She does not write much but suffers the occasional bright idea or compelling phrase. An endless cast of characters lives in her head, all of whom she loves so well that they have each become an extension of her own personality. When she feels angry, she becomes the glacial young widow. When frightened, she is the curator haunted by ghosts of the past. Margot has difficulty writing male characters. Sometimes she wonders, beyond these false faces, who “Margot” is, and does not know, but these thoughts pass quickly since Margot avoids being deep.

While in work, she imagines living a more exciting life, conducting interviews in her head with respected media commentators desperate to unlock the enigma of her superior creative imagination. They are also desperate to learn details of her relationship with That Singer from That Band, but she simply smiles sweetly and insists she couldn’t possibly discuss her private life in so public a forum. They often ask her to comment on vulgar remarks made about her in the papers by Kate Moss or Tracy Emin, but she refuses to participate in such petty bitchery. In her mind, she is a refined and cerebral individual. In her real life, she eats far too much pizza and watches a lot of TV. She has a strong preference for plain old margarita, perhaps with extra sweetcorn if she’s feeling adventurous. As for TV, she doesn’t really mind. She has no connection with anything that’s on, but she doesn’t like being in a silent home.

In fact, Margot doesn’t like a silence in general. She talks non-stop when with a group of friends, who are rapidly becoming not-friends in light of this fact. She’s becoming more and more aware that if this constant conversation was in any way interesting, this would not be an issue, but her words are meaningless, her anecdotes dull and irrelevant, her technique utterly without skill, weighed down by a monotonous voice, and tendency to forget what story she was telling in the first place. She believes the same is true of her writing, but let’s not get bogged down with the emotional tragedy of the tortured scribe. This problem is not so palpable when with people she does not know well. In these cases she stays mute, something her friends can only dream of. Sometimes she gets bored listening to herself, and sinks further back into her mind.

Margot’s devotion to her imaginary life prevented her from marrying her boyfriend, just in case her dreams did come true. As much as she cared for him, she always had the sense that he was holding her back (what he was holding her back from was as yet undecided, recently she was favouring the Howard Hughes hermit approach to writing, but the attraction of a famous boyfriend and oodles of respect from public figures was too much to resist). However, he was a nice boy and she didn’t have the heart to dump him without good reason. Instead, aside from her glamorous writing career, she fantasised that he would cheat on her with his ex, mainly because she was desperate for more drama in her life.

She considered his ex to be her arch-nemesis, although to her chagrin the loathing was somewhat one-sided. She was the great love of his life that Margot could not compete with. She considered Margot to be bland and wet behind the ears, which wasn’t wholly inaccurate, but only when she was being Agatha Grey, a disturbed and perpetually distraught doormat. She had taken to stalking the ex on the internet, and was frustrated to find no mention of herself on the girl’s website. There is nothing more infuriating than hating with all your heart someone who gives you no thought whatsoever. Margot had briefly invented a list of ways to make this girl’s life miserable, but, fabulously lazy she, decided this would be far too much effort. This fact disillusioned Margot somewhat, as she harked back to her days in school, when making enemies was one of her hobbies.

A lot of Margot’s time was devoted to hate. Although she realised she had lead a very lucky life and had a lot to be thankful for, the saccharine-coated world bored her terribly and she found it much more fun to torment it and everything in it for laughs. She practised extreme cynicism, although she wouldn’t like us to call it that. She thinks it makes her sound heartless and cold, and that’s only when she’s being June, a black haired and suicidal prostitute. Margot thinks of herself as pragmatic, although this is clearly an untruth. There is little practicality in cyber-stalking and wishing for exciting things to happen without taking a proactive role. She doesn’t believe in fate, but she sure relies on it a lot.

Her mother found her diary where all these truths and imaginings are written down, and thinks Margot should consider therapy, but hasn’t told her yet. Margot, when her mother suggests this, will respectfully disagree. She likes herself just the way she is.

*

Molly sympathises with Richard Nixon. She has never fully learned his Republican philosophies, nor understood the Watergate scandal. All she knows of him is from television parodies of his sweaty, tortured persona, and that makes her pity him, somewhat inappropriately, depending upon your point of view. Molly always feels for the underdog. There is a deeply sympathetic side to her personality that she endlessly tries to hide. She feels it is inappropriate to be so sentimental in a world ruled by pragmatists, but sentimental she is, and it makes her life very difficult.

Molly never gets the guys she wants. She always dates nice boys who like her appealing aura and would be horrified if, and when, they discover that their innocent ideal has a vindictive, ruthless core like everybody else. Molly is deceived by her gentle eyes. The men who like her are the type to notice eyes, and they are blinded by hers. She is tired of Pygmalions who idolise her. It makes her uneasy; she doesn’t understand what they rhapsodise about. She thinks that she is the epitome of blandness, physically at the very least. The word plain could have been created for her, if she was special enough to have anything created for her, but she is not. In terms of her personality, Molly thinks she is horrible – occasionally, unforgivably caustic without thinking, makes a terrible first impression, and she is kind of stupid. And yet these perfectly nice boys adore her and write poems for her and carve model statues of her. Even her name is adorable. It must be, Molly has decided, the eyes, and she curses them, those treacherous windows to her hollow soul.

She always ends up with nice guys because she feels sorry for them. They are always so nice to her, doing stupid things that embarrass them and make her like them more, and so she regularly convinces herself that a nice boy is all she needs to be happy. This is not true. Secretly, Molly yearns for a bad boy, one whom she can have screaming arguments on the street and then passionately make up with. She wants fire, to be abused and to abuse back. Nice boys were nice, were nice, were nice, but they always bored her eventually. She never means to break their hearts, but they were all so dull. The worst of it was that the type of men she so violently desires think her to be too bland to waste time on, and so she is left in shades of loneliness and grey, until she succumbs to the next nice boy that she sympathises with. The cycle is continuous, and mind-numbingly boring, so much so that we shall not waste any more time on generalities, lest we fall asleep.

Francis’ heart is the one Molly as broken most recently, and most completely. He has a fiery side that he keeps suppressed, because he likes nice girls, and Molly seems like a nice girl. He liked her a lot and didn’t want to frighten her away. Had the couple communicated more fully instead of relying on appearances and reputation, they could have made each other unbelievably happy, but it was not the case here, and in truth it rarely is.

Over time, Molly grew to dislike Francis intensely. The last thing she wanted to do in a darkened bedroom was lie together chastely and listen to a skipping Ryan Adams CD. The things she once found so dorkily charming now grated on her nerves until she felt like slapping him, like when he talked about Neil Gaiman at length in front of her confused, fashion-obsessed friends (she doesn’t connect with them much either, but they are all she has). In turn, there are things about her that Francis found trying, like how her red fingernails clashed with her brown toenails. In reality, this is the fiery Tempestuous Scarlet nail varnish on her fingers and the sophisticated Black Cherry on her toes, but not even the most sensitive of men know or care about such things. Francis forgave her these visual discrepancies, because he is such a nice guy, and she was his angel. Molly couldn’t forgive, because she was tired of pretending celestial glory, and so she dumped him.

That was when he threw the rock through her window. She didn’t think he was passionate or romantic, but a sore loser, and a little sad. The romantically volatile streak that could have won her back if she was in a different mood was renamed cowardice as he ran away. She feels sorry for him, and while she is somewhat ashamed of herself, she agrees that she was better to break it off now before she ended up with a body on her hands (in the least literal sense).

But her sympathy leaves her in the same position that she always ends in, stuck between what her head thinks she deserves and what she really wants. Francis hasn’t achieved anything either. He was frustrated and angry, but couldn’t show it in any convincing way, apart from petty destruction of property. In a few days, Francis will climb a hill looking over the city and think of Molly, and where things went wrong, in the solitude of nature. He may even write a poem about it. When this gets back to Molly via a friend of a friend of a friend, she will laugh at the fact (in the version she hears, he is wearing a hat, but whispering games are precarious like that). Why would he waste time over her, she wonders, what’s there to think about?

By this time, Molly is stuck dating a skinny blond who is extremely religious and really likes Stevie Wonder, but she silently lusts after his eighteen year old brother, who looks like he has a couple of STDs, and probably does. He is secksey. Francis, in some ways, never comes down from the hill, but then he never really understands Molly, so resolution for their relationship is impossible. If he hadn’t fallen for an idealised construction of her, and looked for the real Molly, he wouldn’t be spending so much time on her, which would suit Molly just fine. Molly should have looked for Francis too, but Molly will never learn. Instead she just feels bad for him, and for herself, and for everybody else too. We are all underdogs in some way.

The roll of the waves makes my stomach lurch. The boat is full of elderly tourists. The barkeep scowls at my tip. I wonder how I came to find myself aboard. I know the answer, of course, but I mean in a deeper, more philosophical sense. How did I come to be here? It was never my ambition to see the world. And yet, little more than hours have passed since I found myself outside the Reform Club, with my manservant and part-time gymnast Passepartout, preparing to make the trip in less than three months. I am no adventurer. Why would I wish to circumnavigate the globe? It was impulsive. My pride bruised, my honour questioned, my interest piqued by the prospect of profiting from a preposterous wager. Last year I holidayed in Brighton. I am not sure how the two will compare.

Day Six

The first section of the journey passes pleasantly enough as the boat approaches Egypt. We encounter a delightful couple called Judy and Stu, who are by chance on the same route. We spend our days in the dayroom conversing over hands of gin rummy. Stu repeatedly affirms that we must get together again on our return to England. Judy endlessly refers to Passepartout and me as “a dead sweet couple”. I am concerned that she has the wrong idea about us. In the evenings we take in the ship’s entertainment. A man called Mr Medula has trained two monkeys to play the piano. It is not particularly soothing to hear, but the sea air is playing havoc with my skin so I must remain indoors for now.

Day Fourteen

Relations between Passepartout and I have become strained. He sulks because I have refused him permission to visit the majestic sights of Egypt, instead pushing on to India. He just doesn’t appreciate the time constraints we face. We travel by rail to Bombay. When Stu and Jenny heard, they changed their itinerary to accompany us. I am trying to be polite, but we simply can’t visit every craft stall in the country with them. Passepartout has taken to eating in the cabin to avoid them. Part of my luggage has been lost in transit. It contained my shaving kit. Most frustrating. My moustache is looking thoroughly bedraggled.

Day Twenty-One

As the train pauses en route to Calcutta, Passepartout and I take a jaunt in the fresh air. Having anticipated fine weather, I am most disappointed to be caught in a terrible rainstorm. My finest linen suit is ruined. I need not have left London for this. My spirits are briefly lifted as we approach a pub promising a fine local brew, but we are forced to slip off when we realise Judy and Stu are inside. Instead we head out to find attire more suited to the climes. I am certainly well provided for, in a fine gold threaded suit, but at what cost? I know I’ve been overcharged, I just know it. But it’s so unseemly to haggle.

Day Twenty-Two

The sun burst forth as Calcutta at last comes into view. Now I am miserable and overheated in this silly flock suit. I instruct Passepartout to have the valet fetch the linen suit from the laundry carriage, but it has been misplaced. My reaction is not befitting of a gentleman. On the plus side, we have shaken off that awful couple. Unfortunately we had to miss our connection to do so, leaving us quite behind on our schedule. I reaffirm to Passepartout that no sightseeing can be done for the foreseeable future. He hasn’t spoken to me all morning. My moustache is now totally out of control. It keeps getting stuck in my mouth when I eat.

Day Twenty-Five

I adore travelling! I have met the most wonderful woman! Auoda is a local widow we rescued from sati. She is gentle and quiet, and so kind. Sweet Auoda! She says she’s going to write to me every day. She promises to visit me in London as soon as I return. She hasn’t even mentioned my moustache! Passepartout pulls me aside, warning me of the disappointments of holiday romances. I suggest that he might shut his damned mouth.

Day Forty-One

Sick from having torn myself away from my beloved Auoda, we arrive in Hong Kong to find the place in turmoil. The hotel is filled with anxious looking workers and disgruntled guests. The clerk informs us that the England croquet team is here to play a friendly match. All the rooms in the city are booked out by their supporters. We are then interrupted by a large group of fans, who enter the foyer chanting in unison:

Tally ho and all that, our malletting fellows are the best in the land!

The clerk looks at me with a scowl. ‘Are you English?’ he asks. I glance at the supporters. Three of them are wearing their hats indoors. The shame upon our beloved crown. ‘I’m Welsh,’ I say.

Day Forty-Eight

We have made it to Japan, but I am beginning to panic about how quickly the wager’s deadline approaches. Losing the bet would ruin me. £20,000 is a lot of money in these days. Almost immediately, we board another steamer. I settle on the bed and take out the map, retracing our journey. What a pity to travel under such circumstances. The sights I’ve missed. Perhaps next time I can actually visit some of these places, instead of racing straight through looking for the docks. Passepartout watches me, looking smug. I stuff the map into my inside pocket and send him to find some sherry onboard. Auoda has not written. She knows we were to be aboard this boat. I can only hope the words of my constant love have been delayed in transit.

Day Sixty-Three

Luck is on our side. We arrive in San Francisco ahead of schedule. I have thus relinquished and allowed Passepartout to tour the city. Seeing his little face light up almost compensates the interruption. He says he wishes to find a Little Woman. I should never have let him read that book. It is both warm and wet here. I have no suitable clothing for this weather, not least because another suitcase has gone missing. It contained a small jade elephant purchased in Bombay for my mother. She will have to make do with a tub of local peanut butter instead. She will not be pleased.

Day Seventy-Five

Disaster strikes! I feel in a stupor still, and facts are hazy, but I recall this: my manservant failed to return from his sightseeing tour. As he had my ticket for the next boat, I resolved to discover his whereabouts. I was eventually directed to a most haggard area of the city where I found Passepartout drunken and lethargic in what I suppose to be an opium den, looking back. He insists he was tricked into it, and I am inclined to believe him, as I too found my mind corrupted by the strange sensations and aromas. Evil forces conspire to cause me to fail in this 80 day goal. I thought I was falling down an endless rabbit hole. Insects crawled all over my skin as my face melted in my hands. This appears to have lasted for over a week, a wasted week, until I stirred and found myself throwing up down the side of a little trawler heading across the Atlantic. Fortune favours us once more! I find a key in my pocket and drag myself to the corresponding cabin for a lie-down. I do not know if I will ever recover. Poor Auoda must be frantic since the diversion has me missing her letters, wherever they are. My back is bothering me, but my moustache has been trimmed, so I mustn’t complain. I direct Passepartout to purchase me some dark glasses at the first opportunity.

Day Seventy-Eight

By some miracle, we have arrived in Ireland. Nobody here appears to have any teeth.

Day Seventy-Nine

At long last, I have returned to London with a day to spare, having successfully completed the wager. I am delicate still, but very much looking forward to rubbing it in the faces of my rivals at the Reform Club. The day is dank and the streets stricken by rainfall. This is a familiar world. I am too exhausted to be glad. I walk carefully up the path to my front door. My back throbs from the tattooal inscription Passepartout noticed as I dressed this morning. It is an oriental script. I do not know the meaning, but I think it makes me look exotic and interesting.

79 days in the world makes my normal life seem so small in comparison. I don’t regret making the journey, but the return. Of course, everything must come to an end. Inside, I find my lost luggage is not awaiting me in the sitting room as I had hoped. Instead, Auoda is there to great me. But it’s not the same.

I want to dance too, but it’s just not possible. It’s so easy for boys to dance, with their flat shoes and good balance. The slightest nudge would send me toppling to the floor in my heels, which is why I’m clinging to the bar. Well, that, and my insatiable, and most literal, thirst.

“Navel gazer,” a girl calls me as she passes. I wonder what she means.

The place smells like smouldering embers; it even looks like it’s dusted in soot. I can’t decide if the clouds hanging around me are the effects of the smoke-filled club, or if I’m developing cataracts. Neither answer particularly appeals to me.

“Let’s blow this joint,” a tall boy shouts into my ear. I call him scum but he doesn’t leave. I worry that he hasn’t learnt the lip-reading skills of our club-hopping generation. It would be a shame for him. He finishes the rollup between his grotty fingers and flicks it away, then sucks his teeth as he lingers for a moment before he finally leaves. I try to divine what he was thinking in those final few moments. Composing poetry to lost love? Wallowing in existential angst? Remembering how legs work? He’s a wonder. Grotesque.

They are all wonders to me, dripping in unsubtle sexuality and spilt drinks in every colour. They hang off each other like poultry acting out elaborate mating rituals, only much less picky than the birds are. They gather in groups, laughing in mime as the music drowns out lascivious whispering among friends and strangers alike. I stand alone by the bar, not recognising the songs, trying not to be approached. I wonder why I bothered coming, and coming alone no less, and every time the same empty dissatisfaction from it. But it’s always the same reason. It gets lonely. I come because I have to go somewhere. And it isn’t until you put in the effort that you realise the effort isn’t worth it.

Still, when somebody’s mentioned leaving, it gets firmly lodged in my head. Having put in an appearance, enough time has passed to drift off without looking pathetic, or so I tell myself anyway. There are few greater feelings than exiting the slow roast of a crowded yet boring club into the sudden cool blast of nighttime. The unexpected silence of the streets that follows the ear-bleeding violent pumping noise of the club. Indeed, there are better feelings, but not many.

The street is empty, or close enough. Taxis linger but are unfulfilled. Strange boys lead drunken girls away, strange girls do the same to drunken boys, and in a way it’s sweet, if you ignore the social concerns, which you should. Everyone should ignore everything social, especially myself, and then I can stop coming to places like this to make me feel that I’m not wasting away in solitude, although at times it doesn’t seem such a bad idea.

I probably shouldn’t be walking the streets alone, but I lack the cash for the exorbitant taxi rates, and the lure of the cold night air is too much to resist. The back of my mind reminds me that it’s freezing out, that normally I’d wrap myself up in wool to escape the icy wind, but my skin is singed from pushing through searing crowds, and my head hurts from too-loud music, so I walk on.

Hot chocolate seems the order of the day. Or the night. Whichever, I want hot chocolate. There’s a twenty-four hour cafe that I frequent, perhaps too often, but when slightly drunk and little else to do, a late night liquid refreshment is the ultimate temptation. It even calls to me like Mecca, bright neon lights appearing from the rapidly descending fog, the lighthouse on the shoreline of safety after a treacherous light on pitch black sea, like an opium den, like a fucking…caffeine dispenser…thing.

And I enter to a blast of heat, warmly welcomed after the freezing outside. I suddenly notice how cold I am and curl my way inside. There is the usual buzz of pretentious academics, twenty four hour business people on laptop computers, loners looking for the meaning of life in the percolator. No caffeine for me, though, all I want is warm milk to soothe me to my rest.

I saw her standing there…

…like I see her everytime.

I see it all now. It’s a plot…a plot. She looks up from the counter and smiles the smile that she always smiles at me. I’m too boggled by humiliation to think coherently. She’s always here, and I consider the possibility that she just waits for me, to raise her eyebrows as I walk to the counter and say in that breathy, over-loud voice, “The usual, is it?”

“The usual, is it?” she says loudly in her breathy voice, raising her eyebrows as I walk to the counter.

I mutter insincere thanks as I avoid her gaze. I want no one to talk to me, I only want a hot chocolate, not to be interrogated on the meaninglessness of my existence that I come into the shop so often that I have a usual. Coffee shops should be a covert operation, I feel. Quick in, quick out, no small talk. She must serve thousands of people every week, so why does she remember me? I force myself outside to be social, but it always reminds me how much I hate other people.

She works with her back turned, and I hide my face. I’ve taken to indulging in fantasies, usually involving killing her in increasingly silly ways. This time I’m gouging out her eyes with the scoop she is using for the cocoa powder. It’s very King Lear, perhaps too much so. It’s at times like this I remember my childhood fear of people reading my mind. I’m fairly sure my mother can still do it. It comes from being private, you see, but I’m not a rational person. I only want a drink, for God’s sake.

She puts cream and marshmallows in without even asking. I consider telling her I didn’t want either out of spite, but I don’t, partly so as not to be petty, and mainly because I find it hard to enjoy hot chocolate without either.

I pay her and she smiles, showing acres of teeth. The couple behind me are having a vapid conversation about their own drinks.

“Everyone drinks coffee these days,” she says.

“You’ve got to drink something,” he answers.

And suddenly the whole shop doesn’t feel like nirvana anymore, but a dingy joint where the sleepless go to mourn. It’s grotty. Dead grotty. I want to go back home and hide forever. I want to step from the door and forget my nemesis and then straight into my bed, but there’s still a walk that seems much longer than the reality. But I have hot chocolate and my eyes are too weary to fully notice the waitress’ smug, snide looks, so I am invincible.

Just take the city I’m in. It was alive for me once, in days when I wasn’t so alone. I was alive and I would wander the streets and count the number of lamps that were still lit and the number that had been smashed by stone-throwing yobs, and form an imperfect but enjoyable ratio from my findings. Anything to pass the time until I saw you again. I would kick the same pebble up and down the pavement outside my flat, and rub out cigarette butts on the ground that were long since out, but the grinding movement of my right leg and my aloof gaze made me feel like a film noir heroine. And even though I knew I wasn’t, I always felt like you would be back from a day of filth in the dark city for you to sweep me up in your tired, brazen arms and call me Honey.

I have hot chocolate and I fight the cold air. The lump in my throat rises, but I choke it down. My drink is too hot, my city is too cold. The days are too long and I’m too short. It’s the usual things that concern me. There are shadowy figures roaming within the fog in the distance, and I wonder if they will kill me if I walk to close, and then wonder if that would be such a bad thing.

The city has turned on me. It is not full of joy and excitement anymore. I no longer greet the rush of traffic that wakes me each morning, nor the sirens that wake me at night, the rubbish that lines the walls, the way every person on the street might have a story to tell. But it doesn’t speak of wonder anymore, it is only noise and weather and concrete.

And I question is it that I have changed or that it has changed, or that you have gone, and then I don’t want to question anymore. I don’t want to think or to feel anymore. I just want to drink my fucking drink and enter my fucking house and go to sleep and stop these thoughts creeping up on me.

Instead I could dream, dream of sparks and shining dragons and seconds in the day, and dream of your smile. Every time I sleep I wish to dream that I’m in your arms, eyes hardly open but still seeing your smile. Instead I dream that I’m having ice cream stolen by strangers and the cinema is showing Superman on a loop. I wish my psyche didn’t mock me so. But I think of you always, even when I’m pretending I’m not, even when I’m fretting over hot chocolate and having the opposite of fun  (“no-fun”) in a club.

And I tell myself all things must pass, but it doesn’t help. I’m not normally a girl who misses much, but I do.

But I have to live a life, and distract myself with little things, trying not to think of you always. Times are hard, but you shake them off. The darkness only stays at nighttime, in the morning it will fade away. In the morning, I will wake up to the sound of music. For now, I sit and stare as the dawn slowly drips into my eyes, with the clouds and the curtains making your smile.

‘Hello. You the new butler?’ the stranger asked, stepping inside, his arms tightly crossed to preserve heat. He glanced quickly at the surroundings, all old money and tacky artefacts. Bing stood out awkwardly amongst it, a different type of antique. More at home at the golf course, the stranger thought.

Bing laughed politely, unnerved by the sudden intrusion. ‘Well, it’s been a long time since I’ve been the new anything.’

The stranger tore off his scarf, his body suddenly molten now that he was indoors. Old people’s houses were always so warm. ‘What happened to Hudson?’ he asked, testing Bing’s mettle. He was eager to prolong his stay.

‘I guess he’s changing,’ Bing replied, trying to sound confident.

‘Yeah, he does that a lot, doesn’t he?’ the stranger said. Just as he suspected. The old man was as much a vagrant as he was. He’d be damned if Bing hadn’t snuck in through some rusting grate round the back. Stepping further into the old house, he introduced himself. ‘I’m David Bowie, I live down the road.’ He allowed himself a secret smile. It was almost true. The old man seemed to believe him at least. ‘Sir Percival lets me use his piano if he’s not around,’ he continued, weaving his web, ‘he’s not around, is he?’

‘I can honestly say I haven’t seen him,’ Bing said, suspicious of his visitor’s claims. Bing himself had lived life hard on the circuit, and knew by the teeth and the nervous stance that this poor bastard was in dire straits. ‘But come on in,’ he insisted, ‘come in!’

Bowie was hesitant, but the home comforts were too alluring. He could easily take the old man if he needed to, he supposed. Together they edged past the crudely decorated Christmas tree, stepping on the tinsel as it dripped to the floor, neither certain of where the piano rested, neither able to admit it.

The silence made Bowie anxious. Perhaps there were other old tramps about the castle, ready to strike. He kept his head down, trying to fill the silence. ‘Are you related to Sir Percival?’ he asked. Bowie hoped that by keeping the pressure on the old man’s story, he would be subdued.

‘Well, distantly,’ Bing said, trying not to be drawn. As time went on, he found it more difficult to keep track of stories. It wouldn’t be safe to be caught in a lie.

Awkwardly the pair leant on the piano, unsure of how to proceed. Bowie’s toes were soggy, defrosting from the snowy streets. He fought to resist his paranoia. He was not there to face some mad old geezer, Bowie told himself, but to escape the weather. ‘You’re not the poor relation from America, right?’ he said, his words jumbled, but hoping the old man would participate in the tale.

Bing had been studying the vase of flowers, trying to think up a believable background. Hearing Bowie’s question, he laughed, relieved to receive a lifeline. ‘Gee, news sure travels fast, doesn’t it? I’m Bing.’

They shook hands, feeling the goodwill of the season.

‘Oh, I’m pleased to meet you,’ Bowie said, almost sincere. Looking back to the piano, he added, ‘You’re the one that sings, right?’

‘Well, right or wrong, I sing either way.’

Bowie smiled. ‘Oh well, I sing too.’

‘Oh good! What kind of singing?’ Bing kept a steady demeanour, but was confused by the conversation’s path.

‘Mostly the contemporary stuff,’ Bowie replied, hoping the old man wasn’t up to date. ‘Do you, uh, do you like modern music?’

Bing inhaled sharply. If he deflected enquiries, he would be safe. ‘Oh, I think it’s marvellous! Some of it really fine. But tell me, you ever listen to any of the older fellows?’

Bowie relaxed, noting the old man’s vagueness. ‘Oh yeah, sure,’ he teased, ‘I like, uh, John Lennon and the other one with uh…Harry Nilsson.’

‘You go back that far, huh?’

‘Yeah, I’m not as young as I look,’ Bowie said, pleased that Bing’s retorts were sharp. It had been a while since he had engaged in conversation not relating to alms or criminality. It made him feel close to human again. Almost alive.

‘None of us is these days,’ Bing said, laughing in that gentle manner once more, belying his sadness.

A pall of melancholy befell the pair. Bowie’s eyes glazed. ‘In fact, I’ve got a six year old son,’ he began, feeling able to confide to this empty old man in this empty old house, ‘and he really gets excited around the Christmas holiday thing.’

‘Do you go in for anything of the traditional things in the Bowie household, Christmas time?’

Bowie walked behind him towards the keyboard, concentrating on the sheet music as he choked down regrets. ‘Oh yeah, most of them really,’ he said, pausing to clear his head. ‘Presents, tree, decorations, agents sliding down the chimney…’

‘What?’ Bing asked.

‘Oh, I was just seeing if you were paying attention.’

Bing laughed again. Smug bastard, he thought.

‘Actually, our family do most of the things that other families do,’ Bowie said, his lies interweaving with his dreams. ‘We sing the same songs.’

‘Do you?’

‘Oh, I even have a go at White Christmas,’ Bowie explained, his fractured memory struggling to find a more traditional carol.

‘You do, eh?’ Bing said, willing to let the young man have his moment.

‘And this one,’ Bowie continued, tapping one of the manuscripts, ‘this is my son’s favourite. Do you know this one?’

Bing smiled. There was something about seeing his own isolation reflected back in Bowie’s strange delusions that made him feel kind, almost fatherly. He had not been so different at Bowie’s age. So many mistakes. ‘Oh, I do indeed, it’s a lovely theme,’ he said.

Bowie leant down to the keyboard, pretending to play a few notes as an instrumental chimed from the radio in another room. Bing watched, filled with pity. Bowie moved away, and the radio’s song played on. The two men stood side by side, mimicking each other’s position, resting on the piano with one arm, the other bent at the elbow, so they were almost but not quite touching. The music filled the room, overwhelming the howling winds outside, washing away each man’s loneliness and selfish intent. Separately they were swept up in the melody, lost in reverie, seeing past moments unfurl before them, not observing with regret but with understanding, all but forgetting a stranger stood next to them. Together, they began to sing, not for each other, or for an audience, but for themselves, a song to remind them that unity was possible, that mankind could still extend a kindness to lost men on cold days. A song that said two men alone are at least alone together.

He wore his fringe like Roger McGuinn’s, but it didn’t impress anyone. The girls he saw liked the boys with ambition and career plans and suits for interviews or maybe for court dates. He didn’t have anything like that. He had little except for the words etched on his mind. He had a song in his heart too, but people would look at him strangely if he admitted so much.

Sometimes the girls would take risks on him. Sometimes they thought his lips were worth tasting. And he’d lay hands on them, and they’d listen to the voice singing quietly in the background –

I’ll never be man enough for you.

I’ll never be man enough for you.

I’ll never be man enough for you.

I’ll never be man enough for you.

For you.

and God knows they love an underdog. They remove their hands from his body and stand still, letting the music flow through the air and tangle notes around them. Aural sex. They hear the words and feel explosions of passion and the blood bubbling in their veins. Those words, the melody, that voice…

They move towards the stereo pumping out the song. It is the voice that makes love to them, not him. They don’t fall for him, but for Edwyn Collins. He doesn’t stand a chance. That which nourishes him also destroys him.

They say let’s just be friends. They say we’re not looking for a relationship right now. They say but you’re a really nice guy. And then it’s a friendly embrace farewell before a pilgrimage to Glasgow. And the boy is left behind, weeping salty tears into his fringe. Who’ll be his consolation prize?

He considers getting rid of the CD, but the song was written for him. To lose it would be to lose himself. And it has such a lovely melody.

He’s playing the CD to death. His death.