Page 44 of Glitterland
“Home. Got stuff to do, got a shoot tomorrow.”
“Oh, right. Yes, of course.” I suddenly realised I’d probably never see him again.
And I felt a little dazed. “Are you…will I…”
“Yeah?”
“…see you again?” I finished pathetically, knotting my dressing gown cord round my fingers.
“Course.” I looked up. His smile flashed. “At Essex Fashion Week.”
My heart twisted like somebody was trying to wring it out. I did my best impression of a charming smile, lifting what I hoped might be a provocative eyebrow.
“One for the road?”
“I gotta get going.”
He was already halfway out of the kitchen, but I went after him, caught him by his arms, and spun him against the doorframe, leaning up to kiss him hard and urgently. Just once more. Then I’d let him go. “What about a quickie then?”
“Uh, babes…” He laughed, a little awkwardly against my mouth.
I wound myself around him.Don’t go. Pressed a hand between his legs.Not yet. “Uh,” he said again, the heat of his mouth spilling into my mine, as sweet as wine in summer. “I’ll miss my train.”
“Fuck the train.” I tried to smile. Tried to make desperation attractive. “Fuck me instead.”
He untangled me. “I gotta go.”
And he did.
Alone, resoundingly alone, I slumped onto my kitchen floor. Now who felt like a prozzie? I told myself to try to find it funny. Because it was, wasn’t it? In some grotesque, mortifying way.
But my thoughts only echoed, bringing back nothing but themselves.
11
Another Day
A tatty brown envelope, with an Essex postmark and my address incorrectly spelled, lay on my doormat. I stared at my newly cleaned, very white whiteboard, trying to muster the energy to plot my next book. I’d squandered most of last year on something that was supposed to be a companion piece toThe Smoke Is Briars, excavating what was left of my soul in pursuit of something worthwhile. But what was left of my soul had sucked, and now I was behind schedule on the next Rik Glass, with no ideas and no interest. Oh, what was the point? It wasn’t even as though I needed the money. I owned the flat and a depressive’s expenses were close to negligible. But if I didn’t write, then I would literally do, and be, nothing. A complete waste of a life.
***
Another Night
Half past three, sleepless, and wanking without satisfaction to the memory of the taste of lip gloss.
***
Another Day
Glass Ceiling? Glass Half Empty? Stained Glass? Broken Glass? Sea of Glass?
Smooth as Glass? Shattered Glass? Rose-Tinted Glass? Glass Houses?
***
Another Day
What in God’s name had possessed me to think “Glass” would be a sensible name for my detective?
