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You had to look like the sort of person who worked at a high society lifestyle magazine. Not posh, exactly, but as if you knew what you were doing fashion-wise. Thankfully, I’d emerged from the womb serving manic pixie dream queer.
having him on my side—knowing he cared about me and wanted the best for me—was its own magic. Like Queen Susan’s horn, he let me find my way through life, sheltered by the promise that help was always close by.
“What does worth have to do with anything?” I said with great personal dignity. Okay. That’s a lie. “What does worth have to do with anything?” I wailed wetly.
“As five very wise young ladies once implied, zig-a-zig-ah is transitory. But friendship never ends.”
Because, honestly, there was part of me that still believed he was it for me. That I could have lived the rest of my life with no other kisses but his.
“Well,” she said as I sidled in, “don’t you look adorable?” I gave her a defiant look from beneath the shadow of my hood. “Yes. Yes I do.”
I should have fed you. I don’t usually have overnight guests, so I’m out of practice.” “You don’t?” She cast me a look of mingled exasperation and fondness. “Yes, yes, you’re a very special mushroom.
She gave me a sharp look. “Does your none-too-subtle Battle of the Somme approach to bedspace mean you want to be snuggled?”
“I suppose you’re going to want a hug or some shit like that?” “Yes please.” A deep, pained sigh. Then, with great deliberation, she put down her brush and held out her arms. I bounced into them and cuddled for all I was worth. Which, on the cuddle front, amounted to a lot. Believe me.
Of course, I had emotions for George too. I mean, let’s face it, I had emotions about bin liners. But these were nice, safe emotions—liking her, fancying her, knowing I could trust her.
Which meant I had two choices. Give up and run away and spend the rest of my life—or at least the next few years—proofing other people’s more exciting stories. Or channel Tim Gunn and make it work. And there was no way I was letting down Tim Gunn. Even in my imagination.
But I got over it, and quite a bit faster than I had the beep test, which had left me so emotionally and physically traumatised Hazel had stormed into school and got it banned. Shame she couldn’t do that to Nathaniel, really. Although probably part of being a responsible grown-up and shit meant you couldn’t get your mum’s girlfriend to handle all your problems for you.
Maybe he was actually a robot. It would explain his hyper-competence and eerie perfection—and at this point, I wouldn’t put anything past Google.
“I’ve got to tell you, from everything I’ve heard about the man, if I learned he’d saved a kitten from a fire, I’d be inclined to think it was for his own fucked-up purposes.” “Yes, of course.” The click of Ilya’s needles seemed disconcertingly merry given the topic of conversation. “But the kitten would still be broadly better off.” “If that kitten was me, I’d take the burn to the death option.” “That’s because you’ve never been on fire.”
Basically, it was kind of like being capitally punished in the seventeenth century, and then having to have a polite chat with the judge about whether you were available to die on Monday and if you were allergic to hemp. And no, I hadn’t lost all sense of proportion.
He was laughing. Quietly. Then not so quietly. In that beautiful, helpless way he did so very rarely. “Arden, my Arden,” he said, his voice still full of mirth, and this infinite gentleness, “what has happened to you? Have you forgotten how to human?”
I guess I read Jane Eyre at an impressionable age.”
“Stop saying that.” Oh fuck me. I was yelling. “I’m not his friend. I loved him. I still do. And I’m going home.” Reader, I got the fuck out.
His fingers curled, holding me through the duvet, and I knew then, half in bliss, half in anguish, that I was as much his, as utterly his, as I had ever been.
I got delayed making my hair cute and ended up unfashionably late. Albeit with excellent hair.
He let out the softest, most defeated sigh I’d ever heard. “I’ve never doubted for a moment that, were I a different man, you would be everything I most desired, admired, and coveted in the world.”
It was outside office hours, so the front was locked up tight, the atrium just a blur of marble and shadow on the other side of glass. I’d have had more luck against a wall of briars and a century-long curse.
The way I saw it, I had two options. Sit on the pavement and cry. Or keep running around in a wild panic. I opted for Option B (with a little bit of Option A thrown in for good measure).
Kissed my fingers with the same archaic courtesy he’d sometimes shown me when we were dating—only this time his maiden fair had pretty much wandered into the dragon’s mouth going “tirra lirra” because I was a fucking idiot.
“Sometimes it does us good to hear things even if we can’t acknowledge or believe them.”
“You gave me happiness, Arden, beyond anything I thought possible for someone like me. You made me believe, for a few infinitely treasured months, that I could be free.” I wanted to tell him he could have that again. All it would take was a word. A look. But it wasn’t the time—for me or for him. So instead I said, “I hope someday you feel that way again.”
I tried to beam my tangle of adoring-him-hurting-for-him-desperately-wanting-to-help-him feelings at his back. “It’s impossibly difficult.”
I squeaked. “I’m not Anne Fucking Boleyn, you know.” “I’m sure Anne Boleyn didn’t think she was Anne Boleyn.”
A moment or two later, a nice English voice filled the car: Just because the man looked like Milton’s ruined archangel and chose to appear in the hall like the Demon King through a trap-door it didn’t necessarily mean that I had to smell Sulphur. My mind reeled with surprise and curiosity. I hadn’t really given any thought to what Finesilver might to do in his spare time, but if you’d asked me to put forward some ideas, listening to Gothic novels wouldn’t have featured.
it was funny to imagine him trying—standing there, with his neatly folded hands and his stiletto poise, wanting Ellery to behave in a legally responsible manner and also tell her he really liked du Maurier too.
“He’s nobody to me. I’m Mum’s. And…yours and Rabbie’s.” “Damn straight, kid.” Hazel’s nose had gone pink, but maybe it was the cold. Then she slipped her arm through mine and we walked the rest of the way in silence, the crooked chimney of our cottage just visible against the darkening skyline—that ever-familiar finger beckoning us home.
I gaped at her. “How did you—” “Intense personal charisma and promises I don’t intend to keep.
“So what does matter?” “That I’m desperately in love with you. And that, against all reason, you appear to…” I stared at him, wide-eyed and absurdly, frantically, heart-soaringly hopeful. “Say it. I need to hear you say it.” “You appear to…” He stumbled, a hand coming up to half conceal his mouth. “Arden, I’m not sure I can.” No way was I letting this go. “I…” “…you…you…love me too?” “There.” I beamed, feeling like my whole face had turned as shiny as a lightbulb. “Was that so difficult?” He shuddered. “It was excruciating.”
“You told me to choose me, and choosing me means choosing you. I will do this with or without you, but”—he captured my hand again, turning the full intensity of his eyes upon me—“I am better and stronger and happier with you at my side.”
I hurled myself into Caspian’s lap, flinging my limbs around him with all the dignity of an overly devoted spider monkey. Apart from a startled “oof,” he took it well.
you also taught me how to make someone feel cherished and looked after and loved, even without the words.”
Apparently kissed half out of my mind was a way I could sound.
“It doesn’t seem as if they’re the threatening kind of alien parasites. I mean, it’s not like they’ve mind-controlled the prime minister or the pope or someone.” “Excuse me, I’m very rich and quite powerful.” “Yeah, but all they’re trying to make you do is hook up with a cute boy.” “It’s true.” He gave a somewhat self-conscious shrug. “They’re much less concerned with wealth and worldly ambition than they used to be. Apparently their priorities have shifted towards, I suppose, being in love and being happy.”
The completely perfect blue one?” By the time my brain caught up with my mouth, it was a bit late to rein things in. But I tried anyway. “I mean, only if you want to.” “I want to. Very much.” And then, while I bounced about beside him like an overexcited yo-yo, Caspian unlocked the door
I pulled a Gothic heroine pose. “Oh my God, are you sure you can stay with me? How can you possibly love someone who is so moody in the mornings? What if I’m always moody in the mornings?” “Well”—Caspian’s voice became very grave indeed—“being moody in the mornings doesn’t have to define you. And even if it never changes, we’ll find a way through it together.”
