DAYLIGHT FADING

twelve | and this just feels like spinning plates

                       | twelve: and this just feels like spinning plates |

                                                             or

                                    | like spinning plates: radiohead |

I’m just about to move onto The Cinematic Orchestra’s Ma Fleur when there is the tap on my window. I turn to see a grinning Jez at the passenger side of the car.

I almost laugh to myself. The only times I’ve seen her look genuinely happy, without that pale weight behind her eyes, are when there’s music and now, just after she’s been tattooed. She’s probably the most naturally badass person I’ve ever met.

I quickly hop out of the car, tapping the purse in my back pocket just to be sure it’s still there despite the fact that I’ve been sat on it. I didn’t tell Jez to bring money and even if she did, I wouldn’t let her pay. I have far more money than I know what to do with so it may as well be spent on making her happy.

I re-enter Pulse and my eyebrows pull together at the silent look exchanged between Jez and Gigi. I remind myself that she has respected my space, unequivocally, and the least I can do is return the favour.

I notice the look of panic on Jez’s face when Gigi announces the total of our tattooing session. “I don’t have enough,” Jez looks heartbroken. I may have forgotten to mention to her that I told Gigi over the phone that I’d pay for whatever she wanted done, else Gigi would have discussed the cost of her tattoos before she got them.

“You don’t need anything,” I gently touch Jez’s shoulder when she tries to get her purse.

“I’m not a charity case,” I smile at the indignant anger on her face.

“You may have forgotten, but I was an exceptionally well-paid pop star. I have far more money than I will ever need and I would like to attempt to use it well,” Jez crosses her arms.

“Oh yeah? Exactly how much are you worth?” she’s daring me to say something she can argue with.

“A few million,” I shrug as her eyes pop and her mouth gapes slightly. I can say many bad things about pop music but it does pay remarkably well if you have enough staying power and a good manager. Angel had two number one albums, both in America, and an exceptionally good manager.

I’m glad that Britain never took to Angel’s music quite as much. Sure, both albums were in the top five, but that number one spot is something that I can maybe achieve with good music. An untainted achievement.

Whilst I put my card into the machine and type in the number, Jez finally asks a question that must have been bugging her for the last minute.

“If you’re a millionaire, why do you live in a bungalow?” me and Gigi begin to laugh and I want to hug this brilliant, blunt, unintentionally hilarious girl.

“Do you know how boring it would be to live in a mansion?” I give an unladylike snort, “too few people, too much space.”

“Besides, you can’t ruin the authentic seaside town feel by having double-storey houses on the beachfront,” Gigi’s faux-posh, indignant tone has me in stitches.

The card machine begins bleeping angrily at me for because I haven’t removed my card. “I do believe you need to drive back home, D’Angelo,” Gigi smiles, nodding towards the clock. She’s right – as much as I would love to stay and chat to her, I have Jez with me and I need to get her back to Eastfields at a reasonable time. After all, I wouldn’t like my neighbour, Evelyn, to reconsider the whole pitchfork thing.