Page 112 of A Night with Damien Spur

‘Okay, I hear you,’ Damien muttered.

Look at him casing the joint for another sucker, said the Voice.

Then Aidan waved at Silver Sneakers and she waved back.

There you go, said the Voice.Toldyou so.

The prayer circle was about to start.

‘Come on, Mr High and Mighty, give me your bloody hand,’ Aidan said. ‘I’m sure I have a better party list than you have.’

‘If you don’t shut up, I’ll shove my fist in your face. Now get lost,’ Damien hissed through clenched teeth.

That’s it, you tell the little shit where to get off, said the Voice.I don’t think we should stay. I mean, heh, it’s meant to be a serenity circle. Let’s go.

Chapter 36

Damien had kept the faith. Nine months clean. No drink, no drugs, day at a time. He avoided tipsy lunches and the cocktail crowd.

Stayed home most of the day. Save for his morning glory. Up at seven, shorts on, ready to run along the river path.

Out of body, out of mind, flying high, into the Zen zone, where there were no words to disturb his peaceful, painless journey. He wasn’t lonely.

Writing in the Sandwas a big hit. Top of the bestseller list and a critical success. Added to which, the film was in production.

Damien was ready to move on.

He looked at his face in the mirror and ran a hand across the shadow of stubble along his jaw.

Shave, Damien, said the Voice.

‘On reflection, I think you’re right.’

Damien enjoyed the ritual of a traditional shave. He whistled as he dipped the badger brush into the basin of warm water and swished it in a dish of rose geranium soap. Next, he swirled the suds round and round along his jawline, after which he slid the cut-throat razor in gentle upward strokes through the bristly stubble. Finally, he splashed his face with Creed Vétiver, his favourite aftershave.

He brushed his hand across his smooth skin.

Better, much better. You’re getting there. Well done, Damien, well done, said the Voice.

A white shirt, navy Armani trousers and Lobb shoes. He was good to go.

Lunch today with Justin Baird at Scott’s Mayfair restaurant. Excellent fish and seafood. Very sparkly, classy and a great place for gossip with the literati.

When Damien arrived, Justin was already at the desk.

‘No tables outside, but anyway I’m sure you don’t want the paps on your tail.’

‘Why not?’ Damien said. ‘Come on, Justin. Nobody who’s somebody comes here to dine incognito.’

‘Oh well, it’s cooler inside and no car fumes,’ Justin said.

Damien’s eyes swept across the room, clocking the clientele, as the maître d’ showed them to their tables.

Who’s Who artsies, money merchants, Ascot hats eating oysters and Dover sole, washed down with vintage whites and fine champagne.

The looks and whispers thrilled him.

Yes, here I am. Back after my sabbatical. Risen out of the ashes.

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