Chapter 21 Armand Dances Through Strife
Armand Dances Through Strife
I wobbled past what appeared to be every booze-bearing server hired for the event, past the long queue to the toilets, and into the mercifully empty employee’s-only bog attached to Hettie’s back office.
I locked the door behind me and turned on the sink, watching the water pool, marbled with soap scum.
Circles and spirals spreading into amoebas and flowers until there was nothing left, and the water ran clear.
Slowly, I heard the music again. The thumping of the beat. The soft roar of a crowd shouting their cocktail conversation over it. I could feel my hands now, chilly and full of pinpricks, and I could even look at myself in the mirror.
I looked rank.
Sallow, the skin under my eyes and in the hollows of my cheeks gray, damp hair clinging to a damper forehead, shiny with flop sweat.
Good thing this wasn’t the most photographed day of my entire life, eh?
I washed my face and forced my shoulders back.
I wasn’t going to have a drink. I wasn’t going to curl up and die. I wasn’t going to ring Karim.
I was going to—
Someone knocked on the door.
My throat produced a horrible, choked sound, and I nearly fell over.
“Demetrio, you in there?” Lakshmi pounded on the door like the police. “Do you need help, pet?”
God. I was such a massive twat. “No,” I groaned, “I’m fine. Sorry, sorry. Be out in a mo.”
“All right.” She paused for a second, then grumbled in her harshest and therefore most caring voice, “I can take you out the backway and have Lucas meet you at the car—”
“I’m fine, Lakshmi. Honest.” I swallowed. “You couldn’t round me up a Fanta, could you?”
“Give me another fifteen percent, and we’ll talk.”
I laughed. “You’re a good egg, Ranjit.”
“And you.” She banged the door one more time, followed by the receding click of her heels. I washed my face again, glad as ever that I’d worn black to hide the pit-stains, and promised myself a meeting in the morning.
Do it anyway, Demetrio.
There was one silver lining to this situation, and I clung to it in the throes of my failed attempts at resilience: I wasn’t losing my mind. I wasn’t imagining it.
He was back. And he was talking to Lucas.
He was talking to Lucas. My body was catching up with the absolute wobbler my mind had thrown and wouldn’t be denied its own strop. I tried to move, but my heart climbed up my throat. I heaved over the toilet, my head trying to turn itself inside out.
Another knock on the door forced me upright, and I opened it, expecting to see Lakshmi bearing ineffectual orange soda, but instead it was—
“Oh, babe, are you okay?” Lucas’s brow furrowed over wide eyes. “Shit, do you have food poisoning?”
I shook my head, aware of the sweaty hair slapping against my damp forehead. “M’fine.”
“You don’t look fine.” He reached up to feel my likely clammy cheeks. “You paid your dues here. I think you could get away with leaving at this juncture.”
I started to protest, then realized what I was doing.
After exchanging a nod with Lakshmi, I followed Lucas out of the shop, on to the dystopian car park, and all the way home.
I let him drive, shutting my eyes and trusting that he’d keep to the left—and in his words, “incorrect”—side of the street.
“Can I make you some tea?” he asked once we were back at the flat. “English Breakfast? Or I guess, English Midnight Snack, as it were?”
“I’m really fine, love, you don’t have to—”
“Too late, I’m doing it.” He turned his attention to my utterly unrecognizable kitchen—I swear he’d somehow changed the color of the walls—and put the kettle on.
“I ran into one of your old art teachers—Jean? I guess he’s an art dealer now, but it was nice of him to swing by and support you for the anniversary. ”
I gripped the fabric of the sofa under me. It felt different, and in the eye of my panic storm I had the quiet realization that Lucas had done something to it, possibly fully reupholstered it. I bit my tongue to stay in my body.
Lucas made tea and then set a timer on his phone. I’d told him I preferred builder’s tea, and since then he’d been making sure to let it steep for exactly five minutes. God, he was adorable. He leaned back against the counter, giving me a shy and hopeful look.
“He also said he wanted to introduce me to the owner of this art gallery he works with and show her my work. Not that I have much of a portfolio.” Lucas took a deep breath, clearly trying to hide how excited he was.
“But it’s the same owner that launched Patricia Yang, and I can’t believe he’d use my name alongside hers.
He said there’s a chance she might want to use my photos as part of her winter exhibition. Can you believe that?”
I could. I could all too easily. “That’s . . . He said that?” I asked thickly.
“I know, right? My stuff is nowhere near that level.” Lucas was blushing and could no longer keep down his grin.
“But, um. I guess the exhibition is in December, which might end up being moot if they hate me, but on the off-chance they don’t .
. .” He looked so hopeful, my stomach ached.
“Something like that would mean I’d need to stay in London a bit longer—”
“Yes.”
By the time he realized I’d responded, I’d lumbered to my feet again, moving toward him and repeating, “Yes. Please. Stay.”
“Armand, careful,” he chided, arms around my waist to steady me. I leaned against him, pushing us both up against the counter. I kissed him, longer and harder than I should have, hoping he wouldn’t taste the desperation in it.
Lucas broke for air, laughing softly. “Someone’s feeling better.” Then he bit his lip and looked up at me anxiously. “You . . . Are you sure you don’t mind? I wouldn't want to put you out if it’s inconvenient—”
“Inconvenient?” I rumbled, still trying to quiet the screaming inside me with the feel of Lucas’s hips pressed against mine, his hands now gripped in the back of my turtleneck, both of our burgeoning interests hot between us. “Love, I’d do anything to keep you here longer. As long as you want.”
I would do anything. I was going to do anything.
“You’re the best,” Lucas whispered, pulling me firmer against him, one knee slipping between mine, his lips teasing—
His phone alarm chirped.
Lucas held up a finger between us, my lips a breath away from his. “Tea time.”
I groaned performatively as he wriggled and twisted in my arms, turning toward the counter and the bloody tea, but staying nestled against me, his back fitting snugly against my front. I buried my face in his hair, his neck, breathing deeply and holding on tight to the man I’d do anything to keep.
Anything.
October 5
50 days sober
I let the blinds snap shut and almost groaned in relief.
For the first time in days, the black Porsche was nowhere to be seen.
I hadn’t prepared for this. I don’t know why, but I hadn’t. I should have known the video was a warning, that he’d easily find my new address, because Lucas’s efforts on my behalf had actually worked. I was getting popular.
I found myself even more agoraphobic than usual—the thought of running into him made my stomach knot—but I had to get moving. Lucas was off doing fancy art man stuff, and I was very nearly late for a pas de trois.
“And where’s the delightful American?” Winnie immediately cornered me in the hallway, blue-veined hands on the hips of her flower-patterned housecoat. “Haven’t run him off, have you? Shame, he’s been so good about taking the bins out and helping me with my shopping, and if you’ve run him off—”
“Afternoon, Winifred. No, I haven’t run Lucas off yet.”
On the contrary, he’d agreed to stay longer.
Not because of me, mind you, and it could honestly be argued that he was staying in London despite me.
No, it was because the human personification of French Smarm—who drove a sports car now—had finally resurfaced, identified the obvious weakness in our relationship—and myself as an individual—and very naturally leveraged both against Lucas’s lifelong dream.
Miraculously, I managed to say none of that. “He’s out taking pictures. Though he will have to return to America at some point.”
Winnie pouted and made her eyes—already enormous behind her tinted spectacles—even larger. “Not if you marry him.”
I rearranged the ragged old dance bag on my shoulder and pretended I wasn’t blushing. “More of that and you’ll run him off for me, Winnie.”
“Nonsense, he’s arse over teakettle for you.”
I had to get out of here. “Ta, Winnie.”
“Haven’t got a mo to change my kitchen light, have you?”
I sighed. “Of course.”
After changing Winnie’s kitchen light, dusting the top of the cabinets while I was up there, and accepting two pairs of her dead husband’s jumpers that he’d barely worn and she couldn’t bear to throw away, I finally escaped to Soho.
I could hear music blaring from outside Florabelle’s studio, which meant she and Sam were already mid warm-up. Craig was sitting on the floor in the corner, eating McDonald’s.
“Ah, His Majesty deigns to arrive.” Belle grinned at me from her straddle stretch, chin in hands, elbows on the floor. Craig gave a little wave, and Sam, who was running in place, caught my eye in the mirror and waggled their eyebrows.
“Too busy with the boyfriend?”
If only. I set my bag down, slipped off my shoes, and started my stretches, not looking at any of them. “Sorry.”
“Oh, you will be sorry.” Belle moved fluidly to her feet. “Was gonna go easy on you, Armo, but then you was tardy, so . . .”
Craig giggled into his hamburger.
I was severely out of shape. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d committed to a full hour of dancing, and Belle and Sam put me through the ringer, as if we were all still in school and in our early twenties, and not accustomed to smoking half a pack a day or less than two months sober . . .
And it felt bloody amazing. Florabelle put on an old show playlist, and we did a routine that, years ago, would’ve been an easy workout.
“Oh, god.” I stretched out in child’s pose and heaved. “I’m gonna chunder. I’m catting. Imma puke.”
“Not on my floors, you ain’t.” Florabelle stood over me, barely out of breath.
“Not bad, for a dead man.” Sam, their grin very nearly wider than their face, sat next to me and offered a water.
“Ta.” I groaned, then sat up long enough to take a few gulps.
“So, have you told Lucas yet?” Sam asked.
I very much did not spray water across Florabelle’s wall mirror. “Whot?”
“You know what.” Craig, who was cleaning up the remains of his lunch, gave me a meaningful look.
Sam nodded. “Craig spotted him leaving your anniversary gig.”
I breathed through my nose, which didn’t help the nausea since everything smelled of Maccies, and ducked my head, glaring at my friends’ reflection through the cover of my sweaty hair.
“You ought to have already told him,” Craig added flatly.
“Is that why you’re here?” I snapped. “So you all could launch the intervention, mark 2.0?”
Florabelle and Sam made protective moves, but Craig beamed. “I’m on a long lunch. And you know I love watching you all bop about.”
Utter. Twat. “Sorry. I know you mean well, but I’m not ready.” I continued as Sam rolled their eyes. “This is my decision. I know what I can and can’t handle—”
“Well, that’s a blatant lie.” Belle sucked her teeth.
“What we mean to say,” Craig cut in gently, looking from me to Sam to Florabelle, “is that we’ve been here before, Armand. Well, not here exactly,” he amended when I shot him a hurt look, “but damn near. It might be worth considering our input, given—”
“He’s not back. Not really,” I hissed, then bit my lip. I wasn’t going to tell them about the Porsche. I couldn’t. “Please, can’t you let me deal with this at my own pace?”
Sam cocked an eyebrow at me. “So never?”
I sighed and drank more water. Sulking.
Craig bent down to place a hand on my shoulder, meeting my eyes in the mirror again. “Armand, you’ve got to tell Lucas about him. About all of it. He seems decent; he’ll understand. None of it was your faul—”
“I’m grown,” I spoke over him, softly but deliberately. “It’s been years.” I shrugged off his hand and got to my feet, still stretching, groaning, and aching. But I managed a smile. “Stuff your worry.”
“Tosser.”
“Lucas knows you’re sober, love. He’s not an idiot,” Florabelle tried her luck one more time, “and he lives with you, so he also knows what a mess you are. Telling him about Jean is the next logical step, especially if he’s back—”
“He’s not. Back.” I gently pulled Belle forward so I could kiss her head, then did the same to Craig. I tried it with Sam, but they ducked under my arm, giving me a brief, powerful hug from behind. “Sam, my ribs, mate!”
“Get out, you wee tumshie.” They chuckled, squeezing again.
My friends meant well. They let me maneuver the conversation back toward solid ground; it wasn’t long before Craig had to faff off back to work and Belle had to clean up before the next class. Who knew where Sam was off to.
I’d got a text from Lucas about what a wonderful day he’d had, and did I want to meet him at Canary Wharf at this restaurant someone recommended?
I didn’t.
As in, I very much wanted to meet him, at Canary Wharf, even.
But I didn’t look forward to the drop in my stomach as I scanned the menu prices.
Or the way Lucas was going to roll his eyes and insist that it was his treat since he’d picked the place.
I would force a smile, and eat what he ordered, and quietly die inside.
Because the alternative was telling the truth.