Page 72 of Glitterland
“Yes, this is my old college.”
“You must be well clever.”
“I’m well good at bullshitting.” She grinned. “Why do you think I’m an agent?”
“What? Like a spy?”
“Err, no. A literary agent?”
“Oh, right. Ha-ha.” He shuffled his feet.
Amy looked grave. “Of course, I have to say that, because otherwise I’d have to kill you.”
Darian laughed, and a vague, unexpected warmth swept over me. Something I hadn’t felt for a long time, something almost like pride, in Amy, in Darian, and a little bit for me. It seemed, just then, an impossible kindness that two such people could find something worth liking in all my sharp and scattered pieces. I turned into Darian’s shoulder and smothered a smile there.
One of his arms slid round me as though it was the most natural thing in the world. “This place is well nice for a wedding.” He nodded approvingly. “Well classy. But didn’t you find it a bit like depressing when you was ’ere, cos everyfing is so old and like… I dunno…serious?”
“God, yes. We’re only here because there was no fucking way I was getting married in Oxford, and Buckingham Palace wasn’t available, so what can you do?”
He laughed. “I hope you’re gonna be happy togevver.”
Amy gestured to Max, who was caught up in what looked like a tense, familial negotiation. “Have you seen the guy I’m marrying? If I can’t be happy with him, what chance is there?”
Darian followed her pointing finger. “He’s qualidee. Hunjed pahcent,” he agreed.
“I know, right. I mean the arse alone…”
“Totes.”
“Are you two quite finished?” I said. “Or maybe you want to marry each other? I suppose I’ll be able to bring myself to console Max. Taking one for the team.”
Grinning, Darian snuggled me further into the crook of his arm. “He’s getting jell.”
“There, there, Ash.” Amy smirked. “Your arse is quality, too.”
I was about to make a severe retort when Max turned around, and the whole cycle of introductions had to start again.
“Well, bless my heart,” exclaimed another voice, as incongruous within Cambridge’s oak-panelled walls as Darian’s. “What a perfectly charmin’ homosexual.”
My mouth fell open. Beside me, Darian’s did the same. Max had never told me his mother was Scarlett O’Hara.
Even wearing a single string of pearls and a black dress of such breathtaking simplicity it would have made Holly Golightly seem crass, she looked as though there ought to have been at least six gentlemen callers dead at her feet. She must have been at least fifty, but time had not dared to touch her. Max’s beauty was her beauty. His bone structure a bolder, more angular version of hers. His hair, the same precise shade of impossible, gleaming gold. At her side, he was making frantic, windmilling “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry” gestures with his hands.
“Come here, you darlin’ darlin’ thing,” she said, crooking a finger at my date.
Darian looked nervously over his shoulder, on the off chance she was referring to some other darlin’ darlin’ thing. And then, with the air of a man going to his execution, allowed her to claim his arm.
She smiled at him like a firing squad readying arms. “I have always believed a gentleman needs a lick of the devil in him.”
I glanced at Max’s father, who was wearing a tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows and had a face like a three-day-old tea bag. At which point, taking advantage of my split-second distraction, Max’s mother stole my glitter pirate, leaving me standing there, jilted like Suellen.
“I’m so sorry,” said Max. “She’s actually the worst person in the world.”
Across the room, I caught sight of Darian, being whirled off through the guests. “I fink she’s mental!” he mouthed urgently and without subtlety.
I hid a smile and went to get a drink.
And another.
