Page 17 of Glitterland
“Not half as happy as the sales assistant standing next to me. You wouldn’t believe what a wedding dress costs.”
“No,” I said firmly. “I wouldn’t.”
Rolling her eyes with—I thought—more amusement than exasperation, she pulled her phone out of my hands and stuffed it back in her pocket. “Anyway, what happened to you at the stag night? Max said you pulled.”
“Oh…err…” I’d been about to relax into my non-wedding related conversational duties but now an absolutely scalding blush burst across my face. As far as I was concerned, what happened in Brighton stayed in Brighton. “I didn’t think he’d seen. I barely spoke to him, actually. I’m shitty like that.”
If Amy noticed my inept attempt to deflect the topic of conversation back to Max, she still let me get away with it. “He’s more perceptive than he lets on. And he does care about you.”
“I know he does.” I hesitated, wondering how best to articulate something awkward. “It’s just, Niall is sort of the lynchpin. He’s the thing we have in common. Not that he’s a thing. But Max is almost like a…a…friend-in-law. Or something.”
She grinned at me over her pint of John Smith’s. “Also, he’s really scary.”
“God, he is. Why are you marrying such a disgustingly perfect specimen of manhood?”
“I have really terrible taste. I should find some kind of broken, insecure, miserable weasel-type man with a tiny cock, right?”
I spread my hands. “Look no further. Um, except for the cock part. I’m phenomenally well-endowed.”
Her smile vanished. “Ash,” she said softly. My hands were resting on the tabletop, carefully placed so my cuffs didn’t drag in any beer rings, and Amy covered them with hers. It was nice, for about half a second, and then it was too much, even from Amy, so I shook her off. “You’re not broken. And everybody’s insecure. Even Max, would you believe it?” She paused. “You do have a touch of the weasel though.”
“Iwhat?”
“I think it’s that intent, curious, dark-eyed look you have. It’s a bit musteline.”
I gaped at her, speechless, and she burst out laughing. Her laugh was nothing like my glitter pirate’s laugh, but the easy joy in it made my memories chime like bells. I felt a sudden, sharp pang of something almost like loss.
Before I had to wonder about it, my phone beeped a warning.
“Well.” I finished the watery dregs of my Coke and stood. “You may give thanks that you’re spared my withering and soul-destroying retort because I need to go.”
Amy gave me the “Be seeing you” wave. “Best of luck. And try to have fun.”
“Fun?” I gave a fastidious shudder. “Reading one of my own books? Why don’t you put me down for a colonic irrigation at the same time?”
“See,” she said. “Curmudgeon.”
I tried to think of something equally devastating and undeniable. “Weaselist.”
“You what?”
“Someone who holds prejudicial opinions against weasels.”
“I think you’ll find I was very flattering about weasels.”
There was no way I was ever going to get the last word with Amy. It was literally her job. So I struggled into my coat, wound myself into my scarf, and headed out into the cold.
A couple of hours later, I’d had my photograph taken, been confused with Adam Foulds, had my photograph taken again, answered the usual questions about where I got my ideas (“it’s complicated”), if I’d solved any actual crimes (“no”), and what advice I’d give to an aspiring writer (“do something else”). I’d valiantly read some passages fromThrough a Glass Darklyand nobody had fallen asleep or thrown rotten vegetables, so I thought it was fair to say it had all gone off quite well. Retreating to a nearby table, I did my best to look approachable and happy-to-be-there while a wavering queue formed up in pursuit of my signature.
Of course, I wasn’t happy-to-be-there. I was tired, drained, and inappropriately ungrateful. Sometimes it’s beyond me to carry on a conversation with one person, and here I had a whole room looking at me expectantly. I knew I should have been glad for them, for these were the readers who kept me in pyjamas and tea bags. And I was. But I didn’t see why I couldn’t be glad quietly, at a safe distance, in the privacy of my own home. The truth was, somewhere down the line, between the hospitalisations and the drugs, I’d somehow lost the cornerstone of humanity: the ability to pretend, to counterfeit the basics of social interaction, to smile when you didn’t feel like smiling, to seem like you cared about other people when you lacked the capacity to care about yourself. So that left me, graceless and wearied, pretending to pretend. An organ-grinder’s brass monkey, capering to clockwork.
Another copy of my book appeared in front of me, dog-eared and well-read, which pleased me, just a little. I’d always found something slightly eerie about untouched books. Glass coffins, with the words sleeping inside.
“Who should I make it out to?” I asked, not quite managing to look up.
“Oh, I dunno,” said a far too familiar voice, “’ow about maybe ‘To the geeza what I slept wif and then done a runner on in the middle of the night, making ’im feel like a right slapper’?”
“That’s quite lengthy,” I said, after a very long moment. “I may have to adapt it a little.”
