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“Do you come to Paris often?” I asked him.
“When I can. It’s an inspiring city, boasting some of the finest literature in history.”
“Cary’s more Montmartre,” my mother said.
“Oh? You stay there?” I asked. “All those steps.”
“I’m a big fan of Simone de Beauvoir.” He cast his eyes on my mother, and of course, she looked impressed. But he could have admitted to liking the outer suburbs of London with their ugly high-rises, and she would have still sparkled with admiration.
Bram laughed loudly, and my mother’s attention slid his way. “I see you’ve dragged that buffoon along.”
“I’m trying to get rid of him. You know that.”
“He’s an embarrassment.” She rolled her eyes, and Cary returned a sympathetic smile.
“He’s that and more… He’s my epiphany.”
Did I just say that?
Cary’s eyebrow raised. As a writer, he couldn’t ignore that comment, I could only guess. “Your last bad choice?”
“Yep. Got it in one.” I played with my fingers. “I fell for his rebellious rock star act. He’s in a band, you see.”
“He’s creative then?”
“He’s more a poseur than anything else. He loves being the centre of attention.”
He grimaced. “Oh, he’s vain. How tedious. And by the looks of it, drugged.” He watched on as Bram smirked and swaggered through the crowd. “One needs a modicum of talent to play the enfant terrible, and decadence is only praiseworthy when executed with flair.”
“Of which he lacks,” my mother responded dryly.
At least, Cary’s illuminating comments offered some healthy distraction, as I somewhat reluctantly—mainly because of Bram looking at me—clambered out of this intellectual rabbit hole and returned to the cruel reality of rotten choices.
Bram got talking to someone else, and I breathed again.
“You look pale, sweetheart.” My mother frowned.
She sensed something more than just my embarrassment in this latest shitshow. I’d kept Bram’s tendency to be violent to myself. That would have distressed her and involved the police, resulting in Bram sharing that soul-crushing sex tape.
He’d cornered a couple of supermodels, who looked amused by his antics. Watching Bram was like witnessing an awful actor having to improvise after forgetting his lines.
Meanwhile, looking amused, Cary seemed fascinated by Bram, as a writer might be, considering how flawed characters always drew the greatest interest. “As Bertrand Russell so aptly put it, ‘The trouble with the world is that the stupid are cocksure while the intelligent are full of doubt.’ I often think of that when looking at people like him.”
“Sad but true,” my mum added, wearing that concerned mother look, the same worried expression she wore before having my wisdom tooth removed. If only I could extricate Bram with a visit to the dentist.
To quell my nerves, I just kept drinking champagne to forget Bram’s threat of exposing me with a cock in my mouth to the world.
Oh… the fucking horror.
Bram finally joined us, and after he held out his bloodless, bony hand to Cary and kissed my mother’s very unwilling cheek, he clutched my arm. Not in a gentle way, either.
His dark, stoned eyes promised malice or something just as unpalatable, like me having to suck him off while he watched porn. I wanted to scream. To cry. To engage a hit man.
Stop it.
Things had gotten so bad I’d considered going to such murderous extremes. Anything to get him off my back and me onto that path that would see me finishing my art degree and convincing Carson that we could make us work.
“Hey, come out for a minute. I need to tell you something.” He scratched his arm. He’d obviously hit up. I wanted to chuck up.
