Page 27 of Glitterland
I blinked. “Uh…what?”
“Look in the sink.”
I looked in the sink. There was a dead plant sitting in a sort of water bath.
“I fink we can save ’er. The rest ’ave ’ad it, though.”
“Uh, great, well done.”
“It’s like a horror movie or summin, innit?”
“Pardon?”
“She’s the only one to get out alive. Do you reckon she’s like a plant cheerleader or summin?”
“I thought the cheerleader always died first?”
“Maybe, I dunno. I don’t really like horror, to be ’onest wif you. Like you’re watching and eeva you’re not scared so what’s the point, or you are scared and then you’re like…scared, janarwhatamean?”
This was all a bit much first thing in the morning. “I think so,” I said dubiously.
“Kettle’s boiled, by the way.” He pointed helpfully, in case I had somehow forgotten the location of my own damn kettle. “Milk in the fridge.”
“Oh.” Relief. “Tea.”
I was just pouring myself a cup, when suddenly there was an excitable Darian behind me, nosing into my neck, while his hands swooped about my person.
“What are you wearing, babes?” His voice struck me as unduly incredulous for a man with a huge pewter ankh hanging round his neck.
“Gentleman’s sleeping attire.”
He turned me away from my tea, a dangerous action if there ever was one. I opened my mouth to complain but then he stroked my purple silk lapels.
“That dressing gown, babes,” he said, at last, “is love. And I nevva seen pinstriped pyjamas before.”
“Are they, err, love?”
“I fink they’re just a bit weird. I mean, what’s this pocket for? Carrying your teddy bear?”
“I don’t know, pockets are useful.”
“But why’d you need three in a pair of pj’s? Seriously, babes, you go to bed in more clovves than I wear going out.”
“Are you quite done, Herr Lagerfeld?”
He kissed my nose. “You’re so funny, babes. Fanks for letting me stay.”
“Thanks for…getting me off.”
He laughed. “Any time. So, like, I’ve got this meeting fing wif a modlin agency today and then it’s back ’ome cos Nan’s expecting me. Unless like maybe you wanted…”
“Yes.”
I’d spoken before I’d even had time to frame the thought. And ten seconds later, he was phoning his grandmother to let her know he’d be staying another night in London. What had I done?
I sat down at the table, sipping my tea while Darian babbled happily into his phone. “Yeah, gonna crash wif a mate…No, you don’t know ’im… No, ’e’s not a axe murderer or anyfing… I can just tell… Yeah, yeah, that’s a good fought. But if ’e was, right, ’e’d ’ave already axe murdered me. Yeah, he’s nice… He’s well posh. You should hear ’im…”
I had a terrible split-second-too-late premonition of what was about to happen. And, despite my franticfuck no, don’t you daregesticulations, he shoved his phone at me, explaining cheerfully that I should “say ’ello to Nanny Dot.”
