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Howard had spent all of three days in Denmark before he realised the beauty standards of London were far different. He had run from about five different pretty women he thought were trying to mug him before realising they were actually trying to pick him up. Every time he stepped into a bar for a drink after a long day acting, at least one gorgeous Danish woman would walk over to him. He couldn't walk into a coffee shop without someone slipping him their number. It was quite nice, he had to admit, he imagined this was how Vince experienced the world. Through a stream of phone numbers, winks, and casual caresses.
Tonight was no different, well, it was slightly different. It was the four week mark of Howard Moon being an actor. Which meant it had also been a month since he had been home, since he had seen Vince.
He stepped into a bar, hoping desperately for this to be the one night he could have a beer on his own. However, about five seconds after he had sat down and ordered, a woman with short dyed black hair and a rather shockingly red dress sat next to him. He glanced up, hoping it was the only available seat. Unfortunately, the bar was all but empty.
He sighed quietly, thanking the bartender for his drink.
Howard managed to drag his eyes off the wood grain of the bar and look up at her. He was met with bright blue eyes, somewhat obscured by a dark fringe.
For a moment he could have sworn some cruel God was playing a trick on him. He was halfway through his friend's name before he noticed the softness of her features. The fullness of her cheeks, and how her nose barely lifted off her face. She was stunning, by any means, but he felt her face was missing something.
She smiled, her teeth were perfectly straight and a shiny white. Her slender fingers picked up her martini glass, she brought it up to her lips and drank. When she placed the glass back on the table Howard noticed the dark stain of her lipstick left behind.
“You are English, no?” She asked, crossing one leg over the other and leaning close to him. Her actions would have been innocent enough for a much louder bar. However, Howard swore he could have heard a pin drop in that place.
“Uh, yes. Yes I am. From Leeds.” He managed to stutter out. His face flushing red as he fumbled over his words. He was well aware she’d mistake it for flattery.
“You’re very good looking, for an Englishman.” She smirked, resting her chin on her hand.
He nodded simply, wondering how on earth he would get out of this. He was debating telling her he was a monk when he felt a warm hand on his forearm. He froze, staring into his undrunk beer.
“I’m married. Very married. Have been for years. Married” He squeaked out. “Your offer is… kind, but I’ll take lonely tonight.”
He hoped she did not question his lack of a ring, but he thought marriage was easier to explain than trying to detail, in broken Danish, his unrequited love for his roommate.
“She doesn’t have to know, she isn’t here. You don't want to be alone, do you?” The woman leaned closer, whispering to him now.
“I- I won't deny I hate being alone. Even so, I know regret in the making and I’ve got a girl, she has my heart. Although I am… hungry and tempted, I’m sorry, I'm not gonna bite.” He tried to shrug her hands off him. He didn’t know why he was so determined to get away. She was just his type. Interested.
He knew damn well Vince was probably out partying right now, he didn’t want Howard. So what the hell was he doing? When would he ever get an opportunity like this again? What is life for but to shag, drink, and dance? He knew teenage Howard Moon would kill him for this, too. He could practically picture himself getting beaten to death by his lonely university self.
She tilted her head, she probably didn't understand half of what he was saying, he was talking so fast.
“I should go,”
“Stay, please.” She purred, tightening her grip on his arm.
“I already told you. I have a wife! She has my heart, half a continent away.” He stood, but didn’t step away. He couldn’t convince himself.
“If she is so far away, why does it matter?” She whispered softly.
“Because… I swore to her. That’s what marriage is.”
“You cannot possibly be so in love with someone who is not even here.” She said, pulling him back into his seat.
“Have you heard the Greek story of Odyseuss? He wasn’t strong enough to resist the song of a siren, so he forced his fellow sailors to tie him to the mast so he wouldn't betray his wife.” He explained, gesturing wildly. “And Jesus! He spent forty days and forty nights standing his ground when the Devil tried to break his fast.”
She leant closer, almost entirely ignoring every word he said. She had wrapped an arm around his neck.
“If any of that is true anyway,” He mumbled, flustered. He chuckled awkwardly and waved off his words. He was moments, seconds even, from giving in. What did it matter anyway? Vince wouldn’t care. He should just go with her.
“If that is true, the Devil should have offered him you.” He whispered, Howard knew he wasn’t talking about this woman in front of him. He knew who he was talking about. That's why he couldn’t go with her.
Godammit.
He pulled himself away from her entirely, standing up and stepping back. He slammed $20 on the bar and turned away, walking quickly out of the bar and down the street.
The cold air was harsh against his red cheeks. He pulled his corduroy coat tighter around himself as he walked aimlessly down the streets. He made it back to his hotel and retreated quickly to his room, throwing off his coat and scarf and kicking his shoes halfway across the carpet. He dropped onto his back in his queen sized bed, staring up at the ceiling.
Soft, gentle features made their way into his head. Her calm voice, her red dress. He tried to avoid thinking of dark fringe over blue eyes. Of loud laughter and bad singing. Or jacobean ruffs, mirrorball suits, the roof of the Nabootique on his birthday. Especially not that. He wanted to stop thinking about hair straighteners, fashion, Cheekbone magazine, drainpipe pants. He wasn’t to think of light roots and dyed black hair, Gary Numan, statement necklaces, sequins or glitter, hairspray or eyeliner. He definitely couldn’t think of the Zooniverse, or Mrs Gideon, Mick Jagger, the wilderness, the arctic tundra, the jungle, the planet Xooberon or coconuts. New wave, Goth, Punk, Mods, and even Jazz were all out of the question too.
There wasn’t a damn thing he could think of without his mind trailing its way back to Vince Noir. Not even Jazz.
He needed to go home. To Dalston, London. To his tiny room with that stupid shop underneath, where he was overworked and underappreciated. Where he would have to see Vince come home late every night, half the time with some androgynous random hanging off his arm. That was better than being here, alone.
He’d call Jurgen Harbourmaster in the morning.