Topper arrives for a week in the California sunshine, having taken time off from the Senator’s office. I run into his arms at the airport; he laughs and holds me close.
“Let me have a proper look at you,” he says. We dance our way out of the terminal toward the car.
“Is this new?” he asks as I open the boot.
“Sorry, baby, I needed it,” I say, hopping into the driver’s seat of the midnight-blue ’57 Thunderbird I drove off the lot last week.
“You look extremely glamorous,” he says, sliding in beside me.
“I have to,” I wink. “Mr Woolf demands it. Says I have to look like a star of the silver screen or he won’t keep me around.”
“I like it,” Topper says, studying me. “Just don’t let Hollywood turn you into someone you’re not.”
“Not likely,” I laugh, racing down La Cienega toward the house in the hills.
“I’m happy you’re here,” I tell him. “I’ve missed you.”
He smiles as he steps out of the car. “Ditto, mon amour.” He comes around, takes my hand, and helps me out. Then he pulls me in.
I look up at him, tanned, athletic, godlike, the white gravel crunching, the house waiting. I let him take me upstairs, surrendering to the heat and urgency of youth. With Topper, desire feels wild, instinctual, almost feral. With the boy, love is softer, playful, familiar.
I love, I breathe, I dissolve. I look at him and feel that ancient, visceral pull, different from the boy, not better, just another register of the same song. I sink into Topper’s chest, feel his heartbeat, and somewhere across the cosmos the boy’s pull thrums in counterpoint.
And I cry in my sleep.
***
I run to the boy backstage. He’s in the ridiculous gold lamé jacket, grinning, and he buries his face in my hair. When we pull apart, we’re almost shy.
“Well, ain’t you lookin’ extra glamorous,” he says, giving me that crooked grin.
“I know,” I laugh, twirling. “I have to make an effort. I’ve got a proper job now.”
“Hot damn!” he says, spinning me. I get silly; he laughs harder, pulls me in, forgetting the room.
He leans close. “Come with me to the hotel after the show?”
I pull back. “I can’t. I’m having dinner with Cary.”
He chuckles. “Tomorrow then?”
“Sure.”
He gives me his familiar half-cocky look. “My baby. Thank you for bein’ here.”
“Of course,” I say, and rush down to find Topper.
“How was he?” Topper asks, pulling me in.
“Good,” I say, kissing him.
The boy walks onstage to a screaming crowd, guilty grin flashing as he picks up his guitar. Topper claps along, impressed.
“So this is what it’s like being him,” he says.
The audience is a jumble: children, teenagers, starlets, socialites. The boy spots us. His jaw tightens at the sight of Topper towering behind me, then he dives into the show.
Eighteen songs later, he ends with a sweaty swagger.
The next morning, the papers howl: Elvis Wriggles, Fans Scream at Pan-Pacific. Threats of jail. The boy phones the house.
“Well,” he laughs, “if I can’t dance tonight, what am I gonna do?”
“You’re incorrigible,” I say.
“Come see me after the show,” he pleads. “Don’t leave me hangin’,” he teases.
“What time?”
“Midnight.”
“I’ll be there,” I say, and hang up.
My novel GREAT ARE THE MYTHS will be serialised (one chapter each day) over the summer of 2026. If you would rather listen to the audiobook, the full story is available for free on all the usual platforms. Info and links HERE
My World of Interiors 