Page 66 of Commitment Issues
“Fuck me.” I gawp at Cosmo, standing in the doorway.
“You know I love you dearly, but you’re not my type.”
“You look… really good.”
Cosmo beams, a light flush warming his skin.
I have no idea what he’s done, but he’s woven some kind of magic. His eyes seem bigger, his lips fuller, his brows — already groomed to within an inch of their life — remind me of a ’50 starlet.
“Where did you learn to do that? You know, all the make-up stuff.”
“YouTube. I’ve got a whole load of videos saved.” He smiles, his already feline eyes even more cat-like from the stuff he’s put on. “I could do wonders with you. Why don’t you let me?” He advances, a panther stalking its prey.
I step back, keeping up my guard. When Cosmo’s determined, he’s near impossible to stop.
The bell rings, chiming through the house, and I thank my lucky stars. The first guests are arriving.
“Don’t think I won’t get you. Maybe not tonight, but…” He swings around and all but sashays to the door.
“In your dreams,” I mutter under my breath. I’ve no issue with men in make-up but it’s not anything I’m remotely interested in. The streaks of sooty stuff all over my face are already pushing me beyond my limit.
Over the next couple of hours, the house fills. There are a few old uni friends, and people both Cosmo and I have got to know since, but there are a lot I don’t know.
I make myself useful, taking coats and pouring drinks, hovering around the edges of the party and quite happy for all the limelight to be on Cosmo. I might need a party, to shove me out of this dip I’ve fallen into, but to be honest I’m just not in the mood and I refuse to dwell on why that might be. I pop the cap on another beer. I’ve had a few, but I might just as well have been knocking back tap water for all the effect it’s having on me.
I attract my share of attention, and put up with comments about my nice horned helmet, but I manage to twist out of the way of any would-be gropes. So much for finding somebody to have a sloppy snog with.
Everybody’s gone to town on their costumes. Marilyn Monroe rubs shoulders with the Texas Chainsaw bloke, and the Pope throws back a beer as he rubs up against Captain America by the sausage rolls. The music, a carefully curated playlist put together by Cosmo, blares from the living room where multicoloured disco lights strobe as the mirror ball revolves. I’d earlier been dragged in there to dance, but had made my escape after a Harry Potter look-alike tried to stick his hand up my skirt.
I grab another beer, and make short work of what’s left of the chicken satay sticks.
“Nice party,” a voice behind me says. I turn around to see a bearded punk rocker I vaguely remember opening the door to earlier, swaying in front of me. “Like the helmet. I didn’t know the Vikings dressed them with rainbow pompoms,” he says, breathing beer fumes mixed with prawn vol au vents over me.
The pompoms were one of Cosmo’s last minute adjustments, his take on cute, mine on stupid.
“They didn’t dress them at all, because Vikings never had horns on their helmets.”
“Oh? I rather like them.” He steps in closer, and runs a finger down one of the decorated horns.
I stumble back, my bum wedging up against the edge of the counter.
“I’m Rex. I work with Cosmo. You’re Eddie, aren’t you? He’s mentioned you a lot.”
My back stiffens. I don’t like being cornered, and I don’t like that he’s got my name wrong.
“My name’s Freddie. Reg.”
He lurches towards me and I lean back, to escape his dog breath more than anything, almost snapping my spine in two.
“Reg? Really, do I look like a Reg?”
He looks a lot more like a wanker.
“How about a dance?” He runs his fingers through the nylon fur of my body warmer.
I’m a bit taller than him, but he’s a lot wider. Pushed up against the counter, I’m trapped.
“Or what about a kiss?” His lips pucker, as inviting as an unwashed, hairy anus.
