Chapter Forty-Five Soundtrack: Ode to a Conversation Stuck in Your Throat by Del Water Gap

My swim comes at a terrible cost.

Because as I emerge from the glittering water, shaking my hair like I'm in a Pantene advert, the world goes quiet. The splashing sea is replaced with a tinny ringing. I've felt this before: I have water in my ear.

This was my curse as a child. Not that I was particularly sporty, but whenever I braved the pool for a few laps on holiday, I would become deaf for a week. It's been so long that I completely forgot about this evolutionary failure. And now, with my head breaching the surface but hearing nothing but ringing, I feel like a beached whale.

'My ear,' I moan. Some melodrama is called for. Everyone else in the water ignores me.

The trip home is much easier when I can't hear the work conversations around me. It turns out that nodding and looking intrigued make up 99% of human interaction.

I text Mei about my troubles, but even before she replies, I know what I have to do. This isn't my first rodeo.

Nas catches me in the kitchen oiling my ear.

'Eleanor,' he asks, and I jolt upright in surprise. 'Correct me if I'm wrong, and I know you will, but... are you pouring extra virgin olive oil into your ear?'

'...Yes.'

I turn to face him and the towel around my shoulders drops to the floor. Strangely, with cooking oil dripping down my neck and my hair in a rat's nest, I feel less self-conscious than I did only a few hours ago. Maybe I'm just pleased to be out of the swimsuit and home in sweats. Maybe I'm just pleased to be home with him.

He's delighted. This image will arm him with mockery for months.

He asks, 'And you know that we have bowls in the kitchen? It's not necessary to use your ear canal as storage.'

'I can't hear.'

'Don't pretend to ignore me. It's beneath you.'

'No, I literally can't hear. I have to pour oil into my ear to fix it.'

'I don't think that much oil will make hearing easier. A little oil, maybe. For seasoning.'

'Shows how much you know.'

I turn my back on him to demonstrate my indifference. Also, if I can't see him, I literally can't hear him. Win-win.

He evidently realises this because he walks around to face me. 'Give me the bottle.'

'I actually have to pour this. I'm being serious.'

Rolling his eyes, he says, 'Obviously I'll pour it for you. You're going to break your neck if you keep that up. Plus you're dripping it all over the floor.'

'That's the rudest way you could have offered.'

'Eleanor, I promise it wasn't even close.' He snaps at me and I hand over the bottle.

He inspects my ear carefully. He's not wrong: very little of the oil has made it into my ear. It's so hard to pour oil sideways into your own ear canal. Do not try it at home.

Tentatively, he drops a little in. I can feel it sliding down, like a tiny tadpole, and thank God Nas is doing it because I shudder at the sensation.

He pulls back and looks very seriously at me.

'Eleanor, I'm sorry to tell you, but oiling your ear isn't sexy.'

I wrap my arms around his shoulders. 'Nasir, I'm sorry to tell you, but I'm naturally sexy. No effort required.'

He smiles. It's deadly. 'Then I'd hate to see you try.'

Gently, he tips my head to the side and holds my chin. He starts pouring again. The oil chugs deep into my ear: I swear I can hear it sliding through the canal, sloshing against my eardrum. It's one of the worst things I've ever felt. If Nas weren't holding my head, I might be sick.

'Just think,' I tell him to distract myself, 'we could have been doing this for years.'

I can't see his face, because, obviously, he's pouring oil into my ear. But I think he's annoyed when he asks, 'Why haven't we been?'

'Because before, you'd have probably poured... I don't know. Vinegar? Chilli oil? Something to really destroy my hearing.'

'Who says I'm not?'

'Well, you need every advantage you can get. If I can't hear you, I'll probably like you more.'

He groans. 'You may be right,' I think he says, but my ear is extremely oiled at this point, and I am truly struggling to hear him.

'Speak into my other ear.' I must have shouted this because he reappears in my vision and dramatically rolls his eyes.

Charming as ever.

'Are you changing for dinner?' he asks, so, rolling my eyes right back, I leave to change. I was planning to wear my sweats but apparently, they aren't good enough.

As I walk out, he shouts, 'Put some toilet paper in there! Your ear oil is dribbling all over the flat.'

This is the man I fancy. Unbelievable.

*

We're meeting some of my former colleagues for dinner tonight. A couple of months ago, I was apprehensive about arranging it with them because Nas insisted on joining. He had a terrible look in his eyes and I knew that he'd relish the opportunity to mine them for gossip or pass on humiliating stories about me.

We both used to do nonsense like that. I can't remember how many snide comments I made about him, knowing that our industry runs on reputations and hoping that I could tarnish his. We were just as bad as each other.

It's so strange that tonight, I expect nothing worse than a few oily ear jokes. Maybe they'll even like him.

And in fact, they do. We meet in a small Italian restaurant, serving fragrant roasted fish and buttery pasta and crisp pizzas, and over wine and olives and small talk Nas charms them: my first boss, who recommends a script editing course he promises to take, and who winks at me when he looks away; and my previous accountant, who makes several awkward jokes that Nas pretends to enjoy, until they're both really laughing together.

Sitting beside him - and I am a little tipsy, so perhaps it's just in my head - but sitting beside him, I feel like I'm lit by his glow. When Nas is being charming, he makes my jokes funnier, my anecdotes quicker, my insights more astute: when he's being charming, he makes us all feel deserving of his attention. Before, I thought it was the fame. Now, I think it's just Nas.

When they excuse themselves to greet someone across the restaurant, Nas and I finally have a moment alone. 'Going okay?' he asks, and I have to laugh, because of course it is.

'Don't worry. They like you.'

He leans forward. We're both lit by the flickering candlelight and his voice is muffled by the restaurant chatter. My former colleagues are still deep in conversation across the room.

'You know what's weird?' he asks.

'What?'

'I know exactly how much oil fits in your ear. Isn't that weird? I thought I knew you so well, but now I know this... this thing I've never known about anyone.'

'I guess so?'

'And I can't believe I know that. Considering that you wouldn't even tell me your address before. I had to look it up on the HR system to come to your party.'

'Oh shit, did I forget to send it to you?'

'Yes, but that's not the point.'

'What is the point?'

'I just keep thinking how much I never knew. How much I misunderstood. Like... your date. That you were all dressed up for when we met at the bar. Not with your fiance?'

'Nope. Someone new.'

'You dated someone else after you kissed me?'

'Nasir,' I tell him as my old colleagues walk back over. 'I dated someone else because I kissed you.'

He can't hide his Cheshire Cat smile: every time I glance at him, there it is, the happiest I've ever seen him.