I check my reflection in the mirror before heading out to see the boy at his hotel. I wear an off-the-shoulder black dress from Paris and a pink shawl. I look, in my own humble opinion, like a Vogue model, casual and elegant at the same time.
Topper has gone to Palm Springs for the night, so I lock the door myself as I leave the house.
When I enter the suite, I’m greeted by laughter, music, a heaving party, the last night of his tour, and everyone in showbiz seems to be here.
I ask for the boy. I spot him across the room and wave, but he just glances at me and looks away, showing off, or unsure how to greet me. I’m disappointed, but then I see Sammy and go over to him.
We talk, and then the boy comes up behind me, spinning me around and hugging me.
“If I’d known you were throwing a party, I wouldn’t have come,” I say, immediately regretting it.
He doesn’t reply, just looks at me, deadpan, mouth half-open. I sense he’s embarrassed by a woman publicly making demands. I shrink back, but then, in spite of it, he comes toward me.
“Let’s go talk in the bedroom,” he says, ignoring his instinct to put me in my place.
He takes my hand, winks at Sammy and the boys from Memphis, always needing the upper hand in public. That’s why I prefer being with him in private.
He rushes me to the back, opens the double doors to the bedroom, and closes them behind us.
“Can you stay?” he asks, giving me his crooked smile and locking the door from the inside.
“A couple of hours,” I say, settling on the edge of the bed.
“That ain’t what I meant,” he says, heading for the en suite bathroom. I see him wash his hands and face through the open door.
“Should I shower for you?” he asks.
“You could.” I go sit on the loo while he undresses and steps into the shower. He talks about the show, laughs and sings, and asks if I want to join him. He flicks soap at me and laughs.
“I’m glad you came,” he says. “You look beautiful.” He smiles at me. “Why don’t you ever get any older?”
“Because I’m made of magic,” I joke.
“I reckon so,” he says. “People say the same about me, but I just get older and fatter every year.” He drums his stomach for effect.
I tell him, “To me, you’re perfect.” He seems pleased, dries off, brushes his teeth, sprays himself with cologne, pulls on his pyjamas.
He flops down on the bed and says, “You know, I just remembered the first time I ever realised I was done for in regards to you.” He laughs.
“Do tell.” I say, and move closer.
He guffaws. “It was when you were walkin’ across the field at the club in your tennis whites, a gust of wind blew your skirt up, and I caught a glimpse of your knickers. Lord, Birdie, you were so cute back then… still are, of course.”
“When was that?” I ask.
“Your first year at school. Sun in your hair, wind in your skirt, all tan and tight and wild. You were somethin’ else.” He whacks me playfully with the towel still hanging around his neck. “You were way ahead of the rest of us. Remember when you punched that senior who took my bag?” He flashes me a fond grin.
“You remember that?” I laugh.
“’Course I do,” he says. “You were my hero. Changed my life.” He looks at me, admiration in his eyes. “How I loved you then.”
Suddenly he pulls me onto the bed and kisses me deeply, without asking. His hands fumble at my dress.
I push him away.
“What’s with you today?”
He rolls away, sitting up in surprise.
“You’ve got a whole room full of people out there,” I say.
“So?” he shrugs. “They’re used to it.”
I stare at him, incredulous.
“Well, I’m not.”
He sobers a bit, whatever had him so keyed-up fading away.
“I’m sorry, babe,” he says, coming to sit beside me and taking my hand. He squeezes it between both of his, and I look at his perfect hands, his long, beautiful fingers. He brushes a strand of hair from my neck and kisses me gently just below my ear, his arm moving around my shoulders as he pulls me in.
“Can we just lie down for a bit?” he asks. “And talk?”
He brings my face to his, searching for an answer.
“Sure,” I say, running my hand through his dark hair.
“You smell good,” I tell him, smiling.
He strokes my shoulder as we talk, the energy of the party receding, replaced by a calm, private space between us.
“Please stay the night,” he pleads, kissing me softly. “I’ll send everyone home if you want.”
I don’t answer, just hold him closer.
“Let’s just see,” I say, resting my head on his chest.
“Let’s talk about the old days,” he says. “I’m feelin’ nostalgic tonight, maybe it’s ’cause I’m scared of dyin’, goin’ into the army and all.”
I ask if he’s still thinking about that.
“Yeah,” he says quietly.
“Still… distracting yourself?” I ask, catching his gaze.
“Oh, you know me. Can’t seem to help it,” he grins, half-ashamed, half-accepting of his shortcomings.
He tells me that ever since the dread of the army started looming over him, he’s been sleeping with everyone and everything he can get his hands on.
“It’s ’cause I’m scared,” he says. “I’m scared of gettin’ killed, or murdered, or sent off to some battle I don’t even know about yet. I’m scared that when the army’s done with me, all this, all of it, could be over, and I’ll have nothin’ left.”
He shakes his head, looking away.
“So everything now, everything right this minute, just feels urgent. Like I gotta live it all before it disappears.”
I don’t like what I’m hearing, but I know him, I get it. I run my fingers gently along the tender inside of his forearm as it rests around me, and just listen.
He kisses my shoulder softly.
“But you’re the only one I want to be with, I mean, the only one I need to be with,” he says, shifting to look me in the eye.
“Right now,” he adds, lowering his voice.
I can’t help laughing.
“Right now, got it. Sure,” I tease.
He bursts out laughing and pulls me on top of him.
“Why you wearin’ all these complicated clothes?” he asks, grinning with that mischievous squint.
There’s a knock at the door, and he hollers,
“Go on, leave us alone!”
I hear his cousin outside call, “Why do I feel like this is a kindergarten get-together?”
Without missing a beat, I yell back, “Because it bloody is!”
The boy grins, then shouts, “Yeah, because it damn well is!”
He reaches for my zipper, eyes bright.
To me: “Bingo.”
Then, back at his cousin: “Tell everybody the party’s over, I’ve gone to bed.”
He turns to me.
“Now come here, you.”
He rolls me over and gets on top, voice playful.
“Let’s get you out of this. You’re stayin’ here with me tonight, and I want you good and naked, right now.”
And here we are again, making God roll his eyes, our souls at play.
We’re in his office. God’s, that is. The weather is English autumn; God’s office is a prep school. He’s in tweed. The boy leans over and whispers, “He looks like Mark Twain,” which makes me giggle as God, slash Mark Twain, closes the door and asks us to take a seat in the two chairs in front of his desk.
“I turn around for two minutes,” God says, “and there you are, back together again, just as I thought I’d finally managed to separate you.”
“We’re terribly sorry,” we say in unison.
“But it’s your own fault,” I add. “It’s the gravitational pull, you created it, not us.”
“Aha,” God says, wagging a finger. “You’ll never go where I want you to go if you stick together like that.” He sighs, clearly exasperated. “I want quiet in my classrooms. I want you to focus and learn.”
He gives up when he sees the boy kicking my foot and me giggling and shoving him in his chair.
It dissolves quickly:
“Stop it now.”
“No, you stop it.”
A tickle fight erupts. God gives up entirely, leaves us to it, and heads back into the cosmos, wishing us luck as he turns at the door. Suddenly he’s no longer in tweed, he’s wearing a long white robe, holding a staff, with long hair and a wild beard.
“Now, now, my children. Be good,” he says, and disappears.
Back in the room, we look at each other.
The boy says, “Was that just in my head?”
My eyes go wide.
“Did you go there too?” I ask, fluttery.
“The headmaster’s office?” he asks.
I nod, hand to my mouth.
“God?” I giggle.
He shakes his head, and for a moment we just stare at each other.
“But no,” he says. “We can’t have. Can we?”
“Do we go to the same places in our mind?” I ask.
He frowns. “Was that just in our heads, or did we actually go there?”
We sit quietly for a moment.
Then he asks if I ever feel like we talk to each other when we’re apart.
I tremble a little.
“Yes,” I say, barely above a mumble.
“When was the last time you felt that?” I ask.
“At your graduation,” he says. “You?”
“Same,” I confirm.
“And before that?” he asks, nervous now.
“I don’t know…” I think. “When you lived at Audubon Drive, maybe?”
The boy startles. “You hear me singin’ to you outside at night by the pool?” he asks in a whisper.
“This is too weird,” I say.
“Too weird,” he agrees.
“What are we going to do with this information?” he asks.
“We definitely can’t tell anyone,” I reply.
“People would think we’re even madder than they already do.”
He laughs.
“I don’t care,” he says, suddenly serious. “I just care about this.” He points from his head to mine, then from his heart to mine.
“This is a spiritual awakening,” he says, solemn now.
“A genuine spiritual connection.”
He stares into the middle distance.
Then he gets up, goes to the double doors into the living room, and claps his hands for attention.
“Listen up, everybody,” he calls. “Thanks for comin’. The party’s over. I’m goin’ to bed now. But thanks again for being here, and for your support. Hope to see y’all soon.”
He gestures to the boys from home to clear the space, then closes and locks the doors, turning back to me.
“Now, where were we?” he asks, grinning.
“Right here,” I say, making space for him to crawl under the covers.
“You’ll stay?” he pleads.
“I’ll stay,” I promise.
“It’s strange,” he says as he settles into bed. “I never dream anymore. Not unless you’re sleeping next to me.”
He puts his head on the pillow and beckons me.
“What do you mean?” I ask. “You never have dreams in your sleep?”
I sit on the edge of the bed, stroking his hair. I haven’t gotten ready for bed yet, but I’m sitting here listening.
“I just have dark, dreamless sleep,” he says, looking up at me.
“It’s probably because you take sleeping medication,” I say gently. “I think that’s what happens.”
He looks sad.
“I don’t know. All I know is, it’s not good for me. I can feel it.”
I lean down and kiss him softly.
“I know,” I soothe. “I know.”
I get up.
“I’m just going to brush my teeth, have a quick wash, and then I’ll come back. Do you have a spare set of pyjamas I can borrow?”
He points to the closet.
“In there. But come back quick.”
He turns on the television while I head to the bathroom.
“You know why I behaved so appallingly at the show yesterday?” he asks as he shifts over to make room for me to snuggle in beside him.
“I have a guess,” I say. “But go on, tell me.”
He smiles, then turns serious.
“It was ’cause you brought that guy,” he says quietly.
“I guessed as much.”
I pull him close, and he rests his head across my chest.
“Yeah,” he says, sheepish. “I went overboard.”
I lean back against the headboard, cradling him.
“You definitely kicked it up a notch,” I say, smiling down as he looks up, a little embarrassed.
“Sorry about that,” he mumbles.
“You don’t need to apologise,” I say, smiling. “Actually, I probably shouldn’t admit this, because it’ll only encourage you, but… I’ve always found it rather funny when you kick off at your shows. When you’re being rebellious, flamboyant, just pure you.”
He laughs, and I join in.
“Like at the Hayride,” I remind him, “when you’d get bored and start telling terrible jokes, picking fights with the audience, or just lying down on the stage and talking.”
He snorts.
“Really?” he says, playing with the top of my pyjama bottoms. “You really liked that?”
He turns, eyes searching mine.
“I probably shouldn’t tell you, you’ll take it as a challenge,” I laugh.
“Hm.” He grins. “Yeah, you might be right. You shouldn’t have told me.”
He looks wickedly pleased.
“It’ll only make me worse, and it’ll drive the Colonel mad.”
He laughs softly and keeps fiddling with my waistband.
“I’m so glad you came,” he says after a pause. “Please never leave me entirely.” His voice is low, a little halting. “I know I’m supposed to respect you getting married and all, but…”
He stops, searching my face.
“It’s okay,” I tell him gently. “I think, for some reason, Topper actually understands us.”
He shifts, curious.
“No? Really?”
I nod.
“I think so.”
He moves to lie beside me and pulls me close. I feel him trembling as he quietly starts to cry.
“I love you so much it hurts every time we part,” he says, swallowing hard. “I love you so much, I don’t even want to have sex with you tonight.”
I can’t help giggling.
“That’s a new one,” I joke.
“I mean, of course I do,” he says, still laughing a little, “but I don’t need to. It’s not about that. All the others, it’s a distraction.”
I turn to face him, gentle.
“Mmm.”
He looks at me, earnest.
“I haven’t actually slept with any of my other serious girlfriends,” he confesses, eyes wide for emphasis.
I grin. “I don’t believe you. You’re a horndog, it’s not in your nature.”
He grins back.
“I’m serious. I tell ’em we should wait, that they oughta save themselves for marriage.”
I burst out laughing.
“I mean it, I respect them,” he says, casting his eyes down.
“I see,” I say, raising an eyebrow. “But not me?”
I tickle him, and he laughs.
“Not you,” he says guffawing then pulling himself back together.
“I don’t know why,” he shrugs. “It’s just… different.”
“And you really don’t want to fool around tonight?” I ask, holding his gaze.
“Nope,” he says, closing his eyes with a small, contented sigh.
“Not even if I do this?” I ask, shifting under the covers toward him.
“Or this?”
I slip my hand inside his pyjamas, touching him gently. I sigh and smile in the darkness, unbuttoning my top, reminding him of the first time he fancied me, taking him back to a time of pure innocence, white underwear, unsophisticated longing.
And somewhere in that memory, he’s convinced; we find each other again, as we once were, for old times’ sake.
***
In the morning, I leave before breakfast.
I ask him if he’s had any dreams this time, now that he’s finally slept naturally for once. “Yes,” he says and pulls me back into bed just as I’m putting on yesterday’s clothes and borrowing one of his old Lansky sweaters.
“The weirdest dream,” he says, and then continues:
“I was at that school again, where God’s the headmaster, a real old gothic English boarding school, with you. We’re wearin’ wool, and we’re the youngest kids there, the most unruly. All the older kids sort of love us and look after us.”
He smiles, chortling softly.
“It’s all your England that’s seeped into my Southern blood,” he grins, holding me close.
“It’s autumn, wet and chilly, and your hair’s in that little kid’s bob, red ribbon and all. We’re gettin’ up to every kind of mischief,” he says. “It’s a real comfort, that dreamscape.”
“We steal apples, ride horses, pull pranks and run the halls. And all those older kids keep watch over us, gently showin’ us the way. God never really tells us off. We’re his children, see? And he’s Mark Twain and God all at once, but not the white-suit Mark Twain. He’s wearin’ one of those old three-piece tweed suits. Dark green or brown, I can’t tell.”
“But here’s the strangest part…”
He looks straight at me.
“Your brother Tom is one of the older boys.”
I stop.
“He is?” I gasp, genuinely surprised.
“Yeah,” the boy says. “Ain’t that somethin’?”
I nod.
“That is strange,” I say.
“Then what?” I urge, already deep in this world with him.
“Well,” he goes on, “it’s just the oddest thing.”
He turns his forearm to show me the hairs standing straight up, half-laughing, half-shaken.
“Your Tom, he’s sort of the boss of us.”
He looks puzzled.
“Head boy? Prefect?” I offer.
“Yeah. Somethin’ like that.”
He keeps going.
“And he’s in charge of us in a way, real patient. Comes by our room, checks on us, has talks with both of us, sometimes together, sometimes one-on-one. Always patient and mature, you know?”
I laugh.
“That’s exactly like him. How funny.”
“Yeah. We’re like little kids, maybe six or seven. But your Tom, he’s fourteen, fifteen, maybe?”
We exchange a look.
“What d’ya know,” I say softly.
“I wonder what it means,” the boy muses.
“If anything,” I add.
“What d’ya know,” I repeat, smiling.
I kiss him goodbye, and I tell him I’ll send the sweater back when I can.
“Keep it,” he says, smiling.
***
I get in the bath, I’m tired from not sleeping much last night. Topper has just phoned from Palm Springs to say he’s on his way back. I tell him I love him and that I can’t wait to cook him dinner when he’s home.
I need a long soak. I need to rest up.
I need to wash the boy’s scent off me.
Topper may, on some level, understand everything, but we’ve never fully talked it through. I’ve never laid all my cards on the table for him. I think he might not want me to, and it would be cruel to wipe my darling Topper’s face in my flaws and indiscretions.
I need a moment alone.
You may judge me all you want. You may, like everyone else, adore Topper and see him for the incredible light-being he is, my saviour, my friend, my lover, my everything. I would probably break into pieces without him constantly scooping me up.
But as I sit in the bath, I see your judgment differently, through the eyes of a girl who refuses the puritanical little boxes women are pushed into. I know my female history: the heroines who did what they needed to survive; the women who tasted freedom in wartime only to have the waistbands tightened again afterward.
And I have tasted that freedom.
I broke away early. I was raised, mostly, by my grandfather and Miss Mary, a single, unconventional Southern woman who taught me to be witty and sweet, strong and ornamental, “Christian” if I wanted to be, but never at the cost of myself.
So judge away. I’m not hiding. I’m not pretending to be “a good girl” in anyone else’s definition.
I’ve never been dishonest in my relations with either of the men I love, not Topper, not the boy, who does exactly as he pleases anyway. He knows me better than anyone, knows what’s in my heart and in my soul, so there’s never any real deception between us.
With Topper, I sometimes wonder if he thinks I’ll grow out of it. I don’t know his soul the way I know the boy’s.
I can’t read Topper the way I read the boy.
The boy and I are one.
Topper and I are still two separate beings, no matter how close we become.
Topper is still a mystery to me.
The boy, he and I live inside each other in ways I’ve never been able to explain.
So, judge me all you like. I’m twenty-two. I’m as unselfish as I can be at this stage of my life. I try to be a good friend, daughter, lover, future wife, but I have no intention of being perfect in anyone’s eyes.
I feel no shame in being a young woman with desires and needs. I am human, not a projection. I am perfect in my own strange ways and imperfect in plenty of others. But I work at my relationships, every single one of them, and that’s more than many people can say.
I giggle as I rinse off and let the water out of the bath.
“Honey, I’m home!” I hear Topper call downstairs.
“Up here!” I shout.
I smile to myself. I have the best taste in men, I really do.
So, ha.
Of course, life would be simpler if I only loved one man. I wish I did. But the boy keeps pulling me back. I can’t escape him. I try sometimes, you know I do. But he’s inside me on a cellular level. I can’t explain it clearly, but I see it clearly.
And if I had to choose, I wouldn’t have a choice.
No matter the misery, the social disgrace, no matter how much Topper is the sensible choice–
The boy is my primordial calling.
The ache at the root of whatever I am.
I get up.
The usual sadness washes over me, this truth I rarely let myself think about, because there’s no point in fighting it. I can’t win.
And then I see him, this Norse god who’s just come home to me, standing in the doorway, tan and golden and perfect.
And for a while, I forget everything else.
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 