flirtatious conversation about something, but now that she was out here in the car park she couldn’t remember much of it. Her lip stud? Yes. He’d liked that but thought the purple streaks in her dyed black hair were probably a bad idea, on top of the lip stud and pale makeup.
“The goth thing would stil work for you if you took it down a gear.”
She never took crap like that from Trevor, her boyfriend, and yet she had taken it from this total stranger. Had even agreed to meet him ten minutes later, on the bench outside, risking being seen by al the gossipmongers she works with as they knocked off for the night.
They talked. She can’t remember what about. Never wil . They stayed sitting there as the cars left, one by one. It seemed like a few minutes but it must have been way over an hour. And right now, without warning he stands up and gestures for her to do the same and they walk aimlessly across the tarmac. And now she finds herself stopping and leaning back against a battered old VW camper van, about the only vehicle left in the whole car park.
She should be with Trevor. He’l be wondering where she is. Or maybe he won’t. Maybe he’s just playing World of Warcraft and not thinking of her at al . But it doesn’t real y matter either way.
She needs to keep hearing that voice. That rich, confident, devilish voice. “So, do you like me?”
she asks him.
“You make me hungry, if that’s what you mean.”
“You should take me to dinner. I mean, if you’re hungry.”
He smiles shamelessly. She realizes he isn’t the kind of guy who takes girls out to dinner. “I was thinking you should come back to my place.”
As his dark eyes study her, she forgets the cold, forgets Trevor, forgets everything you are meant to remember when you are talking to strangers in car parks. “Okay. Where’s your place?”
“You’re leaning on it,” he tel s her.
She laughs at this, and keeps laughing. “O- kay ,” she says, patting the side of the van. She’s not used to this much adventure after work.
“O- kay ,” he echoes.
She wants to kiss him, but she tries to fight it. Tries to close her eyes and see Trevor’s face but he is not there. “I should probably tel you I’ve got a boyfriend.”
The man seems nothing but pleased by this news. “I should have invited him for dinner.” He holds out his hand, and she takes it.
His mobile phone starts ringing. She recognizes the ringtone: “Sympathy for the Devil.”
He doesn’t answer it. Instead he walks her round to the other side of the van and slides open the door. Inside is a chaos of clothes, battered books, and old cassettes. She glimpses empty and ful bottles of red wine, lying by a sheetless mattress.
She looks at him and realizes she has never found anyone more attractive in her entire life.
He gestures for her to step inside. “Welcome to the castle.”
“Who are you?” she asks him.
“My name is Wil Radley, if that’s what you mean.”
She’s not sure that she does, but she nods, then kneels her way into the van without a single worry about the red-brown stains on the mattress.
He is wondering if she is real y worth the effort. The trouble is, he realizes, you reach a point when even pleasure, the easy pursuit and attainment of things desired, develops its own routine.
And the trouble with routine, as always, is that it breeds the same boredom that everyone else—al the unbloods and abstainers—suffer.
She is looking at the bottle. This girl, this Julie , who has been so easily lured here, who is unlikely to taste even half as good as the woman he swigs back on—Isobel Child, the second-best-tasting vampire he’s ever known. But he can’t cope with Isobel tonight, or any of those police-fearing bloodsuckers tel ing him how to live.
“So, what do you do?” Julie asks him.
“I’m a professor,” he says. “Wel , used to be. No one wants me to profess anymore.”
She lights a cigarette and sucks hard on the filter,
“The goth thing would stil work for you if you took it down a gear.”
She never took crap like that from Trevor, her boyfriend, and yet she had taken it from this total stranger. Had even agreed to meet him ten minutes later, on the bench outside, risking being seen by al the gossipmongers she works with as they knocked off for the night.
They talked. She can’t remember what about. Never wil . They stayed sitting there as the cars left, one by one. It seemed like a few minutes but it must have been way over an hour. And right now, without warning he stands up and gestures for her to do the same and they walk aimlessly across the tarmac. And now she finds herself stopping and leaning back against a battered old VW camper van, about the only vehicle left in the whole car park.
She should be with Trevor. He’l be wondering where she is. Or maybe he won’t. Maybe he’s just playing World of Warcraft and not thinking of her at al . But it doesn’t real y matter either way.
She needs to keep hearing that voice. That rich, confident, devilish voice. “So, do you like me?”
she asks him.
“You make me hungry, if that’s what you mean.”
“You should take me to dinner. I mean, if you’re hungry.”
He smiles shamelessly. She realizes he isn’t the kind of guy who takes girls out to dinner. “I was thinking you should come back to my place.”
As his dark eyes study her, she forgets the cold, forgets Trevor, forgets everything you are meant to remember when you are talking to strangers in car parks. “Okay. Where’s your place?”
“You’re leaning on it,” he tel s her.
She laughs at this, and keeps laughing. “O- kay ,” she says, patting the side of the van. She’s not used to this much adventure after work.
“O- kay ,” he echoes.
She wants to kiss him, but she tries to fight it. Tries to close her eyes and see Trevor’s face but he is not there. “I should probably tel you I’ve got a boyfriend.”
The man seems nothing but pleased by this news. “I should have invited him for dinner.” He holds out his hand, and she takes it.
His mobile phone starts ringing. She recognizes the ringtone: “Sympathy for the Devil.”
He doesn’t answer it. Instead he walks her round to the other side of the van and slides open the door. Inside is a chaos of clothes, battered books, and old cassettes. She glimpses empty and ful bottles of red wine, lying by a sheetless mattress.
She looks at him and realizes she has never found anyone more attractive in her entire life.
He gestures for her to step inside. “Welcome to the castle.”
“Who are you?” she asks him.
“My name is Wil Radley, if that’s what you mean.”
She’s not sure that she does, but she nods, then kneels her way into the van without a single worry about the red-brown stains on the mattress.
He is wondering if she is real y worth the effort. The trouble is, he realizes, you reach a point when even pleasure, the easy pursuit and attainment of things desired, develops its own routine.
And the trouble with routine, as always, is that it breeds the same boredom that everyone else—al the unbloods and abstainers—suffer.
She is looking at the bottle. This girl, this Julie , who has been so easily lured here, who is unlikely to taste even half as good as the woman he swigs back on—Isobel Child, the second-best-tasting vampire he’s ever known. But he can’t cope with Isobel tonight, or any of those police-fearing bloodsuckers tel ing him how to live.
“So, what do you do?” Julie asks him.
“I’m a professor,” he says. “Wel , used to be. No one wants me to profess anymore.”
She lights a cigarette and sucks hard on the filter,
Similar Books
