“The whole cast was fit,” Niamh marvels, “but maybe we’d all be more attractive if we just played characters written for us by someone extremely witty.”
Orson.She had seen him in the flesh, a real man, distinct from the blur of characters he has played over the years.
“Cig?” Niamh is gesturing outside, where Rowan is smoking in his fur coat, still in full makeup.
“I’m good,” she says, as though her smoking is a genuine possibility, as though today might be the day. Sweet that Niamh continues to ask.Relationships should be active.Nevertheless, she follows her out into the alley glowing purple and blue under paper lanterns and cheap strip lighting.
She is beautiful, Niamh, her downy head tucked under a bright red beanie, lips painted the deep purple of the night. On her arm a pale green bruise is blooming from a protest she went to last weekend over the Queen’s Jubilee. Viola had seen the photos online of Niamh, open-mouthed and gleeful, carrying a sign that read in bold fuchsia, “I AM NO ONE’S SUBJECT,” even though (strictly speaking) Ireland made that point some time ago. Across the Atlantic, a wave of unrest and dissatisfaction is mounting. Online she sees Zach Papadopoulos, scruffy and jubilant in a tent on Wall Street, a Facebook post written by Molly McInerny on the ninety-nine percent. All of it fills her with uncertainty, a sense of the world on a precipice.
As Niamh sticks a lumpy roll-up in her mouth, Viola thinks of the mangled pocket Bible Sebastian shreds for rolling paper. When did Orson start smoking again? Foul concoction, logically she knows it will kill her (remember: tar, arsenic, formaldehyde), but she is beginning to understand—the ugly smell, the ambient streetlights in the narrow passage, Niamh’s smile and the musicality of Rowan’s voice make her feel as though she’s living artfully, as though she’s doing it right.
“No, I know him.” Rowan is laughing about some campus legend, flicking a plastic lighter in front of Niamh’s face. “He did legitimately try to steal, like, twenty candles from Corpus, for like, a séance. He’s convinced his room is haunted by a dead ex-student.”
“What a legend,” Niamh says. “I mean, property is a construct.”
“I love you,” Rowan says. “They fined him two hundred pounds.”
A light rain starts to fall, and the smokers huddle against the lip of the building. A snatch of music emerges from the open door, followed by a redheaded chorus girl, still wearing her costume headdress of goat horns and flowers.
“You all right?” the girl asks. People here are always asking that, though they never expect an answer other thanYeah, or the question repeated. It’s the one thing that rankles here, the disingenuousness of it.Why ask?
“Can I bum one?” the redheaded girl begs Rowan, “I’ll trade you for one of these prop ones.” She holds up a packet of fakes they used on set. “I think they’re full of rose petals.”
“No, thanks. I’ll stick with my death stick.”
“Is that what you’re calling it these days?” Niamh asks, cheekily inspecting the packet of fakes. Sugar Lilies, they are called, like they’re going to dissolve in your mouth. Like they are not going to kill you.
“So, are you going then?” the redhead asks.
“Going where?” Niamh asks. “If you leave, they better not cut off my free wine.”
Rowan waves a dismissive hand. “I’m not that desperate.”
“Going where?” Viola asks.
“The Clayton. Orson Grey is staying there,” the redhead announces.
“That’s the goss,” says Rowan.
Carefully, Viola had lined her eyes and brushed her lashes, bronzed and blended her cheeks. She is underdressed in the way an accidental ingenue would be underdressed, wearing her black college sweatshirt with St. Sylvia’s emblazoned over the breast, the small crest featuring an open book. Her tightest, blackest jeans. The worst thing would be to look as though she was trying, as if she was after anything. It needs to feel organic, destiny.
“I don’t find him attractive,” Niamh says, exhaling. “Maybe it’s his jaw, I don’t know.”
“His jaw!” Viola says in mock outrage.
“Or his chin or something. I don’t know, something about it. His face.” You can say that sort of thing about celebrities. Her dismissal is a shame and a relief.
“I heard he’s a shagger,” says Rowan.
“Really, Rowan, you can shame people for their weird chins, but not for sex,” Niamh says.
“I always thought he had a nice face,” Viola says.
“Oh my God, you want to lick his weird chin.” Niamh places her nonsmoking hand in Viola’s pocket, and interlaces her fingers. “Fingers are freezing,” she says.
“It’s not that cold,” Viola says.
“Well, you’re warm-blooded. You snow people. Or is it cold-blooded?” A pulse. A linger. Her phone is vibrating in the other pocket.
