Page 19 of Glitterland
I still couldn’t break his gaze. I was dying in the sweetness of looking at him. His eyes. The laughing mouth that had kissed mine, and made me burn and shiver andfeel. Chiselled wannabe-model features. The overly tended beard and lashings of fake tan that had somehow stopped being objectionable. It was official: I’d lost it.
“I don’t like anyone,” I said.
“What, nobody?”
“Yes, nobody.”
“Omigod, babes.” His eyes widened. “That’s really…like…sad.”
Fantastic. Pity from a man whose preferred skin tone was orange. I shrugged.
“I read your book,” said Essex after a moment, waving it at me. “I fought it was good, actually. Not Dan Brown good. But I liked it.”
“Thank you.”
“I fought the title was well clever,” he went on. “Cos like ’is name is Rik Glass and the book is calledFrew a Glass Darkly. Like the Annie Lennox song.”
Oh, good God. I put my head in my hands. “It’s from the Bible, you arse.”
“I ’aven’t read it.” He shot me an appraising look. “’Ave you?”
“Well, no,” I flustered. “But it’s a cultural consciousness thing.”
“What’s that abaht?”
“It’s…kind of…the way people…know things about things, without really knowing…things…about them.”
He poked me playfully in the arm. “That sahnds like rubbish, mate. So, how’s it go? The full fing?”
I recited for him: “‘For now we see through a glass, darkly, but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.’”
“That’s well nice,” he said, seeming pleased. “I dunno what it means. Cos you can’t see frew a glass if it’s dark, can you?”
“You’re quite right, Essex. I shall complain to the editor.”
“Isn’t that like…God?”
“I suppose it must be.”
“Don’t fink ’e’s in.”
I put my hands in the air, miming shock. “What’s a nice boy like you doing spouting blasphemies like that?”
“It’s not being rude.” He looked a bit affronted. “It’s just what I fink, is all.”
There was another awkward silence. It was a chilly evening, but warmth was creeping across my skin like the promise of summer. I felt weak and shivery with longing. So what if he was a habit? There was still no reason anyone would have to know. I stirred the dust of my pride: nothing. Fuck it then.
“So,” I said, “I have…um…this antique rolltop writing desk. At my flat. Where I write. I wondered if you’d be, um, interested in…um…”
He played with one of the leather bracelets tied round his wrist. “What?”
“Fucking me over it.”
He grinned gleefully. “I knew you liked me.”
“I like fucking you. It’s not the same thing.”
“Whateva, babes.”
