Magnolia Parks: Chapter 8

Park Lane parties are legendary. There are some we bring the girls to, some we don’t. Tonight’s is a don’t.

Me and Jo’s place is sick. Park Lane, four-bedroom bachelor pad. Parks likes it but I feel weird bringing her here sometimes. Probably because of nights like this. Christian was hellbent on getting completely obliterated tonight—seems girl-related—didn’t want to ask.

Jonah’s obliging him by having it here because Henry refused to have it at their place because my brother doesn’t want to upset their little next door neighbour, Blythe. Fair enough, neither would I. Blythe was a World War II nurse and her stories are ace. She’s a down and out legend and her eyes still sparkle, so no parties over on Ennismore for a while.

I stayed upstairs for a while, chatting to this girl from France. Don’t know how she wound up here—but I also don’t particularly care. That’s shit of me, I know, but girls are kind of the same—at least the hook up ones. Look them in the eyes, listen to them, touch their face, they’re yours.

“Do you like stars?” I ask every girl who’s in my living room who I’d prefer to be in my bedroom. They all say yes because I don’t think anyone’s ever said no to me besides Parks.

France says yes.

I appreciate it when women aren’t emotional about sex and treat it more as transactional, not pretending it’s something it’s not. Like, we met in a club. You were grinding on a bar stool. You already kissed my friend. This isn’t the fairytale. I’m not who you bring home to your mother, I’m the wildest story you tell your friends about when you’re trading dirty secrets.

She’s in all black, France. Magnolia never wears black.

I bring her downstairs to my room and it’s all a ruse, to make the exchange less calculated. She’ll look through the telescope, I’ll duck behind her, head close to hers, point to a star neither of us can see because you can barely see the stars through the London smog, and this is a bad night.

“Waouh,” she says, accent thicker than I realised. Looking at me, not at the telescope. I sit on my bed, watching her. Waiting. Her eyes drop from mine, down my body, back up again.

“I can use your bathroom?” she asks, and I nod. I point to it. She’s pretty hot, this one. Porcelain skin, dark, choppy chin-length hair, brown eyes. She doesn’t look like Parks. No one does. That’s the interminable problem of my existence post Magnolia Parks. She’s the only one. Only one whose shit I’ll put up with, the only one who fucks me over and around and I’ll stick around for, the only person who’s ever had my heart in a headlock.

Lean back on my bed. Wonder what Parks is doing tonight? Maybe she and the P’s—Paili and Perry—are out. Don’t like it when she’s out without me, but I guess I’m about to sleep with someone who isn’t her, so, not a lot of ground to complain.

France appears at the doorway. Leans against it. “Do you have a girlfriend?” Her accent’s cute enough. Most girls I hook up with know who I am. They know not to ask. Guess they don’t get Tatler in France?

I squint over at her. “No.”

She gives me a doubtful look. “I do not care if you do—”

I give her a tight smile. “I don’t.”

“This is your Foreo then?” She palms Parks’ little pink face scrubber thing, rolling it in her hands.

I make a mental note to buy Parks a new one. I watch Parks’ pink thing, not the girl. “No.”

France tilts her head. “So who’s is?” I glance up at her. Not a huge fan of pre-intercourse chit chat, especially when the conversation is about Magnolia.

“My best friend’s.” I stand up, taking the Foreo from her, putting it in a drawer.

France gestures to the sink. “Est-ce que c’est sa jolie brosse à dents rose aussi?”

I nod. “It is.”

She reaches for it. “Can I use, actually? Ma bouche sent dégueulasse—” She picks it up, and I push her hand back down.

“No.”

France blinks, a bit surprised, a bit annoyed. “Non?”

I shake my head. “She has a thing about other people and touching and germs.”

And girls I have sex with.

The girl rolls her eyes. “Elle a l’air géniale—”

“She is.” I nod once.

“Désolé, dois-je y aller?” She lets out a cool laugh. “Would you rather be here with her?”

I give her a long look, measure her up. “Yeah, actually. But she doesn’t want me like this so—”

“Pourquoi pas?”

“Because.” I shove my hands through my hair, give her the grin. “I’m a massive fuck-up.”

She snorts a laugh. “Lucky me.”

“You have no idea.” I grab her by the waist.

And then, you know. It is what it is, and I’ll spare you all the gory details. Suffice to say, there’s nudity, touching and orgasms are had. And I don’t think of the girl I’m inside of one time. Deeply fucked, I know. I have this one memory of Parks that my mind can’t ever shake and it’s where it always goes. Me and her on Lake Como in the back of a 1971 Riva Aquamara. Broad daylight. So unlike her to be carefree and not worry that people might have seen us or recognised us. She was in this lilac string bikini—I have a thing for her in lilac—the sun was in her eyes, made them this ice kind of green. I think about that every time I have sex with someone else. I don’t know why. Kills me a bit.

Afterwards, France grabs her handbag, pulls out a little baggy. She pours out some cocaine on my bare chest, uses her credit card to cut a line, then snorts it. She rubs her nose, then looks up at me. “You want?”

I shake my head. “Best friend?” she asks.

I chuckle. “She’d fucking kill me.”

10:09

Lil Ballentine

Hello Sweetpea. Can you have my son call me please?

He’s not picking up.

I’m not with him 🙂

Oh!

Silly me.

I’m kidding. He’s right here.

Don’t read into it.

I’m day drinking again.

Lily, it’s fine.

He’s not my boyfriend.

But he could be ❤️❤️❤️❤️

No, he couldn’t ❤️

💔

.

Love you my darling