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“Yeah, he said we’ll look at it next week.”
“Next week?! So much for beavering like a crazy to get that done.”
“It wasn’t compulsory.”
“I hope he was grateful.”
“Can you even imagine him with a grateful face?” I grinned at her, loosening up. “It’s my own fault, working too hard on something that doesn’t mean anything.”
“Are you talking about the project file, or about James?”
“The project file!” I said. “Have you been drinking?”
“A few in the studio earlier.” Her eyes glinted at me. “He’s hot, right?”
“He’s attractive.”
“And a weirdo... He likes you, Lyds, or he wouldn’t work with you.”
I finished my drink. “He’s private, I get that.”
“Sheesh, yeah. It’ll take a bloody lifetime for you two to get to know each other, Private and Privater hanging out in Private-ville.”
“We aren’t hanging out anywhere, it’s all about work.”
“All work and no play makes James and Lydia very fucking dull indeed.”
I laughed. “Am I dull? Really?”
“Nah, just...focused.”
“That’s dull, isn’t it?”
“No... yes... a little. But hey, if it floats your pretty little boat.”
“It doesn’t. I need to get out.” I rubbed my temples, willing the blow-out memory away. I left Bex to it, all ready to go ditch the work outfit and veg in my PJs but she called me back.
“Say, Lyds. I’m off down the Dev tonight, if you fancied coming. It’s cool there, they even pour pentagrams on your Guinness.”
“Pentagrams on your Guinness? Doesn’t sound like I’d fit in too well.”
“You’d be fine.”
I pondered in the doorway, my bedroom cold and still and empty without that bloody project file to keep me occupied. “What would I wear?”
“Little black dress, I’m sure you’ve got one.”
I weighed it up, back and forth in my mind, empty room or goth pub, empty room or goth pub. “I could come for a bit.”
The smile on her face told me she hadn’t expected it. Was I really that dull? Maybe I was.
Time to put dull, boring Lydia in the bin where she belonged.
***
Bex had a nudity habit: the constant desire to wander around with little to no clothes on without even the slightest hint of self-consciousness. I’d grown surprisingly used to it, and didn’t even flinch when she appeared stark naked and dripping wet, holding up two almost identical looking dresses for my opinion. Her tattoos stopped at her shoulders, leaving her pale skin untouched and unblemished to the belly button, where a Celtic pattern swirled down to her pubic hair, if she’d had any. She didn’t. I pointed to the dress on the left, a black PVC number with spikes all down the front.
“You sure?” she said. “Spikes not buckles?”
