Page 50 of Glitterland
There was a pause. “You mean you haven’t told him?”
“N-no.”
Niall shook his head. “You and your fucking lies.”
And then the lights dimmed and the show started. It consisted, for the most part, of a succession of big-haired, highly glossed, occasionally orange models strutting up and down in a variety of figure-revealing outfits. The designers and the dresses soon blurred into an interchangeable rainbow, and my mind drifted, idle as smoke rings on a Sunday afternoon. I thought of Darian. Even here, where everything was bright and brash and fake, he glittered like something real.
It was terrifying to want something as much as I wanted him. It was far too precarious and far too dangerous to imbue anything, or anyone, with that sort of power. Not when I couldn’t trust myself. All it did was make him into something else I would lose, destroy, or have taken away.
But, in truth, I would have told a thousand lies to have him, and a thousand more to keep him.
As Niall had discovered a long time ago, the ability to make me happy was its own curse.
“Oh, thank God,” he said, when the lights came up and the applause died away. “I was starting to lose the will to live.”
“I’m afraid there’s more later.” I flicked through the booklet. “And we still haven’t seen Chloe’s collection.”
He peered over my shoulder and groaned. “Well, at least it wraps up with designer underwear. I’m not very interested in clothes, but I’m quite interested in watching muscular young men walk up and down in tight pants.”
“That’s our national sport, darling.”
He grinned. Perhaps I’d been forgiven. Again.
“I’m—”
But before he could finish, Darian came bounding over. It was all I could do to repress my stupid smile.
“Babes.” He hunkered down in front my chair. “I gotta massif favour.”
“Believe me, this is already a massive favour.”
“Yeah, I know. But the fing is, right, one of Chloe’s models ’as gone down wif leprosy…”
“Wait,” interrupted Niall. “Leprosy?”
“That’s what Chlo said. That fing wif your throat where you can’t talk.”
“That’s laryngitis.”
“Oh, yeah. What’s she like? Anyway, babes, do you fink maybe you could come and stand in or summin?” He looked up at me with huge, beseeching eyes. “Please, babes.”
“Holy fuck, no.”
“It’s not a big deal or nuffin.”
“Itisa big deal. Darian, I could never do something like that. I’m sorry.”
Respected Crime Novelist Has Nervous Breakdown in Essex. On Catwalk. While Orange.
“You just ’ave to walk up and down,” he said reassuringly. “You’re well sexy, babes, I promise. You look more like a proper fashion model than I do.”
Flattering but very much not the point. I shook my head. “I can’t. It’s… I just can’t.”
“He said no.” That was Niall. I should have been grateful, but, somehow, I wasn’t. It was an unwanted reminder of my own frailty and everything I should have been able to do but couldn’t.
Heedlessly, I gripped Darian’s hand. “I’m so sorry.” I stared into his upturned, hopeful face. “Please don’t ask me to do this. I really can’t.”
He grinned and squeezed my hand. “It’s ahwight, babes. Just fought I’d give it a go.”
