Fifty Shades of Gauze

Zoe studies the white squares painted neatly on the wall. It looks like something from the Tate Modern, only with more masking tape.

“It’s hard to decide,” she sighs finally.

I know this already. I know it’s hard for Zoe to decide which shade of white she wants to paint the living room because we’ve spent two days and a small fortune on ludicrously overpriced tester pots.

However, I’m completely calm about it.

“The Pointing’s nice,” I urge.

“It’s too… magnolia.”

“How about Shirting?”

“Too cold.”

“Linen Wash?”

Zoe frowns with indecision.

“Imagine a scenario,” I suggest, “in which someone is holding a gun to your head and threatening to pull the trigger unless you choose a paint in the next ten seconds. Which one would it be?”

Zoe considers this.

“Either the Shirting or the Cotton or the Gauze. Or the Linen Wash,” she says. “Or Parchment.”

I don’t think she’s imagining the scenario nearly as vividly as I am.

The only thing Zoe is completely certain about is that she hates the colour the living room is now.

If Emperor Hadrian were building his wall today, says Zoe, it would be magnolia. Every wall in modern Britain starts off magnolia and stays that way until somebody does something about it. We put up with its tepid tyranny because it’s safe. It’s elevator music in emulsion form. It makes beige look dangerous.

But it turns out that magnolia is also like modern democracy. Nobody likes it much, but what do you want instead?

“Why don’t they just do white?” Zoe whines.

This was Zoe’s original vision. We would buy white paint, slap it on the walls, and voilà: An unfussy white room with primary colours in the furnishings. Scandinavian Minimalism in a can.

But it turns out white isn’t a colour, and even if it is, it should never be named. Instead, it should only be discreetly implied, like a censored version of an EL James novel where nothing naughty happens: Fifty Shades of Gauze.

Every white-ish paint looks exactly like the last one, only not quite, with mindbendingly subtle name variations that make matt emulsion feel like a different kind of concept altogether: What is freedom? What is consciousness? What colour would you like your living room? 

“Let’s just narrow it down,” I prod her. “What about Ivory Dusk?”

Zoe makes a face. “Too… country house,” she says.

“Gauze?”

“Too drab.”

“You liked it a minute ago.”

She gives me a look.

“Linen Wash?”

“Too stark.”

“Shirting?”

“Too cold.”

“Clockface?”

“Too green.”

“Parchment?”

“Too yellow.”

Right. Fine. I give up.

I start applying masking tape aggressively to the ceiling and cut the side of my hand on a picture hook. A thin trail of blood splatters on the wall.

I swear loudly. Zoe comes over and has a look at the wound. It’s not so bad.

“Well, that’s just great,” I try to say while sucking my hand.

“Oh no,” she says. “Too red.”