Page 93 of Darling
“I think if we put our heads together, we can convince him to turn this down. Who wants to be Prime Minister of some rainy racist island anyway? Like those fuckers even deserve him back after what they did to him. I mean, it was mainly my father, and according to Christian, he is out on his ear, but…” I’ve stopped listening. Prime Minister. That was before, before he came to Washington. Right? But Felix is talking in the present, Felix is saying they don’t deserve him back. I swallow.
“They want him to be Prime Minister again?”
“Mhm. Well, Chancellor first, because ole’ leering Lyle is dying, but then JasmineThuselesswill step down, or be kicked out, and he’ll be shifted next door to clean the mess they’ve all made. I mean, he’ll be far better for the country than she was, but so would I. I’ve told him he’ll lose his fucking hair in a year, and he’s too hot for that—what? What’s wrong with you?” There’s a strange tightening sensation in my chest, and my breathing feels a bit off. Maybe I’m having a fucking heart attack.
“Oh,” says Felix with understanding. “He didn’t tell you.”
“I… no.”
“Fuck. Me and my big mouth. Asher, I’m sure he was going to, it’s—”
“It’s fine,” I cut in. “He’s… I mean, it’s not my business. No reason for him to have told me.” He’d told Felix. Felix knew, and I didn’t.Because he’s important, and you’re not.I clear my throat and stand. “It’s fine. I need another drink.”
“Um, same, actually.” We’re heading back inside, Felix giving me the occasional wary glance, when he says, “Christian cares a bloody lot about you, Asher. I happen to know that to be true.”
“Yeah, you know a lot of things.” It comes out sounding bitter and mean.
“Look, if he hasn’t told you, then there’s a good reason,” Felix defends. “He’s not like that, not when he cares about someone.”
I almost want to scoff at that. Even if Felix is right, even if he does care about me, I am still nothing against the chance to run a fucking country. His country. Where his life has worth and value. What am I worth against that? I’m some guy he can’t even be seen in public with. Some guy half his age he fucks in dark rooms when no one is looking. Okay, fine, that is how most people fuck but—
“Asher!” a voice calls across the crowded room, and my head whips around to see Christian, of all fucking people, waving me over, face warm and bright and friendly. My heart squeezes. He looks confused by my reluctance and tries gesturing again. He’s with a good-looking Black man dressed in a loud tweed suit, a glamorous-looking woman by his side. All three of them are staring at me now.
“You should go over there,” Felix suggests.
My feet start moving, to get away from Felix and his perfect smile and his knowing of things as much as anything else.
“Hi, Asher, sorry to accost you like that, but this is Jacob Fordyce, the gentleman I was telling you about; he runs a fewgalleries across the country. Jacob, this is Asher Fox, the young artist whose work I’ve recently come to adore.”
I look at Christian. Headoresmy work? Since when? Maybe this is what diplomacy looks like? I’m pretty sure he thinks very little of my work and even less about me since he never bothered telling me he was leaving to go back to fucking England to run the country. Why am I finding this out from fucking Felix? Beautiful, smiling, know-it-all Felix. I realise I’m glaring at Christian.
Shit, I’m actually pretty drunk. I’d pre-loaded two shots of tequila before we’d left my place, and that vodka soda was heavy on the vodka.
“Asher, are you quite alright?” Christian asks, concerned. I ignore him and turn to Jacob. “Hello there, Mr. Fordyce, great to meet you.” I spend the next few minutes talking about my work like I’m some kind of fucking art prodigy, in a weird professional voice I don’t even recognise. I’ll probably be embarrassed about it tomorrow, but right now the alcohol (and rage) is fuelling a whole new personality that comes off as bold and confident with a layer of bite. Jacob asks if I have a website where he can see some of my work. I tell him it’s in progress—which isn’t exactly a lie, it’s just that I haven’t progressed it in months—and hands me his business card, requesting I call him to set up a meeting. He’s in town for a few days. After he wanders off, Christian stares at me.
“Areyou alright?” he asks, studying me.
“Oh, I’m fucking wonderful. Top of the world.” I grab another champagne from a passing waiter and gulp. “I met Felix by the way.”
“I saw that, yes,” he says, glancing over my shoulder to where I’d left Felix.
“He told me about your new job.” I raise my glass and sayway too loudly, “Suppose congratulations are in order, Mr Prime Minister!?”
Alarm flashes over his face, and he glances around to see if anyone has heard.
He steps closer and says quietly, “Can we talk about this in private?”
“What is there to talk about? The fact you’ve been offered your dream job, or the fact that you’re leaving to go back to dear old England?”
“Asher,please.” He casts another glance around. “Not here. There are a lot of people, and this is very... sensitive. Confidential.”
“Oh, is it? Is that why you told Felix.”
“I… he…” He has no answer to this, but his eyes turn a little guilty. “Can you please go to my office, wait there, and I’ll come in a moment? We can talk about this—I can explain.” Just then, an elderly man in a group of other elderly men calls out to him. He smiles at them and nods, then he says to me in a whisper: “Please, darling.”
I want to tell him to fuck off. I want to storm out of this ridiculous party and have him chase me down the fucking lawn, but I know he won’t. Not here, not ever. Plus, my coat is actually in his office, and I’ll need to get that anyway…
“Fine,” I say, and he sags with visible relief. On my way to his office, I see Felix talking to a very attractive dark-haired man near the bar. He stares after me as I go but doesn’t come toward me. There’s a look of pity on his face that I can’t stand. Inside Christian’s office, I slump into the chair with my coat draped over it and wait. It’s only a few minutes before the door opens, but it’s not Christian, it’s a tall guy with pink hair. I don’t recognise him at first, but as he comes closer, the light pulls his features into focus. It’s the guy from the hospital: his son. I allbut jump to my feet, brain scrambling to come up with a reason why I’m here, waiting, in his office alone. I’m not sure if he recognises me as the guy in his dad’s hospital room, but as he stops right in front of me and levels a very scornful stare at me, I think he probably knows something he’d rather not.