acquaintance of Ben's.

This morning I put together my dream bathroom in a design program. At first I only wanted to replace the sink. Then, somehow, the rest of the room went too.

I chose huge, light, stone-look tiles with barely visible grout lines. Above a wall-hung oak vanity sits a thick off-white countertop, with the basin flowing into it so seamlessly it looks like the whole thing was carved from a single block. To go with it, a gorgeous matte champagne wall-mounted faucet.

The shower is a walk-in. No threshold, no plastic tray, just a big pane of glass and a rain showerhead so huge that standing under it I'd definitely forget, at least for a while, how much it cost to install. I set a lit niche into the tiles for my shampoo bottles. Finally, no more of that ugly plastic suction-cup caddy.

If I went for everything I picked out, soft light would glow from behind the mirror, and it wouldn't even fog up after a shower. Next to it, I pictured a slim, elegant towel warmer. I can already see thick, snow-white towels hanging on it. In winter, after a hot shower, I'd wrap myself in one and curl up in the armchair where I write my diary.

I feel like I've earned it after all this work. It's just that all the fuss over Ben's sister has shaken my confidence. Maybe I shouldn't spend that kind of money? Would I be better off investing it? A beautifully kitted-out apartment can be a good investment too, right? I just don't know. My heart aches for this fabulous bathroom. Or is the bar counter enough for now? I can't talk to Ben about this. His blue luxury yacht costs more than my apartment.

What I'd really like is to order it right this minute. Adele takes her exam next week. If it goes well, I could sit down with her toward the end of the week and talk it through. My other two friends make way too much money to discuss money troubles with. And I need to have this talk with Adele before she starts raking it in too. After her bar exam, I bet that grade-A asshole boyfriend of hers will start throwing fat-cat clients her way. Soon my best friend won't be whining about her measly trainee salary anymore—she'll be whining about having to drag all of Dave's shady politician buddies out of the shit.

Fine. I don't care what anyone thinks. For two weeks I'm going to look at my dream bathroom every single day, and then I'll flip a coin. Heads, I go for it. Tails, I don't.