Temporary Secretary

Part 57

25 July 1981

9:30pm Saturday

——

You were getting ready for bed. It was odd, being back in your old bedroom, now Paul here. A little out of place.

You sat on the bed, already in your nightgown.

The window was cracked for the summer breeze to come through. The air always had a nice scent to it at this time of year. It was cooling after the warm days, clean smelling.

"I like your poster." Paul said.

Paul always sounded teasing when he let comments slip. Maybe it was flirting. He always sounded like he was flirting. He didn't need to flirt. You'd stopped keeping track a long time ago the number of times you'd fucked. He could have it anytime he wanted, so far as you were concerned.

Well maybe that was just how he was. He had that same "flirty" demeanour with everyone. Men, too.

Maybe he liked to tease, even with no intention of following through.

You'd seen ELO live in '76 at the New Victoria Theatre. The poster was still where you left it, without a frame, tacked above your record player.

"Do you like this new rock type music?" You said to him, drowsily.

"It's not new." Paul said. "They've been around years, haven't they?"

You shrugged.

"I try to stay current, though." Paul said. "Part of the job, y'know..."

If there was one thing that could be said about teenage you, it was that you were neat. You'd never had a time when your room was in teenage disarray. You'd been neat since age twelve or so.

It wasn't cluttered, you kept everything where you could find it.

Your father had more or less kept your room as you left it. Mostly used now for guests, if family or friends visited him.

Your room was on the top floor, an attic room, though renovated to modern standards, as if it were any other room in the house. It wouldn't be damp in winter, though sometimes hot on a summer night if the window was left shut.

Paul seemed very interested in scanning over the relics of your teenhood. Maybe to dig up dirt.

You realized, his own childhood room was likely not intact. If both his parents were dead, and he hadn't been responsible for upkeep, it'd be odd for it to be preserved, a couple decades on.

"I would've thought you'd have some photos of George up." Paul said. "Given you're a fan of his."

Your face felt hot.

"I don't." You said swiftly. "What'd I do that for?"

In fairness, you used to. Fortunately, very fortunately, you'd changed it up at some point. But you'd never tell him that. However, it wasn't as he implied at all.

You enjoyed decorating your room with photographs. Otherwise the walls seemed to empty. But you'd get tired of them about every other month or so, and change it up.

George, and other musicians tended to show up now and then, though not for the reasons Paul might think. They were only those personalities which you liked, and photos that sparked amusement.

A photograph you distinctly recalled, was a effect summation of this. Cut from a magazine, intention completely innocent. Not a pinup photo, rather George was crouched like a surly gangly creature, at the base of an armchair containing BBC's Spike Milligan.