Lanceâs liking. He clicked her off. Who next?
He was stymied and cross all over again. Standing barefoot on the stripped pine of his living room.
He had to get out of his flat. Suddenly the whole apartment seemed claustrophobic.
He yanked his trainers on and thundered out onto his terrace, down his private fire escape and into Slag! bar next door. He realised heâd brought the scrunched-up Daily Mirror with him.
The upstairs bar was just about empty and looking, in the morning light, even more like an airport departures lounge. There were wide Bridget Riley-type canvases that swirled vertiginously on every side.
Lance hurried to the copper-plated bar. No public here. He ordered a gin and tonic. The bar staff knew his habits. It was that skinny lad Colin serving on, in a black T-shirt, âSlag!â in silver letters between his nipples. His hair was tweaked up in red spikes.
âNice hairdo,â Lance growled.
Colin grinned. âThanks!â
âOK, donât get carried away. Have you seen this fucking travesty?â He spread the paper out on the beaten copper of the bar top.
âOh,â said Colin, pouring tonic on ice, making it glisten and crack. âI have, as a matter of fact. My gran gets the Sun , but itâs the same story in there.â
âYou still living with your gran?â
Colin nodded. He pushed the chunky drink into Lanceâs waiting hand. âUntil I get some sugar daddy whisking me away, yep. Up in the tower block with me old gran. Sheâsa barmaid, too. All her life. Says thereâs nowt wrong with it.â
âNice,â said Lance.
Colin peered at the headline about Karla Sorenson and turned to pages four and five. âIsnât it good news, though? Sheâs what I call a real, old-time star.â
âIs she?â said Lance bitterly. âI wouldnât.â
âOh, but sheâs been around years, hasnât she? Sheâs as old as my gran, I think. And look at her! Still a goer! Still a slagbag!â Colin was hugging himself with pleasure.
âAnd thatâs good, is it?â
âOh, yes,â said the barboy, clutching the tall pumps thoughtfully. âIâm not like the rest of them you see in here. With them, youâre dead if youâre over twenty-five. Itâs all the cult of youth. No, I can see why youâd want to live longer ⦠to live as long as her and still be out there, being sexy.â He smiled shyly at Lance. âOr your age, even. Youâve lasted pretty well, Mr Randall.â
Lance looked at him and smiled stiffly. âWell, thatâs as maybe â¦â
âI finish at one,â said Colin.
âPardon?â
âMy shift. Iâm free all afternoon.â
âSo?â
âI donât know. Just in case. If you feel like showing me round your apartment. Iâve had a spy through the window from the terrace bar. It looks very nice.â
Lance shook his head disbelievingly. âIâm afraid Iâm very busy this afternoon, Colin. And besides â¦â
The barboy laughed. âAnd besides, youâre not queer.â
âThatâs right.â
âI was only after having a look round your studio pad, you know.â
âYeah, right,â Lance laughed, and necked the last of his gin. âAnd next thing you knew, we would be up to all sorts of impromptu naughtiness. Just like it is on TV.â
âWell, wouldnât it be like that?â
Lance put his glass down. âNo. Iâm not gay.â
âYeah. Right.â
âAnyway. Thereâs bigger things at stake this afternoon, than a little tumble in the hay with an overkeen barman â¦â
âSuit yourself.â
âI do,â Lance grinned.
âWhatâs got you so worked up, anyway? Scared that Karla Sorensonâs gonna take the limelight off you?â
Lance grew suddenly grim. âNo,â he said. âIâm scared