“Yeah, but you’re going to be sleeping on them.”
(I would sleep on a bed of straw to be close to him. I’d sleep in the back of a truck.)
He found a kitchen table he liked, then got kind of overwhelmed looking at chairs. “I need everything,” he said. “This is going to take all day.”
“We can come back,” I said. “Ikea isn’t going anywhere.”
We ate lunch in their cafeteria, and Simon spent half his inheritance on Swedish meatballs and Daim cake.
He was wearing another Watford hoodie to cover his wings. One that he hasn’t yet sliced to ribbons. I could tell he was overheated. (I don’t know what the short-term solution for this is—a silk shawl? A lightweight poncho?) I noticed a few people noticing the hump on his back. But none of them seemed to think he was hiding anything.
We held hands the whole day. At lunch, he sat with his arm resting on the back of my chair. “If you can’t be gay at Ikea,” Snow reasoned, “where can you?”
Was this the best day of my life?
I’m nearly certain.
It was so good that I haven’t come down yet, even sitting here in another one of Smith-Richards’s meetings, this time in the very front row. Smith-Richards sent Simon a text this afternoon, making sure we’d be here—making sureSimonwould be here. As if he’d miss it.
Daphne grabbed us as soon as we walked in and dragged us up front. The better to see Smith-Richards’s pore-less skin, I presume. He hasn’t come out yet. Daphne is on the edge of her seat, waiting for him.
I’m feeling too cheerful to harass her about calling home. At least my father seems to be doing better this week. I’ve been checking in. Vera, my old nanny, has agreed to come help with the kids. Her family is in Hampshire, so she won’t stay for good, but maybe she can see him through Daphne’s bout of madness. (I’m very relieved that my father doesn’t need me in Oxford; it’s very important that I stay in London and eat toast in Simon Snow’s bed. On his new striped sheets.)
Simon squeezes my hand. “Do you see Jamie?”
We can’t see anyone without cranking our necks around and calling attention to ourselves. “No.”
“Maybe he’s running late.”
The show is about to begin. You can tell because they’re playing Coldplay over the speakers, and everyone is getting jumpy. Daphne takes my other hand and squeezes it tight. She’s beaming tonight—she looks like she spent the day shopping for dinnerware with her boyfriend at Ikea. (How doomedismy father?) (Maybe he can offer Vera an enormous raise . . .) (Maybe he can marry her.)
The room erupts when Smith-Richards walks in. He holds up his arms to acknowledge everyone.“Thank you,”he mouths over the applause. Simon lets go of my hand to clap.
Smith-Richards hops onto the stage. (Why step when you can hop.) When he sees Simon, his warm smile gets even more incandescent. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says to Simon, waving. We’re sitting so close to the stage, we can hear him.
He’s looking artfully casual tonight—white painter’s trousers, a blue split-neck shirt, some sort of red and gold bandanna knotted at his throat . . . It suits him, loath as I am to admit it. It would suit Simon better.
An older man—the same one who was at the door the other night—hands Smith-Richards a microphone. “Hello!” he says into the mic. “Everyone! It’s so good to see you . . .”
Smith-Richards goes right into his pitch: How much hecaresabout everyone in the room, how he wants tohelpthem, how hebelieveshe can help them. How they deserveso much morethan life has given them so far.
It’s not that he’s wrong about all this, I suppose. It’s just that he’sinsufferable.
I look over my shoulder. There are more people here tonight than at the last meeting. Smith-Richards is going to have to find a bigger pub. Maybe he should rent a church; the vibe would be spot-on.
I still don’t see Jamie. There’s a guy I recognize from Watford . . . Ian somebody, a few years older than us. And a woman who plays tennis at the club. Are all of these people low-magicians? Or are they just normal magicians who think they deserve better?
Alan, the man who got the power-up last week, was holding court at the back of the room when we came in, regaling everyone with stories about all the big spells he can cast now.
Smith-Richards is ratcheting up the intensity tonight. He’s saying he wants to help more people, more quickly—that they shouldn’t have to wait any longer for their birthright.
Daphne’s enthralled. Her mouth is actually hanging open.
Simon is leaning forward, his elbows on his thighs, taking in every word. Does he trulybelieveall this? He keeps giving Smith-Richards the full benefit of the doubt, and more. It’s like Simonwantssomeone else to be the real Chosen One—and he wants it to be someone like Smith-Richards, someone who’ll wear the crown more comfortably than he himself ever did. I lay my hand on Simon’s neck and scratch at the back of his hair, where it’s too short to curl. He glances over his shoulder to smile at me.
We’re going hunting after this. And then we’re getting fish and chips. And then we’re going back to Simon’s apartment together. Tomorrow morning, we’ll have toast in bed.
I rub his neck, and he doesn’t shrug me off. (This must be another place where it’s okay to be gay—or whatever Simon is.)
