Page 51 of The Compound

“It would be easier to sit out if we had a fan, I suppose. A little handheld fan.”

“You’re right. A battery-operated fan.”

“That would be incredible. We could bring it with us everywhere.”

“Not too big or heavy. Just a little thing that you could hold in your hand.”

“And not the black ones that look like a television remote. The white ones are nicer, don’t you think?”

“Much nicer. I love the color white. Actually, I was thinking just this morning about how a white linen dress is the most elegant thing a woman could wear. Don’t you think?”

And soon.

I loved that part of it. It was so simple, really. When I thought of all of the hours of work I would have had to do at home to earn enough for a high-quality white linen dress, I wanted to laugh. Two days’ work, it would have cost me. In the compound, I only had to drink a mouthful of expired milk, and it was in my postbox within minutes.

All of that’s to say that, despite how much I loved the Personal Tasks and rewards, it wasn’t the best part of life on the compound anymore. Now that was Sam. When I had watched the show, I sometimes thought that they were liars, the couples mooning around, hand in hand, talking about how in love they were. But I saw now how it was. When I woke in the morning and saw his face resting on the pillow next to mine, I thought I would die if we were ever separated. I knew he felt the same: if we were occupied in different parts of the compound, he would always find me after an hour or two. I told myself it was the first flush of love: that we had spent weeks wanting to be together. I didn’t let myself think that it was the nature of the show to isolate us so that the connections we formedwere all-consuming. It would have been a miserable, lonely experience otherwise.

The fear of loneliness affected everyone, even Tom. I had been napping in my bed one afternoon, to escape the worst of the heat, when I heard him puttering about in the boys’ dressing room. From where I lay, I could see his reflection in the mirror, combing his hair. He was looking well. His hair had grown to a fashionable length, and his clothes had improved in recent weeks. He had a gold signet ring on his little finger which he twisted as he eyed his reflection. I wondered if he sat with Andrew and manifested his rewards like Candice and me, or if the small screen simply anticipated his wants.

I watched him with curiosity. I had never seen him take such care in his appearance. He looked almost nervous. He sprayed a generous amount of cologne in the air around him, then stepped out of the dressing room and into the bedroom. I closed my eyes and pretended to sleep. I heard him go down the stairs and into the sitting room.

“Oh—hi,” I heard him say. I crept out and sat at the top of the stairs.

“Hey,” Becca said.

“What’s that you’re doing?”

“Crochet. I’m making a headband.”

I rolled my eyes. Of course Becca would make her own headband, rather than try and get one from her Personal Tasks. We scarcely spoke to each other at all since Sam moved to my bed. We no longer cleaned together: I did the morning and afternoon, and she did the evening and night shift. I tried not to miss her quiet, calming presence; she had tried to get rid of me—but it was difficult to think of Becca as conniving, or vindictive. Sam checked up on her often, and although she was cool with him they still spoke every day. Despite myself I worried at times when I saw Sam and Becca speaking together. I had trusted Ryan implicitly, until the very last minute.

“Nice,” he said. “Colorful.”

There was silence for a little bit, and I wondered why Tom was bothering. Everyone knew that Becca hated him.

“I got new sheets this morning,” he said. “Egyptian cotton. Eight hundred thread count.”

“Okay,” she said.

“I put them on our bed already. They’re a pale orange color—I’m not sure how you feel about orange…”

There was another silence, and I thought that I would have liked to have been a viewer at home, seeing their conversation from all angles. I would have killed to have seen Becca’s face.

“It should be more comfortable, anyway.”

“Nice sheets won’t make me comfortable in that bed.”

“Things don’t have to be so…strained between us. I want to look after you.”

“And why do you think I want you looking after me?”

“I just—just mean that…” he said and stopped. It was incredible to hear Tom discomposed. If I had been a viewer, I would have rewound to hear him stutter again. I would have played it over and over. “I mean that I want—”

“And while we’re on the topic,” she interrupted, her voice quiet but sharp, “I’d like you to stop bringing me breakfast in the morning. I can get my own breakfast.”

“Becca,” he said, in an oddly stern voice, as though he was chiding her for bad behavior. “You know I only want—”

“I’m not interested in what you want. Now, could you leave, please? I want to work in peace.”

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