"You are a man with a tape measure and boundary issues," Preston says. "Which, coincidentally, also describes my last three court-mandated patients. I found them fascinating too."
"I was simply?—"
"Offering to take my boyfriend into a windowless back room to handle him thoroughly and at length," Preston finishes. "Yes. I heard. We all heard. I suspect the pigeons on the roof heard."
"It was afitting," Enzo says, drawing himself up to his full height, which is unfortunately several inches below Preston's.
"Of course it was," Preston agrees, with the particular warmth of a man who believes nothing of the sort. He tilts his head. "Tell me, Enzo — and I ask this as a psychiatrist, so please know it is a genuine clinical inquiry — do you offer all your clients a private room with soft lighting and no fixed end time, or is that aservice you reserve for the ones who remind you that your father liked them better?"
The silence is extraordinary.
Enzo goes very still. A vein appears at his temple.
"You," Enzo says softly, "are not a very nice man."
"No," Preston agrees pleasantly. "I'm really not." He steps forward and straightens Enzo's lapel with two fingers — not kindly, but with the precise, proprietary energy of a man handling evidence. "Here is what's going to happen. You are going to take your tape measure, you are going to maintain a professionally appropriate distance from my boyfriend, and you are going to make him the most extraordinary suit of his career."
A pause. "And if I come back here and find so much as a single unauthorised pin within six inches of his inseam, I will sit down with you for one complimentary therapy session." He smiles. "You will not enjoy it. My waiting list is eight months long and every single person on it is there because of something their mother did. By the time I'm finished you'll be weeping into your shears and calling her to apologise."
Enzo stares at him.
Preston stares back.
The room holds its breath.
Then, slowly, magnificently, a grin splits Enzo's face. The grin of a man who has just met his natural predator and found the experience unexpectedly thrilling.
"Crudele," Enzo breathes. "You are absolutelycrudele."
"I have been told," Preston says.
"Your suit," Enzo says, looking Preston over with fresh, almost reverent eyes. "Who made it?"
"Huntsman. Savile Row."
Enzo winces. "British."
"Devastating, I know."
"Come back Thursday," Enzo says. "Alone. I will fix it."
"I don't need it fixed."
"No," Enzo concedes, with tremendous reluctance. "But I need to fix it. For my own peace." He turns back to Luke, maintaining, notably, a full three feet of distance. "Arms up,cherubino.The sharp one is watching."
Luke raises his arms. He looks at Preston with enormous eyes.
"Did you just try to book him as a patient?” Luke whispers.
“I didn’t try, I succeeded” Preston says, checking his watch. "And you look extraordinary in midnight blue. Enzo — midnight blue. Burn the sparkly one."
"The sparkly one isValentino," Enzo says, scandalized, already moving.
"It's still on fire," Preston says.
I lean toward Max on the pedestal.
"Preston just won a staring contest with a man whose entire personality is eye contact," I whisper.
