by Alan Clark
I walked Elspeth back to her door. Applause was coming up from the open windows of the kitchens. The King of Croon was treating the breakfasters to a bit of Sondheim. He’s been asked to play Desiree Armfeldt’s mother in an all-male revival of A Little Night Music at the Donmar Warehouse. Legit at last, he’d crowed.
Vic says he doesn’t expect me to shag him though he’d not say no to a regular cuddle and perhaps a quick tossing-off on birthdays and Christmases. But no pressure. Only if I can bear it. Anyway, he doesn’t feel the urge much now and needs tea and biccies afterwards, like they give to blood donors. Nor does he demand that I never stray. If I want a quick spin on the carousel now and again before it finally flings me into eternal darkness, he says he’ll understand. He only asks that I always come back home afterwards. He promises he’ll be here till he’s carted off in a glass hearse drawn by six plumed horses and I suppose I’ll just have to trust him. So that’s the plan, for however much time we’re going to have together.
The sun was climbing higher now; by the time it sank again the gazebo on the terrace would be folded away, the sound system dismantled, the champagne crates and trestle tables stacked in the caterers’ vans. We could shut the front gates, stop being ‘Withering Heights’ and just get on with it. I went to bed and crashed for a couple of hours. When I got up, I noticed some hairs still dozing on the pillow. I cursed Alma till I remembered that her coat was short and black as coal. The hairs on the pillow were long and golden and glinted prettily in the morning light. Oh fuck.
Ms Prada had left a message on my voicemail. She was back from Madeira now and concerned that I’d cancelled all my future appointments. I called back and left a message on hers. I said that I felt I’d told her all my tales, that I had nothing more to add and that, as Faisal had put it the last time I’d seen him, I thought I’d be okay now. I had come home again and found myself waiting there.
About the Author
Alan Clark was educated in Scotland, where he wrote his first children’s novel at the age of twelve. He dropped out of King’s College London and landed in the advertising business in which, as a copywriter and creative director, he has won several international awards. In recent times he has digressed into travel journalism, specialising in the western Mediterranean, and has also compiled a quiverful of celebrity profiles, ranging from film stars and theatrical knights to bishops and duchesses. He finally got around to writing this novel when Sue Townsend bluntly informed him that he had wasted his life so far.
Copyright
First published in the United Kingdom in 2011
by Arcadia Books, 15-16 Nassau Street, London, W1W 7AB
This ebook edition first published in 2012
All rights reserved
© Alan Clark, 2011
The right of Alan Clark to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly
ISBN 978–1–908129–48–2
