“This must be a walk in the part for you,” he says. I blink, then raise an eyebrow speculatively. He goes on, “Posing, having people tell you how good you look, being stared at.” “A walk in the park,” I say. “It’s a walk in the park not a walk in the part.” I have to fight against some weird urge to find that cute. He looks faintly embarrassed. Which, to my absolute horror, is also sort of cute. “Yeah, I suppose. I like being told how good I look. Who doesn’t?” “A little vain, no?” “What’s not to be vain about?” I indicate myself. “I’m talented, a delight to be around, and extremely fucking
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