Page 14 of Glitterland
I felt amusement turn up the corners of my mouth very slightly. By accident or design, Amy always somehow managed to make me feel human. Perhaps it was she knew in abstract how low I could fall, but hadn’t seen the worst of it. I didn’t doubt she’d find a way to handle it, but it pleased me—yes, it pleased me—that she’d never had to. As if, incapable as I was of looking after myself, I could protect someone else. Or, maybe, sometimes I just liked to pretend to be normal. And Amy let me.
“Well,” I said, “if you’re making an informed, conscious decision to oppress yourself, it’s probably a feminist statement.”
“My thoughts exactly. But I can’t be Amy Miller-Moreton-Smith. That’s the worst name in the universe.”
“That is, indeed, the worst name in the universe.”
“So…” I could imagine her twisting a lock of hair idly round her finger. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Make Max change his name instead,” I suggested.
“I already thought of that, but he says Max Miller sounds like a serial killer. And I don’t want to be married to a serial killer.”
“Also a music hall comedian.” I hummed a bit of “Mary from the Dairy.”
“You know some weird shit, my friend,” she said. “And this isn’t helping.”
“Well, you could both change your names,” I offered.
“Oooh, to something completely different?”
“Yes.”
“Like…like Shufflebottom.”
I coughed, remembering, out of nowhere, Dyke Street and a smirking glitter pirate. “Clutterbuck.”
“Hiscock.”
“Gropebuttock.”
“Oh, you’ve sold me,” she said. “Amy and Max Miller-Gropebuttock.”
“Glad to be of service.”
“Speaking of service,” she added, “I’ve got a dress fitting. Don’t suppose you want to come with me?”
I really did not. “I’m not that kind of gay.”
“Dammit. Can I do a part-exchange?”
“A homosexual is for life, not just for Christmas.”
She laughed. “So, I’ll see you a week on Thursday, okay? Sure you feel up to it? I can postpone?”
“No, I’m…” I had been about to say “all right,” but for some reason my tongue tripped over the word. “…okay. Anyway, it’s just a signing.”
“Drink beforehand?”
“No, thanks.”
“Great, let’s meet at The Three Crowns at six.”
I made an exasperated sound, not entirely devoid of affection. “What part of ‘no’ did you fail to understand?”
“The part where it means yes. See you soon, Ash. I’ll bring pictures of my dress.” She made an extravagant kissing sound into the phone and hung up.
The conversation left me feeling both better and faintly unsettled, although I couldn’t work out precisely why. I put it down to the general restlessness that sometimes accompanied getting through a depressive period. When I was lost in the muck and mire of madness, it was as though nothing else existed. And, afterwards, it seemed incomprehensible that I had ever really thought like that. Self-recrimination inevitably followed.
