Page 42 of Glitterland
10
Tomorrow
The next morning, once again, found Darian repulsively chirpy, eating Weetabix and pawing his way through the newly delivered copy ofThe Guardian. Or rather the film and showbiz supplement.
“Morning, babes.” He looked up with a dazzling grin. “You do like the papers wif lots of words in ’em.”
I gave him a dour, it’s-too-early-for-anything-especially-you look. “And what is the use of a book, thought Darian, without pictures or conversations.”
“Clever bloke, that Darian. And I know I didn’t do good at school or nuffin, but I ’ave readAlice in Wonderland.” He hesitated a moment, before adding a bit sheepishly, “And I seen the movie.”
“Congratulations.”
“Yeah, I got culture, me.” I went to make a cup of tea while he burbled on. “When I was kid, we ’ad these books what my mum used to ’ave, wif these red leather covers and gold lettering on ’em. I fought they was like proper qualidee, y’know. We ’ad likeRobin HoodandAlice in WonderlandandThe Lion, and the Witch and the Whajamacallit. I used to read ’em all the time and fink abaht my mum reading ’em when she was my age.”
I made a bland noise, to indicate I was listening but only because I had no other choice.
“Sorry, babes,” he said. “I do run on. But speaking of culture and whateva, I was wondering…”
“Hmm?”
“I was like wondering…”
“What?”
“I’m like doing some modlin at Essex Fashion Week, cos—”
I could not quite contain a spurt of laughter. “Essex Fashion Week? Do all the models go down the catwalk in white stilettos?”
He gave me a slightly wounded look. “Mate, that’s well aht of order. It’s being, I dunno, racist or summin. You’re being racist against Essex.”
Racist against Essex, indeed. I bit back the scornful response such a statement deserved. “I suppose you have a point,” I said, instead. “It is, after all, unacceptable to make judgements about other people based on the colour of their skin—even if that colour happens to be orange.”
“What’s wrong wif you? That’s me you’re mugging off.”
“I was joking.”
“Was you?” said Darian, putting down his spoon with a clink, and regarding me with rather cool grey eyes. “Cos it sahnded like you wasn’t.”
I sat down at the table. “Just forget it. Go on, tell me about Essex Fashion Week. Or your happy childhood memories. Or whatever else you want. I’m listening.”
He frowned, opened his mouth, and shut it again. Then frowned some more. “Yeah, ahwight,” he said finally, though still with a wary expression. “It’s sorta like Paris or London or Milan or whateva. Only like in Essex.”
“You do know there’s a bit of a difference in scale there, right?”
“It’s a big fing, babes.”
“Whatever you say.”
He took a deep breath. “Do you maybe wanna come?”
I blinked. “To Essex Fashion Week?”
“Well, it’s only a day, really.”
“Wait. The Great International Essex Fashion Week is really only Essex FashionDay?”
“Can you like stop being a bellend? Do you wanna come?”
