Page 18 of Glitterland
“Whateva.”
I wrote out my message, signed, closed the book, and pushed it back across the table.
“Right,” said Essex. “Fanks.”
His footsteps receded. I tried to think over the wild thundering of my heart.
Someone placed another book in front of me, newly purchased and pristine. My fingers trembled as I opened it.
“Who—” I began.
“Oh, I forgot.” Dear God, Essex was back. “You left summin behind.”
There was a flutter of turquoise silk, and my boxers with the peacock feather print landed right on top of the title page ofThrough a Glass Darkly. I jerked my head up just in time to see Essex flouncing off and the frozen expression of the tweed-jacketed gentleman standing in front of me.
“I’m terribly sorry,” he said, after a moment, “but I only brought a copy of the book.”
I put down my pen, picked up my boxers, folded them neatly, and tucked them into my inside breast pocket. Then I picked up the pen again.
“That’s quite all right,” I said, magnanimously. “Who should I make it out to?”
I escaped half an hour or so later without further incident. As I stepped onto Piccadilly, however, something made me look around. Sitting at the bus stop, bag at his feet, was Essex. He was wearing the same pointy-toed boots he’d had in Brighton and another pair of skinny jeans, a top that looked like knitted fishnet, and—presumably in deference to the occasion—a formal, fitted jacket with rhinestone-studded lapels. Metal bracelets and leather ties circled both wrists, his ears glinted with gold, and he had a sort of beaded crucifix hanging around his neck. He looked absurd and beautiful. And dejected. He was holding my book, open at the title page.
And I stared at him foolishly, unable to walk away. I wanted him. Still. Again. Just as much as I had when I’d seen him in Brighton. It was madness, and I knew madness, in all its many colours. I could just about justify indulging the impulse of a moment, but this was starting to look like a habit. What the fuck was wrong with me? Why, in all the vastness of the world, did a sparkly idiot from Essex make me feel alive?
I sat down beside him. He didn’t look at me.
“‘To a bloke I fucked—A.A. Winters,’” he read. “Nice. That’s really nice. I don’t fink you’re a very nice person.”
“I’m not,” I said.
There was a long silence.
“So, am I some sorta minger or summin?”
I cast him a startled glance. “Uh, no. What? You’re quite attractive.”
“Bet you can’t even remember my name. That right, Alasdair Ashley Winters?”
“How do you know—”
“Looked it up on Wikipedia, didn’t I? Not in a like stalking way.”
“For fuck’s sake.” I smoothed my cuffs in an effort to moderate my exasperation. “It was a one-night stand. You weren’t expecting to take me home to meet Nana Essex, were you?”
“Leave my nan outta this.” He wagged a finger at me, faded silver gleaming on the nail like a piece of fallen star. “Just cos it was a hook-up don’t mean you go running out like you was on fire, janarwhatamean? That was bang aht of order.”
I suddenly noticed that his eyes were blue. A pale, changeable blue that shifted in the light and with his mood, mapping a subtle, private spectrum from grey to green. I found them rather lovely, and it was terrifying.
“Well,” I snapped, “I’m sorry I failed to display the appropriate casual sex etiquette, but what would have been the point of hanging around?”
“Dunno. Could’ve ’ad breakfast, could’ve done it again. But it’s not abaht that.”
“What is it about, then?”
He turned and caught me staring, and—like a fly in honey—I couldn’t turn away.
“I fought you liked me,” he said simply. “It’s not like I wanted to marry you or nuffin, but I didn’t fink you was gonna make me feel like a slapper.”
