‘And what d’you think?’
‘I think what he gets up to, or whatever gets up him, is his own business.’
Nat snorts. ‘For you, that was almost funny. I meant in relation to dickalicious there.’
‘I really wish you wouldn’t call him that.’
‘So I should stick to themighty aubergineon account of—’
‘You know what? Dickalicious is just fine.’
‘And to think, you could have gone down there and had a wee keek yourself.’
‘Yes because little Vlad here would look good in a catsuit.’ Over her own bowl of noodles, Nat frowns. ‘You know, breaking and entering? Sneaking into his room?’
Because as it turned out, I wasn’t brave enough to turn up on his hotel this weekend. I doubt I’d have gotten past his security detail anyway.
‘So,’ Andrew B begins, turning my and Nat’s attention back to the screen, ‘the upcoming remake of an oldie.Metropoliswas originally released in 1927; a German film, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, that’s right. It was released in the Weimar period and so ahead of its time, as far as futuristic film goes.’
‘An urban dystopia,’ Andrew B reads from a card in his lap. ‘And the love of a sexy robot.’ His shoulders are almost at his ears as he adds, ‘Sounds like fifty shades of tin!’ Dylan laughs and begins his denials, cut off by the presenter again. ‘Dylan Duffy, we see you’ve become a teensy bit of anenfant terriblegone good these days.’ He holds his thumb and index finger together in some semblance of measurement. ‘Just a teensy bit, I think?’
‘Well, I...’ As though lost for an answer, Dylan slides a hand through his thick hair. As a distraction, it works well on me. Reminds me of my husband, not the man responsible for little Vlad. The one who’d open doors for me, the one I’d laughed with, danced with, drank with.
‘I’m not sure what you mean.’ His answer is part tease, part sexy smile.
Cue the exhale of sighs and quivering ovaries because the audience is probably ninety-nine percent women and one percent men. Gay men.
‘Elaborate a little, shall I?’ Andrew B almost claps with glee. ‘Bon enfant,Dylan,’ he says, addressing a crowd, ‘has found himself the love of a good woman, hasn’t he?’ My Thai noodles turn to snakes in my stomach, slithering and cold. ‘Do we hear the tinkle of wedding bells?’
‘The fuckin’ beard,’ Nat grumbles.
‘If you’re hearing bells, I think you might’ve bumped your head.’ All drawling words and twinkling eyes, Dylan leans over and rubs the back of the much smaller man’s head, studiously avoiding his bald spot.
‘Look, he’s droolin’. Reckon he’s imagining him rubbing his other little head,’ scoffs Nat. ‘If that piece of man-meat was gon’nae go gay, it wouldn’t be for a twerp in a tartan three-piece suit, that’s for sure! He looks like he’s wearing a pair of curtains nicked from a hunting lodge—and bald men should never wear turtlenecks! He looks like a wee roll-on deodorant!’
‘When have you ever visited a hunting lodge?’
‘The point’s irrelevant. Watch your man.’ She points back at the TV screen with her fork, unaware how much ofmy manhe really once was.
‘It wasn’t too long ago you were all for telling anyone who’d listen that Dylan Duffy was gay. And come to think if it, a few seconds ago, you called his potential fiancée a beard!’
She shrugs, entirely unconcerned. ‘She is a beard, just maybe not in thepretend to be straightsense. I think she’s a studio plant.’
‘I can get with that.’ A Venus flytrap.
‘Really?’ Grabbing the remote from the cushion between us, she pauses the show with Dylan frozen in a moment of confident repose. Putting down her bowl, she turns bodily to face me, cross-legged. ‘You think he’s bisexual, too, don’t you?’
‘No.’ The word is expelled on the breath of a sigh. ‘He’s just really good at getting people to do what he wants.’
Chapter Thirty-One
Dylan
I’m just goingto do it—going to rip off that Band-Aid.
There’s no easy way to say this, Ivy... Yeah, sure, you’re surprised to see me here. No, I know you’re not pleased but put down the scissors—I can explain.
