Billy shrugged and puffed on a cigar. ‘I live here,’ he said with a shrug. ‘So…’
Oh boy, had he changed! I wondered if I had aged that badly too. Perhaps I just wasn’t aware of it.
I’d seen photos of Billy looking older, and even a couple of him looking a bit rough, snapped by paparazzi after a night on the town. But this was a whole different level, and I realised that perhaps those had been hisbestphotos, not the worst – that they’d perhaps been the photos his publicity machine hadchosen.
That particular day, he had a white ZZTop shaggy beard and his pale grey hair was pulled back in a man-bun. His face looked red and bloated: it was the kind of face that makes you think,high blood pressure.
I thought about what Billy had said about getting older and how disappointed people were when they realised that he’d aged. Because despite the fact that I’d googled him, I’d still been stupidly picturing him aged twenty-one. I’d been imagining that I might beattractedthe way I used to be too. I’d been thinking how wonderful that whoosh of love and desire would feel, anticipating it during the drive. But my only feelings on seeing Billy were horror and a sense of shock at my own stupidity.
‘Gosh,’ I said, lost for anything better to say. ‘Look at you!’
Thinking I was commenting on his clothes, Billy glanced down at himself. He was wearing satiny white pyjama bottoms and an ornate embroidered smoking jacket, presumably chosen to go with the cigar. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t quite get round to getting dressed today.’
I didn’t believe that at all. My intuition was that he’d chosen what to wear with great care.
He smiled at me then, and I remember being shocked at how much a person’s smile could change. He’d had a lovely smile in the old days but now his teeth were yellow, and his grin was lopsided and seemed a bit cocky, bordering on snide.
‘You must be knackered,’ he said. ‘All this way just to see little old Billy Riddle.’
Ruddle, I thought but didn’t say.It’s Ruddle.
‘Yes, it’s a long way,’ I replied. ‘It’s a bloody long way, actually. I don’t think I’ve ever driven so far in my life. Didn’t even know Englandwasthis big!’
‘But worth it?’ he asked, opening his arms in a weird Jesus-like gesture.
I noted the gold chain, the medallion, the white chest hair. ‘Um, ask me later!’ I replied, deciding to try to make a joke of it. ‘I’ll let you know.’
He winked at me then and crossed the room to wrap me in a hug – a hug I didn’t much enjoy. The silky thinness of his clothing left too little to the imagination and he smelled like an ashtray after a party.
‘So, drink?’ he asked, releasing me and crossing to an actual bar on the left wall of the room, then slipping behind the counter. ‘You’re a whisky girl if I remember correctly,’ he said, reaching for a bottle of Glenfiddich.
I took a discreet deep breath before crossing to join him and perching on one of the bar stools.
‘Whisky?’ I repeated. ‘Um, no. Never. Hate the stuff. That must have been someone else entirely.’
He finished pouring me a whisky anyway but, when I shook my head and pushed the glass back, he shrugged and took a sip himself.
I glanced behind me, taking in the room. It was beautifully situated and generously sized, but the choice of furnishings – all leather, chrome, and brand new – made it look pretentious. There were massive paintings on the walls, and they were, I admitted, rather beautiful. But even these seemed somehow chosen to impress rather than to be enjoyed. The whole experience felt like being in a showroom or on a film set or in an ad.
‘So?’ Billy prompted. ‘Beer? Wine? G&T? Bacardi and Coke? That’s what the Margate girls drank back in the day, wasn’t it?’
‘Actually tea would be good, if you’ve got that,’ I said.
‘Tea?’ Billy repeated, with a laugh. ‘OK! Tea it is!’ Then, puffing on his cigar and sipping at his whisky, he swaggered, over-casually, from the room.
Once he was out of sight, I felt able to think again, and the first thought that came to me was,This was a mistake. A massive, horrible mistake. I wondered how long I needed to stay before I could politely leave.
‘Milk and sugar?’ he called out.
‘Just milk,’ I said. ‘Soy or something if you’ve got it, but otherwise normal milk is fine.’
I followed him through to the kitchen. It was all white gloss and stainless steel and looked more like a morgue than a room where anyone might cook a meal. ‘Almond milk?’ he asked, peering into a cupboard.
‘Yeah, almond milk’s great.’
‘So what d’you think?’ he asked, as he returned to the cup and jiggled the teabag around by the string.
I opened my mouth to reply but then closed it again because I wasn’t sure what he was referring to.
