Reversing Over Liberace Read Online Free Page A

he was smiling at me, holding a chair slightly away from the table.
    â€œIs it all right?”
    â€œOh, yes, sorry, yes, do. Sit. Yes. Down,” I burbled, moving my jacket, bag, the menu, rearranging my glass on the table, anything but look directly at him. “Have you had far to come?” Despite myself, my gaze treacherously slithered upwards and rested on the bridge of his exquisite nose. Oh dear God, but he was gorgeous.
    â€œNot really. I’m staying in the Moat House across the river until I can find a place to buy.” He indicated the ridiculously pricey breeze-block pile which loomed over the river like a concrete frown. “How about you? You said you live in York now?”
    I struggled to reply coherently. All the while the windmills of my stomach ground and turned, and I fought that grapefruit juice to an internal standstill. We chatted a little more, about university life, the very few mutual friends we had had, including Tom who was now, apparently, a well-regarded glamour photographer. I hoped his spots had finally cleared up.
    â€œI really fancied you back then, you know.” I half-raised my hand to cover my mouth then realised that I didn’t have to. Amazingly enough, the words had been spoken by Luke.
    â€œYou what?”
    â€œYeah. Christ, I’m still ashamed of myself, the way I used to follow you around. I was too shy to do anything about it, of course.”
    I coughed, and the grapefruit juice did a little celebratory dance. “Shy? Were you?” Shy? This man—I met his eye for the first time—this man had regularly taken most of his clothes off on stage in front of hundreds (another of the reasons why I had attended just about every gig Fresh Fingers gave) and been famous for his double-mooning trick in the Union bar.
    â€œWith girls, yes. Terrible. So. Sorry. I bet you’re, what, married now?”
    How did I play it without making myself sound like someone who only dated during total eclipses. “Not really. I mean, no. Not married. In fact”—inventing quickly so as not to sound less attractive than a case of typhoid—“I’ve recently split up with someone actually.”
    Luke let out a long sigh. “Yeah, know the feeling.” We kind of stared at each other for a moment. At least, he stared and I clenched. “Bad breakup?”
    â€œPretty bad, yes. I caught him with someone else.” What happened there? I mean, one minute we’re in True Confessions mode, and the next I’m laying down the ‘How I Dated a Serial Cheater’ precredit sequence for Jeremy Kyle’s new TV extravaganza.
    â€œShit happens, yeah? Was it the guy from last night? The one with the crazy eyes?”
    Crazy eyes? Jazz? Although, now you come to mention it… “Look, do you mind if we don’t talk about it? I’m still feeling…” a bit like a lying cow. Why hadn’t I simply admitted that my last relationship of any kind had been six months ago? It had ended because I couldn’t find model aircraft flying at all fascinating and we’d broken up sotto voce on his mother’s couch during one of her feted scone and jelly teas. Answer—because I didn’t want to look a total tit.
    â€œYeah, course. Sorry. So.” Was it my imagination or did he really look quite sorry to drop the subject of my love life. “What do you usually do on a Sunday night?”
    Oh, you know, the usual. There’s the laundry. If I’m really feeling like pushing the boat out, I might pumice my feet. “Not a lot. Well, sometimes I sing in a band.” Yeah, right. Sometimes, like when Jazz’s band is completely desperate and even its last-ditch singer, the one with a squint and no boobs, has got dysentery.
    â€œHey, that’s great. We’ll have to get together sometime, have a jamming session.” Luke leaned across the table and a waft of exclusive aftershave hit me in