Carrion: A Story of Passion Read Free Page A

number, and a deep red velvet shift dress. Technically, I have more choice about which underwear set to choose and all at once the decision seems too complex. I squeeze past Alexander who is standing over the sink applying shaving foam with a badger brush. I slip off my pyjamas and flick on the shower. I catch him stealing glimpses of me in the mirror and I smile. I wonder if thinks about loving me.
    "Would you mind putting my clothes out for me?" I ask.
    "What do you want to wear?"
    "You choose," I say shrugging as I step into the shower.
    I see how his eyebrow rises with an element of curious satisfaction.
    There are still residual effects from the Molly, and the sensations of the shower are so overwhelming that before I know what is happening I'm crying. When I ask myself why, I don't have an answer, just a sudden and profound feeling of loss.
    Suddenly, I remember that tomorrow is my birthday. I am going to be twenty-two. Alexander has no idea.
     
    I walk into the bedroom to see him putting the final touches to his dress in front of the mirror. He looks impeccable – as always. Paul Smith navy pin-stripped suit, thin navy tie, white Oxford herringbone shirt. On the bed he has lain out the red velvet dress and the pink Agent Provocateur box containing the satin corset set; knowing how almost every other set with its lace would show under the smooth velvet. Alexander understands the importance of details.
    He puts on his watch and shakes out his sleeve.
    "Is that okay?" he asks.
    "Perfect." And of course it is. "Where are we going for dinner?"
    "I've booked us in at Exhibit ." He says this like it should be explanation enough but I still have no idea where we are going. He registers my look. "You'll like it. It's... relevant."
    "What type of food does it serve?"
    He grins. "Wait and see!" He sparkles with playfulness and it is these mercurial moods that fascinate me about him.
     
    It's raining but it barely needs noting. We've got to thinking that it might never be anything other than raining. This is the backdrop to our new apocalypse. We've heard rumours that outside the Capital the rest of the country is drowning.
    The red illuminated double-decker whirs by, kicking a splash of water onto the pavement, narrowly missing my seamed stockings. We see it pull up at our bus stop and judging by the amount of people herding on, we make a run for it; Alexander bangs on the door as it closes. The driver looks pissed but then Alexander flashes him his Emperor-smile. We swipe our Oyster cards and head along the bus. There are no seats left, so we are left swinging from the poles breathless and giggling as the driver weaves in and out of the traffic, slamming on his brakes with the pure purpose, I'm sure, of trying to fell us over. Our giddiness attracts glances from some of the other passengers but they neither disapprove nor approve.
    "Where’s our stop?" I ask.
    "On the Strand. It's a short walk from there." He salutes me with the umbrella that I hadn't realised he'd brought with him. I reach out my hand and take his fingers in mine, loosely entwining them in a bid to hold his hand, but they are reluctant prisoners and he moves his hand to his inside pocket and checks his phone. This rejection stabs like a small pin in my consciousness and I look up at him. My face must convey the wound because he winces a reassuring smile that tells me that, “ we don't do holding hands ”.
    The bus stops before I have time to consider all the terrible things attached to this lack of intimacy; of the damage and hopelessness that it promises.
    We dance across puddles, his arm locked in mine as he holds the umbrella. We head down a side alley, past some wretch who has made camp in one of the retail doorways. He is mostly hidden in a pile of rags and cardboard. I squirm with the thought that my underwear alone is the month rental price of a room; my dress, a whole months average salary, my perfume, a weeks worth of family shopping, the meal we