Page 43 of Glitterland
“No.”
There was a long silence. “Right,” said Darian.
I took a sip of tea, relief banishing the stinging needles of anxiety that were darting up and down my arms, easing the tension that had settled on my shoulders. That had gone about as well as it ever did, and there was no further danger of false expectation. Or false hope.
“Why not?” asked Darian, sudden and swift as a blade.
“Pardon?”
“Why don’t you wanna go wif me?”
“Because I can’t imagine anything more excruciatingly dull.”
“Right,” he said again. And then, coaxingly: “Aww, babes, it’ll be a right laff. There’ll be like celebrities there and everyfing. You can meet all my mates, and my nan. And you’ll see me do my fing.” His eyes caught mine. “You like looking at me doing my fing.” He leaned over the table and put his fingertips playfully against my lips, making me flinch back. “I fink you like it lots.”
Even I didn’t have the balls to try to deny that one. “Well, you’re moderately pleasing to look at.”
“Tharra yes?”
Go to Essex? To a fashion show? Throw myself among strangers and hope for the best? This wasn’t a book signing or an interview or a carefully orchestrated social occasion. It was the utter unknown. How could I prepare for that? How could I make it safe when my ability to perform for the world came and went as randomly and unreliably as an ashamed lover?
And, someday, it would all come crashing down. And the world would see me for what I was. And then I wouldn’t even have these pieces of pride to live for.
But maybe it would be fine. Maybe I would deride myself for ever having let terror paralyse me over something so trivial.
But maybe it wouldn’t. Maybe the damn event would loom over me like the shadow of a waiting hydra until I could barely get out of bed for dreading it. Maybe it would be nothing but a grim struggle, a quiet dying like an animal caught in a trap of spiked smiles and metal words.
“I c-can’t.”
“Why not?” asked Darian, as if the answer could be simple.
“I mean, I don’t want to.” God, what was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I just tell him I was…mentally ill. But the words were stuck, sharp edged, in my throat. The truth was, I’d rather be a dick than a lunatic. I’d rather be hated than pitied. “It’s not my…err…thing.”
“’Ow d’you know what’s your fing ’til you’ve tried it?”
“I don’t have to stick a tarantula up my arse to know I wouldn’t enjoy it.”
“This’d be better than that, babes.”
“Wow, you’re really selling it.”
There was another silence, and I thought perhaps this would be the end of the matter.
“So.” Darian drummed his fingers on the table. “You like sleeping wif me but you don’t like being wif me?”
“I’m not tattoo material, Darian.”
“Yeah, I got that, mate. But, y’know there’s like a…fingy…a spectrum between marrying someone and just using ’em.”
“We all use each other,” I said, “and it’s not necessarily a bad thing. At least nobody is lying.”
“That ain’t true. I don’t.”
I gave him an arch look. “But you’re so very useable.”
He eyed me steadily. “Ahwight,” he said at last. “Your call, babes. I’ll send the tickets and you can bring your mates or whatever. Or you can throw ’em in the bin. I mean, the tickets. Not your mates.” He got to his feet.
“Where are you going?”
