A Traitor to Memory

The streets were clogged—like, when weren't they clogged?—but she'd spent enough time on the bike to know not only which side streets to take but also how to squeeze between cars and delivery trucks when traffic had come to a standstill. She had a Walkman that she usually wore on deliveries, the recorder tucked into an inner pocket of her leathers and the helmet holding the earphones in place. She liked bubble-gum music, she liked it loud, and she generally sang along, because the combination of music blasting against her eardrums and her own voice singing at maximum volume pretty much took care of whatever was left in her head that she didn't want to think about.

But she didn't use the Walkman today. The tap dancing had wiped away the image of Rock's hairy body mashed on top of her and his salami-red cock shoving between her legs. And as for the rest of what was in her head: That was something she wanted to think about.

Rock was right: She still hadn't gotten Gideon Davies to bed—as in really to bed—and she couldn't figure out why. He seemed to like being with her, and he seemed normal in every way other than what wasn't happening between them in the sack. Yet in all the time she'd been living below him and hanging with him, they'd never progressed beyond the point where they'd been that first night when they fell asleep on her bed while listening to a CD. That was it with a capital I as far as the sex part went.

At first she'd thought the dude was gay and her radar had gone totally down for the count after being with Rock for so long. But he didn't act gay or do the gay scene in London or even have younger guys, older guys, or obviously twisted guys up to his place in private. All he had was his dad—who hated her guts and was all Mr. Major Attitude whenever she and he were actually breathing the same air for five seconds—and Rafe Robson, who hung around Gideon day and night like a case of the hives. All of this had long ago made Libby conclude that there was nothing strictly wrong with Gideon that a decent relationship couldn't straighten out … if she could just get him away from his keepers for a while.

Having left the South Bank, where her tap lesson was, having woven her way through the worst of the traffic through the City and upwards to Pentonville Road, she opted to shoot through the byways of Camden Town rather than take on the crush of cars, taxis, buses, and trucks that were always making a mess of every street within spitting distance of King's Cross Station. Her route to Chalcot Square wasn't a direct one as a result, but that was cool as far as Libby was concerned. She didn't mind having more time to plan an approach that might work as a breakthrough with Gideon. To her way of thinking, Gideon Davies had to be more than simply a man who'd been playing the violin since he was just out of diapers. Yeah, it was cool that he was a major big deal as a musician, but he was also a person. And that person was more than just the music he made. That person could exist whether he played the violin or not.

When Libby finally arrived in Chalcot Square, the first thing she saw was that Gideon wasn't alone. Raphael Robson's ancient Renault stood at the south edge of the square, parked with one wheel on the sidewalk like he'd been in a hurry. Through the lit window to Gideon's music room, Libby noted that the unmistakable shape of Rafe—handkerchief, as always, mopping up the sweat on his face—was moving about, and he was talking. Preaching, more likely. And Libby knew about what.

“Shit,” she muttered as she gunned up to the house. She revved the engine a few times in the cause of letting off steam and she pulled the Suzuki onto its kick stand. Rafe Robson didn't usually turn up in Chalcot Square at this time of day, and to have him here now—no doubt droning on and on about what Gideon ought to be doing that he wasn't doing, which was naturally whatever Rafe wanted him to do—was a real bummer that, in combination with what she'd already been through, having to screw Rock Peters, really ticked her off.

She shoved through the gate in the wrought iron railing and didn't stop it from clanging against the concrete that defined the upper steps to the house. She flung herself downwards, banged her way into the basement flat, and without a second thought dived straight for the refrigerator.

She'd been trying to stay on the No-White Diet, but now—tap dancing be damned—she was definitely craving something pale. Vanilla ice cream, popcorn, rice, potatoes, cheese. She thought she might freak if she didn't have it.

Months ago, however, she'd prepared the refrigerator door for a moment just like this. Before she could open the appliance, she was forced to look upon a picture of herself at sixteen years of age, a tubbo in a one-piece bathing suit standing next to her size-five sister in a butt-floss bikini … and with a perfect tan, of course. Libby had put a sticker over Ali's face: a spider wearing a cowboy hat. But now she peeled the sticker off, gazing long and hard upon her sister, and just for good measure she read the message that she'd penned for herself across the refrigerator door. IN THROUGH THE LIPS AND ONTO THE HIPS!!! She took her inspiration where she could.