Page 2 of Darling
“Wonderful, absolutely divine. I may even have cried a little.”
“Oh, I hope it comes to DC. Larry would hate it, but you bet I’d drag him along grumbling.”
“Well, I’ll take you if it does. But you can watch it online for the next week. Perhaps we should do a movie night this week? Invite Larry along, I’d love to watch it again.”
“Really? Yes, I’d love to! Let’s do that. I’ll make some soup!”
I leave her to the current soup and make my way to my study. It’s probably the room I hate most in this house. It’s old-fashioned and too dark and has the most uncomfortable chair I’ve ever had the misfortune to sit on—and I’ve sat for prolonged periods on the benches in the commons. I should order a new one, but this one is in keeping with the room, and so I just end up doing most of my work in the dining room, which isn’t great on my back.
After eating a large bowl of soup, I run through Monday’s schedule with Gael: morning briefing and then a meeting with the State Department, a catch-up with the Foreign Relations Committee in the afternoon, and then a meeting with HR on the ‘morale’ across the embassy network. This one I’m especially not looking forward to since I’m certain the entire team can tell my own is in the toilet.
When Gael leaves, I head to the basement gym where I run on the treadmill while listening to an audiobook I’d begun on the flight over. There’s a text from Felix when I get off around forty minutes later.
FTB:
Thank you again for coming. We have some time off in July if you fancy some visitors?There’s a concert Nico wants to go to in NYC so we can come see you.
I’m almost certain it won’t happen. I’m not sure Nico is as enamoured with Felix and I’s friendship as he pretends to be. Not that he pretends to be, he’s mostly silent and darkly brooding in my company.
Me:
Wouldn’t have missed it, darling. July sounds wonderful. Let me know dates.
After a long, hot shower, I catch up on some paperwork in bed; a lot of overly wordy documents on exports and investments that are so dull I can barely keep my eyes open. Not for the first time since I got here, I wonder why I didn’t walk away. I wonder why I didn’t tell Adrian Brooke to shove his diplomatic position where the sun doesn’t shine. Would he have spilled everything to Leo? Perhaps. Would Leo be so disgusted he’d never speak to me again? Perhaps. He is a liberal sort of guy, I know, but I’m his father. My illicit affair with a guy his age could destroy us. I was the only parent he had left. I close my laptop with a sigh and pick up the book on my bedside instead. It’s far more engaging than the trade export summary of lithium batteries.
The following afternoon, a Sunday, I dress casually and drive into town on my own—I have a driver here for my day-to-day, as I did in London, but I have far less security here overall, and it feels nice to slip under the radar in a way I haven’t been able to for years. There’s a secondhand bookshop that I’ve been meaning to visit since I got here, and today seemed like the perfect time since I’d finished the book I’d been reading lastnight and needed something new. Inside, I head directly for the queer section. I don’t feel the same kind of fear about visiting the queer section of a bookshop in DC as I would back home. Another good thing about this role is actually having the time to read again. It’s not nearly as demanding of my time as being foreign minister was, and since I’m quite alone, I’ve been filling my free time with things I haven’t had time for in years.
I’m browsing the ‘memoirs’ section when I see him.
A compact, fae-like thing with a head of dark hair, full mouth, and blush-pink cheeks. His outfit is startling: a paisley-patterned shirt beneath a geometric-patterned sweater vest, loose, baggy jeans, and thick-soled boots. He’s smiling at something inside the book, a sort of sly, secret smile that sits on one side of his mouth. Suddenly aware, he glances up and around and catches me staring at him. His eyes are the brightest, clearest blue and seem to twinkle with mischief. I get an intense dip of desire in the pit of my stomach before I look away quickly to pretend to browse the shelves.
“That’s not worth your time or money,” he says. His voice is soft and a little sweet. When I turn my head, he’s slotting the book he was holding back into its place.
“Pardon me?”
“Shit, are you British?” That smirk again. It’s even more wicked from this angle, and coupled with the slight tilt of his head… I swallow. He comes toward me.
“It’s not a good read,” he says, indicating the book. “I binged it over lockdown and regretted it immediately, came out the other end with more issues than I went in. Now this one…” He reaches up and slips out a book with a neon pink cover and indigo text and hands it to me. It reads:BOY SLUT.
My cheeks flame.
“I loved it.”
“I’m not… sure… it’s my thing.” I try to imagine Mrs Kennedy or one of the other maids finding it on my bedside table, and I feel a little nauseous.
“Oh, I think it’s definitely your thing,” he says in a voice so sinful it makes me think about pushing him against the stacks and doing unspeakable things. The look in his eye is one that suggests he might be able to read my mind, and that the thoughts I’m having are ones he’d very much enjoy me acting on.
“I… um, okay. Well, thank you.” I speak for a living and yet this little smirking boy has me bloody mute.
He beams, and it’s a shiny, sparkling thing that lights up his whole face. “You’re welcome.” When he goes to move off, I get the sharpest stab of panic at the notion that I’ll never see him again, that this was a single encounter that I’ll be replaying over and over in my head for years, regretting not doingsomething.
Once again, like he can hear my thoughts, he stops and turns.
“I come here most Sundays, by the way. Usually after I go antiquing, though sometimes before. Just in case you were wondering...” He gives me a sweet smile this time—he seems to have a whole catalogue of them—and strides off toward the exit without buying anything.
Did he just say antiquing?
I look down at the novel I’m holding, quickly grab a few others, and head for the cashier with the lot.