‘Earlier, in the hotel, when we stopped on the stairs and got sidetracked conversationally or dazzled by Baz’s taste in dapper hats anyway, what I meant to say was you’re wrong about Haydn. He’s not gay.’
‘His beard says otherwise,’ she replies snarkily. ‘And his taste in workwear hardly screams straight. But mostly he just looks at me as though heloathesme. Like my presence is offensive to him.’
‘You’re right, he’s a bit of a fashion victim. Jeans with cuffs and boots paired with the kind of beard the squirrels could make a holiday home in. But that whole lumbersexual look doesn’t make him gay. Neither does banging on about drinking overpriced micro brewed beer, listening to indie rock, or collecting retro comic books, and sneering at anyone who doesn’t understand his life choices with his brand of ironic superiority.’
‘But his beard . . .’ she splutters.
‘His beard doesn’t make him a bear.’ I’m pretty sure twinks aren’t his thing.
‘He uses beard oil. And I caught him combing it once.’
‘There’s no crime in a man looking after himself.’ I straighten the lapels of my Armani as though slighted
‘He was combing it like you would a pet. And what about his hatred!? He’s also awful to Em, too.’
‘Maybe it’s her association to you.’ I doubt he’s picking on anyone else.
‘But he’s so...’
‘He’s a temperamental fucker. A bit weird, maybe. And a hipster.’’ She’s confused gay for hipster. ‘But he’s a moody, weird hipster who has a serious hard-on for you.’
‘What?’
‘Holy annunciation, Batgirl! That had like, extra syllables in it. But shocking, right?’
‘Try batshit crazy.’
‘I’m telling you, I’m right. I know I am. He lords it over you, yeah?’
‘He belittles me, he makes me anxious, and he makes me want to rip off his head!’
‘He’d probably enjoy that, so long as he could go out like the male black widow spider.’
‘Ew.And also, you’re wrong. Absolutely wrong.’
‘You might wish I was, but there’s a reason he treats you badly. It’s not a good reason, but it definitely explains why he’s such an uptight prick around you. You’ve ignored his advances, and he’s punishing you for it.’
‘What advances? He’s made no advances! I’d know if he had,’ she hisses furiously, her raised finger poking my chest. ‘Because my skin would have recoiled at the thought of being near him, and it would’ve slid off my body like person slipping out of a turtleneck! Also, my clit would have retracted to my chest cavity!’
‘And he said there was no poetry in you. He obviously hasn’t been paying attention.’
‘Forget I said that.’
‘I will never ever be able to forget it. In fact, I think I’ll have it cross-stitched and framed. But sadly, the news doesn’t stop there.’
She throws back the rest of her own drink, then braces her hand on the gravestone. Her head drops forward, her gaze on the dandelions covering the grassy, weed-filled grave. ‘I don’t suppose I can get you to shut up, can I?’
‘You could try kissing me.’ I take her deep sigh as her answer. Herfor nowanswer, at least. ‘You think it’s going to be easy when we split up, and I reckon it will be. For me. The girls in the office will give me a wide berth, watching as I give you hangdog glances in meetings, all deep sighs and sad eyes. Plus, they’re more likely to get the whole no dating in-house out of respect thing.’ Most of them, anyway. ‘Meanwhile, it won’t be the same for you.’
‘I don’t see how.’
‘Oh, but you will. You’ll definitely see a lot of it.’
She tilts her head, her grey eyes flinty. ‘A lot of what?’
‘Consolation cock.’
‘Do you have to be so crass?’
