A Life in Men: A Novel Read Online Free

lie, but nobody blinked. It wasn’t like I’d claimed my name was Diamond or Madonna, some outrageous alias girls would run all the way to London to assume. They pay me cash at this under-the-table job, so I could have told them anything. I could have been anyone new, but instead I am constantly reminded of you . . .
    J OSHUA AND N ICOLE are in the common room eating breakfast before any sane person is even awake—Yank cannot get the hell away from them wherever he goes. Last night, when he came in around 3 a.m., they were already asleep in the room he once shared only with Joshua, and Yank could tell they were naked under their flimsy sheet, its floral pattern almost worn away from the years the sheet has no doubt resided in Arthog House. Yank lay awake, pondering the sheet. For the piddly twenty-seven pounds per week Mr. D. collects (from everyone but Nicole, who never kicks in), he bet his ass the landlord didn’t
buy
the cutlery, sofas, refrigerators—everything must’ve been here when he bought the joint. Yank wondered how often this old sheet had been washed—how many people had shot their wads on it over the years, how many tits it might have touched. He knew he’d never sleep, then. He’d be up half the night, listening for movements, for anything sharp or sudden enough to have bucked the sheet off Nicole’s body so he could get a look. Instead of playing that game, he went to the common room to crash on the futon, across the room from the sofa where the Flying Dutchfag was snoring.
    He’d gotten maybe two hours’ sleep, tops, when here the happy couple was again, making tea and munching Weetabix cross-legged on the dirty carpet like children playing picnic. Nicole, at least, is dressed now, in the Harvard sweatshirt and ripped Levi’s that’ve been her uniform since the air turned cold. Joshua is already smoking a fatty, so Yank sits up in time for the kid to pass it his way. On the other sofa, Sandor is still snoring, that crazy porkpie hat of his over his eyes, revealing sunflower-colored stubble.
    “You on at the Latchmere tonight?” Joshua asks Nicole.
    “Not until seven. You guys coming in?”
    “Wouldn’t miss it,” Joshua says. He nods at Yank. “Would we, mate?”
    “Money to be made, kiddies,” Yank says back.
    “Don’t go on your own,” Joshua tells Nicole. “I’ll be back from rehearsal by six—wait for me and I’ll walk you over. After what happened to Yank . . .”
    He is referring to Yank’s recent mugging on Battersea Park Road. Some little shits from the estates tried to take his camera off him; when he wouldn’t let it go, they kicked him a few times in the head. Since then, though he hasn’t been dizzy like with the concussions he’s had in the past, something’s not quite right: he keeps walking into rooms and forgetting why he came, and his head’s been hurting nearly nonstop for two weeks. He still has his camera, though.
    “What’ve you got on today?” Joshua asks him.
    Yank sniffs the air. “Hmm. Think I detect a whiff of baking for tonight’s entrepreneurial endeavors.”
    Joshua laughs appreciatively. The hash cakes were Joshua’s brainstorm, though he has scant time to bake them anymore. Joshua and Nicole even thought up a perfect slogan, “Pixie Dust Bars will make you fly,” and made little flyers they distribute at the Latchmere’s weekend after-parties, when at closing time the pub’s owner chases out the prats who have wandered down from Chelsea, before locking in the regulars to party until dawn. Pixie Dust Bars are Yank’s only foray into dealing these days—something about Nicole’s cheerful involvement and bubble-lettered adverts diminishes the sense of risk. It doesn’t even bring in much cash, but Yank likes the ritual of it: the measuring and mixing of batter and hash oil. It’s the first time he’s regularly used an oven in more than a decade.
    “My bag’s getting a mite heavy, too,” he tells Joshua, holding up the duffel