His eyes grow round with horror. “You don’t have money for…”
“My fees. No. Looks like you’ll be taking that master’s on your own.” I shake my head. “What am I going to do? I have no job at the moment. I was covering someone’s maternity leave, and she’s back now. I can get a temp job, but paying off those cards will take forever. I have nowhere to live, and I’m going to have to leave uni.”
My dreams are in tatters, but I don’t add that dramatic bit.
“You can stay here.”
“No,” I say quickly. “No, I can’t. We’re not mates. I can’t impose on you.”
He shrugs. “We’re not mates, but maybe we could be. You’re the least annoying of everyone at uni.”
Incredibly, I laugh. “Thank you for the fulsome praise.” I lie back on the sofa and close my eyes. “I don’t know what to do, Julian.”
There’s a long silence, and I feel myself sinking into the soft sofa, feeling weariness and depression tug at me.
His voice is so soft when he speaks that I almost don’t hear him. “Can I tell you something?”
I force my eyes open. He’s watching me, his face set and eyes busy with calculation.
“You can tell me anything,” I say with honesty.
“Promise me you won’t tell anyone else,” he says, and something about both the fierceness and vulnerability in his voice touches me.
“I promise,” I say, meaning it. “You can trust me.”
He relaxes at what he sees in my face. “Aren’t you wondering how I can afford to live here?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Not really. Wondering about you has been a bit low on my list compared to homelessness and a credit score that’s now lower than a fucking aardvark’s.” I sit up. “But now you mention it, I am a bit curious. Do your parents own it?”
“Hardly.” His lips twist into a naughty smirk. “I’m a whore.”
three
The silence is absolute in the room for a few seconds. I’d feel less shocked if he’d brained me with a brick. I shift on the sofa. “Sorry? What did you just say?”
Maybe I misheard him.
He shrugs. “I’m a whore.”
Nope. No mishearing.
I hesitate. “Should you be saying that?” I finally say tentatively. “It’s a bit of a derogatory word.”
He stares at me. “Are you actually sitting there telling a whore that he can’t call himself that?”
I shrug. “Well, yeah. It’s not very nice. What about sex worker?”
“What has niceness got to do with me taking dick for money?” I snort, and he adopts a thoughtful look. “I don’t like sex worker. It makes me sound like I have a clocking-in card.” His eyes twinkle. “Maybe I have a cocking-in card. How about calling me an escort if your sensitive nature hates the word whore?”
“That’s a bit better.”
“I can’t tell you how relieved I am about that. You know I exist to calm your mind.”
“You seem to exist mainly to be snarky,” I say honestly, and he laughs. My lip twitches at the unexpectedly merry sound.
His face turns serious, and he edges closer. “I want to say something, but I’m not sure if I should,” he says in a hushed voice.
“I bet that’s a rare occurrence in your world.”
