Dear Sir,

Thank you for asking about my favourite book. Unfortunately, I don’t read at all, and neither should you, as squinting at the pages brings on wrinkles.

Kind Regards,

 

 

Two weeks later, I sit in an extremely comfortable leather chair in front of a crackling fire. It’s raining heavily outside, but in here I’m snug and warm and curled up with a copy of ‘Forever Amber’ by Kathleen Winsor. However, my attention drifts and meanders along how I’ve spent my time over the last fortnight.

It’s been a strange couple of weeks.

I’ve tried my best to maintain my airhead image, and I don’t think I’m doing too badly. I managed to accidently misread his diary, sending him to Northumberland for a location scout, which was actually in Norwich a day later. That earned me some explosive language, to which I shrugged and said that one day was really the same as another. My ingenious answer nearly brought on an apoplectic fit.

It was dimmed however, by last week’s events, when his dry cleaners had mistakenly given me a child’s tuxedo rather than his own, which had been cleaned preparatory to him going to the opening of a film premiere. I checked with the dry cleaner bloke, and when I found out they didn’t need it back for a few days, I gleefully brought it home and hung it in his wardrobe.

I was slightly distracted by him appearing in the door of the study, dressed in nothing apart from a pair of clinging red boxer briefs. He was clutching the offending tuxedo and yelling. I managed to manfully ignore the miracle that was his torso, all hard lines and a broad chest narrowing down to slim hips and the mouth-watering grooves of his pelvis. “What the fuck is this?” he bellowed.

I stared at him, and said very slowly as if talking to someone a little slow. “Your tuxedo.”

“This,” he shouted, ripping it from the plastic wrapping and brandishing it like a flag carrier at the storming of the Bastille. “This is a fucking child’s fucking tuxedo.”

I repressed the massive laugh, feeling it fizz inside me, and put on a wide-eyed expression. “I thought you’d bought it to slim into.”

He sagged slightly in disbelief. “You thought I’d slim … into this?”

I looked at him, slightly patronisingly. “Stranger things have happened. Dean can get into a child size trouser.”

A dazed look crossed his face, as if he couldn’t quite believe we were having this conversation. Then he turned and left the room quietly. I worried at the time that I’d broken him, but now I still think there’s more torturous mileage with this.

I automatically glance upstairs at the sound of voices, and laugh before I can stop myself. As if on cue I hear heavy footsteps, accompanied by the light pattering of heels on wooden floorboards. There’s an exchange of goodbyes at the door, before it shuts and there’s a brief silence, heavy with foreboding. The footsteps come towards the study, and I hastily stuff my book down the side of the chair and pick up the waiting copy of Heat magazine.

Asa appears and leans against the door, staring blankly at me. It’s slightly intimidating, but in a hot, good way, and I swallow hard before lowering my magazine and pinning a carefree smile to my face. “Everything go okay with your meeting?”

He moves to the chair opposite me and lowers himself into it. He crosses his legs, balancing one foot on the opposite knee, then leans back to stare at me. “Hmm, yes, my meeting. Jude, tell me, are you really this stupid, or is this an episode of ‘Fonejacker’?”

“I hope not. A balaclava would really be a complete waste of my looks,” I say, and then pin a wounded look on my face. “You shouldn’t call people stupid, anyway. It offends the minorities.”

“It offends the …” He pauses and then shakes his head. “I’m not touching that with a ten-foot barge pole.” I open my mouth, and he shakes his head fiercely. “No!” I subside, and for a second I think a smile crosses his full lips, but then he tips his head back and glares at the ceiling, so maybe not. He looks back at me and focuses. “I presume there is a reason why you gave me the impression the reporter from Hello magazine, who arrived an hour ago, was actually the plumber?”

I tip my head to one side, the way I’ve seen Dean do when puzzled by anything beyond hello and goodbye. “Wasn’t it the plumber?” He shakes his head ominously, and I smile helplessly. “Oh dear, I must have got the date wrong. That means the plumber’s coming tomorrow.” I pause. “I thought she was a little overdressed.”

“Hmm, yes, I wish the thought had occurred to me, Jude. Unfortunately, I wasn’t paying attention, because I was still befuddled by yesterday, when I asked you for the postcode for The Ivy and you gave me the postcode for the McDonalds in Chigwell.” I laugh but conceal it with a cough, and he carries on wearily. “It only occurred to me there had been a mix up today after a torturous thirty minutes spent with me asking for the price of a new wet room, and her trying to elicit my opinion on who would win ‘The X Factor’.”

This time I really can’t help the laugh, and his eyes sharpen as he stares at me. Recovering, I smile limpidly at him. “I am a bit of a flibbertigibbet. My teachers always used to say so.”

“Did you go to school in the 1850’s then?”

I want to laugh again so badly. He does this to me a lot, but instead, I pin a vacant look on my face and say earnestly, “The 1850’s were a long time ago, Asa, really. I went to school in the nineties. Goodness, you want to brush up on your history.”

He shakes his head slowly. “I’m beginning to think -”

His words are cut off by the ringing of the phone, and he stays me as I go to answer it. “Tonight’s the opening of Ben Monckton’s art show. Luckily I checked the diary before you decided to send me off to a Women’s Institute meeting instead.” He smiles at me slowly, and it’s not a nice smile. In fact, it’s vaguely threatening. “I’m going with Lucy, and you’re coming with me.”

“I am?” I go slack with surprise, and he nods.

“Yes. Andrew always accompanied me with my credit card. He handled the purchases I made, and arranged for their delivery.”

“And you want me to do that?” I’m vaguely offended my act hasn’t been good enough to put him off the idea. Surely the last two weeks should have done the trick.

He smiles, and it’s so challenging I wonder whether he’s really onto me. “Yes, but don’t worry. I’ve already booked the car, or we’d probably end up riding there on three wheeled bikes. Look at it this way, this is your last chance to prove yourself to me. Other than that, all you have to do is get in your suit and look pretty.” He looks me up and down. “I’m sure you can manage that part in your sleep. Be ready at seven.”

He gets up and saunters out, leaving me with the vague sense I’ve just lost the battle, and feeling alternatively turned on and dismissed. I swallow, thinking hard. I think I need to clean up my act. A joke’s a joke, and this one’s been hilarious, albeit rather one-sided. However, if I don’t want to kip in Dylan’s spare room and listen to him being fucked senseless for the rest of my life, I’d better do a good job tonight. I nod my head determinedly. Definitely no pretend fuckups tonight.

But I’m not giving up the stupidity. I find it vastly entertaining and almost freeing.

A few hours later, I twist and turn in front of the mirror. I’m wearing my black, skinny Tom Ford suit I was given as part of my modelling fee for them. At the time, I felt strongly that I’d rather have all cash, but it’s proved its worth many times over. Luckily it survived its bathwater immersion, and still looks good.

I look in the mirror and glare at my hair. I had a job this week and they wanted my hair short, so my agent booked an appointment over my protests, and now look at it. It’s short on the back and sides, and longer on the top which forms a messy quiff. The photographer had been ecstatic, raving about my cheekbones and lips, but I’m not keen. I like my hair longer. It gives me something to hide behind.

I shake my head. I really don’t want to go tonight. Lucy is Asa’s current squeeze. She’s stunning, all blonde hair and legs, but ice cold through and through. She’s a member of the aristocracy and a former reality star, with her eyes on the prize of being a film star, and I’m sure she’s only with him for the name and media exposure.

I came here with Dylan’s words ringing in my ears, and an image of an actor past his prime. However, I had to revise that pretty quickly, as Asa is still very big news. He’s going back on the stage at the end of the year and the tickets are booked out already, but first he’s about to star in a series based on a popular fantasy set of books. It’s the first time, apparently, that he’s doing television since he got his break, but this is tipped to be the next big thing. The books are quite graphic and he has one of the main roles as the head of a household of warriors. I surreptitiously read them, hiding them behind a copy of Now magazine, and gulped at some of the steamy scenes he’s going to be filming. I don’t imagine he’ll struggle though. The man hasn’t got a shy bone in his body.

He is, therefore, extremely busy, and luckily, he’s also very organised. I don’t think he ever had any intention of using me as a proper assistant once he found out my unfortunate career vocation. He only uses me as a gopher, which has given me great scope for pissing him off. I honestly don’t think I could have done what I have otherwise. You don’t screw with someone’s career and ability to make money. Dark thoughts flit across my mind, and I push them determinedly away. But they remind me that I need to make my daily phone call.

I grab my mobile and wander over to the window, before tapping the button for home. The phone rings and I stare out of the window. For once, I don’t see the quiet street, but instead a low lying old brick farmhouse and fields stretching down to the restless blue sea, the sound of seagulls calling as they ride on the wind. I see my home.

Within a minute, it connects. “Jude, is that you?”

I relax instantly as I hear the familiar, warm accented voice of my mum. She met my dad when she came to England from Spain for a year to be an au pair. She never went back, but she has kept the accent and a predilection for using completely the wrong words in any situation. “Hey, Mama,” I say hoarsely, suddenly missing her desperately. “How’s things?”

“Fine, fine, cariño. Busy as usual. How are you darling, and how’s Dylan?”

“He’s great, Mama. Very happy with Gabe.”

“Ah, that man. I would have given Dylan a run for his money a few years ago.”

“Ugh, Mama, please don’t. Anyway, I don’t think you would have stood a chance unless you had a penis.”

“Is he not even a little biped?”

I snort. “You mean bisexual, Mama. No, he’s not even a little bit bisexual.”

“And you, my darling, how is work?”

I wince and tighten my hand on the phone, and then lie proficiently and fluently. “Great. Amazing. I’ve got some big jobs this month.”

There’s a silence. “When I ask you this question, Jude, I do so to find out how my baby is in life, not to ask for money.”

“Sorry, Mama,” I say meekly. “It’s just at the forefront of my mind.”

She sighs heavily. “And it shouldn’t be, cariño. You’re so young and you should be enjoying yourself, not -”

I break in, not wanting to go over old ground. “It is as it is, Mama. I’m happy as long as you’re all happy.” I pause. “How is he?”

“He’s good, bebé. The same as ever. Interfering in everything and getting under my feet constantly. He said to tell you to ring him as he’s got a new book to talk to you about.”

I laugh, feeling tears at the back of my throat. “I’ll ring him later. I’m off to an art show tonight.”

“Ah, wanky!”

I choke. “Wanky? Do you mean swanky, Mama?”

“There is a difference? Ay, this bloody language. It will always defeat me. Now I must go because dinner is ready.”

“Wait!” I say quickly. “How’s the money situation? How’s Alan working out? Is he pulling his weight? Do you need any money?”

“Nothing more,” she says firmly. “You do more than enough, Jude. Now blow me a kiss down the phone and tell me you love me.”

“I love you, Mama,” I say dutifully and honestly.

“Te amo, cariño. See you soon.”

The phone goes dead and I sigh, stuffing it in my pocket and leaning my face against the cold windowpane. Worries and dread circle inside my head like familiar black crows, but they flee as soon as I hear a throat clear behind me. I gasp and whirl around to see Asa standing there in just a pair of trousers and clutching a shirt.

“How long have you been there?” I ask sharply.

He stares at me, something working behind his eyes and sending his normally open countenance blank. “Not long,” he finally says almost gently, and I wonder how much he heard.

I paste on a fixed smile, and this time it’s not part of my joke revenge. This time I want him to not fucking ask any questions.

He must read it in my face, because he merely holds out his shirt. “I can’t get the tag off this. I wondered if you have any scissors.”

“In my shaving bag,” I say, moving past him to go into the bathroom and trying not to inhale the scent of warm, freshly washed skin and the faint, warm scent of amber and lavender which always seems to cling to him. I grab the scissors and cut off the tag, very aware of the hair spattering his wide chest and the sturdy strength of his wrists as he holds the shirt out. I must be far gone if I’m noticing a man’s wrists. I normally look straight at the crotch area to speculate, but just for tonight those wrists look like they could hold up the world so it doesn’t press so closely on my shoulders.

The tag comes away, and I step back and push everything down with the ease of practice. His gaze sharpens, and I realise I’m shaking my hands again. I instantly stick them in my pockets and shuffle back.

“I’ll wait for you downstairs,” I say, but he just nods and watches me go, and although I can walk a runway smoothly and gracefully, I can’t even manage the stairs with any savoir faire with him standing behind me watching. “Fuck!” I mutter, as I bang my knee on the balustrade and hear his deep chuckle behind me.

I escape into the kitchen to find Peggy ironing Billy’s tiny uniform, and Billy sitting at the table, drinking what looks like hot milk and swinging his legs. He’s dressed in lime-green dinosaur pyjamas, and when he sees me his face breaks into the biggest smile.

My heart warms and I ruffle his hair as I walk past, smelling the sweet scent of baby shampoo. “Hey, Bill. Ready for bed?”

“Knock knock.”

“Who’s there?” I say dutifully.

“Cows.”

“Cows, who?”

“Cows go moo, not who.” He breaks into laughter, clutching his side, and I look at him affectionately as Peggy laughs.

So far, I actually enjoy living here. It’s a big, busy, almost bohemian household. Asa’s door is always open, and he has a very eclectic bunch of friends. Artists and actors happily rub shoulders with friends from the local pub and his gym, and at the centre is Asa, warm and open, his big booming laugh sounding out.

He’s not one of those people who fake interest while waiting to say their own piece. Instead, he’s interested in everything and everyone. He’s a voracious reader, and consumes books at a fast rate, and it’s not unusual to walk into the kitchen and find discussions going on about anything from the workings of a car engine to the latest book or film or politics, and always there’s laughter because it surrounds him. He radiates warmth and an almost childish glee, and so many times I’ve regretted the way he views models, because I really would love to sit down and join in. So many times a remark about the books they are discussing has been on the tip of my tongue, but I’ve swallowed it down, and assumed my vacant persona.

I still don’t know why he hates models, or how Billy’s mum died, because Peggy, for all her loud vibrant personality is actually closemouthed and totally loyal to Asa. She’s a widow and has lived with him for years. She’s alarmingly indiscreet about everything else though, and most mornings we sit at the table and my sides ache with laughter as she relates scurrilous tales from her years at the theatre. I already love her and I know I’m going to miss her when I leave.

If there is anyone who’s stolen my heart though, it’s Billy. I have very little experience of children as I’m an only child, but I adore Billy. He’s funny with a quick mind like his dad, and possesses the same sort of sturdy resilience I’ve noticed in his father.

Most afternoons when he comes home from school, he comes to see me in the study where I’m busily fucking up his dad’s diary. He loves knock, knock jokes, the cornier the better, and will roll on the floor clutching his side at good ones, so I always make sure to have one ready for him. Sometimes I sense a loneliness inside him and a desire to be like everyone else with two parents, but he’s too young to articulate it which touches me inside where my soft side lies.

However, he’s remarkably well adapted, and I suppose a lot of that is down to Asa. He’s actually a very good dad, and I should know. I have the best. Asa is firm and doesn’t tolerate tantrums or spoilt behaviour, but he’s also loving and affectionate and just there for Billy. I get the impression his absence from the world of film has something to do with the ex’s death, and a desire to be with his son. But, he can’t be with him all the time, which brings me to the fly in the puddle of icing here, and that’s Billy’s nanny.

As if I’ve summoned her with a dark spell, Miss Hampton walks into the kitchen, her uniform still impeccably clean and starched. I stare darkly at her. No one who truly enjoys working with children would have a clean uniform at the end of the day.

“William, there you are. Time for bed,” she says, and I see Peggy’s back stiffen instantly.

The two of them hate each other, and wage some sort of convoluted Cold War every day. They come from diametrically opposing points of view. Peggy is warm and kind and fulfils a sort of grandma role to Billy, letting him help her in the kitchen and playing games. Miss Hampton is a cold bitch whose impeccable appearance and breathless fluttering around my boss show her only true desire is to be Mrs Asa Jacobs.

She’s dismissive of Billy and sometimes unkind, and already in the two weeks I’ve been here it has got my back up. The other day I had to intervene and tell her to calm down when Billy got covered in cake mix while helping Peggy bake a cake. She’d looked like she was going to throw a fit. I watched her carefully after that and noticed that he’s subdued and quiet around her. I can’t detect fear, or I would say something, regardless of my tenuous position in this house. I’m watching her though, and I know Peggy is too, but so far there’s only been her coldness to worry about.

“I’m just finishing my milk,” Bill says, dragging it out as long as he can by taking small sips. Her mouth tightens.

“Now please, William. I have work to do and you need to clean your teeth.”

“And a story,” he says, smiling winsomely at her, but her face doesn’t change.

“No,” she snaps. “I have too much to do. You may look at a book for ten minutes and that’s it.”

His face falls and I glare at her. Bitch.

I open my mouth to offer to read him one, and Peggy and I exchange a silent look. “I’ll do it,” Peggy says firmly. “And you can get on with whatever you want to do. Brewing up love potions in your cauldron I presume,” she mutters in an unfortunately still audible voice.

Miss Hampton stiffens, but it fades away quickly as Asa enters the room. She immediately pastes on a warm, maternal face and looks kindly at Billy. “Come on then, sweetie. Kiss Daddy goodnight and we’ll go and read a story.”

“But -” Billy says, looking bewildered, but Asa breaks in.

“That’s nice, mate. What story are you having?”

My mum always says that some people are wilfully blind because they want things to be right so badly. I think this is the situation we have here, because even Dean could see this woman is horrible.

However, she’s on to a loser at the moment in her desire to snag Asa, and as if on cue I hear the doorbell. The ponderous footsteps of Amos sound out as he goes to open the door, and I hear Lucy’s loud, obnoxious upper-class drawl drawing nearer.

Ah, Lucy. What an absolute delight. I exchange looks with Peggy and contort my face into a rictus grimace. She snorts, and then catching Asa’s eye she immediately busies herself at the counter. I just assume my usual vapid look, and try to appear as if I’m thinking heavy model thoughts about how many calories there are in cotton wool. Normally he looks disgusted, but this time he just stares at me with a dark look of amusement on his face. Shit! I’ve been busted.

Luckily Amos brings Lucy into the kitchen. “Yes madam, but I think the current bright spell of weather is merely the last gasp before we succumb to the reality of global warming,” he’s saying with his normal gloomy relish. “When the floods start you’ll be glad London is so hilly.”

I take one look at Lucy’s face, and snort before I can stop myself. Amos is really growing on me, and I can understand why Asa keeps him on. I look up and catch Asa’s eyes on me, full of an unholy glee, and just for a second the world spins away and there’s just us smiling at each other. Then the world clicks back into place, and he turns to Lucy, kissing her and admiring her dress, and I look up to find Peggy’s gaze on me, heavy with speculation.

I shake my head and watch as Billy comes forward to give Lucy the obligatory kiss. She bends her head down, barely paying attention to how he’s straining to reach her. I shake my head. Good luck with making her a step parent. He’d have more luck with Genghis Khan.

“Ooh, I like your dress,” Billy says enthusiastically, with that funny trace of the East End he has in his voice from being with Peggy.

She unbends and gives him a chilly smile. “You do, angel? Why thank you.”

He grins and waves Peggy over. “Peggy, come and look at this white stuff. It looks like the dress the lady wears that sits on your spare toilet roll.”

Peggy hastily shushes him, but I can’t help the snort of laughter. I try to turn it into a cough but it’s too high pitched, and Lucy glares at me.

“Okay,” Asa says quickly. “Let’s get going or all the pictures will have sold out.”

Lucy rubs his arm briskly. “Don’t be ridiculous, darling. A show like this will wait for the stars before they sell even a postcard. You’re one of the stars, sweetie. You should twinkle.”

She sweeps out of the kitchen, followed by Amos talking about how asteroids cause tsunamis. I sneak a glance at Asa. He looks vaguely nauseous, and I snigger. “Have you got space in the house for another postcard, or will it be full up with all that twinkling you do?”

“Fuck off,” Asa mutters, and loosens his tie as if it’s strangling him. He does it any time he has to wear formal gear, being more comfortable in jeans and t-shirts. An ice-cold voice calls his name in a commanding tone, and he grimaces. “Bloody hell, this is going to be a long evening.”

Three hours later and I know he wasn’t joking. I like art as much as the next man, but this is awful. I sit in a corner of the crowded gallery looking at the pictures on the walls and wince. They’re like visual representations of someone’s nightmares. I turn my head to one side looking at a particular monstrosity, painted red and full of white skulls with their mouths open in agony as flies consume them. I shake my head.

“Art not up to scratch, Brian Sewell,” comes a rich, educated voice, and I look up and then smile and jump to my feet.

“Henry!” I exclaim, hugging him and laughing. “Bloody hell, it’s been ages. How are you?” I pause. “Last time I saw you was at Vibe, and you had your hand down the back of some man’s trousers.”

He laughs. “Which time are you talking about, babe, because that pretty much sums up most evenings for me.”

I look at him. He’s not kidding. I’ve never known anyone who goes through as many men as Henry. If you saw him though, you wouldn’t be surprised, as he’s gorgeous, with dark red hair and vivid hazel eyes which shine green or gold seemingly dependent on his mood. His face is high cheek-boned and aristocratic with full, cock sucking lips, and it tops a lean, muscled body.

I’ll never go there though. He’s Gabe’s closest friend and fellow lawyer, and we bonded at our first meeting over our determination to bring our two friends together. I therefore made friends with him, and so fucking became out of the question. I’m a done one and gone boy, and I don’t fuck friends because it inevitably makes things messy. Occasionally I toy longingly with the idea of being with someone full time, but then inevitably, reality intrudes, and I slip back to easier ways.

I don’t know why he’s so persistently anti-relationships, because something about him screams permanent. He’s never said, and I have too much private baggage of my own to dare rifle through someone else’s.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, as he effortlessly summons a waiter and retrieves two glasses of rosé wine. I take a sip of mine, relishing the ice cold tartness on my tongue. “I hadn’t pegged you for an art lover.”

 

I pause as a long haired skinny man comes up and hugs him, before kissing him passionately. “I don’t think being an art lover is necessarily a requirement for coming here, Henry.” I murmur as the two men reluctantly separate and turn to me. “I think the only requirement for loving this stuff is having the psychopathic gene.” Henry who has just taken a sip of his wine, promptly chokes. I helpfully pat him on the back. “Wrong hole, darling?” I laugh. “Shouldn’t be with all the practise you’ve had.” I look up and smile at the other man, who is looking rather constipated. “Hello. I’m Jude, and you are?”

“The artist,” he says with a sniff and walks off, leaving my hand still flopping in the air.

I turn back to Henry. “Shit,” I say with great feeling, and he breaks into loud laughter, attracting dirty looks from some of the other, more refined patrons. “I’m so sorry. Was he your date for the night?”

He nods cheerfully. “Yes, but don’t worry about it. I think I’ve actually had a lucky escape. Those pictures scare me.”

“Yeah. I’d probably be reading about you in The Sun tomorrow after you were cut up and your skin was used as an easel.” I pause thoughtfully. “I’m actually your saviour. Don’t bother about saying thank you. I will accept gift certificates or an envelope of cash.”

He stares at me. “Your imagination is slightly disturbing.” He pauses. “I couldn’t fuck him anyway. He’s a terrible painter.”

I stare at him. “That’s your invisible line? They have to be able to paint.”

For just a split second something passes over his face, something dark, and then it clears and he smiles and shudders. “A man must have standards, Jude, or the world will fall apart.” He looks up at one picture entitled Vagina, which consists of a great red wound dripping with green liquid. “I wouldn’t even hang these up in my dog’s basket. Bertie would have terrible nightmares.” He turns to look at me and slings a comfortable arm around my shoulder. “Why are you here anyway?”

“I may be an art aficionado.” He looks me up and down dubiously, and I smile. “Yeah, don’t worry. I haven’t had a character transplant. I’m here with my boss and landlord.”

He looks intrigued. “Boss and landlord? That sounds interesting. Last time I spoke to Dylan he said you were in his spare bedroom because someone’s bath was in your living room. It sounded terribly like when my nanny used to make me watch ‘Coronation Street’.”

I shake my head. “You live in another world, Henry. It’s like speaking to the living embodiment of ‘Upstairs, Downstairs’.” He laughs and I smirk. “When did you speak to Dylan?”

“At the weekend. I went over for supper.”

“Did you stay over?” I ask him tongue in cheek, and he looks revolted.

“I did not. I have no desire to lie in bed listening to the soundtrack of a porn video starring two good friends. It’s uncomfortable to get an erection when you know you can’t do anything about it. No, I went home.”

I nod emphatically. “I spent three nights there,” I whisper, and he shudders.

“I feel your pain.”

“That’s why I’m at this man’s house. He’s letting me stay in return for doing some assistant jobs for him.”

He looks at me sharply. “You don’t have to stop there if you don’t want to. My door’s open at any time. Pack your bags and come to stay with me.”

I’m absurdly touched and hug him. “Thanks, Henry. That means a lot.”

He ruffles my hair affectionately. “You don’t have to ask. Just turn up and you can have a bed.”

Seeing movement over his shoulder, I stare as Asa appears, forging a determined path through the throng of people and holding Lucy’s hand. Heads turn to follow him, the way wheat moves with the wind, but his eyes are on us and they seem to darken as they look at Henry embracing me.

“Shit,” I say. “Here he comes.”

Still with his arms around me Henry turns to look, and blanches. “Fuck, is that Asa Jacobs?”

“You, as well,” I exclaim. “How is it everyone knows him, but me?”

“Never mind that. How does my hair look?”

“Ginger,” I say pettily, and he scowls at me.

“That was low.”

I grin and shrug, and then just have time to lean in and whisper into his ear, “Just play along.”

“Play along with what?” he hisses.

“No time,” I say, dropping my arms and turning to see Asa rock up next to us.

“Jude,” he says in a gruff voice. “Nice to see you working so hard.”

“I am,” I say limpidly. “But I’m very, very bored. I don’t think I really like paintings. I prefer photographs.” I giggle. “Of me.” I pause as if thinking hard. “I had some lovely nudes taken for my portfolio the other day. The photographer assures me they’re tasteful, and I really don’t think you can see my ball sack.” 

I’m aiming for vapidness and I think I’m hitting it, judging by Henry’s look of stunned disbelief.

“Well, I’ll definitely sleep better tonight,” Asa says solemnly, and Henry snorts.

He shoots me a quick look, and I know I’ll be getting a phone call tonight. Keeping one arm around my shoulder, he puts his hand out to Asa. “Henry Ashworth. I’m a huge fan of yours.”

Asa looks darkly at him and gives him a brief handshake. “Thank you,” he says tersely. I stare at him, because Asa is normally the soul of friendliness when meeting people. He’s never met a stranger as my dad always says. Now, he’s glaring at Henry as if he’s the Boston Strangler at a hosiery convention.

Henry steps back gracefully with something that looks very much like amusement hovering on his lips. “Not at all,” he says urbanely. “You were a major part of my spank bank for a very long time, particularly the very short Roman toga episode, so thank you.”

“Henry!” I hiss, but Asa bursts into laughter, his dark mood dimmed.

“It’s nice to know one’s art is appreciated,” he says with a mock, artistic sneer. He urges Lucy forward and introduces her, but she looks Henry up and down dismissively.

“We know each other,” she says haughtily, refusing to drop Asa’s hand.

“You do?” Asa and I ask in unison, before exchanging bemused looks with each other as the two glare at each other.

“We did,” Henry says lightly. “Our nannies used to take tea at each other’s houses, so we had to play together.” He pauses. “When Lucy wasn’t too busy pulling the legs off spiders and setting fires.”

She huffs and drops Asa’s hand, and turns to glide away. “I’m ready to go,” she says, her voice ice cold and extremely dictatorial.

We stare after her glacial route through the crowd and then Henry stirs. “That girl,” he says almost admiringly. “She’ll make either a wonderful Rear Admiral or a cracking dominatrix.”

Asa throws his head back and gives his great booming laugh. The crowd around us immediately smile and chuckle obsequiously. I wonder what they would do if he tore off his clothes and streaked around the room. Probably chalk it up to artistic temperament I think, and then I drift into a private daydream of what he’d look like running around naked.

I’m heavily into the image and wondering what his cock might look like, flapping in the breeze, when I suddenly become aware the conversation has stopped, and Asa and Henry are staring at me. Henry has a little smile on his lips as if he knows what I’m thinking. “What?” I ask.

Asa shakes his head slowly. “I don’t know whether it’s a fugue state, or because your brain simply can’t work for very long without jumpstarting itself, but are you ready?”

Remembering my determination to do things right today, I nod violently, which has the unfortunate side effect of him stepping back and looking alarmed. “I am absolutely ready,” I say brightly. “Shall I pay for your purchases?” I brandish the credit card forcefully. “I’m prepared, as you can see.”

Asa rolls his eyes. “Like a very strange boy scout.” He shakes his head. “I haven’t made any purchases, thank you very much. There’s no room for scary vaginas in my house.”

“And yet you let Lucy in.” I snap my mouth shut, horrified at what just came out, but he only laughs loudly and then stares at me contemplatively.

“There haven’t been any cock ups tonight. I’m quite surprised. You even managed to make the full journey without mistakenly getting out at the traffic lights like you did last week.”

I assume a pensive expression. “Sometimes I drift off when I’m thinking about how fashionable skinny jeans are now.”

“I do that when you’re thinking about it too,” Asa mutters.

I shake my head playfully. “You should think about these things, Asa. Outer appearance is so important.” I pause before saying delicately, “You’re a teeny bit erratic in your clothing choices.”

Asa snorts with amusement, and Henry twists his head to stare at me in open surprise, so with the hand still around his waist I pinch him gently. The surprise instantly fades, and he assumes a look of vague contemplation mixed with surreptitious ogling of Asa.

“There won’t be any cock ups, anyway,” I say determinedly. “Nothing will go wrong tonight. You’ll see.”