35 I’ll sleep on the couch tonight
35
I’ll sleep on the couch tonight
One of the things I like most about my job is going to the new season presentations from some of the biggest fashion brands. In the past, Marisol and I used to go together, but with COVID and the reduced number of seats, we had to start switching off. Now she goes to a lot of them, and I go to the others because my boss has always considered me to be the other visible face of the magazine. We divide the events according to the brands we like the most and the friends we have who work for them. That’s another great thing about this job: you meet lovely people with whom you share hobbies, chitchats, hours of work, favors, and exhaustion, and over the years, you get pretty tight with them.
If I’m remembering correctly, the year after the pandemic, Marisol went to Louis Vuitton, Chanel, Loewe, Valentino, Roger Vivier, Bottega Veneta, and Etro. And I went to Balenciaga, Saint Laurent, Miu Miu, and Prada. Sometimes I meet up with Ivan at the stores or the spaces the brands have rented out for the occasion in a kind of “personal-professional” get-together. I care about his opinion, I trust him, they usually serve sparkling wine, and as a stylist, he has to see the new looks. It’s a win-win.
Today is no exception, because it’s the Prada presentation for the new season, and I have a meeting with Xabier, the department manager of the women’s store (sweet, handsome, fun, and has a great ass, by the way) at seven thirty. With him and with Ivan.
The rest of the day, everything that’s happened up until now isn’t worth wasting my breath on. That’s just how time traveling is. Sometimes, you’re lucky enough to fall into the memory of something that shakes your foundations or shines a light into a pitch-black void. Other times, it’s like regurgitating something that was bad for you. I don’t know if I need a drink or an Alka-Seltzer.
The top floor of Prada’s boutique on Calle de Serrano is all set up to show off the new season’s iconic garments to its best customers, stylists, and publications. It’s not hard to spot Ivan, because it’s not very crowded and the whole floor is open-plan. Plus you can’t miss him: he’s in front of a rack bursting with the brightest fabrics.
“Look, there he is,” Xabier points out with a smile. “I’ll go grab us some wine and leave you to it for a bit.”
“See you in a minute.”
Normally, I would kiss him on the cheek before he left, but the whole mask thing has reduced human contact. I miss traveling to 2016, where people sneezed without covering their mouths and you weren’t afraid of catching dengue fever.
“You’re like a magpie,” I say to my friend.
He doesn’t even look at me. He just yanks a dress off a hanger and shoves it in my face.
“Look, it’s for your next cover.”
“Will it read well in a photo?”
“Will it read well in a pho—? Jesus. Don’t insult me. You don’t hire me because of my hair or even because I’m your best friend.”
That’s true.
I don’t comment on his look, because for the first time in a long time, Ivan is Ivan. The original Ivan. His black hair, speckled with gray here and there, is styled in his usual haircut. His brown eyes, framed by thick dark lashes, are the same as always. He’s wearing a black FPP2 mask, like the ones he always wears, matching his outfit. We’re the “cockroaches,” eternally dressed in mourning from head to toe. He’s wearing Doc Martens, jeans, and a black sweater. I don’t need to touch the sweater to know it’s high quality. But it’s Ivan; you’ll never see him wearing a brand logo.
“What’s up, cutie? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“You’re back to being you,” I blurt out giddily.
“What are you talking about?”
“Your look. You look how you always look today.”
“You look how you always look too.” He winks, puts his arm around my shoulder, and kisses my temple, even though he’s wearing a mask. “What do you think?”
“Well, I haven’t even had time to take a look yet. Got any spoilers for me?”
“I don’t want to influence you. Let’s start from that rack, and then we’ll do a lap of the whole store.”
Xabier comes over with a beautiful wooden tray laden with two mini bottles of sparkling wine that he uncorks for us. He walks alongside us and tells us about the collection just how we like it, honestly, with style and deep knowledge of what he’s talking about. He throws in references to the history of the house, to previous collections, to what inspires the designer to make the garments one way and not another and we give him back the same honesty in return.
“You know I can’t with performance fabrics,” I confess. “That ‘froufrou’ sound it makes when it brushes against things…it makes my hair stand on end.”
“You couldn’t be more old-fashioned,” Ivan accuses me. “High-quality technical fabric is modern, cosmopolitan. The garments are versatile and really comfy.”
I wrinkle my nose, but he brushes right past me and holds up another hanger.
“But this dress is beautiful,” I remark.
“You’re more basic than a pumpkin spice latte,” Ivan splutters.
“Coming from the guy who wears the same old black day in and day out.”
“I can’t with you two,” Xabier teases, just as a client beckons him over from behind us. “Excuse me. Today is crazy. Keep browsing. I’ll be right back, but you better hit me up for a drink one day soon, please.”
We start laughing and encourage him to go, but it’s always the same when we come in: we hog him. We keep moving along the rack. I stroke the garments, and Ivan studies them down to the very last detail.
“What’s going on?” he says after a silence.
“I spent the day in Tenerife yesterday.”
He side-eyes me sadly.
“This has to stop, Miri. You can’t leave your life behind and just keep hiding out in happy memories.”
“I know. That’s what I’m saying. Yesterday, I was in Tenerife with him, and we were super happy…but no. This morning, I woke up all lovey-dovey, and he was cold as an iceberg. He told me his head hurt. And I don’t know what comes over me when I can tell he’s tense. It’s like it raises my hackles. It’s almost like I get embarrassed, you know? Embarrassed that I was trying to cozy up or be conciliatory, and my stupid streak comes out. More than usual. So in the tiny window between the alarm clock ringing and us leaving for work, we got into three fights. About the towels in the bathroom, because it fills me with rage when he puts his wet towel on top of my dry one. Then because there was no milk, and apparently I’m a fucking disaster who forgets everything that’s not about my friends or my professional life. And finally because…I don’t even know what the last one was about. Bottom line, I slammed the door on my way out.”
Ivan puts the garment back on the hanger, pulls his mask down for a second, and takes a sip of wine as he nods, encouraging me to go on.
“You know me. By midmorning, I had calmed down because I’m a pushover and I get over things in two minutes, and I called him to say sorry. As soon as he picked up, he said he didn’t have time to argue on the phone and to please not make a scene while he’s at work.”
“I can’t imagine how you took that.”
“Well, I was going to take it like a hydra…but I restrained myself.”
“Yeah?”
“Until he freaked out because I told him I had to come to Prada to see the new season’s showcase at seven thirty. He asked me why I didn’t schedule the visit earlier, and I told him it was because I wanted to be here at the same time as you…and, well…it all got messy again.”
“Why?”
“Because he says I prioritize seeing you over him. I didn’t like that. But I told him he should come. And he said, ‘I don’t give a fuck about your clothes.’ My clothes. And then…I did go”—I shake my head and sigh—“a little crazy, Ivan. Totally crazy actually.”
“Have you talked since?”
“It’s not going over my head that you’re asking bland questions and not giving any opinions. You know that, right?”
“You’re my best friend. You’re intelligent.”
I start laughing bitterly.
“I wouldn’t be your best friend if I were a bimbo?”
“Obvs not, but seeing the shoes you’re wearing today, I’m starting to think you might be.”
I look down at my feet. I’m wearing the Prada boots that went viral years ago; they’re not exactly chic. But I love pairing them with more “ladylike” looks. That’s why I’m wearing them with a floral dress. He hates them.
“Argh…are you even listening to me?”
“Of course I’m listening. I just wanted to lighten the mood a little. So? Have you talked to him since?”
“I messaged him to ask if he wanted me to stop by somewhere on the way home and pick up dinner, and he wrote back that he’s sick of eating junk. I think he’s sick of a lot more than eating junk.”
“We already talked about that. You shouldn’t be so surprised.”
“I don’t eat that much junk. I’m just always in a rush. I ate tuna tartare today, for example.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about. Your nutritional regime is not my main concern here. I mean Tristan is done with Madrid, and we’ve already talked that to death.”
“We were so good in Tenerife…”
“Ay, Miranda…” He rolls his eyes.
“What?”
“I mean…you were on vacation.”
“Couples that are in a bad place have arguments on vacation too, you know?”
“Couples that don’t love each other argue on vacation.”
“Can we just agree that all couples argue?” I point out.
“Yeah, of course they do, but I’ve been here these last few months, Miranda, and…ever since you got back, everything’s a problem. Going to Vigo to see his family, meeting up with friends, making plans for the weekend, sex, the right way to show affection, how much time you spend at work, even what’s in the fridge.”
“We’re going through a rough patch.” I’m clinging tooth and nail to that idea, even though it’s starting to sound ridiculous even to me.
Ivan steps back from the rack and focuses all his attention on me. He looks at me with his big, beautiful eyes, and even through his mask, I can hear him suck his teeth.
“Miranda…I just want you to be happy.”
“I know.”
“Well, you’re not. And he’s not either.”
“But I love him.”
“Yeah, but since when does that guarantee success?”
I look over all the garments again and snap photos of a few that I want to show Marisol because they could fit in with a special we’re doing in the next issue. Now Ivan and I are sitting on a patio in Plaza de la Independencia, under the red glow of one of those outdoor heaters, drinking wine and gossiping. We haven’t talked much about Tristan, my life, or my relationship. We’re catching up about work and a few projects we have on the table, like some still lifes we hired him for. He’s great at still lifes, and in the next issue, we’re going to produce two on shoes in the magazine’s studio. I know it sounds like a baroque painting of pheasants and oranges, but it’s still an artistic, aesthetic, and beautiful composition highlighting the accessories. We also talked about a night out we were planning with my group of friends from the old neighborhood. And about the guy he’s kind of excited about, even though he won’t admit it. But all signs point to it going great.
I get home at ten, and yes, I’m a couple of wines in. And when I say a couple…a couple of couples. I drank enough wine to notice that my tongue’s a little thicker than usual, and I’m afraid Tristan will be pissed off because on top of getting home late, I’ve been out “partying.” But these moments with my people do me good, not because I don’t need him but because they’re part of finding balance. I love him, but my life needs other things to be complete, not just him. I find him on the couch, reading in his pajamas. He stares at my hands as I put down my keys. There’s no hello.
“You didn’t bring dinner?” he asks tensely.
“Didn’t you tell me not to bring you anything?”
“Me?”
“Yes. You. You said you were sick of eating junk?”
“There’s nothing in the fridge. I said that too.”
“Ay, Tristan”—I feel desperate—“it’s just that sometimes I feel like I need a psychic to understand you or a Ouija board or something.”
He stands up, visibly annoyed, walks over to the freezer, and wrenches it open angrily.
“I’ll order sushi if you want.”
“No, I don’t care.”
“Tristan, don’t get like this. I’ll order sushi, and it’ll be here in twenty minutes.”
“But I’ve been hungry for an hour already,” he spits.
“You should’ve told me.”
“You have to be told everything. You have to be told that the fridge is empty, that cooking is normal”—he’s gaining speed as he talks and paces around the kitchen—“to remember to call and confirm the dinner for Saturday, to turn the washing machine on, that I have a job too, a life, that I’m tired, that relationships require time, that I feel alone stuck here at home while you go get drunk with your friends, and that this is the most exhausting relationship of my entire fucking life!”
He throws a dish towel down onto the counter, turns around, and, before I can even say anything, storms to the bedroom and slams the door. No. I’m not following him. It’s the first time in a long time that I agree with someone yelling at me: this is exhausting. And I’m tired. Very, very tired.
I’ll sleep on the couch tonight.