The Summer I Met Lilith Bresson Essay
The summer I met Lilith Bresson, I had begun to die. Not physically, you understand. I had never been that lucky. But each day a little more of my soul disappeared, and Blaine sensed it.
And Blaine Albermarle never let anything escape without a fight.
‘What the fuck am I doing here?’ I paced the floor of the make-up room, counting down the minutes to my appearance like a condemned woman.
Hilary Silverman, my long-suffering agent, poured herself a lukewarm coffee and gave her best calming smile. ‘Delivering a compromise. Well, your particularly diluted version of a compromise, anyway.’
Hilary’s eyes widened in alarm. ‘You can’t!’
‘I think you’ll find I bloody well can.’
‘All right, all right, you can. Okay, so let me rephrase that.’ Hilary positioned her considerable backside on a grubby sofa and patted the seat next to her. I begrudgingly sat down. ‘I would very much prefer it if you didn’t leave, on the basis that it’s the only sodding way I can get you to do any publicity for your own exhibition, before you bugger off back to your lair.’
‘I’ve got work waiting back in Spain.’ I took a sip of chamomile tea that tasted like floor-sweepings, and Hilary shook her head.
‘Y’know, I’d forgotten just how unutterably bloody-minded you can be when you feel threatened.’
‘I don’t feel “threatened”. I feel pissed off, cold, and ever so slightly manipulated. And what the fuck does someone like Johnny Buckle want with me?’