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It really is not a good evening.
At least, that’s what Nina tells him as they pick their way over the dark field, shoes sinking into the hummocked quagmire of freshly churned mud, hidden cables attempting to trip them face first every other step. Her stilettos are quite ruined and her makeup smudged, and Ginger never thought he would find Symes quite so suddenly pally, at least in a shared suffering sort of way. He’d made his opinions of Ginger very apparent, an old friend of your fiancée’s turning up out of the blue with a small fortune and the urge to marry would put any chap’s nose out of joint, but in this moment he seems rather glad to have Ginger there, a silent partner to help weather Nina’s storm. Her mood doesn’t improve even once they’re inside, as Ginger had rather hoped it would, and not even the raucous cacophony of music and chatter, the small clearing that could tentatively be called a dance floor, filled with a throng of heaving bodies, the bar tucked away at the end of the saloon with row after gleaming row of sparkling bottles, seems to be able to deter it.
He’s not an expert on parties, certainly not the London sort, having not been invited to many, and having attended even less, but Ginger really doesn’t think it’s that bad. By his standards, a party on an airship constitutes quite the shindig, although he has a sneaking suspicion that everyone tells everyone just how ghastly and dull everything is at these things, just so that the next soirée has to be even more outrageous. Of course being so far out of London was a pain, as Nina had frequently reminded them on the drive down, and she really had already been to so many parties this year (Masquerade and Greek and Costumed and Turkish and Garden and Victorian and Ginger had rather stopped listening after a while), but still, a night spent on a dirigible really seemed the kind of talking point that would still sound just as impressive next year as it would next week. Maybe he’d been away in Ceylon too long, maybe this sort of thing happened all the time. He nods in polite agreement with her, says something he hopes is placating, and then watches rather ruefully as she slinks off in a huff, Adam hot on her heels. Can’t blame the chap, what with Nina being such a looker, but it does leave Ginger high and dry, and with little else to do, he finds himself heading to the bar. He scans faces as his 2 fingers of Scotch are poured out generously, and thinks he perhaps might recognise a few, between the messy blur of red mouths and coiffed hair, but no names emerge, and that leaves him clinging to the polished bar top like a lifeline, the last refuge of a stranded man. That is until the bartender gives him a prolonged and peculiar stare, and Ginger is forced to drift away, glass in hand, to venture out into the tidal masses, and see if he sinks or swims.
He sinks. Damn it.
This is precisely why he avoids these sort of things, and it’s all Nina’s fault for convincing him with those big doe eyes to come along, merely a means of transportation for her to reach the dire Essex suburbs. These were her friends, the sort of people Ginger had always wanted to join in with and never quite found the courage to do so, and without her, well, he’s about as popular as a taxman, and twice as awkward. Even as a child he’d always been too shy, too quiet, too gangly, never quite getting the joke, and even all these years later he still feels like the odd fellow out, never first pick. The glass finds his lips all too easily, and he all but pours the liquid down his throat, barely stopping to taste it. A little Dutch courage, that’s all he needs.
As it turns out, it isn’t. He’s well through his third drink in an embarrassingly short time, and despite the frankly remarkable effort he’s put into being charming, actively approaching people, sidling into conversations and suchlike, it still it all remains a mystery to him. The pleasant numb tingle of alcohol in the tips of his fingers has made him confident, but no more endearing to this group of bright young things, and eventually Ginger gives up, relegating himself to smokey corners, retreating back to the comfortable introversion he can taste at the bottom of his glass. Maybe Nina was right, maybe the evening really was quite the opposite of good. He’s certainly struggling to find any redeemable points to it so far.
Nina and Adam still haven’t materialised. Ginger doesn’t dare imagine what they're up to in the shadowy recesses of the ship, but his brain supplies him with an ample supply of ideas regardless, and to his surprise the faintest pang of jealousy stirs in his chest. It’s the alcohol, damn stuff making him feel queer, making the room too warm and stifling, as though the air is fighting back against his lungs, unwilling to slide down gently. He pushes his way to the exit, stumbling down a few steps and into the cold pang of the night, which gives him a rather brutal slap around the face and tells him, in a voice not unlike his father’s, to get a damn grip on himself. His fingers fumble out a packet of cigarettes, moving by memory, tap, tap, slide, cup, click. The warm glow emanating from the lighter illuminates the tangled mess of cables and the grimy fabric of the airship for a brief moment, orange light lapping at the edges of a silhouette leaning unsteadily against one of the tethers.
“I say, are you quite alright over there?” The figure turns, and Ginger can make him out a little better now, and it is a him, a slight man, dressed exquisitely, if a little excessively, all silk and rouged cheeks and dark kohl smudged about his eyes. Handsome, in a delicate way, a few loose curls dripping gracefully down his forehead.
“Never better, darling.” There’s a manic laugh, dying as quickly as it began, and then the man lurches and sways towards him. “Do you have a lighter on you? Only I can’t seem to find my own, beastly thing, and no one else seemed to have the sense to bring one.”
Ginger holds his out, the flame licking at the end of white paper until it begins to crumble into ash, and somehow his other arm ends up slung around the man’s waist, carefully supporting him as he reels and exhales curling plumes of smoke. The eyes that flash up at him are blown unnaturally wide beneath powdered lids, more than just the effects of the alcohol that is still hanging sticky sweet on his breath. A kiss is pressed to each of his cheeks, in a manner that Ginger suspects is not entirely innocent.
“Miles. But you can call me sweetheart, if you’re good.”
He’s not a fool enough that he doesn’t catch the meaning laced into those sultry words, eyes flickering nervously to Miles’ stained lips as a flush rises on his cheeks, burning hot as it spreads over his skin.
“I’m- I’m Ginger. Ginger Littlejohn.”
“Oh I very much doubt it is.” He catches a flash of a wicked grin in the lamplight, and Miles only leans in closer, pressing himself lewdly against Ginger’s frame despite his protests. He should shove him away, yell look here what do you think you’re doing damn it , and put as much space between him and this cad as possible. His brain tries to make his feet move, but they seem planted firmly, determined to do the right thing and in the process subject Ginger to more of Miles’ advances. He can’t leave him really, not in such a state, out here, by himself. The man can barely stand, after all. “Aren’t you one of darling Nina’s friends? I seem to recall there being a Mr Chatterbox article on a tall, handsome soldier, and you are most certainly tall and handsome.”
“Yes, that’ll be me I suppose, although that article is rather exaggerated I’m afraid.” How disappointed London’s elite had been to really meet the real Captain Littlejohn, no more a war hero than he was a motor-car racer. Adam wrote such terrible lies.
“Don’t sell yourself short, darling. I think you’re perfectly wonderful . Such a gentleman, looking after little old me.” Ginger watches hypnotised as dark lashes flutter over Miles’ cheeks, before those eyes peer up at him again, a hand coming up to cup his cheek, thumb stroking along the soft edge of his moustache. Miles’ voice is low and tempting and Ginger is suddenly acutely aware of just how close they are, how pink Miles’ waxy lips look in the golden light, how warm he is pressed against him. “Won’t you invite me back, Ginger? I think I’m rather fed up of this beastly party, and something much more pressing has just come up. I hear you have your own automobil-”
“Miles!” An angry hiss emanates from the steps, and Ginger turns sharply, enough to set Miles wobbling dangerously, gripping at the guy-ropes for purchase. “You blastedsod, get away from him.” There’s another figure silhouetted in the door frame, an attractive, sturdy fellow with a strong jaw, who proceeds to come barrelling down at them, voice laden with a cold fury. Miles, for his part, merely groans, as if this is a perfectly normal occurrence, one hand coming up to massage at his temples.
“Don’t tell me what to do, darling, it does so make my head hurt when you give orders.” Sharp hands grab at Miles, locking tightly around his forearms like handcuffs.
“You’re supposed to be keeping all this quieter remember, not assaulting men in dark fields like a common whore . You’re supposed to be mine , and stop … all this. ”
“Really, it’s quite alright, Miles was just-”
“And you,” He rounds on Ginger like an aggravated hornet, and if his hands weren’t occupied keeping Miles still and steady, Ginger rather thinks he might have been punched squarely in the face. “I would have thought you’d have more decency than to lech over other people’s-”
“I was just trying to-”
“ Don’t tell me what to do, Tiger. And don’t be cruel to Ginger. He was just being nice . Something you wouldn’t know about.” Suddenly Miles is sharp, eyes focused out of their glassy stare and voice like a whip. Ginger certainly flinches at the sound of it. “You ignore me for the whole day and then come out here like I’m some sort of escaped pet that needs to be chastised and leashed? It’s hardly my fault there are people who actually enjoy my company at this party, who might actually want me.”
“How dare you-”
“Now there’s no need for all this, chaps-” He’s ignored again in favour of Tiger tightening his grip, Miles’ eyes flashing with defiance.
“Get off me, you beast! Unhand me! I- Oh!” There’s a brief struggle, Miles attempting to snatch his wrists away from Tiger’s grasp, and Ginger stands there, awkward and rather useless, watching as Tiger hoists Miles over one shoulder as though he weighs no more than a bag of apples. Screams turn to laughs, and he averts his gaze as Miles’ hands drop indecently lower than they rightfully ought to, over Tiger’s back and down- down to- Well. Tiger marches up the steps and back into the party with his prize, and Ginger is once again alone.
There’s that same feeling in his chest, settling there like a heavy little stone as he trudges his way back toward where the car is parked, lighting himself another cigarette. The same feeling as when he watched Adam run after Nina earlier in the evening, a look of adoration painted on his face. Something he can’t quite put into words, but that hurts to think about. Jealousy is a disease.
-
“Where has Ginger got himself off to?” Adam drapes his jacket over her shoulders, rubbing his hands over her arms as they search for any hint of their ride back to civilisation. “We’ll simply be stranded without him - Oh Adam, imagine having to spend the night here of all places. How absolutely beastly!”
There’s a long streak of something leaning by Ginger’s car, and Adam leads Nina towards it carefully, praying vehemently that it’s him, so they can get away from this godforsaken county. It is indeed Ginger, who’s shuddering out the last drag of a smoke, looking positively shaken . Clearly London just wasn’t for him. Maybe he should go back to the uncivilised tropics, leave society to those who knew what they were doing.
“Hullo Ginger. Had a good party?” None of the spite comes through in his voice.
“Um, well … Yes. Yes, I suppose I have. There are some alright sorts here.” Adam can tell he’s distracted by something, eyes wide and gaze fixed out into the darkness, but Nina doesn’t seem to notice or care. She gives a little shiver, lips set into a moue that Adam knows will melt any resolve to stay until the party’s demise.
“Ginger, do let’s get back now, I can’t stand to be here a moment longer.”
“Alright then, I suppose.” With that they pile into the car, and Adam feels the engine start beneath them, a jumping growl that slows to the purr of a kitten. Ginger’s eyes flick over them in the backseat, Nina curled into Adam’s lap, still wearing his jacket over her satin frock. The car bumps out of the field and onto the country lane.
“That cove Miles, you know, he’s awfully queer …”