 
### Fifty Shades of Neigh

## The International 'Erotic' Bestseller just got 20% cooler

### A Parody

### by

### Anna Roberts

###

###

###

Fifty Shades of Neigh: A Parody

Copyright © 2014 by Anna Roberts.

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

The author acknowledges the copyright of My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic. Twilight Sparkle, Rarity, Fluttershy, Pinkie Pie, Rainbow Dash and all of the other ponies mentioned in this book remain property of their respective owners. Please do not make porn of them, because it is gross.

### Introduction

This book is a parody of E.L. James sort-of-original novel Fifty Shades of Grey, which in turn started out life as a Twilight fanfiction entitled Masters of The Universe. This tends to lend a strange, wheels-within-wheels quality to this book, so it's probably best not to think too much about the meta unless you like giving yourself headaches.

I first read Fifty Shades of Grey in the late spring of 2012 and spent most of the summer with my mouth hanging open. It was a wild thrill ride of a book, full of precipitiously dangling participles, epithets that had been not so much transferred as extraordinarily rendered, and vast sweeps of text in which nothing happened at all.

Despite the quality of the writing Fifty Shades of Grey broke publishing records. The dissection of this cultural phenomenon will probably outlive the book itself as publishing houses scramble to make it happen again. Was it the power of viral marketing? Was it the lure of 'sexually explicit' content? Or is the find/exchange function of Ms. James' computer imbued with powers of marketing voodoo that advertising executives would murder to lay hands on? (There's a plot for all you budding Dan Browns out there.)

It's probably safe to assume we will never know. What we do know is that in a short period of time, Fifty Shades of Grey has spawned so many knock-offs they have almost become a subgenre – skinny girl meets rich but damaged guy and cures his issues through the power of repetitive, poorly written sex. In spite of threats of actual physical violence and long, circular conversations about nothing, our heroine sticks with Mr. Rich and Complicated through thick and thin (Mostly thin – like I say, they tend to be skinny.) in the hope of that she will Change Him.

This is one of the main reasons why Fifty Shades of Grey is such a depressing book. The central theme, such as it is, is that if you put up with all the nasty things your weird pervert of a boyfriend wants you to do in bed then eventually he will stop being a weird pervert and become the magical, hand-holding, skipping-through-daisies boyfriend of your dreams.

It's profoundly depressing that a book that's been relentlessly sold as empowering and liberating is essentially about a young woman tolerating sex acts that she doesn't particularly like and would prefer to do differently.

Even more depressing is the abusive nature of the central relationship. He treats her like property to be beaten whenever he feels anger and she treats him like a psychological puzzle that she can heal through the magic of love, which is an effective enough recipe for misery even when you're with a man who doesn't threaten you with violence when you attempt to pay for breakfast. (Totally happens, by the way. Chapter twenty-four.)

When you are with a man like Christian Grey, this kind of a relationship is a recipe for more than just misery. It's a recipe for hospital visits, restraining orders and in the worst-case scenario, a sad, toe-tagged trolley ride to the morgue. Totally happens, by the way \- at least twice a week in the UK alone.

There are many other smaller ways in which Fifty Shades of Grey is a depressing book. It's depressing for fans of Thomas Hardy or sixteenth century choral music, or for whatever gorgeous cheekboned Hollywood creatures are going to have to attempt to utter lines like "Why do some people like cheese and other people hate it? Do you like cheese?" without going into some kind of existential tailspin about the whole nature of their profession.

For me as a writer, the existential tailspin set in around the first line of page one of Fifty Shades of Grey. This was a book that made the English language scurry under the bed and start hissing like a cat threatened with the ironing spray bottle. When combined with recycled cardboard characters and a vague stain of a plot, the butt-ugly prose was enough to send this writer scurrying under the duvet with a large bottle of mother's ruin and no plans to emerge any time soon.

So, for various reasons - the main one being my liver and the fact of only having one of said vital organ - I decided not to do that and instead opted to cheer myself by writing this parody. I hope it jollies you up a bit too.

### Bronies – A Brief Glossary of Terms

Brony – An adult male fan of My Little Pony: Friendship Is Magic. Bronies tend to fall into the '18-35 year old male demographic' so beloved of television executives. Nobody knows exactly what Dark Arts were employed to make a cartoon for pre-teen girls so appealing to this coveted group but a great many chickens and goats have been sacrificed in search of this secret.

Brohoof – A fistbump between bronies.

Clopping – Brony slang for masturbation.

Rule Thirty-Four – According to the unwritten Rules of the Internet, Rule Thirty Four states that 'If it exists, someone has made pornography of it.' This is why you need safe search on even while Googling something as seemingly innocent as Care Bears or Thomas the Tank Engine. You can probably figure out for yourself how that applies to My Little Pony – and yes, it is every bit as horrible as it sounds.

### Chapter One

### Are You Gay, Mr Neigh?

It's Monday. I wake up in a bad novel, shower and hurry to the mirror to describe myself. My hair has dried in a weird shape and I'm supposed to be studying for finals but all I can think about is how my blue eyes are too big for my face and my nose is too small. Damn Katherine Hannigan for subjecting me to this unspecified ordeal - this was supposed to be her interview, but she's come down with the flu just to spite me and so I'm going to have to go and interview this Crispian Neigh guy. Me - mousy, skinny, long legged, full-lipped me. I don't even know what to say to a man.

Kate is lying on the couch, self-medicating with a cocktail of blended Scotch and Nyquil. Even with pink edged nostrils and eyes to match she is still more attractive than me.

"Shit, what happened to your hair?" she coughs. "You look like a Bee Gee."

Is that a sex thing? I don't know. She's more worldly than me too, although not as deep, obviously. "Kate, I don't think I can go through with this \- I don't know the first thing about interviewing people."

"Hanna, let's be honest," says Kate, sitting up and wiping her nose. "You don't really know much about anything. In fact, it's safe to say if I didn't know any better I'd say you'd been raised in a Skinner box." She holds up a hand. "And yeah - I know - you don't know what that is either."

"I'm not good with men," I whisper, biting my lip. "I don't know what to say to them."

Kate sighs, exasperated. "Look, I wrote you a list of questions. You walk into the room, shake his hand, say 'Hi, I'm Hannelore Squeal from the student newspaper,' and try not to faceplant, assplant or fling yourself through a plate glass window, okay?"

"It is for me. I'm so hideously uncoordinated..."

"...like that chick from the teenie vampire books. Yeah. We know, Hanna - we know. You should probably get that looked at - maybe it's some kind of inner ear thing."

"But I don't know anything about Crispian Neigh," I plead. The words 'inner ear' bounce around inside my skull like an annoying narrative device, as yet ephemeral but soon to be given flesh, form and hula skirts. Probably. Every time I say the name 'Crispian Neigh' out loud I feel a ripple of foreshadowing and have to sit down with my head between my knees.

"I wouldn't do this for anyone else but you, Kate," I say. "You're my dearest friend - a strong, determined, beautiful, independent woman..."

She waves a hand and picks up her phone. "Hanna - save the plastic sisterhood for your book club or your travelling fucking pants or whatever. Can you just go now please?"

As I walk out the door I hear her say "Hey shitlord, what up? Yeah - she's gone." She laughs throatily, so brave in spite of her illness. "Bring the bong...I know right? Can you believe people spent the Nineties dropping this shit? – the comedown is a bitch."

She's so sassy. I love her. She's so tenacious that I know she will make an amazing journalist, even if she is annoyingly pretty in that blonde, obvious way that men seem to love so much.

I drive to the headquarters of Crispian Neigh's global enterprise. It's a building so large that I need to consult a thesaurus to describe it. After lengthy consideration I settle on 'edifice', replace my well-thumbed copy of Roget's in the glovebox of Wendy, my trusty VW Beetle, and walk trepidatiously (nice) through the soaringly high glass doors of the steel and glass edifice.

Well, I say walk. Actually I fall. I don't even get six steps across the polished sandstone floor before I trip over my own feet and skid, face down, to an ungracious halt in front of the expansive semi-circular reception desk. Which is also sandstone, by the way. White sandstone. (In case you were wondering.)

"Oh my goodness. Are you okay?" When I look up a blonde head is peering over the edge of the desk at me. The blonde head is attached to a blonde woman and her body is dressed in the sharpest suit and whitest shirt I have ever seen in my life. She is immaculate – Stepford perfect. Her hair is really tidy too.

"There's a sign," she moues apologetically, pointing to the wall behind me. I turn and look and see a yellow sign reading WARNING - FLOOR MAY BE SLIPPERY.

"It's okay," I murmur, getting to my feet. "I'm always falling over."

"Oh," she says, blinking her heavily mascaraed eyelashes at me. "Is it an inner ear thing?"

I try not to glare at her and wonder speculatively if blondes like her and Kate have some kind of hive mind thing going on. "No," I say, trying not to sound snippy. "It's a minor character trait."

She quirks a well-groomed eyebrow. "Looked pretty major to me," she says. "If you'd slid any faster you'd have cracked your skull on the desk. Are you here to see someone?"

I draw myself up to my full five foot six (Most of which is in my legs - I have disproportionately long legs. It's probably why I'm always falling over and my lankiness is probably why men find me so sexually unappealing, especially when I wear a short skirt.) and say, "Yes. I'm here to see Crispian Neigh."

"Okay," she half-sneers. "Go take a seat. What did you say your name was again?"

"Hannelore Squeal," I say, flushing scarlet. "My mother likes European names."

"You're not on the list, Ms. Squeal." She trails the tip of an impeccable black enamel fountain pen down the page as she reads; I suppose at least she doesn't move her lips too, although she's probably trained herself not to do that, so as not to wear away her lip-gloss too quickly.

"I'm here for Katherine Hannigan," I explain. "The journalist. She can't make it \- she's sick."

Little Miss Stepford curls her lip. "Some journalist."

"What do you mean?" I ask, immediately defensive of Kate. Kate is my best friend, even if she does make me do her interviews for her when she knows I'm not good at conversation, or social cues, or anything that isn't curling up with a book really.

"Well, you know." The receptionist shrugs padded shoulders. "I thought the whole deal with journalism was to 'Cover the story,' even if you're being shot at, chased by the government, sued by Scientologists or just in a self-induced chemical funk so terrible that you're seeing giant reptiles slithering all over the blood-drenched carpets of a fancy Las Vegas casino bar, but...you know. Whatever. I'm sure Ms. Hannigan knows what she's doing, careerwise."

I don't like her. "Can I have a glass of water?" I ask.

"There's a cooler," she says, pointing.

I glare and go to get up, but she waves me back down. "Yeah, on second thoughts stay put," she mutters. "I don't want you walking on that floor - you're a lawsuit waiting to happen."

"I'm sorry to be so much trouble," I whisper, staring at my shoes. My face is aflame and I want to die.

When I look up, Miss Stepford catches my eyes and laughs - the kind of bright, merry, carefree laugh that only a blonde can produce. "Oh honey," she chuckles. "You're so not sorry - you're not sorry at all." She lifts the phone on her desk. "Still or sparkling? Ice or no ice?"

Opposite me, the elevator doors ding open. She replaces the phone without dialling as two men step out of the elevator, one tall, handsome and African-American and the other white, short and somewhat pudgy.

"You gotta keep active, Neigh," the African-American is saying. "Keep up the movement and you'll be back on the golf course in no time."

As he speaks I realise that the other man is none other than Crispian Neigh. I get to my feet to introduce myself, trip over the strap of my satchel and faceplant at his feet.

"This is Ms. Squeal," explains Miss Stepford. "She's filling in for Ms. Hannigan, from the student newspaper."

He looks down at me. Holy crap, he's so young. He can't be much more than twenty-five. He's wearing a Hawaiian silk shirt open over a Gadsen flag t-shirt that reads DON'T FRIENDZONE ME. He's cute, kind of quirky. He wears one of those grey fedora hats with the white pin stripe, with unruly copper coloured hair and bright brown eyes that regard me shrewdly. It's the strangest hat I have ever seen.

"Hi," he mumbles, holding out a hand and helping me up. "I'm Crispian Neigh; I have ethnic friends."

"Dude, I'm not your friend," says his companion. "I'm your proctologist, although I guess I can see where the confusion occurred. I mean, we're kind of intimate in a...you know...kind of way." He raises two fingers in an inexpressively expressive gesture that I don't understand, being as sexually naive as I am. He nods to Crispian Neigh and says; "Just keep applying the medication. And please try to lose weight."

"I'll see you on the golf course!" says Crispian Neigh, as the doctor walks away. "They let them now, you know," he tells me. "Play golf. Like Tiger Woods."

The receptionist lets out a little groan under her breath. "Oh my God," she groans. She's obviously in love with her boss. He is strangely captivating - I can't explain it but I feel mysteriously drawn to him.

Crispian Neigh smiles at her. His smile is wonderful - thousands of dollars worth of orthodontics must have gone into making him average looking. "Hey Olivia," he murmurs, his voice husky and oh so sexy. "Is that a new bra you're wearing? Your breasts look perkier than usual."

She stares at him for a moment and bites her glossed lip. "Did you just neg me, you asshole?" she snorts incredulously.

"I've got two words for you, sweetie," he says, his voice as silky as his shirt.

"Unemployment. Line." He holds up two fingers, one after the other, to emphasise his point. His fingers are oddly eloquent and I can't help up but thinking about them fumbling up my...oh my. My inner ear stirs and I have to steady myself against the edge of the desk. I wasn't prepared for him to be so dominant, like a young Mitt Romney.

Olivia simpers, bats her eyelashes and smoothes her impeccable twist of blonde hair. "Yeah, well I've got three little words for you, Cris," she says.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. Sexual. Harassment. Suit." She bares her veneers in a grin. "Now, in case you didn't notice, your two o'clock appointment is right here. Take the elevator - I wouldn't advise making her walk. She's got some kind of inner ear thing."

It's a character trait, I start to say, but Neigh has grabbed my arm and pulled me into the elevator. The doors shut and I realise the depth of my predicament - I'm alone, in a moving metal box, with a man. An attractive man. A rich man. Not that he wouldn't be attractive if he wasn't rich, of course. I'm not interested in money.

We stare straight ahead, determined not to look at one another. He lets out a small, soft huff of laughter and out of the corner of my eye I see the ghost of a smile dance at the corner of his mouth. "What is it about elevators?" he says, more to himself than me. I'm sure that I hear the faintest, barely imperceptible poot as the elevator carries us, with terminal velocity and no understanding of physics, to his office floor.

"This is us," he says. The door opens, but too late. The barely imperceptible poot is now all too perceptible.

His office is enormous. The giant glass windows look out over Seattle, at the Space Needle, Puget Sound and other stuff I'll look up on Wikipedia when I have the time. The walls are white and the floor is carpeted in pale grey. It's as bland as Crispian Neigh isn't, with his loud shirt and flamboyant hat. The only other colourful thing in the room is a collection of tiny, square, pastel coloured paintings, all arranged in a larger square. They are of little glyphs, like wingdings or weather symbols - I see a cloud, a rainbow, a sun, but then there's an apple and a star. They're oddly childish, and surprisingly well described, leading to me to wonder if they're a plot point.

"Chekhov's Gun?" I murmur.

He's behind me, staring over my shoulder at the paintings. His nearness is tantalising; when he speaks I can smell his chewing gum - cinnamon. "No," he says. "Q.T. Marx."

"Do you know anything about art, Miss Squeal?" he asks. His voice is precise, clipped on the t-s and oh so slightly adenoidal. I am conscious of him as a persuasive and forceful man who will not be interested in me if I admit that I don't even know who Q.T. Marx is. I blush, and feel perspiration run down the nape of my neck, a tepid trickle of shame and inadequacy.

Why would you even want him to be interested in you? whispers an italicised voice inside my head. You don't even know how to masturbate.

My blush deepens to crimson and I want to die - I didn't even know my subconscious knew that word.

"Please, take a seat," says Neigh, gesturing with a courtly sweep to a long, l-shaped white couch that I had previously neglected to describe. "I was expecting a Miss Hannigan."

"She couldn't...come," I stammer. "She's sick. So there's only me."

He removes his fedora and quirks an eyebrow. "Yeah. I can see that," he says, curling a lip in an impressive display of facial gymnastics. "Do you cut your own hair?"

I barely suppress a tiny whimper. His eyes are boring into me, as if he can see my thoughts, see through my clothes and...oh my. The thought of him seeing through my clothes is...oh...distracting. And strangely...alluring. Exciting...dot...dot...dot...

I catch my breath and take the list of questions out of my satchel. "Um...so I'm supposed to, like, ask you stuff."

His lips curl in a sardonic smile. "That's generally the idea of an interview, Miss Squeal." He leans back in his chair and assesses me with a scrutinising look, a look that rummages up my sweater and under my skirt and into my...oh my. I'm flushing again - I can feel it. "So..." he says. "Fire away."

I switch on Kate's mini-disc recorder and look at the list of questions. It may as well be written in Chinese for all the sense it makes to me. I realise I am desperately out of my depth. I'm not pretty, or confident enough.

Or smart enough to ask a simple question.

What?

Nothing. Carry on.

I shake off the annoying italicised inner voice and try to compose myself. "What is it that you do, exactly?" I ask.

Neigh frowns slightly, but his expression is otherwise unreadable. Inscrutable. Impassive. Yes...impassive. "I'm an internet entrepreneur?" he says, raising his voice at the end of the sentence, as if only the stupidest person in the world could be expected not to know that.

But he's right. He's absolutely right. "I'm sorry," I whisper, unable to keep the cracking squeak out of my voice. I am overwhelmed with my own inadequacy. "I'm stupid." It comes out in a whine but I can't stop and before I know it I'm squeaking "Stupid, stupid, stupid!" in front of this incredibly rich and powerful man.

"Oh God," he says, getting up from his chair. He takes hold of my hands and I am immediately seized with a strange, icy calm. "There," he murmurs. "Just breathe. Slow and steady. It's okay...hey, what did you say your first name was?"

"Hanna. Hannelore."

"I think I'll just call you Hanna, if that's okay with you."

I nod. "I'm sorry," I say, my voice like ashes. "I don't know what came over me."

"It's okay," he says, softly. His hands are cool and gentle. There are tiny thin crescents of orange under his fingernails and I find them oddly touching, a moving sign of human frailty. "You have absolutely no self-esteem whatsoever, do you?"

I shake my head and swallow hard.

"Bingo," he mutters. He gets up from the couch. "You want a soda or something? \- don't worry, I'll make yours a diet."

He brings me a sugar-free energy drink, which is more than his blonde lackey downstairs ever did. He takes the list of questions from me and puts on a pair of chunky, red framed designer glasses. "Let's see," he says, scanning the list. "Okay - you can tell Miss Hannigan that there's no way question eleven is any of her goddamn business."

Question eleven? Oh. Yeah. That one.

"So, are you gay, Mr. Neigh?" The words just fly out of my mouth before I can stop them. He's right - it's nobody's business, but somehow I have to know.

He removes the glasses and I have no idea how one person can be so poised, so stylish. It's like he's observed countless panels of comic books in order how to convey expressions through motion alone.

That or he's a secret mime. Oh God. I hope not.

"No," he smoulders. "I'm not gay, Miss Squeal." He leans close. "Although I am...unusual."

"Oh," I wibble. "Are you...are you trying to seduce me, Mr. Neigh?"

He straightens up. "No. Just foreshadowing." He glances at the list again. "Okay, so how about I just go through these questions and e-mail you the answers? Actually we could have done the whole interview online anyway - I don't know why we didn't. She could have just Skyped from her sickbed."

I shrug. I don't understand either.

"So what's your e-mail address?"

I stare blankly at him. "I don't...um...I...I read a lot of nineteenth century literature."

"Good for you," he says. "But it's 2012. Do you mean to tell me you don't have an e-mail address?"

"No, I don't have a computer."

His frown deepens. "Aren't you part of the graduating class? I'm supposed to be speaking at the graduation - your graduation."

"Yes. I just got my Bachelors."

"What did you write your dissertation on?"

"Oh...um...Classic British novels." I like Classic British novels. Like Shakespeare. And Thomas Hardy.

"No, I mean on," says Crispian Neigh. "Like physically. What did you write on? Papyrus? Vellum? How do you go through four years of higher education in the Twenty First Century without owning a computer?"

"I...don't know," I say. Honestly, I don't. "I'm just not good with technology, I guess."

He looks me up and down. "Wow," he says, and I don't think it's because he's impressed.

"I guess I'm not that worldly," I murmur.

"Innocent," he verbs, a finger on his lower lip as he gazes speculatively at me, making me blush. I feel funny.

I bite my lip. I'm not sure, but I think his gaze grows more heated. Oh my.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" I whisper, my voice a tiny mouse squeak in the back of my dry throat.

"It's what I do," he purrs, his voice gravelly and cool, like an ice-cream dropped on a sidewalk. He gives me a long, assessing look and straightens up. "So," he says, in a conversational tone. "Are those all your own teeth?"

### Chapter Two

### Guys And (Pony) Dolls

My heart is pounding. I am so agitated that I stand poetically in the rain and indulge in a whole two paragraphs of repetitive introspection before getting into the car. No man has ever affected me in the way that Crispian Neigh has. Is it because he's courteous and attentive and the only man to ever pay attention to me or is it because he's really really rich? I have a strange fizzy feeling in my panties and I don't understand it.

When I get home, Kate is feeling much better.

"Just fucking die already!" she hisses, through clouds of sweet smelling smoke. Our friend Jesús is sitting next to her on the sofa, both of them hunched over video game controllers. The room resounds with the mashing of buttons and the moans of computer game zombies.

"I'm back..." I say, feeling more insignificant than ever. Did someone really pay attention to me for a whole forty minutes? Normally I just fade into the background, like now. They don't even look at me.

"Hijo de puta," says Jesús. He's ethnic. His second name is Rivera. "Get him, get him..."

"Get the axe, Jesús - the fucking axe!"

"Excuse me," I murmur. "I'm back. Excuse me?"

The screen goes red and Kate slumps back in her seat, throwing down the controller. "Oh hey," she says, spotting me at last. "How was the interview?"

Oh great, she's just going to interrogate me now. "I don't want to talk about it," I say.

"Okay." Kate reaches over the arm of the sofa and brings out a tall plastic cylinder. There's a little metal funnel sticking out of the side of it and this she burns with a cigarette lighter, before putting her mouth to the top of the cylinder and breathing in all the smoke.

"What's that?" I demand. Sometimes I worry about Kate - she has a lot of boyfriends and goes out a lot. She has moodswings too. I saw a thing on CNN once - I think she might be doing drugs.

"Cold medicine," she says, in a high, breath-held voice. She passes the thing to Jesús. "So what happened to you? Did Crispian Neigh try to stick his hand up your skirt?"

"I said I didn't want to talk about it."

"Bullshit, Hanna. I know you. When you say 'I don't want to talk about it' you want us to all kiss your boo-boos and tell you everything's going to be okay."

Tears well in my eyes. "Why are you being so mean to me, Kate?" I whimper.

She sighs. "It's like this, Hanna - you know those Twilight books you love? You know how there's that one blonde vampire Bella hates - the one who's ultimately only there to voice the author's opinion on abortion and babies?"

"Rosalie," I say.

"Yeah. Rosalie. I'm like that. I'm kind of like Rosalie, only I smoke a fuck of a lot more cheeba."

"Dios mio," says Jesús, who is Mexican. "It's come to this already? Cheap meta-tricks?"

Kate shrugs. "What can you do, man? Have you read the original? It pretty much parodies itself."

"What's Jesús doing here?" I ask.

"I have a cold too," coughs Jesús. Holy crap - Kate must be really contagious. His eyes are already red.

I'm so confused. Why did she ask me to go and do the interview when she knows I can barely cross the street without causing a traffic accident? Why is it that I was born in 1991 but don't know how to use e-mail? What the hell is Skype? And why the fuck does my no-no place feel all tickly?

Jesús and Kate are staring at me.

"I didn't say all that out-loud, did I?" I say, flushing scarlet.

"No." Kate shakes her head emphatically. "No. No-no, even."

"Fine," I huff, irritably. "When you're all done with the third degree I'm going to go off to work. At my job. Which I have."

"Well done you," says Kate, picking up the plastic tube again. "Maybe this evening you can call your mom, in case any of the readers were unclear on the fact that you're some kind of placental mammal."

"Thank you, yes. I'll do that."

When I get back from my job at the toystore I call my mother, who lives in Florida. There is a continent between us and yet she still manages to gross me out. She has three 'husbands' and lives in what she calls a 'anarchobisexual-polyamorous collective.' I don't know what that is, but she sends me a lot of macramé potholders.

"Have you met a boy, Hanna?" It's the first thing she asks me.

"No," I murmur down the phone. "Yes. Maybe. I don't know. Anyway, it's not important. Are you coming to my graduation?"

"Umm...uh...well..."

"So that's a no?"

"Honey, it's complicated - Uncle Chet and Uncle Tate are going through something together and it's a very delicate situation. It's taken Chet a long time to get over his internalised homophobia and realise the importance of the root chakra within a loving and consensual relationship. They really need our support right now."

I hold the receiver away from my ear and stare at it for a moment, as if it might provide some physical clue as to the meaning of the strange sounds coming out it. "I don't understand," I say.

"I know you don't, poopkin. Sometimes I wonder how you ever came out of my yoni."

"What's a yoni?"

"Hanna, baby - I have to go. I have crystal healing in half-an-hour and you called right after Uncle Bob had finished making love to my anus. I must shower."

So must I. I shower and dry my hair and put on my nightclothes and get in my bed under the covers. When I sleep my dreams are full of strange pastel-coloured glyphs, five dollar striped fedoras from Target, and other stone obvious references to what happened in chapter one. I wake up confused and needing to pee.

***

I work at a small toystore. I used to work at a hardware store but they fired me after I tripped over the hem of my jeans and landed with my face less than half an inch from the blade of a large circular saw. The saw wasn't running or anything but I'm told it could have easily cut my head in two, so I agreed to leave. The manager was very nice about it, and wrote to his friend Mr. Claypole, who runs the toystore. He even gave me a reference.

I feel safe in the toystore. There have been accidents, like the time when I fell over a nickel someone had dropped on the floor of the stockroom, or the incident when I nearly removed my spleen with a boxcutter, but on the whole a toystore is a good place for someone as big-eyed, long-legged and winsomely uncoordinated as me. I can sit and check off the inventory in the soft play area and Paul Claypole even found me one of those padded helmets designed for children with epilepsy or behavioural difficulties.

Paul Claypole is the owner's son. I think he likes me, and he's very kind, but I want someone dark and mysterious, someone who has secrets and a dark past. And money. Maybe. Not that money is important to me. No.

I am eating a bagel for my lunch (They don't let me have cutlery - not even plastic.) when I am suddenly conscious of a mysterious presence. Thinking it might be ghosts, I look up and see a pair of chocolate brown eyes blinking inquisitively at me.

Holy crap. Neigh.

"Well," he says. "Fancy seeing you here."

I scramble out of the ball pen and remove my head-guard. My bagel sinks to the bottom of the pen, as forgotten and unloved as a bad extended metaphor. There it will linger for at least two weeks and probably constitute a health hazard and grounds for litigation. "I work here," I quiver, my heart going ten to the dozen.

"Cool," he mutters, adjusting his fedora. "Do you always have lunch in the ball pen?"

His voice is melting and tender, like sous vide chicken breast with a fontina cheese sauce...or something.

"Oh yes," I say, my knees trembling dangerously. I wish I hadn't removed the headguard - I'm in severe danger of falling and braining myself on the corner of the nearest shelf. And my hair looks weird. "I do inventory there too. It's not so bad once you get used to the smell of child pee."

"I see," he murmurs, looking directly at my lips. Oh my. The strange tickly feeling is back - I think I might faint.

"Can I help you with something, Mr. Neigh?" I fumble, tripping over my words. My hands are clammy and my underpants aflame. He's a man, a man! I've never talked to one of those before, well...except for Jesús and Paul Claypole and a bunch of other guys but they're not romantic and sexy and fascinating and...

... _and filthy stinking dirty rich._

What?

Nothing.

Who are you?

Italicised voice inside your head. Nothing to worry about. Carry on.

Crispian Neigh removes his hat. "There is something I want," he says, with peculiar emphasis. His eyes are all smouldery. Unf.

"Yes," I gibber, meeting his sensual gaze with reluctance but also with a strange stirring deep down inside places I have never explored before. I was never much for spelunking.

"And I suppose you can figure out for yourself," he whispers. "That I always, always get what I want."

"Yes, Mr. Neigh," I blither. My underpants feel funny.

"I'm a very wealthy man, Miss Squeal," he pouts. I try to answer him but when I open my mouth the only thing that comes out is a sort of long drawn out 'Ahhhhnnnnn' noise.

"So," he says, closing my mouth with his forefinger. "I want you to find me the Rarity's carriage playset."

I nod and take him to the pink aisle, the little girl's toy aisle. "This one?" I say, taking a My Little Pony from the shelf.

Oh no. His gaze has turned cold. He pinches the bridge of his nose with his fingers \- his perfect fingers with those delicate orange crescents under the fingernails - and sighs slowly. "I said Rarity, Miss Squeal," he says. "This is obviously Twilight Sparkle."

"I'm sorry." I want to run away and asphyxiate myself in the ball pen. I wonder how much self-harm I could inflict with a toy lightsabre. "I don't understand."

"I know you don't," he says, and it's like the bright, dark moon coming out from behind a cloud. His voice is fragrant with meaning again and I'm basking like a dizzy drunk lizard in the chocolate sun of his beautiful eyes. He's a God, an Adonis. He's the most exquisite male animal I've ever met in my life and I want to have his fucking babies.

I may as well admit it to myself - I quite like him.

"You're innocent, Hanna," he murmurs, standing so close that I can smell his pungent, plangent male musk. It's like cinnamon and woodspice and all things nice. "You're innocent and unspoiled. Not like those shallow sluts who only want me for my money. You're not even wearing make-up, are you?"

I shake my head. Every time I try to put it on I end up looking like a drunk clown. I'm so bad at everything.

"I came looking for Rarity," he whispers, mysterious as the misty Andes or the far away Islets of Langerhans. "Maybe I found her."

I try to talk but I just end up making the Ahhhhhnnnnnn noise again. He closes my mouth again, this time with a peculiar tenderness. "Here," he says, handing me a business card. "My cell number. Call me."

He takes the toy from the shelf and sweeps off towards the checkout, leaving me breathless, bereft, bemused - and somewhat alliterative. He's so freaking hot.

He's so freaking rich.

Shut up, Italics. Who asked you?

When I get home, Kate is standing in front of the mirror in the hallway, wearing her graduation gown and posing, a rolling pin standing in for her sheepskin. "What do you think?" she says, smiling. "Teeth or no teeth? I have this recurring nightmare that I'll stress eat at the buffet, eat a bunch of broccoli quiche or something and my graduation photo will feature a big glob of green shit between my front teeth."

She smiles at the mirror again, this time with her lips closed. "Ugh. And that looks smug as hell. Maybe I'll just take my chance with the arugula and Photoshop it after the fact."

"Kate," I say, still quivering with confusion. "I need to talk to you."

"Okay," she says, taking off her cap. "What's up?"

"He was at the toystore."

"Who?"

"Him. Crispian Neigh."

She looks annoyed for a moment and then begins to giggle. "What was he buying in a toystore? No...no...don't tell me. Star Wars? Was it Star Wars collectibles? Figures he'd be into something like that."

"What do you mean?" I ask, my face hot and my bowels hotter. "Something like that?"

"He's a nerd, Hanna. He's like King of the Nerds. As soon as he made his first million he dropped like a hundred thou at auction on some piece of yak hair that comprised the original Chewbacca's original ass. You know Scarlett Johanssen? You know how fucking hot she is? Well, she didn't even blip on Crispian Neigh's radar until she started doing those superhero movies. Then he was like 'Oh, Scarlett - call me. I fucking love you and shit,' and she was like 'Er...yeah - thanks but no thanks, Cheeto-fingers.'"

I'm screaming before I even know it. He called her? Another woman? A beautiful woman? A blonde? "Shut up!" I yell, freaked to the foundations by the idea of Crispian being dragged into this world of vulgar gossip and rich sluts who only want him for his money. "You shut the fuck up, Kate - you don't know him! You don't care about him!"

I'm crying but Kate has pressed the handle of the rolling pin under the tip of my nose, squishing it up like a pig's nose. "Hey," she says. "Don't make me use this, Hanna. Jesus Christ, what the hell is eating you lately?"

"Nothing," I sniff, pushing away the rolling pin. "I just...he can just call up Scarlett Johanssen."

"Oh my God, you like him?"

I turn away and hide my face, ashamed of my own existence. "I'm a mousy brunette in a world of hot blondes..." I manage to say.

"Look," says Kate, her hand on my shoulder. "Hanna, you've got to get over yourself. You're kind of mousy, maybe, but that's nothing a little confidence won't cure. And see someone about the inner ear thing, maybe?"

I sob all the harder. My life is a tomb - black and cold and full of dead things. And bats. Probably bats. And maybe some kind of rising damp.

"Hanna, stop crying," says Kate. "You're not that bad. Actually, when you're not falling over, bleeding from the nose or screaming crazily about sluts you're...you know...you're kind of pretty."

Okay, so maybe not rising damp. I sniff hard and turn back round to face her. I don't feel pretty. I'm red in the face from bawling and I still have weird hair from the padded helmet they make me wear at work. "I am?" I say.

"Sure. You're hot. You're a hottie. Once you get those split ends cut off and learn to use eyeliner properly you'll be fucking fierce. And obviously, you know, stop dressing like the back room in an Amish rummage sale."

I shake my head. "It's no use. He'd never look twice at someone like me."

Kate sighs. "What the hell did that shitlord say to you to make you feel like this?"

I swallow, my throat like a lump of iron. "He said 'Call me'."

Kate folds her arms and narrows her eyes. "He said what?" she says, her voice soft and dangerous.

"He said 'call me'," I say, and hand her the card. "And he gave me this."

She takes the card, exhales slowly and says, "Give me your phone, Hanna."

I take my phone out of my macramé purse and hand it to her. When she begins to dial I panic. "No, Kate, what are you doing - what are you doing?"

She holds the rolling pin aloft over my head, and by the look in her eye I don't doubt that right now she would use it. Why am I always surrounded by crazy people? With her other hand she holds the ringing phone to her ear and while I want to scream, I'm conscious that she's about to smack me quite hard over the head with a heavy lump of wood.

To my utter astonishment, when she opens her mouth to speak the voice that comes out is mine. "Hi," she says. "It's Hanna here - you said I should call you?"

"Kate?" I hiss.

She gives me an evil look and adjusts her grip on the rolling pin. "Okay..." she continues, in my voice. Oh crap - do I really sound so Wisconsin? "Yeah...okay. That'll be great. I'll see you there. Bye."

She hands me back the phone. "You have a date," she says, thin-lipped. "Tomorrow. In the Starbucks near the Heathman. He wants to have coffee with you."

"But...I hate coffee," I say. "I prefer tea."

Kate makes a low, long hissing sound, like air escaping from a tire. "You know what it is, Hanna," she says, slowly. "You're perfectly okay looking. In fact, with the right clothes and make up you'd be a knockout. The bigger problem is that you're an asshole."

### Chapter Three

### Mess Of The D'Urbervilles

That night I dream of rare ponies, dark, deep places and suspiciously large vegetables - cucumbers in particular. I shake off the clumsy symbolism and, rising from my bed, realise that today is the day I'm supposed to be going on a date with the billionaire Crispian Neigh.

Holy crap, I'm so nervous. What if my hair won't behave? It's bad enough that I'm not pretty or blonde or forward or any of the other things that men like, but I don't even know what to do before I date? Do I have to wax...things? I don't know how to do that.

I make a cup of tea and stare into it morosely. Kate comes into the kitchen in her underwear - skimpy crop top and tiny panties. She looks glossy and blonde and shiny, like she walked out of an advertisement, like everything I will never be.

"You're narrating out loud again," she says, giving me a dirty look as she takes the orange juice from the fridge. "And I don't care to repeat myself. Put on some lipstick, shave your hoo-ha and suck it up, buttercup - you're not the first woman to feel insecure and you won't be the last."

"But I don't know what to..."

Kate scowls. "Stop thinking about it, Hanna. I know you - you'll work yourself into a goddamn stew, flake on the guy and then cry for a month, and there is not enough weed on the whole West Coast to get me through a solid month of your bullshit. Just...finish your tea, take a shower, read your mail or something - just chill."

She takes her orange juice and walks away. I take her advice and go through my mail - mostly junk, but there's a letter with the University crest on the envelope. Maybe they're giving me some kind of special award for my work.

I open the envelope and squeal - there's a check for over eight thousand dollars. Eight thousand! I must have won a prize. I knock on Kate's door but she tells me to go away, so I'm left to myself to decide what to do next. Maybe I should go and buy some new clothes, or maybe Kate will come and pick out clothes for me?

No, the proper thing to do would be to call the English Department and thank them for the money. So that's what I do. I call Professor Jarrett at once and speak to her assistant.

"I don't understand what I've done to deserve this," I say. "But thank you - thank you so much. Now I won't feel so bad having coffee with a billionaire. Well, tea, because I don't like coffee..."

"Wait," says the assistant. "Miss Squeal, did you read the letter? We're reimbursing your tuition."

"I know! It's wonderful, thank you so much!"

There's a mumbling at the other end of the line. "Becky," someone says, in an undertone. "I don't think she understands. You'd better talk to her."

"Hannelore?" Professor Jarrett calls me by my full name. She's so proper and British. "This is Professor Jarrett - do you understand why we're reimbursing your tuition?"

"Um...because I won some kind of scholarship?"

Professor Jarrett sighs down the phone. "Oh dear," she says. "Look, I think you'd better come in. Probably best I speak to you in person."

"Can it be this morning? I'm having coffee with a billionaire this afternoon."

Another sigh. "Yes, Hanna. Can you be here by eleven?"

I like Professor Jarrett, even though she's blonde. She's over forty though, so that cancels the blondeness out. When I enter her office her expression is serious - worried, even.

"Hello Hanna," she says. "Please sit down."

For an English Professor, she doesn't have that many books in her room. And a lot of them look new. I thought people like her lived in places full of old books, with leather armchairs, like the library in Beauty and the Beast. But without the dancing cups and teapots, obviously. Because that would be weird.

"Hanna, do you have any idea why I asked you to come here today?" she asks.

"Because the department gave me a check for eight thousand dollars?"

She nods. "Yes," she says, slowly. "We reimbursed your tuition. Hanna, there's no easy way to say this, but you started out your senior year on academic probation and went downhill from there. To be honest I have no idea how you got that far - you are quite possibly the most illiterate student I have ever had the misfortune to teach."

Everything sounds so smart in her language. She speaks with the accent of Shakespeare, Austen and the Bronte sisters. I picture fog in the streets of old London town, of cricket on the village green. One day I will go there, and become one of them - I'm way ahead already \- I love tea, I'm really smart and I have off-white teeth.

Professor Jarrett quirks an eyebrow. "Hanna, are you even listening to a word I'm saying? Please try and pay attention - this isn't pleasant for me. I'm very fond of your mother and I know it's not easy for her to come to terms with your...difficulties."

"Difficulties?" I say. "I don't have any difficulties. I love classic British novels – this is totally my thing."

"Oh dear," sighs Professor Jarrett, taking a binder out of her desk drawer. "That's as may be, Hanna, but loving them is not enough to get a degree in English Literature. You also have to understand them."

"I understand them. Sometimes I think books are the only thing that understand me."

She sighs again. "Ye-es," she says, and opens the binder. "There was this thing...on Tess of the D'Urbervilles...I somehow don't think you grasped the central theme of the novel. Or the plot. Or the characters. Or the context. Or the subtext...or any of it, really."

"No, I did," I murmur. "She has a choice between a dark, secretive man who is brooding and sexy or a man who is nice and fun but kind of boring."

Professor Jarrett takes out a sheet of pink paper and I recognise last year's essay on Thomas Hardy. "Right, no..." says Professor Jarrett. "That's not Tess of the D'Urbervilles, Hanna. Tess of the D'Urbervilles is the one where an innocent country girl is raped and made pregnant against her will, exposing her to social ostracism and the cruelty of double standards concerning male and female sexual behaviour."

"She wasn't raped," I quibble. "He fed her strawberries and was sexy in a dark and brooding way." I wonder if Starbucks will bring us strawberries if we ask for them? And will he feed them to me? Oh my. "Where does it say she was raped?"

Professor Jarrett takes off her glasses and rubs the bridge of her nose. "It doesn't, but it's obvious. Did you somehow miss the part where he is shoving those strawberries in her face, forcing her to eat from his hand? He invades her personal space at every opportunity and she hates it. Didn't you realise that in every single scene where Tess and Alec are together she's uneasy, unhappy or crying? Thomas Hardy wrote it that way on purpose. It's not like he goes easy on the subtext, Hanna – I'd expect a high school student to grasp this, but a college junior..."

I try to protest, but Professor Jarrett holds up a hand and takes out another one of my essays. "And then there's this," she says. "Jane Eyre." She puts her glasses back on and reads from the page. "'In my opinion Jane should not have over-reacted in the way she did but instead stayed with Mr. Rochester - that way she could have married him when he was, if not conventionally hot, then at least sulky and brooding. Her punishment for spazzing out at the altar was that she had to marry him when he was all gimpy and blind, and perhaps if she had stayed she could have prevented the conflagration, because she was good at fighting fires.'"

She looks over her glasses at me. "I mean, really," she says. "In a way I had to give you something for using the words 'gimpy' and 'conflagration' in the same sentence, but I don't think you really understood the book."

"I did," I kerfuffle, offended. Her blondeness is coming out. "She's mousy and he's rich and brooding. And she gets him because he can see her inner beauty and because she's not intimidated by his broodingness."

"Or bigamy," adds Professor Jarrett. "Look, Hanna – it's not just the fact that you didn't seem to understand a single book we studied over the past four years. It's also that you continually failed to hand in work that conformed to the department guidelines - typed, double spaced, one side of the paper..."

"I always made it look nice!"

Professor Jarrett shakes her head. "Yes, using pink Hello Kitty notepaper you liberated from the toyshop where you worked. There was one extraordinary essay - I think it was The Mill on the Floss - where you decided to zhush things up with silver pen and experimented with dotting your i's with smiley faces. Wasn't really what we were looking for, Hanna. In over three years you never once turned in a satisfactory bibliography with any of your essays. If you can't understand why we failed you then..."

My head feels numb. "What do you mean? Failed?"

"I mean failed. I'm sorry, Hannelore, but you failed college. We kicked you out two semesters ago - that's why we're reimbursing your tuition. Didn't you know?"

"But...I'm smart," I whimper, my whole life an open wound bleeding out before me. "I'm a brunette. I'm deep and I like to read classic British novels."

Professor Jarrett groans. "No, you're not. Trust me. You're really not."

"I am! Books are in my bones and my blood, like clutziness or biting my lip..."

"That may be, but it doesn't matter how you feel – what mattered is that your work met a certain standard, and it didn't. I'm very sorry."

"You're not," I spit back at her. "You're never sorry. How could you be sorry? You're blonde."

She frowns. "I beg your pardon?"

"You're just naturally vacuous. So of course you're going to go along with the shallow, academic, mainstream interpretation of these books. You don't have the depth to feel them."

She rubs the bridge of her nose. "Because of the colour of my hair? Is that what you're saying?"

"Yes."

Professor Jarrett sighs deeply enough to suck all the air out of the room. "I don't mean to be rude, Hanna, but have you ever heard of a thing called the Dunning-Kruger effect?"

"There you go again," I snort. "All this stale, academic crap means nothing. What matters is how books make you feel, not what they mean. I'm a very intense person, Professor Jarrett, and I relate to great literature. I know what it means to find yourself the object of a man's desire, to question why he might ever want a dark haired, serious-minded girl like yourself over someone livelier and prettier and more...obvious. I know how that feels."

"Super. Unfortunately you still completely missed the point of Jane Eyre..."

"I really didn't. I don't think I'm the one with a problem here. I just don't think you understand men."

"Don't I?" says Professor Jarrett, pointing to the door. "Well, in that case it's a mercy that I married a woman, isn't it?"

"Well that," I say, gathering up my bag. "Explains everything."

I rush to my car in tears. I want to go home, home to hug my thesaurus and console myself with the prolific extent of my exhaustive vocabulary. I am smart, I tell myself. I am smart. It's not my fault that blondes hate me.

There are dumb brunettes too, you know.

You shut the hell up, Italicised voice.

And I've known some redheads who'd be hard-pushed to count their own buttocks.

This really isn't the time...

You, however - whoo-whee. Where do I even start?

Great. Now my internal monologue hates me. I want to go home but it's nearly noon, nearly time for me to meet Crispian Neigh for coffee. I'm crying and the mascara I so inexpertly applied is streaming down my face in sad little grey tributaries. (Seriously, would a moron know a word like 'tributaries'? I think not.) My nose is streaming and swollen, making my red eyes look even piggier. I've never looked so bad.

I repair the damage as best I can with a wet wipe and drive to meet Neigh.

How's that work?

\- How does what work?

You. Driving. So far you've glissaded across a lobby floor, tripped over a satchel strap and nearly shanked yourself with the heavily padded corner of a toy-store shelf. And we're supposed to believe that you not only passed a driving test but are somehow allowed behind the wheel of a car?

\- I don't know, okay?

### Chapter Four

### Teabagging and Other Sexual Disappointments

The voice is silent as I park - expertly, I might add - and step out of the car. I walk gingerly to the elevator of the parking garage, hurt and puzzled by what has already proved to be a traumatically horrible morning. There must be some kind of mistake, but I have no more time to think about it because Crispian Neigh is waiting for me outside the coffee shop.

"Good morrow and well met, Miss Squeal," he says, tipping his hat. I'm immediately touched by his courtly, impeccable manners and in his presence I begin to feel, if not exactly safe, then at least nervous and discomfited in a way that's nicer than the way I was feeling nervous and discomfited before he showed up.

I'm close to more tears as we enter the coffee shop. He buys me tea and a blueberry muffin and I don't know what to say. My whole world is collapsing around my ears and for the first time I feel alone and afraid. Is it possible that I'm really not that smart, that I'm some kind of delusional narcissist? I dip my teabag in the hot water and remind myself that I was a gifted child, and that gifted people are always misunderstood and vilified for their greater intellects.

"What are you thinking, Hannelore?" he queries, his bright brown eyes fixed on me. He sits ankle on knee, the cuff of his pants riding up to reveal a rainbow striped sock. I think of lesbians, and reasons why they might hate me.

"Oh, just...stuff," I murmur, hesitantly. "I think about stuff a lot."

"Me too," he says. "Stuff preoccupies me from one end of the day to the other."

The twin ghosts of a smile haunt the corners of his mouth and I frown at him.

"Are you making fun of me, Mr. Neigh?" I ask.

"No," he says, holding up his hands, open palmed, as if to offer proof of innocence. "I wouldn't dream of it. You seem a little off - anxious. Time of the month?"

I sniff hard and get a grip of myself. "You know how you asked what I wrote my dissertation on?" I whisper, leaning across the table. "Like, what kind of paper and stuff?"

He nods. I feel the words building inside me and there's no way I can not say them.

"I wrote it on pink Hello Kitty notepaper I stole from the toystore. I wrote it in silver pen and dotted the i's with little smiley faces but they don't like that and now they're not going to give my degree and I am in so much trouble and my professor hates me because she's secretly in love with me and my whole life is basically fucked." I pause for breath. An odd little whooping sound comes out and I start to cry again. This wasn't supposed to happen.

Crispian Neigh arches an eyebrow. "I see," he says, taking a sip of his hazelnut latte. He regards me thoughtfully for a moment and says "You know, Hanna - I'm a very rich man."

"I know that."

The italics stir. They say nothing but start humming, maliciously and with intent.

He nonchalantly inspects his fingernails. "I have relatively inexpensive hobbies. My time is the most precious thing to me and I'm always looking for satisfying ways to fill it..."

Oh. He's doing it again - the sexy voice. The italics are humming 'Hey Big Spender'. I hate them.

"I guess what I'm saying," he says. "Is that I can help you, if you don't mind helping me."

"Helping you with what?"

"Just...filling time." His gaze is steady, his face impassive. He's so freaking hot. I wish he wasn't. I don't even know what he's proposing but he makes me feel better. "I can make them give you your degree."

"You can't do that for me," I mumble, staring at my uneaten muffin. "It's too much."

"Not at all. It's just my way of saying how much I could come to value the pleasure of your company." He leans close and smiles the most sensual smile I have ever seen. "Quite innocent, I promise you."

My heart sinks and my panties droop. Oh. Of course he wouldn't want me in that way.

"Can I eat your muffin?" he asks. "You haven't touched it."

I push it towards him.

"Don't look at me like that," he says, breaking off a piece. "I'm a philanthropist. I've made countless charitable donations to academic institutions - this isn't much different."

Great. I'm a charity case. Just when I was beginning to admit to myself that I like him. I'm nothing more than an object of pity.

"I have to go," I say, trying to rise from the chair with unimpeachable dignity. Unfortunately the hem of my skirt has caught under the leg of the chair and dumps me right back down in the seat, as if he were some kind of immovable force I can't resist. Maybe Kate was right - maybe my fashion sense is kind of Amish.

I wrangle my skirt loose from the chair and eyeball the slippery cafe floor. It's maybe ten or twenty feet and if I concentrate I can make it across without a pratfall, but how can I concentrate when he's looking up at me? He's so handsome, so generous. His eyes are amused as he chews sedately on my muffin - no doubt he thinks I'm a silly but fascinating creature, bound to his whims by the bright chains of his enormous fortune.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Neigh," I say. "But I'm not for sale."

I sweep out of the coffee shop. Someone says 'ow!' as my purse smacks them in the ear, but I keep moving, my eyes blurred blind with tears, running towards the elevator.

He's right behind me. He darts into the elevator before I can stop him.

"For the love of God," he says. "I'm just trying to help you, Hanna."

"But I don't want your help!"

He sighs. "Don't think of it as help - just think of it as me setting things to rights. You earned that degree. You worked for it - for four years, right?"

I nod and wipe my nose. "I guess so."

"You guess so? It seems pretty straightforward to me. Besides, how many honorary degrees do universities give out to dumb celebrities who have never even cracked a book? They do it all the time. Come on - I'll walk you to your car."

I take his arm and walk obediently towards my ancient rustbucket of a car (How did he know it was mine? Was it the 'Honk if you love regressive bestsellers' bumper sticker?). Suddenly, from out of nowhere, a microscooter comes tearing across the parking garage. For a moment I am transfixed, like a deer in the headlights, and there is a strange moment of suspended animation as I stare into the eyes of a little boy - maybe nine or ten. He's going too fast and he knows it. He's grinning like a goblin and every aspect of his mien says 'Imma gonna run you down, lady!'

Neigh pulls my arm and, uncoordinated as ever, I tumble backwards and then, oh God, oh sweet merciful God - I am in his arms.

He's gazing down at me, looking at my lips. Oh holy crappity poop fudge and other eight year old swear words - I think he's going to kiss me. And whatsmore, I want him to. I want to feel his mouth on me. I want to feel his tongue reaching for my uvula, trembling over my bicuspids. It occurs to me that he probably still tastes like my neglected muffin and the thought gives me a strange tightening sensation deep down in my...oh my.

Kiss me, I think. Kiss me. I mentally implore him but since he's not telepathic he doesn't understand me. His gaze moves from my lips to my eyes and with the shift of his gaze comes a subtle change of expression, a new, steely-eyed, square jawed resolve.

"I'm sorry," he says, his eyes hooded by the shadow of his five dollar fedora. "But maybe this was a mistake."

"What?" I splutter. My heart feels like a withered sack of disappointment, like a Christmas balloon at New Year - wrinkled, sagging and deflated.

He helps me to stand upright. "It's complicated, Hanna," he says, looking more brooding and sultry by the second. "I'm an unusual man, with unusual desires and interests. Maybe you're just not...singular enough to cope with the truth."

"I so am," I protest. How dare he? I'm unique. Everyone says so. Everyone I meet says they've never met anyone else like me.

"Stay away from me, Hanna," he smoulders. "I'm bad news. At first I was captivated by your innocence, but now I wonder if I have the right to destroy it."

He turns and walks away. I rush after him but the strap on my purse chooses that moment to break, scattering tampons and loose change all over the ground. "You get back here," I yell, but the elevator door is already closing. "Get back here and destroy my goddamn innocence right now!"

I am shouting at a closed door like a crazy woman. I gather up the tampons, money and lip gloss, the dried out mascara tubes coated in that peculiar sludge common to the bottom of handbags - a mixture of face powder, pulverised till receipts and the greasy residue left on coins by hundreds of sweaty, strangers hands. I want to get up, but my legs won't work. It feels like there's a huge hole in the centre of my chest, and I curl around it, curl in on myself, weeping hot angry tears, perfervid and bereft.

Why didn't I pay more attention to other boys? Jesús tried to touch my ass at a barbecue once, and Paul Claypole told me I was pretty. They're not mysterious and brooding and rich like Crispian Neigh, but I bet all the girls who settled for not-Crispian boyfriends never found themselves crying alone in dark places.

Yeah. Those dumb bitches. Forming happy non-dramatic relationships with sensible adults. They'll never be as picturesque and enviable as you, will they, Hanna?

Oh great. The italics are back. And now they're sarcastic. That's all I need at the moment.

You don't want to know what you need right now. Fuck-a-duck, girlfriend - will you take a look at yourself? You've gone foetal in a parking garage because a billionaire didn't kiss you on a first date. First world problems much?

\- Jeez. Why can't I have supportive inner voices that act out silly little cut scenes with cheerleader pom-poms and belly dancer oufits?

I don't dance. Also, you're a twitchy cardboard wretch and I hate you.

\- So you're not my Inner Goddess?

Unfortunately for you, I am. Now get up and grow up before I manifest as a symptom of untreated schizophrenia and make your day a whole lot worse.

This is terrible. I walk to my car and get in, feeling as though I have a gun held to my head.

"My life is over," I say, aloud.

Unfortunately for me, it's only just beginning. You could live to be a hundred. Almost eighty more years in your head – doesn't bear thinking about.

\- You can always leave.

No can do, I'm afraid. I'll just have to try and amuse myself one way or another. Oh well – at least I have narrative perks.

\- What do you mean?

Omniscience. I see things that you don't.

\- Such as?

Well, you know that spot where you were curled up acting out the break-up scene from Twilight: New Moon? Well, I happen to know that around 10.45 this morning a crazy old hobo came and sat by the concrete pillar two feet away.

\- And what does this have to do with anything?

Bear with me. At around 10.50 a security guard came down and told the hobo to move on. The hobo walked two feet from the pillar, pulled down his pants and bent over. He then prised his cheeks apart with a noise that was distressingly similar to Velcro, and revealed his unwiped anus in a high spirited display of contempt. This guy was old school, right down to the bottle of methylated spirit and the lice infestation. Then, while he still had his pants down he decided to compound the insult by pissing on the concrete. Where he was standing. Two feet from the pillar. Right where you were composing your tepid Twilight fanfiction. Exact same spot. You were lying in hobo pee.

\- I take a deep breath. And you didn't think to tell me this?

Like I said, I kind of hate you.

### Chapter Five

### The Drinkening

I want to tell someone about what happened with Professor Jarrett, but I can't tell Kate and the one person who might be sympathetic has pulled some crap about how he's too mysterious and freaky for poor little vanilla me. So there's really only one reasonable thing to do when you have eight thousand spare dollars and your whole life has gone to hell.

"JELL-O SHOOOOOOOOOOTS!!!" yells Kate, holding a tray aloft. The Greek house boys have already soaked her down with beer and I can see her bra - such as it is - through her wet t-shirt. "Come on Hanna," she semaphores, waving a shot glass under my nose. "Tastes like candy and gets you wasted super fast - what more could a girl ask for?"

I hesitate for too long for Kate's liking and she and Jesús pounce on me. "Down. The. Hatch. Down. The. Hatch," they chant.

"But guys, I might get drunk," I say.

"Bull," snorts Kate. "You've had five margaritas and you can still speak in sentences."

"S'true," nods Jesús. "I totally understood that last thing you said. And you had champagne."

"Oh my God, you did," says Kate. "Like, two glasses. Holy shit, Hanna - I think we might have found something you're good at." She grabs my hand and raises it in the air like I'm a boxing champ. "Lindsay Lohan eat your heart out – meet the woman with the cast iron motherfucking liver!"

"Seriously?" queries one of her fratboy friends. "That skinny little Amish chick?"

"I'm not Amish..." I start to say, but Kate passes me another shot. "Yeah," she tells Fratboy. "She's on like, rumspringa or something. I'll bet you forty bucks she can swallow more of those Jell-O shots than you."

"Forget it," says Fratboy. "I'm not drinking those fucking girl-drinks."

"Oh yeah?" I say, a little thickly. I feel awesome. Crispian Neigh is such a fucking dick. I don't need him. "What do you consider an appropriately manly drink then?"

"Beer," he says. "Let's see you chug a pitcher, little girl. Down in one."

"Come on man," says his friend, a big guy with a square jaw. "She's like a hundred pounds wet. You can't make her chug a whole pitcher on her own."

"Try me," I say. "I've had a bitch of a day."

Kate whoops. "Holy shit you are the best drunk, Hanna. Jesús, why didn't we get her fucked up before? She's hilarious."

The pitcher is passed through the crowd to me. It looks about the size of my entire torso and for a moment I wonder if I'm up to the challenge, but then I look at Fratboy and remember my hatred of all things male. Now I think about it he looks kind of like one of the Cullen brothers from Twilight - not the big one, but the other one, the one who always looks sort of constipated.

I can barely lift the pitcher, but Kate and Jesús take some of the weight. Beer streams down my chin and my blouse and after a few swallows I realise this is going to be tougher than it looks. I need to breathe but the beer just keeps on coming, and my belly feels uncomfortably tight. Chug. Chug. Chug. Oh God - I'm so going to throw up.

"Chug it, Hanna!" screams Kate. "You're nearly there. You're nearly there!"

I want to move my head from the lip of the pitcher. I want to breathe. How nearly is nearly? It's going on forever. I'm going to have nightmares about beer for the rest of my life.

And then it's over. Kate holds up the pitcher like a football trophy. "IN YOUR FACE, SHITLORDS!" she howls. The room is spinny but I think I can hold my head up. Ha. I did it. I'm the world's greatest drinker.

"Gotta pee," I say, and head for the ladies room. At least, I think it's the ladies room. I'm halfway through peeing when I realise I forgot to take my panties down. Oops. Now I will smell of urine, which is so not sexy. Not that I want to be sexy, because men are terrible, but smelling like pee is not an option. Maybe I can wash them? They've got like an air dryer and stuff. Yeah. That would work.

I take off my panties and wring them out (Gross, I know.) then holding them tight in a smelly wet ball, I open the stall door and go to the sink. I squirt handsoap on them and then drop them into a sink and run the water. I'm drunk, but I am totally confident and in control. Yeah - how'd you like them apples, Mr. Neigh?

Thinking about him makes me giggle for some reason and I take out my phone. I've dialled his number before I can stop myself.

"Hey Mr. Neigh," I singsong.

"Hanna?"

"Hey Mr. Neigh. Are you gay, Mr. Neigh? Wanna come play, Mr. Neigh?" I crack me up.

"Are you drunk?"

I manage to stop laughing long enough to catch my breath. "Little bit. Just a little. Just doing some...laundry."

"Stay put," he says. "I'm coming to get you."

He hangs up on me and I stuff the phone into my bag. I don't need him. I'm a strong, independent woman. I'm in total control of my life, wringing out my underpants in the sink of a nightclub toilet.

Kate comes in. "Hey, are you okay? How much have you barfed already?"

"Haven't barfed at all," I say, proudly.

She looks over my shoulder into the sink. "But you peed yourself."

"Not on purpose."

"Hanna, go and get some air - no, leave your pissy panties."

"I'm going to dry them," I say. "On the hand dryer."

"I'll do it," says Kate. "Just go and get a breath of fresh air - you seriously need to throw up right now. You might get alcohol poisoning if you don't."

I go outside. The fresh air goes straight to my head and I stagger back against a wall.

"Hey Hanna. You wanna smoke?"

The voice comes from below me. Jesús is sitting with his back to the wall, smoking one of his loose, handrolled cigarettes.

"No thank you," I say. "And you shouldn't sit there. A hobo might have peed there and you wouldn't know."

"I know dude," he says. "But like...my legs don't work any more. So there's that. You sure you don't want a toke? You were a fucking champ in there, man."

"Stop calling me man." I hiccup and taste a little bit of sick at the back of my throat. "I'm a woman. I'm a strong, independent, liberated woman."

"Dude, you're not liberated," coughs Jesús. "When Kate was grinding on that guy's leg in there you were clutching your pearls like crazy. You're like the least liberated woman I know - you dress like Michelle Duggar and probably don't even own a dildo."

The booze has made me pugnacious. "There is nothing wrong with the way I dress. And for your information, I'm not wearing any underpants." I shout the last to the parking lot and start laughing wildly. Jesús starts laughing too. He grabs the hem of my skirt. I try to swat him away but his hand slithers up my skirt and grabs the back of my thigh.

He's laughing and tickling me behind the knees. "Come on, Hanna - you can't say a thing like that without showing a man the goods."

"Get off me!"

"No, come on - it'll be fun. Wanna get fingerbanged? I'll eat your pussy right here in the parking lot..."

"Jesús, quit it!"

"Come on \- I'm fucking awesome. You'll love it – I got a tongue like an iguana..."

"I believe the lady said no."

Oh my God. It's him - Crispian Neigh. He steps out of the shadows, his fedora pulled low over his eyes. He peers out from under the brim, his face impassive. I wish I wasn't so pleased to see him, but I am. He has the most extraordinary effect on me.

"Are you okay, Hanna?" he murmurs.

I gaze into his eyes for a moment and realise I'm in trouble. I should never have mixed beer, margaritas and champagne.

Jesús, kneeling at my feet, takes the brunt of it. As I fall to my knees I can hear him screaming ("It's in my fucking hair!") but that's the least of my worries right now. My head feels like a novelty garden sprinkler - it's coming out my nose and mouth at the same time. It feels like vomit is shooting out of every hole in my head, even my eyes and ears. My stomach is trying to flee the scene and my liver has filed for divorce. Oh dear God, will it ever end?

"...there are chunks!" howls Jesús. "Fucking chunks! In my fucking hair!" He begins to retch and reels away from us, gagging and clutching his belly. I think it's slowing. Oh God, please let it be slowing. I'm onto little dry heaves now. I might even be able to breathe again soon.

"Well, I hope you're pleased with yourself, Hanna," says Neigh. His foot is tapping away some twelve inches from my head.

"I'm sorry," I say, wanting to die. This is the most embarrassing moment of my life. I try to think of a worse one, but all I can think of is when he didn't kiss me - it's the only mortifying incident of my life that compares. Not even that time I called the bus driver 'Daddy', or that time in swimming class when I was six years old and needed to go poopy - and I thought I'd held it in, but when I reached to pick a wedgie a little brown pebble fell out of my bathing suit in front of the whole class. Yes, even more embarrassing that that. Seriously.

"Let's get you out of here," snaps Neigh, getting me to my feet.

"Bleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeugh," I barf, in weak assent. Oops - thought the chamber was finally empty. Guess not.

"I can see you need a man to take care of you," he says, taking my arm and steering me away from the most recent puddle. "Luckily for you, I am an old fashioned gentleman."

"I'm sorry," I gurgle. "I'm so not..." Oh dear. More? "...not a lady." I'm a sad, drunk slut who washes her underpants in public toilets and throws up in parking lots. Oh my God - my self-worth is in my shoes. I want to die. I actually want to die right now because Crispian Neigh will never, ever love me. And that's not just the booze talking. I mean it. I'd say it sober too. I - Hanna Squeal - an educated, emancipated twenty-first century woman, want to actually fucking die because a rich man I don't even know will never love me. This is real. This is insane.

I start to cry uncontrollably.

"Get in the car, Hanna," he says, and bundles me into the back seat like a sack of sick-spattered potatoes. Then I know nothing more, because I pass out. I dream of dark pits, skin lotion and apricot toy poodles named Precious.

### Chapter Six

### Legends of the Sascrotch

I wake in unfamiliar surroundings. The bed is warm and comfortable and the room is understated and ornate, with swagged curtains and gilding kept to a tasteful minimum.

Rococo, I think. Or at least some kind of gay nineties baroque revival.

\- Oh God. You again.

Yes, me again. Do you want to get into the Art Deco influences at work on the headboard or shall we perhaps deal with the fact that you've been kidnapped?

Kidnapped? Oh my. My Inner Goddess is such a drama queen...

That's rich, coming from a woman whose snatch dribbles like one of Pavlov's dogs every time Crispian Neigh so much as breathes in her general direction.

\- Will you shut up for five minutes and let me recap what happened in the last chapter?

Inwardly cringing, I remember what happened on the last page. Holy crap, I'm so ashamed. It was everywhere - Jesús was covered in chunky bits. What did I do before that? Everything's a blur.

Lemme fill you in, Hanna. You drank two glasses of champagne, five margaritas, numerous Jell-O shots and an entire pitcher of beer. Then you pissed your panties and tried to wash them in the sink of the Ladies' room...

\- Oh my God. I'm not wearing any panties. I'm not wearing anything except for my bra and an unfamiliar t-shirt. Where are my shoes? Where's my skirt?

... _yeah. Beginning to see the problem here?_

I sit up and catch sight of myself in the mirror opposite the bed. I have never looked worse. My hair looks like a hobo sat on it. I smooth down the t-shirt to examine its design and see a pony staring back at me \- a pink one with big eyes. Then I remember the toystore, the pony aisle.

Holy crap. Crispian Neigh.

Yep. My Little Weirdo. He's probably putting on his lipstick to Q Lazzarus right now. Adjusting his nipple ring...

\- Not helping.

... _tucking his junk between his fleshy thighs._

\- La la la not listening...

... " _Would you fuck me? I'd fuck me..."_

Crispian enters the room, carrying two cans of energy drink and a bucket.

... " _I'd fuck me hard..."_

"You?" I blurt. He is all in black today - black vest, black shirt, black tie and black fedora. I want to run my fingers through his wallet. He's just so...dapper.

"Hello Hanna," he husks alliteratively, cracking open a can of Bawls and handing it to me. "Feeling better?"

"I don't know. I don't understand. Where am I? What am I doing here?"

He sits down on a chair opposite me and takes a long pull of his drink. "Well, that's to be expected," he chastises. "You were very drunk, Hanna - drunk and on the verge of being sexually molested." His lovely lips narrow and he frowns at me. "How could you put yourself at such risk, Hanna?"

Mmm. I love the smell of victim blaming in the morning.

I'm really not loving this Inner Goddess thing.

You and me both.

"I'm sorry," I say. "I was upset and I wanted to have a good time. Thank you for coming to rescue me."

I'm sorry? What? You're apologising to this goober because someone tried to diddle you in a parking lot? Oh my God - of all the heads I had to get stuck in I had to get stuck in yours. Seriously - are you insane? Was the sexual revolution just something that happened to other people?

I ignore her. So he's kind of creepy. Whatever. I think it gives him an edge.

That's it. I'm going to kill myself.

\- Be my guest.

He scrutinises me seriously over the tops of his glasses (Black Dolce e Gabbana. I wonder how much they cost.) "You're welcome," he whispers. He puts down his drink and stands up, his hands behind his back. "When you drunk-dialled me I knew at once I had to find you," he says, his voice rich and lumpy, like a well-made rice pudding. Or something. "You're so innocent, Hanna. I want to protect you."

Oh, here it comes. The funny-panties feeling again. But I'm not wearing panties. What does this mean?

"Where are my clothes?" I ask. "Where am I?"

"You're at my suite at the Heathman. Your clothes are in the hotel laundry, since they were covered in vomit." He adjusts his glasses and gives me a short but searing look. "I took the liberty of sending my man out to buy you some undergarments. You didn't appear to be wearing any."

Oh my. Oh my goodness. Does that mean he's seen my...oh my.

Yes, he's seen it. He's seen your heavily bearded inner thighs and the Temple of Doom tangle of dense cobwebs that guard the dread portal itself. And he's still here. I take back everything I said about this guy being a weirdo - he is The Weirdo.

\- I thought you were going to kill yourself?

Changed my mind. If you see a well-built Japanese guy anywhere in this building then run like fuck, because the next time you wake up it'll be with your lips sewn to his anus - you know what I'm saying?

\- No. And why do you sound like Kate?

"I don't pretend to understand it myself, Miss Squeal," he says, pacing the room. "But I feel we have a connection. There's a reason you came to me instead of Miss Hannigan - some form of serendipity. I feel we share something."

"None of the other boys I know would use words like 'serendipity'," I mumble. As I say it I understand the difference - he's not a boy; he's a man, a powerful, dominant man. I'm so out of my depth it's not even funny.

He takes off his glasses with slow, deliberate movements, like an ocular striptease artist. "That's right Hanna," he smoulders. "And I'd bet ten grand right here that they don't even know what it means." He moves towards the bed.

"Happy coincidence," I define. "A series of fortunate sequential events."

He's leaning on the end of the bed now. "Go on," he says.

"Happenstance, lucky accident..."

He's close to me, gazing covetously at me. "You are perfect," he husks, and my heart leaps out of my chest and dances the merengue.

Ew. Bad visual.

\- Shut up.

"You are the answer to my prayers, Hannelore," he purrs. "The one woman who can give me what I really want."

His hand cups the air close to my cheek. All my veins are singing with the desire for him - there's a tingle in my belly and a damp spot on the undersheet. I think I really want this man. Somehow I find my voice.

"If you don't mind that I haven't shaved my legs," I tremble. "We can do it right now if you don't?"

He leaps away from me as if I've given him an electrical shock. "No," he gasps, clutching his head in some kind of internal struggle. "No, you're not ready. I don't have the right to...no...you are too innocent, too pure, and I'm too...depraved. Plus I have that thing that hasn't fully cleared up yet." He turns away. "I'm sorry, Hanna. Take a shower, have some breakfast. I should never have brought you here."

"No, wait," I say. "You can't threaten me with depravity and then run away. This book's mostly mundane filler as it is. You think people bought this thing for the protracted descriptions of people choosing tea bags or brushing their teeth? Hell no - they bought it for the kinky sex. We are not doing this for another six freaking chapters. Now tie me up and do nasty things to me."

He pulls a face. "Hmm," he hmms. "You know...I would, but I've got that thing I just mentioned. And also you still smell of vomit and your sniz looks like it's gone feral."

"My what?"

"Your snatch, Hanna. Your hoo-hoo. Your fur teacup. It's like the origin of all those North-Western legends of the sasquatch."

"I don't know what you're talking about," I say. And I don't. What's a hoo-hoo? Isn't it something from Doctor Seuss? "Why did you bring me here if you weren't going to...you know?"

"You called me, remember?" he says. "Besides, I wanted to see if I could track your cellphone."

"Is that even legal?"

My Inner Goddess doesn't think so. She's calling the police. For the first time I can actually see her face. Figures she'd be blonde.

She raises a middle finger at me and presses the phone to her ear.

"Hanna," Crispian says, with kindergarten patience. "Let me explain something to you. There are illegal activities, right? And then there are 'illegal' activities." He quirks his fingers to make quote marks in the air. "After a certain...fiscal threshold, especially with regards to income, pretty much everything falls under the category of 'illegal'. Do you understand me?"

"No."

He bites his lip as he looks at me. "Goddamn you, Hanna Squeal - why must you be so...serendipitous?"

"Nobody's ever called me serendipitous before," I squeak.

"No, I'm sure they haven't," he says, looking at my lips. "Perhaps it would be better if I explained things over dinner. My place. Tonight."

I nod. He's still staring at my lips.

"Wear something nice." He opens his wallet and tosses a flutter of bills down on the comforter. "And find yourself a landscape gardener to work on that undergrowth, if you catch my drift."

I don't catch his drift at all. I'm alone with his money - there's at least a thousand dollars on the bed and he's just tossed it to me like it was pocket change. The strange fizzy feeling is back again, even stronger.

What does he mean? Illegal, 'illegal'. And I don't have a garden. I don't even have a windowbox.

My Inner Goddess hangs up the phone and sighs. Do I really have to try and make a box joke out of that?

\- I don't know. I don't even know what you're talking about. Did you see how he kept looking at my lips?

Uh huh.

\- Maybe he wanted to kiss them.

Or maybe he wanted to sew them to a Japanese man's anus.

\- Yeah. Why would anybody want to do a thing like like that?

No idea. It's one of the world's greatest mysteries – right up there with the fact that they made a sequel.

***

Once again we stand side by side in the elevator, staring straight ahead, not daring to look at one another, not daring to breathe. Especially not daring to breathe. Not after last time. The tension hangs heavy in the air - we are alone and nobody can see us and everything is different now, now that we have acknowledged that we feel...something for one another.

"Mr. Neigh?" I murmur, finally daring to break the silence.

"Hmm?"

"You when you said you'd pay for my degree?"

"Yes."

"Is that illegal? Or is it..." I raise the first two fingers of each hand. "'Illegal'?"

He smiles. "Option B," he says. "And I'm glad you've come to see sense, Hanna."

"I'm not seeing anything - I'm just asking..."

He turns and presses his finger to my lips. "Shh," he whispers. "Little girls who ask too many questions cause a whole bunch of trouble."

I try to speak again but he presses harder, mashing my upper lip against my nose. His other hand comes up behind my head and takes hold of my ponytail. "What does it take to make you shut up, Miss Squeal?" he growls, and before I know it his lips have replaced his finger. He tastes of eggs benedict and Bawls and something indefinably Crispian Neigh. I would have tasted of vomit but I had the good sense to use his toothbrush while I was in the bathroom. If only he'd had the same idea. I can still taste hollandaise when the elevator doors open.

"What is it about elevators?" he smirks. I get out in a hurry, before the barely perceptible poot can follow me. He could have at least tried to hold it in that time - that was my first real kiss.

"I'll pick you up at about seven," he smoozes.

"But you don't even know where I live," I protest.

"It's cool," he reassures, leaning forward and pecking me on the cheek. "I put a GPS tracker in the clasp of your pretty new bra." He adjusts his fedora. "Laters, toots."

I watch him walk away through the crowded hotel lobby. Oh my God, what a bizarre night. I drift towards the doors, only just resisting the urge to tear off my bra there and then. He's kidding, right? He must be kidding.

"Hanna?"

I turn around and stare. Kate is sitting on one of the sofas in the middle of the lobby, where she appears to be trying to hide behind a newspaper. "Oh my God," she gasps. "It really is you. What are you doing here?"

"Me? What are you doing here?" I sit down beside her and she spreads the newspaper wider.

"Boning," she says. "What else would I be doing? What's with the My Little Pony t-shirt?" She shakes her head. "Hanna - have you been stealing from the toystore again?"

"I did not st..."

"Shhh," she shushes, sinking down in her seat. "Get down. Do not let him see us."

I peer out from a tear in the newspaper and see the fratboy from last night - the big one. He's at the reception desk with Crispian and they're not only talking but they exchange a high five.

"Hanna," whispers Kate. "Why are they high fiving? Did you fuck fedora-boy last night?"

"No! Of course not! I'm not like you."

Kate curls her lip at me. "Tell you what, My Little Klepto - the next time you're in the toystore, why don't you steal me one of those alphabet t-shirts. How about a nice big A, in red. No - scarlet. Tell me how you really feel, why don't you?"

"How do they know each other?"

"Oh, now she asks relevant questions. They're brothers, dumbass."

"What?" I say. The fratboy is huge, easily a foot taller than Crispian Neigh. "They don't look anything like one another."

"Well of course they don't," sighs Kate. "They're adopted. The parents are like some kind of fancy fertility doctors or something, only not so good at what they do that they could unclog Mamma Neigh's tubes, I guess. So they got all these kids from some kind of crack baby sale \- like, a whole litter of little weirdos."

"He's not a weirdo."

"No, seriously \- he's a weirdo. He must be. You know Casper, the one with the irritable bowel syndrome? Well, according to Bennett..."

"Bennett?"

"Bennett. The big motherfucker over there with your freak conquest - try and keep up, Hanna. Anyway, according to Bennett, Casper can only get a boner while he's dressed as a zebra and being topped by a guy roleplaying Mufasa from The Lion King. Apparently they have to do the James Earl Jones voice note perfect or Lil' Casper won't come out to play."

She pauses for breath. "Then there's the girl, Alicia. She's in Japan right now. Nobody will tell me anything more than that, which makes me think there's got to be something creepy going on, because all these kids are fucking weird. All of them. Crispian is maybe the least weird of the boys and he allegedly wasted his formative years poopsocking on World of Warcraft and posting filthy doodles of fat busty dwarf maidens on his DeviantArt."

"Oh," I whisper, my heart sinking. I can still taste ham.

"And as for the other one, he wants me to sign a non-disclosure agreement and this forty page contract so that he can not only tie me up and beat me but also so that he can dictate what I eat, how long I sleep, what I smoke, what I drink and even determine how and where I get my twat waxed."

"He sounds like kind of a control freak."

"No duh."

"So what did you say?"

"I said 'No. Fuck off - do I look like Maggie Gyllenhaal?' Fucking weirdo probably wants me to pee on the floor too. I don't mind a little playful tiesy upsies now and again but any man who thinks he's coming between me and the pizza menu when I'm high as fuck has got another thing coming. I mean, his dick's big, but not that big."

She tugs me down behind the newspaper. "Get down. He can't see me here."

"Why are you even here if you don't want..."

She elbows me in the ribs. Her phone brrs and she takes it out. "Okay," she says, looking at the screen. "Let's go. Follow me, Hanna - and don't fucking fall over, please."

Kate dumps the newspaper, grabs my hand and more or less drags me out of the hotel lobby. Her car is parked outside and once we're inside she drives it to a side street. Jesús comes out of a doorway labelled 'STAFF', pushing a trolley loaded up with boxes. "Trunk's open!" Kate yells out of the window.

"Can I get some help back here you think?" Jesús sounds testy. Oh God - we're going to have to talk about last night.

"Hanna, get out and give the man a hand."

"Hanna?" says Jesús. "I don't think so, man. I wanna get this shit home in one piece."

"What shit?" I ask. "Kate, what is he putting in the back of the car?"

"Nothing," she says. "I don't ask about your extra-curricular activities and you don't ask about mine, okay?"

Jesús slams the trunk shut and joins me in the back seat. "Hey Hanna. Did you find your panties?"

"How'd you know about Hanna's panties?" asks Kate, as she drives away.

"He tried to put his hands up my skirt," I say, glowering at Jesús.

He holds up the offending appendages and at least has the decency to blush. "Hey, I'm sorry, okay?" he mumbles. "I was fucking blazed, dude. And she came right out and said she wasn't wearing any panties - you know what that does to me, Kate."

"Oh my God," giggles Kate. "She'd just peed herself, you idiot." She catches my eye in the rear-view mirror and laughs like a maniac at Jesús' disgust. "You pervert," she cackles. "You mean to tell me you smelled beans and tried to chow down on her taco?"

"Hey, I'm pretty sure that's racist..."

"...yeah, and I'm pretty sure you're a rapist, dude. I can tell - just look at Hanna's face. Poor Hanna, did he try and eat your pussy in the parking lot?"

I nod. Why must my life be so squalid and awful? I wish I was back in the hotel suite, talking about long words with a proper gentleman, one who wears a hat and tie and would never attempt to eat my...you know. And especially not in a parking lot.

"I got what was coming to me," says Jesús. "She gave me a goddamn Roman shower, for fuck's sake."

Kate shrieks.

"It's not funny! I've washed my hair five times this morning and I swear to God I can still fucking smell it."

"What's a Roman shower?" I ask.

"One of those things you should never, ever Google image search," says Kate. "Like 'diabetic foot' or 'goatse'."

We arrive home and Kate and Jesús unload the four cardboard boxes from the back of the car. The boxes clink as they lift them and when they get them inside I see that the boxes are stacked full of tiny bottles.

"Baby bottles of booze," says Kate. "From the hotel minibars. Aren't they cute?"

"Where did you get these?"

"It's like this," explains Jesús. "When you're a Hispanic-American these days there are a lot of doors open to you. Mostly doors that say STAFF and UTILITY CLOSET. Seems a shame not to take advantage of the glowing opportunities offered by our warm, wonderful and totally not racist society."

"I don't understand," I say.

"And that's why we love you," grins Kate. "Even if you are an asshole."

I follow her into the bedroom. "Kate," I murmur, staring at my shoes. "Um...you know what you said about...extracurricular activities?"

"Yuh huh," she says, lighting up one of her gross herbal cigarettes. "What's up? Look, if anyone asks, do your dumbass Daisy Mae routine and say you don't understand. They'll totally believe you."

"No, it's not that. I...um...I think I have a date."

Kate piles up her hair, cigarette between her teeth. "No fucking way," she says. "Fedora-freak?"

"His name is Crispian."

"Whatever. What? You wanna borrow something non-Amish to wear?"

I take out the money and show her, my hand shaking. "I think," I burble. "That I want to buy something non-Amish."

Kate stares at the notes for a moment. "Okay," she says, after a short, breathless pause. "He just gave you a grand and told you to go shopping?"

I nod.

"You know," she says, decisively. "I always said that hat was really distinguished. And I'm sure his interest in fat, busty dwarf maidens is strictly artistic..."

"...Kate, it's not like that. I'm not interested in his money."

"You aren't? What the hell is wrong with you?"

"He likes me! He says I'm..." I swallow.

"He says you're what?"

"Serendipitous," I whisper.

She arches an eyebrow at me and shakes her head. "Okay," she says. "Maybe it really is a match made in freak heaven. You want me to help you pick out clothes? Is that it?"

I nod in assent. "Yes please. And...er...do you know a salon? Is there one where you go? You know. For...waxing. Intimate waxing."

Kate's eyebrow arches ever higher. "Isn't this your second date? You don't need to wax that until your third, you know. Not if he's any kind of gentleman."

"Yes, but he saw everything in the hotel last night..."

I think her eyes might be in danger of falling out of her head. It feels kind of good to shock her - who's the woman of the world now, Kate?

"You're a dark horse, Hanna," says Kate. "Was he impressed?"

"Um...he mentioned the sasquatch?"

"Oh dear. Okay \- lift your skirt. Lemme see what we're working with here...well. Holy shit.Welcome to the jungle."

### Chapter Seven

### Fear of Flying (Ponies)

I have been plucked, buffed, waxed, scrubbed, scraped, exfoliated and bleached in highly unlikely places. Kate assures me that this is necessary to please a man.

"It seems superficial," I protest. "He wants me for my mind."

"Yeah," says Kate, admiring her new manicure. "Which is why he told you to get the lower Amazon deforested. Don't you feel better? You look great."

"It was all extremely unpleasant," I mutter, darkly. "And I don't see why I had to get that bleached."

"You didn't have to - I just wanted to see how much the peroxide stung. Has it settled down any or is it still burning?"

I want to cry. "This is awful. I hate it."

"Yeah, but you hate everything, Hanna," says Kate. "You hate when it rains, you hate when the sun shines, you hate when billionaires ask you out for coffee..."

"...I did not ask him out for coffee. You asked him out for coffee, while pretending to be me."

Kate rolls her eyes. "Yes, because the alternative was sitting around watching you cry yourself into a Alice-sized puddle because you thought he didn't like you. And after, by the way, he gave you his fucking card and said 'Call me'. Oh, and by the way, you managed to come home in tears from the date because he didn't slip you the tongue and buy you a helicopter then and there."

"It's not like that!" I scowl. "I told you - I'm not interested in his money." I haven't told Kate about my degree yet - it's too humiliating.

"Says you." She looks me up and down. "Although now I think about it, I believe you. You've just had hundreds of dollars of expensive beauty treatments and you're still fucking whining. Don't you feel the least bit pampered?"

"No. And you know why."

"Aw. Does your little pink ring donut still burn? Get in the car, Cinderella. We need to do something about your clothes."

"Like what?"

"We should probably burn them, to be on the safe side. Take them to a patch of waste ground and have ourselves a bonfire. Then we should scatter the ashes to the four winds and water the ground with holy water and plow it with salt. It's the only way to be sure."

"Now you're just being silly."

"Eesh, Hanna - chill the fuck out. I would have thought an English Major of all people understood hyperbole."

"Understood what?" She pronounces it hy-per-bol-ee. So much for her glittering career in journalism. Her inner blonde is coming out to play.

"Hyperbole. You seriously telling me you've never heard of hyperbole?"

"Yes," I say. "Absurd exaggeration for comic effect. Of course I've heard of it. It's pronounced hyper-bowl - there's no accent on the e."

She frowns into the rear view mirror. "Um...okay. You sure about that?"

"Yes, I'm sure about that."

"You don't think the etymology counts for something? I mean, I'm not an expert but it sounds like it might be from an Ancient Greek root and you know how they loved their not so silent e's."

"Look," I say, taking a deep breath. "I know it's embarrassing when you pronounce a word wrong..."

But Kate is off in a world of her own. "Synecdoche," she murmurs. "I wonder if that's like the same."

I love Kate, but she can be very self-absorbed at times.

Meanwhile, I have to get ready for my big night. I don't think I should dress up \- he might get the wrong idea. Or is it the right idea? I don't know. I'm so confused. I don't know how to put on make-up or how to dress. Why can't I be like other women, who seem to have been born knowing how to apply mascara or walk in heels? Why am I so different from the common herd?

Kate lends me a dress but I demur and settle for my most flattering jeans and a lace trimmed blouse. "Fine," says Kate. "If you must. You still look like a Christian but at least now you look like a regular one, instead of one of those ones from weird separatist sects where the women are expected to keep pumping out babies for the Lord, despite the fact that they've had fifteen kids and three uterine prolapses."

"I'm so nervous," I say. "Butterflies and everything. I think I really like him. What if he doesn't like me? Holy crap - what if he thinks I'm an asshole?"

Kate laughs. "Hanna, you are an asshole. But at least now you're a hairless pearly pink asshole and your toenails don't look something from Jurassic Park."

"Does that matter?"

"I dunno. Probably. I can't believe we're doing this - seeing you off for a first date and all."

My ride is here. A big black SUV with the Neigh logo on the side - a rearing winged pony - has pulled up outside the house. I take Kate's hand. She's been so kind to me. "I know it must be intimidating for you," I say, gently. "And you've always been the pretty one, but here we are..."

"Whatever, shitlord," she says, shoving me out of the door. "Don't fuck him without a condom and if he tries anything really freaky then remember to use the pepper spray."

A large man emerges from the SUV. He has a shaved head and an earpiece and in his arms he is carrying a dozen pink roses. For me?

"Compliments of the boss," he says. "My name's Naylor - I'll be your driver tonight."

His gaze shifts behind me. I turn and see Kate slouched seductively against the porch wall of our duplex. She is showing at least an inch of cleavage and wiggles her fingers in a wave at Naylor. I have a flashback to my senior prom, when my mother did something similar. Only it wasn't her cleavage she was showing.

"My roommate," I explain. "I'm sorry about her - she's a hopeless alcoholic."

He holds the door open and I step into the SUV. There's a note in the flowers. It says 'Strap yourself in, baby - and get ready for a wild ride!'.

I have no idea what that means.

We reach the hotel. There we take the elevator to the...to the roof? Oh holy crap.

As I step out onto the roof the first thing that hits me is the noise, a roar so relentless that I have to cover my ears. The second thing is the wind - it nearly knocks me off my feet. The third thing is trying to grasp the fact that Crispian Neigh is grinning down at me from the cockpit of a helicopter.

"Hey baby!" he screams, over the noise. "Wanna take a ride on my chopper?"

My Inner Goddess stirs, exhausted from an afternoon of pointing and laughing at the beauty salon. That's a hell of a lot of effort for one small dick joke she mutters, and then promptly goes back to sleep.

***

After a great deal of swearing, cajoling and outright threats (his) and three in-flight tequilas and a mild panic attack (mine) we land on the roof of his apartment complex. I can't stop shaking and I don't think it's desire this time. Actually I think I might be sick.

"Don't look at me like that," he says, looking so hurt that I want to feel better right away. "I was trying to do something nice for you."

"I don't really like flying," I whisper, speaking slowly. I feel like if I speak too fast other things might come out of my mouth - bad things. It's bad enough to throw up on a man in a parking lot but probably considerably worse to repeat the offence on a helipad.

His apartment is huge - open plan, with a U-shaped couch and a wood and granite kitchen area. The view is spectacular. In a corner is a large drawing board and I remember that Kate said he was artistic.

No she didn't. She said 'fat, busty dwarf maidens'. I was there.

\- Oh God. Not you. Can't you go back to sleep?

I intend to. Just pointing out that drawing World of Warcraft porn doesn't exactly make him Picasso.

\- Please. Have you seen some of that fantasy art? Picasso only wishes he was that good.

My Inner Goddess stares for a moment and shakes her head. Then she re-covers her eyes with a pink sleep mask bearing the legend THE BITCH IS SLEEPING and settles down to loud and deliberate snores.

"Do you draw?" I ask, pointing to the board.

"I dabble," he says, removing his hat. "But I'm sure you know I didn't bring you here to look at my etchings. Would you like some wine?"

I'm about to say 'On top of three in-flight tequilas and the remnants of a hangover?' but he's way ahead of me. The bottle, in its ice-bucket, is already on the counter.

"Margaux 1988 okay?" he says, pouring two large glasses. "It's a little on the thin side and the nose isn't what it ought to be but it compares favourably to the early 1990s - a series of very poor years for Margauxs."

I take the glass. This wine is older than I am. Holy crap. "Do you know much about wine?" I murmur. It smells quite nice.

"Not much," he says, raising his glass in a toast. "But I know what I like." There is a wicked twinkle in his eye and I begin to feel less nauseous.

"Thank you," I whisper, and I realise it's a strange thing to say but I have no idea what else to say. I'm not entirely sure why I'm even here.

"Sit down, Miss Squeal," he coaxes. "Make yourself at home. I expect you're wondering why I brought you here?"

I nod.

He doesn't sit. He regards me thoughtfully as he sips his wine. "I'm a very wealthy man, Miss Squeal," he says. "Very wealthy. I've made my fortune getting people what they want - if there's a TV show, a movie, a videogame - anything they want, then I've got it. I'm the go-to guy for online media."

"It sounds very complicated," I mutter.

"It's really not. It's simple. People want what they want and sometimes they'll go to insane lengths to get it, like sitting up all night waiting for a bad torrent of the last season of Doctor Who." He smiles. "I'm the one who makes sure that doesn't happen."

"That's...kind of you," I whisper, staring into my wine. I picture myself shrunk to the size of an insect, drowning in the drink, scrambling for impossible foothold on the smooth, slippery surface of the glass. I've had quite a lot to drink lately.

"Kindness has nothing to do with it, Miss Squeal," he says, waving a hand around the sumptuous apartment. "As you can see, I'm well rewarded."

"I can see that," I murmur. When I catch his eye I flush and wonder what on earth he could ever want with me. Do I see things in him that his other girlfriends didn't? Yes, I probably do.

"There are, however," he husks. "Certain things that not even money can buy."

"But you'll try anyway, right?"

He curls his lip in a sardonic smile. "Perhaps. I feel like I need to be honest with you, Hanna." He holds out his hand. "Come - I want to show you my playroom."

"You have space for a pool table too? Wow, this place is really huge."

He grabs hold of my ponytail as he steers me towards the door. "So naive," he chuckles, and places a kiss on the nape of my neck, a kiss that thrills me to the tips of my toes. I don't even smell ham this time.

"I have never shown another woman the inside of this room," he says, as we reach the door of the playroom. It's just a door - wood with a brushed steel handle. No heavy foreshadowing here.

Maybe that's why I relax and maybe that's why I'm shocked when he opens the door.

Holy crap.

Pink. So much pink. The floor is pink. The walls are pink and covered with pink shelving units. The only thing that isn't pink are the ponies, colourful plastic ponies who smile down at me from every available inch of wall space. I remember the toystore and suddenly I understand.

"Oh my God..." I gasp. "Oh my God. You're a..."

I feel his hand on my shoulder. "Yes, Hanna. I'm a brony."

I turn to face him. "I don't understand..." I stutter.

He stares at me, raw emotion sheening his chocolate brown eyes. "Perhaps I should never have shown you..."

"No! No, you should." Oh my God, he's emotionally damaged. Why do I feel funny in the no-no place again? "If we're going to be honest with one another..."

He grabs my shoulders. "Oh Hanna," he murmurs. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," I groan. "Yes, yes - I'm sure. I don't care. I only want you."

Oh my. He's close, so close. My lips are on fire and my heart in my mouth. His hand spreads covetously over my behind and then...oh my dear God...a slap.

"Giddy up, girl," he whispers, in a voice that just about melts the nylon lace off my panties.

"Are you going to make love to me now, Mr. Neigh?" I whimper.

He shakes his head. "I don't make love," he rasps. "I clop - hard."

And then we do it right there on the pink carpet. It's all-consuming, transcendent and resolutely soft-core. It's also over in about ten minutes, including the time it took him to unhook my bra. My Inner Goddess has stopped snoring and is peering out from under one side of her sleep mask.

Congratulations. You're a woman now. Brace yourself for a lifetime of similar disappointment.

She glares at me and goes back to sleep. Just as well. She wasn't much help.

There's a pony right next to my head - a yellow and pink one. Crispian looks at it and giggles. "Cover your eyes, Fluttershy," he says, turning it to face the wall. "You'll make them jealous," he tells me. "They're spoilt little ponies - until you came along they had nothing but my full attention."

"I see," I murmur, although I don't. Oh, how I would love to have his full attention.

"Come and have some more wine," he says, getting up off the carpet and fastening up his pants. Oh my God - I can't believe I just did that with a man. I never really thought much about how I would lose my virginity, but I didn't think it would be like this. Nobody expects their first time to come with an audience of My Little Pony toys.

I climb back into my jeans and follow him into the kitchen. "I thought you were gay," I mutter, still stunned by what just happened.

"That's a common misconception," he says, taking a large bowl from the kitchen cupboard. "And perhaps understandable, given my love for everything pink and adorable, but no - I'm all man. And a little bit of pony."

He fills the bowl with off-brand cheetos and pushes it towards me. "You hungry?"

I take a handful. "I don't understand," I say.

He sighs. "Ugh. I knew this would happen," he sighs, sitting down opposite me at the kitchen island. "People are so judgemental."

"I'm not."

"No, but you are. I can see it your eyes. It happens with everyone. Just when I think I have a shot at happiness they find out about the ponies and the relentless tide of hate begins again."

Oh God. I've upset him. I reach out towards him but he shakes his head.

"What's wrong with the world today, Hanna? Why have we become so rigid in our gender roles and expectations that a grown man can't enjoy the innocence and sweetness of My Little Pony: Friendship Is Magic? We buy our sons sports equipment and teach them stoicism, a stoicism that eats away at them from the inside out until they no longer know the relief of tears, or the simple joy of laughter - the laughter that ponies can bring. Why do we judge a man when he says he likes things that are pink and pretty and covered in sparkles?"

I shake my head. "I don't know, Crispian," I exclaim. I think it's the first time I've ever called him by his first name. "But I understand - I do. People judge me because I'm mousy and clumsy and because I love classic British novels more than I love make-up and shoes and all the other things young women are supposed to like."

He takes my proffered hand. "Yes," he whispers. "I knew it, Hanna. I knew it right away. You felt it too, didn't you? We have a connection."

I nod frantically and squeeze his hand. When I look down I see that the off-brand cheetos have stained my fingers - I wear little orange crescents under my nails, just like his.

"Serendipity," I whisper.

### Chapter Eight

### My Other Mom's A Crack Whore

After that we do it in his bed, this time with Rarity for an audience. Rarity is the white unicorn with the purple hair. Crispian says she likes to watch. He has a theory that she might be kind of kinky, because she has a British accent.

"Brits are kinky bitches," he says. "I think it's all that boarding school - they get into experimental lesbianism and discipline."

"You might have a point," I mutter. "I know a British woman, and she's a lesbian."

"Your professor?"

I nod.

"You won't have to worry about her anymore, baby," he says, stretching triumphantly on the cheeto dusted sheets. He won't take his underpants off though. Not sure what's up with that. He just pokes it through the hole when we...you know. That. Oh my.

"I know," I sigh, sadly. "I'm a college dropout."

"You?" he says. "What are you talking about? You're no dropout. You're the class valedictorian. Speaking of which, you'd better write a speech."

Immediately I realise what he's done. I leap out of the bed and search for my clothes.

"Hanna..."

"No!" He said he wouldn't do this. I asked him not to do this. (At least, I think I did, or at least heavily implied that I didn't want him to do it. Did I?) "You said you wouldn't - it wouldn't be right!"

He jumps out of bed after me and grabs me around the waist. I fight him for a moment but it's no use - he's a man. The only man who's ever been interested in me. I have to take what I can get.

"Hanna, listen to me," he says. "There was a mistake. It turns out Professor Jarrett was an illegal."

"Huh?"

"She was an illegal alien."

"Oh my God. She's some kind of space lesbian?"

He frowns. "No. Like a Mexican. An illegal immigrant - yeah, I know. It's weird because she's white. But listen to me, Hanna - she only got married so she could get a green card. She's a leech, a parasite. She's part of the cancer that is killing America."

"They won't send her back?" I gasp. I feel sorry for her now. This country must have felt like heaven for her, this country where she could marry who she chose to marry (subject to state law) and choose from a variety of affordable (and not so affordable) health care plans. And now she's going to be thrown back into the slums of England, where they'll probably make her sweep chimneys until her lungs are black.

"Yeah, she's already in the process of being deported," he says. "It's a shame, because they just don't have the mental health facilities back where she comes from."

"Mental health facilities?"

"Oh yeah. She's insane. Did I mention that? That was why she failed you. She went nuts about six months ago when she realised you weren't a muff diver and would never return her love. Seriously though - you should stop wearing those Birkenstocks and grow your fingernails. When you take into account all the denim and flannel you wear you're giving a lot of single ladies the wrong idea. Mixed signals, you know."

"Wait..." I say, struggling to process what's being said. What's a muff diver? Is that some kind of deep sea fisherman? "What has my taste in sandals got to do with anything? Do you mean to tell me that Professor Jarrett was in love with me?"

"Head over heels, baby. But love soon turned to obsession and then to hate."

I stare at him. Everything makes sense now. "Oh my God," I say. "You mean she failed me..."

"...out of spite," he concludes. "And not because your papers were the inane, ill-presented ramblings of an empty-headed solipsist with kleptomaniac tendencies."

I sit down heavily on the end of the bed. "Wow," I say, and again. "Wow. So I didn't fail at all?"

"No, you didn't fail," he says. "You won, Hanna. You graduated top of your class."

Holy crap. I don't know what to say. "Holy crap," I say. "Oh holy crap." All my blood feels like it's run to my feet - my head is white and empty and floaty, like a wedding balloon.

"What's the matter?" asks Crispian. "Aren't you happy? You're valedictorian."

I can't breathe. He empties out the rest of the cheese snacks into a bowl and hands me the bag. "Breathe into this," he commands. He's so controlling. "You're having a panic attack, Hanna. Breathe in the air in the bag - that's it. And breathe out slowly through your nose. Again...that's a good girl..."

Slowly I begin to feel better. My head floats back onto my shoulders. My lungs are thick with off-brand cheeto dust, but they're working. I'll be fine. I'll be absolutely fine if I don't think about it.

Ha. Yeah. Good luck with that.

Oh God. It's her again. When did she wake up?

Sometime around the time when you started hyperventilating. It's not easy being a poorly characterised figment of someone's unconscious, especially when that someone is having a panic attack. Gets awfully noisy in there.

\- Well, go back to sleep. This isn't the time.

Nuh uh. This is exactly the time, Princess. This is positively Shakespearean. I'm a manifestation of your guilt.

\- Guilt?

Guilt. You know how this goes - or at least you would, if you'd paid attention in class. I rumble around your head tormenting you until you're prowling the battlements in your sleep.

\- But I didn't do anything.

No, but on some level you had to know that Captain Clop here was going to use his considerable influence and huge fortune to get you your degree. You didn't tell him not to do it, did you?

\- But he didn't.

Sure he didn't. And now your English Lit professor is being deported. Doesn't that sound suspicious to you?

\- No.

Liar. If it's not suspicious then why are you shaking like a shitting dog and breathing into an off-brand cheetos bag?

\- Duh. Because if I'm valedictorian then you know what that means, right?

Um...you're a lousy little cheat with no morals and an endless capacity for self-delusion?

\- It means, Einstein, that I'm going to have to make a speech. I can't make a speech. I'm shy! I'm mousy! I'm incredibly clumsy!

My Inner Goddess sighs and shakes her head. She peers over her glasses at me in one of the cute little roleplays she should have been performing if she was doing this correctly...

...What? Prance around without saying a word and treat the reader to an endless, undiluted dose of you? I don't think so.

\- It's my story! It's about me! This is about my journey of sexual discovery \- not yours. I'm getting a little bit sick of you coming in here and talking down to me when you should be shaking pom-poms and or dancing round a Mexican hat every time Crispian makes sex eyes at me, okay?

I told you – I don't dance.

\- I don't care. Do as you're told.

She sighs again. Okay, she says. Let's get this straight. You want me to stop talking?

\- God yes.

And instead you want me to convey your inner monologue - such as it is - through the medium of some kind of amusing, interpretive dance?

\- Yes please.

With props?

\- If you wouldn't mind.

No, I think I can manage that.

\- Right. Thank you.

I wait for a 'You're welcome' or some other sarcastic rejoinder, but my Inner Goddess has gone quiet. Crispian is rubbing my back in a way that's beginning to be annoying, but at least I can breathe again. I'll be fine as long as I don't think about the speech. Oh my God. I'll have to make a speech. How can I make a speech? Even my speaking voice is unsuited for speech - I mutter and murmur and whisper whenever I should speak clearly. I'll stare at my shoes and flush pinker than the pony room and then some - and that's even if I manage to get up to the podium without falling flat on my face. I'm so uncoordinated. Before this amazing, transformative night I was just a clumsy, uncoordinated girl and now I'm a clumsy, uncoordinated woman. Okay, so I have a well-trimmed bikini line and perfectly smooth heels but I don't feel any different - I don't feel any more confident before. In fact I feel rather more terrified than before. Oh crap, why I am so insecure? Why am I so timid? Why am I so big-eyed and sensitive and straight-up vulnerable?

And why is my Inner Goddess not giving me shit about being self-absorbed?

Her absence halts my inner monologue. And then I see her.

She is wearing white make up, with black eyebrows drawn very high on her face. She wears tight black pants, a tight striped jersey and a black beret.

\- I hate mimes.

She smiles, pulls a smug face and taps her breast, then her head. I don't speak mime but I can hazard a guess at what she's saying.

She says I know.

***

I wake up in unfamiliar surroundings - again. Hmm. Making rather a habit of this. Last night I woke up from a strange symbolic dream (The usual. Grey hats. White ponies. Huge phallic vegetables.) to the sound of sketching. I wrapped Crispian's Hawaiian shirt around me and went to look for him.

I found him behind the drawing board, absorbed, intense and so freaking hot oh my god.

I'm going to draw you now, he said, and turned over the leaf of paper. Take off my shirt.

So I did. Holy crap - I was like, totally naked. I couldn't believe what was happening to me. At school I'd been voted Girl Most Likely To Be Found Eaten By A Dozen Cats In Front Of A DVD Of Titanic, but I never imagined that one day an artist might want to draw me like one of his French girls.

Maybe he didn't. Maybe I was dreaming.

He's still asleep and I really don't want to hit up my Inner Goddess for advice after the unpleasantness last night, so I put his shirt back on and retrace my steps. The papers lie flat on his drawing board. There's a sort of flap on top of them, holding them smooth, and when I look I see that the flap is more of a lid, padlocked to the bottom part of the board.

Hmm. Maybe...just maybe if I knew how to undo that lock I could see how he saw me. Maybe then I really would hold the key to his heart...

Oh great. Marceline Marceau has woken up from her bitchy sleep and is now rolling around on the floor clutching her stomach and making vomit faces. That's all I need.

I ignore her and go on into the kitchen. I think I'll cook him breakfast - he'll like that. I'm a super cook, which is odd considering I can barely walk in a straight line and am prohibited from entering hardware stores; yet somehow as soon as I get into a kitchen I'm supremely confident and perfectly safe to be trusted around gas, fire, radiation, electricity, crushing implements, blenders, mincers, cleavers and very sharp knives.

He comes out of the bedroom as I'm frying bacon. "You can cook?" he gasps, looking at me like I'm special, precious.

Bitch-mime rolls her eyes. I hate her so much.

"I like cooking," I say. "It soothes me."

It doesn't soothe him. He's on edge as soon as I pick up a knife and start cutting tomatoes.

"Hanna, don't cut yourself."

"I won't, I promise. Don't worry about me."

"Yeah, sure. It's just that those worktops are new and blood is a fucker to get off Italian marble."

I laugh. Who said he had no sense of humour? "How do you like your eggs?" I ask.

"Unfertilized," he says, and laughs loudly for about five minutes. "Unfertilized," he repeats, punching me lightly on the upper arm. "You like that one? Huh?"

I nod. At that moment the door buzzer goes. "Oh, what the fuck," moans Christian, into the intercom. "Yeah, alright Mom. Come on up."

Mom? Holy crap – I'm wearing nothing but a loud shirt and a frown. I stare at him, beater in hand, dripping raw scrambled egg all over his kitchen floor. "Your mother?" I gasp.

"No, my father. I call him Mom."

I blink at him for a moment.

"Joke," he says, and laughs. "Another sick burn from the Neighster."

Before I can even think about finding my clothes, Crispian buzzes his mother into the apartment. She looks good considering she must be at least forty. Her fingernails are immaculate and her hair, bobbed to her well-padded shoulders, is blonde. Oh crap.

I drop the egg-beater.

"Whoops," says Crispian, as I bend to pick it up. He slaps my ass. "Best put on some panties, toots – I don't think my Mother would appreciate the view."

I straighten up and pull the shirt down over my thighs, my cheeks (both sets) glowing. "Oh yeah," I say. "I guess you've seen enough of those, right?"

Mrs. Neigh frowns. Her forehead doesn't move much.

"You're a lady doctor, right?" I babble. "I mean, a doctor of ladies...um...so you probably see a lot of...um..."

"Vaginas," says Crispian, helpfully.

"My husband is a fertility specialist," says Mrs. Neigh, holding out a hand. "I'm a psychiatrist."

Double crap. Blondes don't like me, and I don't like psychiatrists. They lie. They tell you that if you take the medicine the voices will go away.

My Inner Goddess stifles a malicious giggle and makes a zipping gesture across her white painted lips. Okay, maybe voices aren't so bad after all – if the alternative is mimes.

"Claudia Trescothick-Neigh," she says. "And you must be...?"

"Hanna. Hanna Squeal."

"Oh dear. I am sorry. Where on earth did you find her, Cris?"

"She kind of faceplanted in the lobby of my building," he says. "Then I found her working in this toystore nearby and coincidentally – totally by accident – ran into her while she was throwing up on a Mexican in a parking lot."

Claudia's mouth is a thin, cold line. She shakes her head. "You're stalking her, in other words?" She turns to me. "Is he stalking you? I can't apologise enough. I can recommend a wonderful attorney if you need a restraini..."

I shake my head. "I don't need a restraining order," I say. "I understand him perfectly."

Crispian's mother sits down at the breakfast bar and fishes last night's wine out of the melted ice bucket. "Well, good for you," she sneers, examining the label. "Personally I've always found him baffling...Crispian, did you really chill a twenty year old Bordeaux?"

"I think it's better cold," he sniffs. My heart breaks in that instant, seeing him as a vulnerable little boy, desperate for his mother's approval. I smooth the shirt down over my thighs and draw closer to him.

"Well, you've always been peculiar," she says. "What with the obsessive streak and the strange fascinations. Prone to eczma too – oh, that reminds me – any progress on that pilonidal cyst?"

"Mo-ther..." says Crispian. "Do you have to?"

"Have to what? Care about you? Pay attention to you? Yes, I think it's somewhere in my job description as your mother. Somewhere between diaper changes and putting up the seed capital for your dot com nonsense."

"I just bought a helicopter thanks to that 'dot com nonsense'," he says, curling his lip.

"Good for you, dear. Perhaps if you get the bathroom fittings gold plated they'll let you go on MTV Cribs."

He glares at her. "You see what I have to put up with?" he says, turning to me. "She spends all her time trying to fix her patients when her own family is as dysfunctional as hell..."

"Physician, heal thyself," says Claudia, rolling her eyes and burying her nose in her wine glass.

"...why don't you tell Hanna, mother? Tell her about how you bought me from my real mother? The crack whore?"

Claudia Trescothick-Neigh puts down the glass and sighs. "For the last time, Crispian – don't overdramatise. She was a nice little college girl from Iowa who simply didn't have the money for a baby or the stomach for an abortion." She turns back to me and smiles a Bordeaux tinted smile. "We still exchange cards at Christmas. Sweet girl. Very bright. No idea what went wrong."

Crispian snorts. He is furious, red-faced and rather sexy. "Oh yes. I wonder what went wrong," he snarls, sarcastically. "What could possibly go wrong with a child raised by a closet-case and a hopeless fucking soak?"

"Darling, really – that's not fair. I may be a soak but I'm still an optimist..."

"Is that why you abandoned Alicia?" he yells. "Your buoyant, cheerful spirit persuaded you to send her all the way across the ocean, did it?"

She rubs the bridge of her nose and sighs. "Crispian, Alicia thought she was a videogame character. We've been through this..."

"...you didn't even try to help her..."

"...yes I did. We all did, but after about fifteen different psychiatric referrals we came to the conclusion that the best way to help her was to let her go to Japan and experience the reality of being yet another dumpy white girl in cat ears."

"Really?" says Crispian. "And how's that working out, Mom?"

"Alright, fine – she did call me a 'baka gaijin' the last time I spoke to her but at least she's stopped miaowing. It's a start, Cris."

"I know what you're trying to do," I say. I say it so softly that they double take.

"I know what you're trying to do," I say again, looking his mother in the eye. "You're trying to control him..."

"...Hanna..."

I hold up a hand and continue. "You don't want to cut the apron strings because you can't bear the idea of your little boy becoming a man."

Crispian's mother arches her eyebrows as far as her Botox permits, but I'm not scared of her. I'm a woman now – I don't need to take this shit from blondes. "That's why you tell me he's strange and obsessive and try to scare me away from him," I say. "Because you can't bear the idea of me taking away the baby you wanted more than anything else in the world."

She presses her lips together. "Yes," she says, narrowing her eyes. "That's probably it. Somehow, with my Doctorate in Psychiatry, I must have missed that."

"I'm a student of Literature, Mrs. Neigh," I say. "While I may not understand the medical jargon I still see a great deal of the world, reflected in the mirror of art. My literary heroes are Heathcliff, Romeo, Edward Cullen...your son's obsessive streak doesn't scare me. It only wakes a dark, sleeping passion within me."

She stares at me for another moment and takes another sip of Margaux. "Well," she says. "You're both adults and perfectly capable of calling the police, I suppose. If it's obsessive you want then you've certainly got that..."

"...mother, will you just leave?"

"I'm going, I'm going," she says, gathering up her giant purse that probably costs five times more than my car. She glances at me, knowing she's beaten. "Best of luck, dear – it's been two years now and so far nothing has trounced his obsession with those stupid fucking ponies."

### Chapter Nine

### Several Pages of E-Mail Filler

When I get home, Kate is packing.

"Oh," she says, almost dropping a box of stuff in her surprise. "It's you."

"Of course it's me. I live here."

"Of course you do," she says, putting down the box and smiling. "We were going to tell you - honest. I just...I hadn't figured out how to explain it to you."

Jesús comes by carrying a desk chair. He spots me and says "Oh shit."

"Are you...moving house?" I murmur. "Were you going to move house without telling me?"

Kate shakes her head. "Noooo. Nothing like that. Anyway, where the hell have you been? We've been worried sick."

"No we haven't," says Jesús. She kicks him in the ankle.

I smile secretively, and go to my room. They haven't started packing in there yet. Kate follows me.

"Hanna, did you bone him last night?"

Bone - it's Kate's word for sex. I hate it. It's devoid of warmth. She also likes bang, fuck, screw, pork, rollin' over in the clover and fuckytime. She sees me shudder and sighs.

"I'm sorry," she exhales. "Did you 'make love' or whatever the book club set are calling it these days?"

I fold my arms around myself. There's an empty space in my chest when I think of him saying 'I don't make love - I clop.' I don't even know what that is. "We were intimate, yes," I murmur.

"Oh. Intimate," says Kate, in a cod English accent. "You don't look too happy about it."

"It was nice. I liked it." And I did. It's just...well...the ponies were offputting. I used to play with My Little Ponys when I was six. It's a bit strange having them staring at me while I'm doing that \- like staring into your own childhood at a time when you should absolutely never, ever be thinking about children.

"I met his mother," I say.

She raises her eyebrows. "While you were fucking him?"

"No. After. She turned up for breakfast. She's kind of a harpy. And there's something weird going on with the sister – Alicia. She thinks she's a cat or something. Do you think it's something sinister?"

Kate shakes her head. "Nah. Probably just plot set-up for a sequel."

"A sequel?"

"I know, right? There's hardly enough plot for one book, let alone a sequel, but what are you gonna do? Twenty first century publishing's a dirty old game."

I have no idea what she's talking about. "When were you going to tell me you were moving house?" I ask, determined to gain the upper hand in the conversation.

"Um...soon," she prevaricates. "I dunno - it's like Jesús changed everything. This new place - Jesús is going to be moving in too and I didn't know how you'd feel about it, since he'd started being such a sex pest towards you and everything."

"Kate, I hardly think one incident in a parking lot makes him a sex pest."

"No, but it kind of does," she mumbles. "When he gets really fucking high like that he always tries to stick his head under girls' skirts - it's like he was a dog in a previous life or something."

"Didn't hear you complaining, mi Catalina!" Jesús calls out, from the hallway.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" shouts Kate. "What part of 'Don't eat Hanna's pussy in the motherfucking parking lot' didn't sound like a complaint to you, you lazy prick?"

Jesús sticks his head around the door. "Grammatically speaking it was more of a command than a complaint," he grins. "A complaint would have maybe involved a please but you went straight to the imperative. Like always." His smile widens even further when he sees me. "Hi Hanna. Did you bone the billionaire?"

"Out," says Kate, getting up off my bed. She chases Jesús off, leaving me alone with my thoughts, which are currently pretending to be trapped in an invisible box. It's annoying, to say the least.

I lie on my bed for a while and think about all the packing I'm going to need to do. Then the doorbell rings. It rings twice and I wonder why nobody is answering it, but when I go out into the hall I can hear Kate and Jesús have taken their fight into her room.

It would be too much like consideration on their part to actually shut up while I open the door, so they carry on. Naylor is standing at the door. He wears his black suit and earpiece, only this time instead of a bouquet of pink roses he's carrying what looks like a laptop computer. There's a bow tied around it and a helium balloon bearing the face of the pink pony whose name I should probably know by now but don't.

"Compliments of Mr. Neigh, Miss," he says.

"What?" I say, which seems to be the only thing that springs to mind. "Naylor, I can't accept this."

"I'm to come in and set it up for you, Miss," he tells me.

I wonder about Naylor. Is this all he does - delivering gifts for Crispian Neigh's women. How many other women have there been, how many other bouquets and computers? His eyes flicker towards the door, where Kate is yelling like a woman in a headlock. Which she probably is. She and Jesús like to wrestle when they're drunk. (Which is often.)

"Oh God, oh God, oh Jesus..."

"It's pronounced Hay-soos," says Jesús, in a strangled voice.

"Is everything alright in here?" asks Naylor tentatively.

"Fine, Naylor," I say, trying to sound patrician and unflappable, like Claudia Trescothick-Neigh. "Please, return the computer. I can't accept expensive gifts like this." Part of me wants to, but all I can think about it what Kate will say. The word 'ho' will probably figure into the conversation somewhere.

Naylor doesn't move.

"You have to go now," I say. "And take that with you."

He still doesn't move. Something goes thud in the living room. Kate has probably killed Jesús, or vice versa.

"Naylor, really," I say. "Take the laptop back to Mr. Neigh and tell him thanks but no thanks. This is beginning to feel sinister."

"I can't do that, Miss," he tells me. "Mr. Neigh's orders. Do you want me to configure it for your Wifi or do you want to wait until you've finished moving house?"

I stare at the computer. It leers at me like the lid of Pandora's Box. Part of me wants it - really wants it. If I could learn the internet then maybe I could be a bit more...normal. Nobody would ever laugh at me for using silver pens and Hello Kitty stationery again. And I could learn things. Sex things. And then he might like me even more than ponies.

It's an investment really.

Kate comes back out as Naylor's leaving. "Holy shit," she says, looking out of the window and seeing the company SUV drive away. "He bought you a fucking computer?"

"I know what you're going to say..."

Kate buttons her shirt and sits down at the dining table, where the computer is all set up and ready to go. "No way," she murmurs. "What's the spec on this thing? I don't think I've ever seen one like this before. Hey, Jesús - come and check this out."

Jesús comes out of the living room. He looks flushed but they're obviously friends again. "Where the hell did your boyfriend get this, Hanna?" he says.

I turn about fifty shades of red all at once. My boyfriend. How I would love for him to be my boyfriend, but he's too rich, too remote. And I can't help thinking the pony thing is a little bit weird.

"Holy shit – look at this thing. He probably built it from secret plans that Steve Jobs handed over on his deathbed," says Kate, taking a drag from Jesús' horrible herbal cigarette. "It's so thin."

"I know right? And look at that screen." Jesús tugs at the ribbon. "And what's with the My Little Pony balloon?"

I want to tell someone. I want to, so much, but I remember what he said. "You're the only woman who has ever seen inside this room, Hanna."

So I say "I like My Little Pony," and Jesús laughs.

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" he says.

The computer makes a 'broop' noise and Kate stares at it. Oh my God. She's broken it already.

"Relax," she says. "It's just your e-mail."

E-mail? I have e-mail?

Kate touches something and the screen changes.

"There," she says. "E-mail."

From: Crispian Neigh bronynproud@neigh.net

To: Hanna Squeal serendipony@houyhnhmn.com

Welcome to my world, Hanna. A world of delights and fascination await you.

"And Warcraft," says Jesús.

"Not to mention fat, busty dwarf maidens," mutters Kate. "You want to reply, Hanna?"

I nod. "What do I do?"

"Click here. It'll fill in your addresses automatically. Just type your response in there. I can't believe I'm having to explain shit like this to a person under seventy. How do you miss the entire digital revolution?"

"Crispian says I'm self contained," I say, with a measure of pride.

"Well, I guess that's one word for it," opines Jesús. Kate kicks him again.

"Don't start fighting again, you guys."

"We weren't..." he begins, but once more I hear her boot crack against his ankle bone.

"Shh," says Kate, her hands almost tender as she ties a length of pink ribbon around my hair. "She's so self-contained. Let's keep it that way."

### Chapter Ten

### Three Things You Should Never Google Image Search

From: Hanna Squeal serendipony@houyhnhmn.com

To: Crispian Neigh bronynproud@neigh.net

Thank you for the computer. You shouldn't have. You REALLY shouldn't have. I don't even know how to work this thing.

Hanna.

From: Crispian Neigh bronynproud@neigh.net

To: Hanna Squeal serendipony@houyhnhmn.com

You'll get the hang of it, toots. Computers are idiot-proof these days. Even my brother Bennett can work one and you could armour plate a presidential limo with his skull. Can't stop thinking about last night. :) You were a very naughty little filly. And methinks I rather liked it. ;)

From: Hanna Squeal serendipony@houyhnhmn.com

To: Kate Hannigan mrsjpinkman@gmail.com

Kate, can you help me? Crispian just e-mailed me and he used all these weird little symbols and I don't know what they mean. What does ;) mean?

Hanna.

From: Kate Hannigan mrsjpinkman@gmail.com

To: Hanna Squeal serendipony@houyhnhmn.com

Are you fucking serious? It's a winky face. Turn your head to one side and wink - get it? Didn't you ever text this shit on your phone? By the way, are you planning on doing anything at all today, because I've got better things to do than pack up your extensive collection of macramé fucking potholders and ugly china cats. I know you're all excited because a rich weirdo busted your hymen and bought you a computer and I'm cool with that, but this is no time to turn into an internet addict. Seriously. Now get off your ass.

From: Hanna Squeal serendipony@houyhnhmn.com

To: Kate Hannigan mrsjpinkman@gmail.com

I don't know what you mean. It doesn't look a bit like a winky face. And for your information, the intimacy and the computer were in no way related, so wash your mind out with soap and water. I'll start packing my stuff as soon as I've e-mailed Crispian back, okay?

Hanna.

P.S. What does :) mean?

From: Hanna Squeal serendipony@houyhnhmn.com

To: Crispian Neigh bronynproud@neigh.net

Hi. Me again. ;) I think I'm winking at you. Is that right? Are we flirting by e-mail? This is so exciting. I've never had a computer before. I suppose I should, shouldn't I - what with you being an internet billionaire and everything. I have to go now because I need to pack \- we're moving to a new loft apartment across town. I only found out this morning. Nobody ever tells me anything.

Hanna.

From: Hanna Squeal serendipony@houyhnhmn.com

To: Crispian Neigh bronynproud@neigh.net

Okay, one more thing and I really MUST turn off the computer, but I just got this weird e-mail out of nowhere. I don't know why this guy would contact me but maybe he was trying to get a hold of you instead. Do you know any Nigerian princes?

Hanna.

I spend the rest of the day thinking about Crispian Neigh and trying to ignore the bitchy mime now living in my head. Thankfully her repertoire is pretty limited. She can only do the invisible box and walking into the wind, so if she attempts anything more complicated it's easier to ignore. Of course, at certain times she has recourse to the middle finger - like, quite often actually. Why does my subconscious hate me so much?

In the evening Kate orders pizza and keeps pawing pepperoni grease over my brand new keyboard. When I call her out on it I get the third degree.

"You let him buy you a computer before third date?"

"I'm borrowing it," I protest. "Because it makes him happy."

"That's convenient," says Kate. "It's all fun and games when the things that make him happy are the things that make you happy, but what happens when the things that give him the happies down below are things that make you feel bored. Or nasty. Or like there's never going to be enough soap in the known universe to wash away the ewww feeling?"

"What do you mean?"

"It's Relationships 101, Hanna. Sexual compatibility."

I fail to keep the smug look off my face. "We're very compatible, thank you very much."

She laughs. "No way. You're telling me he not only popped your cherry but flicked your bean to the point of satisfaction?"

"He did, as a matter of fact."

"I don't believe you. What did it feel like?"

I blush and stare at my half played game of solitaire. "Like...shivery. Like shattering into a million pieces and coming back together again. It came out of nowhere - every time."

Kate sits down on a tea-chest and lights up a horrible cigarette. "Every time?"

"Three times," I say. My Inner Goddess has given up attempting to mime and now simply looks surly, arms folded and one painted eyebrow arched to match the curl of her lip.

"Three times?" Kate howls. "Your first time and you had three orgasms?"

"I did. The first time I hadn't even taken my jeans off."

"Hanna, are you sure it wasn't just a sneeze? You might be allergic to Axe body spray."

Her phone rings and she's still laughing when she answers it. "Yeah, what do you want?"

It's no wonder she's single. She's so rude. I always used to think she was assertive, but there's a fine line. And her language is terrible.

"...why would I do that, Ben? Ask yourself seriously - why would I do everything you told me to in order to please you? What's in it for me? What do I get out of this deal?"

Kate lets out an ear-splitting shriek and cackles like a hyena. "You? That's the big fucking prize for being led around on a dog leash, spanked in your sex dungeon and told when to eat, sleep, drink and take a shit? I get YOU?"

I hear angry noises on the other end of the phone, but Kate is still giggling.

"Bitch, you don't even eat pussy," she says. Why is she so obsessed with that? Why is everyone so obsessed with that? It can't be hygienic.

"Do you mind?" I murmur, but she's still going.

"...nuh uh. You cannot call that cunnilingus. You were down there for less than five minutes as a time filler while you put the condom on..." She laughs at something. "Oh please. The whole time you were going down you were looking up, giving me 'Please ask for the peen,' eyes. And yet you expected me to blow you to orgasm and then freaked the fuck out when I tried to stick a finger up your ass..."

Oh dear God. I do not need to hear this.

Kate snorts. "...well, actually it might interest you to know that a lot of men like that kind of thing. You got a prostate, you fucking idiot...seriously – God, no wonder you kept telling me you were like the freakiest pervmonkey to ever get his kink on. The lady doth protest too much or what - I've heard of vanilla but, dude you are not even that..."

What is she even talking about?

"...you're like the sexual equivalent of cream of wheat. You're the human version of beige, Ben – and no amount of whips and riding crops and nipple clamps are ever gonna change that. Now don't call me again. I told you it was a one night thing, okay?"

I hear angry voices on the other end of the phone.

"No," says Kate. "I wasn't playing hard to get. I fucked you once because I was drunk. And you were bad. Really bad. It's that simple...no, I don't give a shit if you're rich..."

She sighs. "Seriously dude – don't call me again...no, really. Look, you can wipe your ass with your non-disclosure agreement for all I fucking care – I'm not gonna sign it. And anyway, it's not even legally binding. If you want to hear about legally binding then try calling me back, asshole. I mean it."

Kate snaps the phone shut and shakes her head in disgust. "And that, Hanna, is why it's best to have similar expectations in a relationship."

"Who was that?"

"Bennett Neigh, idiot. God, don't marry Mr. Cloppy, okay? There's nothing more awkward than a wedding where the chief bridesmaid has a restraining order out against one of the groom's brothers."

"Mr. What?" My blood turns to ice. How could she know about that? How could she know about...the clopping?

Jesús comes back from the store with more wine, just in time to rescue me. On reflection it was probably a bad idea to try and take on Kate like that - she gets a lot of lower body exercise and is still incredibly angry from that phone call with Crispian's brother. I end up on my back with Kate's nutcracker thighs squeezing my ribs.

"Oh, hey ladies," says Jesús. "Am I interrupting something? And can I join in?"

"If you like crazy women trying to choke you with cold, half-stale lumps of garlic bread, sure," growls Kate, squeezing my wrists. "Hanna had another one of her...episodes."

Jesús frowns down at me. "Hanna - did you do the screamy slappy thing again?"

I nod.

He gives me a smile that is both understanding and rueful. "What happened? Did she call Stephenie Meyer a hack?"

"I only told her not to marry that sickeningly wealthy asshole," says Kate, climbing off me. "Hanna, you really need to see someone about this shit."

"Says the woman who threatened to shove a rolling pin up my nose," I scowl, getting to my feet.

"I'll pour us a drink," says Jesús, taking the wine into the kitchen. "How about that?"

"Yeah, just add alcohol to violence," Kate calls after him. "That'll end well." She turns back to me. "You want to tell me what that was all about?"

I feel so stupid. Why does she make me feel so stupid? "You called him a name," I murmur.

"What? Mr. Cloppy? Well, isn't he?"

I can feel the blood rush hot to my face and the tears prickle my eyes. "That's private. You can't know that."

Kate frowns and draws me away from the kitchen door. "Hanna," she says, almost kindly. "There's nothing private when it comes to bronies. They broadcast that shit from the rooftops everywhere they go."

I don't believe this. "His brother told you about his...hobby?"

She shakes her head. "No. It was obvious. He bought you a My Little Pony t-shirt. He came to see you at work, at a toystore, where he bought a My Little fucking Pony. He buys you a computer and ties a My Little Pony balloon to the thing. Goddamn it, Hanna - I know you're not that bright, but didn't you notice that this guy really likes My Little Pony?"

"But...he said it was a secret."

Jesús comes out with the wine in plastic cups. "Excuse the Jonestown vibe," he says. "But we've packed all the glassware. What's going on?"

"Hanna's new boyfriend is a brony."

"No shit."

"You knew about this too?" I ask, aghast.

"Natch," says Jesús. "He was wearing one of those 'twenty per cent cooler' t-shirts and had a 'Brony Pride' button on the band of his doofy fucking hat."

"You've seriously never heard of bronies?" asks Kate.

I shake my head.

"I guess not," says Jesús, thoughtfully. "Think about it, Kate - why would she? They're an internet thing. Like, we've heard of them because they never shut the fuck up on YouTube, but Hanna's still at the Nigerian Prince stage of net savvitude. She's probably never even seen golden oldies like Tubgirl. Or goatse."

Kate reaches for my laptop with an evil grin on her face. Jesús restrains her.

"Ghostie?" I say.

"Goatse," says Kate. "You should definitely Google image search that, by the way. Definitely. G-O-A-T-S-E. Goatse."

"So he likes ponies," I say. "What's wrong with that? It's a little strange, but there's no harm in it. It's only our gender prejudices and preconceptions that make us think that pink, pretty things are for little girls. Why shouldn't boys be allowed to like pretty things if they want to?"

"I agree," says Jesús. "Down with gender stereotyping."

Kate narrows her eyes. "Jesús, you got something to tell me? You got a secret pony habit going on there?"

"No," he says, and pulls the band of something lacy out from under his jeans. "But I am wearing your underwear."

Kate exhales slowly and gets up from the tea chest where she is sitting. "Which ones?" she whispers, in a low voice which I know means she's going to explode. She's always had a terrible temper. "The dusky pink ones," says Jesús. "With the, like, coffee coloured lace trim."

Kate's lips go all thin. "I see," she says, swallowing. "I'm surprised they fit you."

"They're kind of snug across the butt - I won't lie."

She hates people touching her things without permission. She's so mad she makes a tiny squeaky noise in the back of her throat as she drags Jesús into the kitchen.

"Good luck," I whisper. "Don't let her kill you."

"I think I can handle her," he whispers back, and then she yanks him through the door and slams it behind them. I pour myself some more wine and turn back to my computer.

Hmm. Welcome to my world, he said. Maybe he meant me to learn about him, about his likes and dislikes. I type in G-O-A-T-S-E but delete it before I hit search. No, forget Kate. This is Crispian's gift to me and in a way Kate is right – I should know what he's into. I didn't know anyone else knew the word but evidently they do, so let's find out what it means.

I drain my cup and type 'Clop' into the search engine.

The results are...interesting.

Interesting? In the ancient Chinese curse sense of the word?

\- You picked an opportune time to give up mime.

My Inner Goddess removes her beret and makes a puke face. Sister, I wouldn't even want to think about how to mime a thing like that. Is that pony wearing a...

-...a strap on thingy. Yes. Yes it is. Oh my God.

### Chapter Eleven

### Filth and Pornography

From: Hanna Squeal serendipony@houyhnhmn.com

To: Crispian Neigh bronynproud@neigh.net

Dear Crispian,

There is no easy way to say this, so I'll just come straight to the point. I never ever want to see you again. It was fun while it lasted.

\- Hanna.

From: Crispian Neigh bronynproud@neigh.net

To: Hanna Squeal serendipony@houyhnhmn.com

What? What did I do?

From: Hanna Squeal serendipony@houyhnhmn.com

To: Crispian Neigh bronynproud@neigh.net

You didn't have to DO anything. I looked up 'clopping' on the internet.

Goodbye forever.

\- Hanna.

P.S. I'm pretty sure ponies don't have breasts, let alone leather bras with the nipples cut out.

From: Crispian Neigh bronynproud@neigh.net

To: Hanna Squeal serendipony@houyhnhmn.com

Don't do anything silly. I'm coming over.

I can't stop crying. Why would he do a thing like that? Why would he be interested in ponies in that way? It's so disgusting. It's not right. Is that what he thought we were doing when we were...doing it? We were having some kind of horrid pony-sex in his head? Is that what 'clopping' means?

Jesús comes out of the kitchen. "Oh my God, Hanna. What happened?"

Kate follows. She looks flushed and drunk. "Oh God - she googled goatse," she says, without looking at the computer screen. "It's okay, Hanna. I know it looks terrifying but it's just an anus, albeit a very talented one."

"It's not goatse," says Jesús, looking at her over the top of my laptop. "It's My Little Pony."

Kate joins us behind the computer. Her face is a picture of pure, uncomprehending disgust. "Oh Jesus fucking Christ man," she moans. "Bam - right in the childhood memories. Why would you even...oh my God stop. Click back. Back! That's just not right."

"Rule thirty four," says Jesús cryptically.

"Rule thirty four?"

"Rule of the internet," explains Kate. "'If it exists, someone somewhere has made porn of it.' It's one of the reasons why you can't search for something as innocent as My Little Pony or Transformers without coming across some freakazoid getting their perv on to it. Is there any more wine?"

"Transformers?" says Jesús. "Like robots and shit?"

"Yeah. Robots in disguise. Sexy disguise. There's probably fucking Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle erotica out there for all your kinky chelonian needs." She lights up another cigarette and sighs. "I don't even want to think about how that would work."

"Neither do I," says Jesús. "How do robots even feel anything? They don't have nerves."

I sob loudly. Kate puts her hand on my shoulder.

"It's okay, Hanna," she says. "Happens to all of us."

It doesn't, I want to say. How can she compare her squalid little dalliance with Crispian's brother to how I feel about him?

"...it would be just like metal grinding on metal," says Jesús. "That's not sexy – that's just pointless..."

Kate sighs. "Yeah, you know what, Jesús – I think this is like the last time in the world to be worrying about the logistics of hot metal robosex, okay?"

"Yes, sorry," says Jesús, blushing. "It's just I used to play with those when I was a kid. You want some more wine, Hanna?"

I shake my head. "I knew there was something wrong with him," I sniffle. "I knew it was too good to be true."

"Everyone's weird in some way," says Kate. "Come on – don't cry. At least he's not a pedophile or one of those guys who likes dressing up like Shirley Temple and being anally violated with a baby bottle."

"I guess," I concede, although I have no idea what she's talking about and don't want to. I blow my nose and try to stop crying. "What's a pilonidal cyst?"

"I don't know, but it sounds gross."

I start to cry again.

"Oh God," groans Kate. "So he's a perv. Isn't it better you found out now rather than later? Imagine if you'd found his pony porn stash on your wedding night. At least now you can just dump the motherfucker and move on."

Behind the laptop, Jesús lets out a small squeak of disgust and recoils from the screen.

"What?" Kate peers over my shoulder. "Oh yeah – that is gross," she says.

"What's gross?"

"Pilonidal cyst. Add it to the list of things you should never Google image search. Aw, man – that one looks like someone tried to burst a yeti...wow."

The door buzzer goes. I remember Crispian's last e-mail. "Oh my God. It's him."

"Him?"

"He said he was coming over."

"When?"

"When I said I didn't want to see him any more."

Kate curls her lip. "Leave him to me." The buzzer goes again and she walks out onto the narrow balcony overlooking the parking lot. I want to go out but Jesús holds me back. "Come on," he says. "You don't really want to be talking to him right now, do you?"

"Hey fucko, how's it going?" yells Kate. "She doesn't want to talk to you, so fuck off home to ponyland, 'kay?"

"Equestria!" Crispian's voice floats up from the parking lot below. "It's called Equestria, FYI. Hanna! HANNA!"

Kate cackles. "STELLA!" she shouts. "STEEEEELLLLAAAAAAA! Not the balcony scene I would have chosen, dude. Why'nt you bring your little boombox over? Play her the My Little Pony song?"

I push Jesús away. "I'm sorry," I murmur. "I have to talk to him. He's got under my skin."

"So does scabies. It doesn't make it right."

Christian is standing in the parking lot, glaring up at Kate. He's carrying a cardboard tube. "I don't have to take this, you know," he is saying, and then he sees me. "Hanna," he whispers. Quite loudly.

"I can't talk to you right now," I say. "Go home, Crispian."

"Hanna, I need to see you..."

"She said no," says Kate. "She asked nicely, bitch."

Crispian scowls at her but turns his most appealing expression on me. Oh crap - I think it might be working. "Please Hanna," he begs. "Let me explain."

He's a billionaire. He's got a helicopter and everything. And he's begging me. Little mousy me. I cannot deny that this does feel sort of fantastic.

"No," I say. "Go away. I don't want to see you."

"Hanna, please."

"Hey Equus, what part of 'no' do you not understand?" shouts Kate. "Are we speaking the same fucking language here? Tell you what, she'll bang her hoof on the floor once for yes, twice for no - will that make you fuck off?"

I press the buzzer. "Fine. Come in."

Kate rolls her eyes as Crispian hurries towards the front door. "You moron," she says. "If you invite a Brony in then he can come and go and he pleases."

"Kate, I think that's vampires?"

"It is?"

"Yeah. Definitely vampires."

She chews her lip. "Huh. That's weird. Why do I keep thinking he's a vampire?"

"I've no idea. It's just one of those things. Like Jesús - you know?"

"Oh yeah. Like how he goes a bit...

"...'wooooo' every time there's a full moon. Exactly. Just one of those things."

"Did you know he can lick his own balls?" Kate whispers.

"No way."

"Yes way. He's really bendy - it's fucked up, dude. I'm telling you..."

Crispian is standing in the balcony door. "Ladies," he says.

"Hey," says Kate, eyeing him warily. "So you're definitely not a vampire?"

He removes his fedora. His eyes are red and I feel inexplicably sorry for him. "No," he says. "Although I share a certain...affinity with the dark."

"Yeah. I can see that," says Kate. "If it was me I'd prefer to have the lights off too."

Crispian narrows his eyes. "Hanna, may I speak with you alone?"

I sigh. "Okay. Let's do this."

We go to my room. "I understand that you might have seen some things that disturbed you," he murmurs, apologetically. "But I want you to know that my interest in ponies isn't...well...it used to be like that. I may as well be honest with you."

"Okay." I stare at my fingernails. They are devoid of orange crescents, a sign that the world has come between us.

"I'm going to be brutally honest, Hanna - is that alright with you?"

I nod.

He licks his lips. "I have..." he stutters, a halting start. "I have a...fetish. I can't become sexually aroused unless I'm in the presence of ponies..."

"Oh my God."

"...specifically My Little Ponys. Not real horses or ponies - it's nothing like that. Actually I hate real horses - they're twitchy and they smell terrible."

"So it's just the toy ones?"

"Yes. But it has to be My Little Pony. The off-brand ones do nothing for me."

"Okay." I nod again. I'm dealing with this. I am dealing with this. Huh - look at me, dealing with this.

"When the show premiered it was like nothing on earth. It was like I'd come home. I couldn't stop touching myself."

Okay, not dealing with that. I get up off the bed. "You did what?"

He bites his lip. "I would masturbate," he says. "Eight to ten times a day. Sometimes more. While thinking about ponies. Rarity, mostly. Sometimes Fluttershy. Never Applebloom - never that, I swear."

"No, go back," I murmur. "You did...what? You used to what?"

"Masturbate. Fap. Wank."

"I'm sorry, I don't..."

"You know - polishing the pole, spanking it, bashing the bishop, tickling the pickle, playing a solo on the one string bass..."

I shake my head.

"A handy J, Hanna. A skin flute solo. A date with Mrs. Palm and her five lovely daughters...are you still not following me?"

"I don't..."

"Oh my God. Are you serious? Have you never touched your...you know?"

"No-no place?" I fluster, blushing scarlet. "Why would I want to do that?"

Crispian stares at me and begins to giggle. "No, stop," he says, waving a finger in admonition. "You're fucking with me now, aren't you? You have to be kidding me. Are you seriously telling me that you have never experimented with the pleasures of solo flight?"

"Um...I get airsick. Remember?"

"No," he says, shaking his head. "No way. You're twenty one years old, for God's sake. And you have never made yourself come?"

"No."

"You've never rode a bicycle down a cobbled street?"

"I can't ride a bike."

"You've never leaned up against the washing machine while it's on a spin cycle? You've never even aimed the showerhead in interesting places?"

I shake my head.

"You don't even know what clopping means, do you?" he asks. "So why are you freaking out so much?"

"Because ponies don't have boobs!"

I probably say it louder than I mean to, because Kate taps on the door. "You okay in there?"

"Fine." I wish I had some more wine. "Look...I may be unworldly, Crispian," I mutter. "But I'm not stupid. I know dirty pictures when I see them, and I know that there are things that aren't supposed to happen to My Little Ponys. And all those things were...happening. Some of them all at once to just the one pony. And it's...disgusting. It's for little girls. You shouldn't make pornography of cartoons for little girls. It's just wrong."

He sighs and gets up from the bed. "I'm sorry," he says. "I thought you were more tolerant than this, Hanna. I thought you were a better person."

"I am." I grab the back of his trenchcoat.

He shakes me off like a bug. "Then why do you judge me for liking what I like? Isn't it the same as all those people who judge you for reading too much and falling over your own feet? I can't help the way I am, Hanna. I was always this way. It's just that when I found you I thought...I thought you could love and tolerate me on my own terms." He picks up his hat from the bed. "I see I was wrong."

"No!" I say. "This isn't fair. You haven't given me all the information I need to make a judgement. What's in the cardboard thing, Crispian?"

"Oh - this," he says. "I don't think you should see it - now that you think I'm disgusting."

"Please!"

He sighs long and heavy. "Fine," he says. "If that's what you really want."

"It is."

He opens the plastic pop top of the tube and draws out a large sheet of paper. As he unrolls the pale pink paper a picture is revealed to me - a pastel drawing of a unicorn with large blue eyes and a brown mane and tail. Its coat is white all over, except for some markings on its hindquarters - little orange crescent moons.

The tears are pouring down my face and I can't stop them. "Is this how you see me?" I ask.

He nods, his face impassive but for a twitching muscle in his jaw.

"Crispian, it's beautiful."

His whole expression changes. It's like he lights up inside. I made him look like that. I did that. I have a sudden and appalling sense of my own power. Mmm. Power.

"You...you like it?"

"I love it. It's the most wonderful thing anyone has ever given me."

"I call her Serendipity."

"Oh Crispian..."

He grabs me and we tumble onto my bed. My inner goddess is...um...well, she's somewhere. Hello? My inner goddess is...

... _in no mood to provide commentary on nerd sex. Ever._

\- Excuse me, but this is supposed to be an erotic novel.

No, it's a parody of an erotic novel. An erotic novel that's about as sexy as a damp sock. Or you. Or him, for that matter. You are not sexy people and it wasn't a sexy book.

\- For God's sake, I didn't ask for your opinion - can't you just dance the pasa doble or the merengue or the foxtrot to indicate that he's putting it in my you-know-what?

He's putting it in my you-know-what? Wow. This really is the height of steaminess, isn't it? I'm frothing at the gash as we speak. Incidentally, don't you just love how you can tell that the author is a big fan of Strictly Come Dancing?

\- I'd settle for just Strictly Come right now.

Not bloody likely, dear. He couldn't find your clitoris with a sat-nav.

### Chapter Twelve

### Why Jesús Isn't Allowed Near Fire Hydrants

Crispian doesn't stay for breakfast. He's very busy.

Jesús has been playing with my laptop all night. He shuts the screen down as soon as he sees me, but I glimpse a suspiciously large amount of bare skin. "Jesús, have you been looking at internet pornography on my computer?"

"Oh, is it your computer now?" says Kate. "So you've definitely decided to accept it now that he's your...super plastic pony pal or whatever?"

I round on her, furious. "Katherine Joyce Hannigan - are you calling me a whore?"

She laughs. "Oh, Hannelore Moonbeam Galadriel Squeal - of course I'm not calling you a whore. A whore would know the difference between an orgasm and a sneeze. Or how to give a blowjob."

I smile, smug down to the tips of my toes. "Well, that's where you're wrong," I say. "As a matter of fact I have a natural talent for it."

Kate blinks dispassionately at me. "Hanna, you refer to your genitals as 'down there' and have never even played finger hockey with your fleshy puck. You're seriously trying to tell me that, after a couple of mediocre sexual experiences with It Came From OKCupid, you've suddenly turned into the Cocksucking Queen of Seattle?

"Yep."

Jesús frowns. "Deep throat?" he asks.

"Deep throat," I say, folding my arms.

"What the fuck, man?" Jesús shakes his head. "And a woman wrote this?"

Kate shoots him a warning glance. "Yo - I do the meta round here, okay? You do the werewolf jokes. Division of labour and all that shit."

"Yeah, but aren't the werewolf jokes technically meta-jokes? Because I used to be a Mexican werewolf?"

"Native American."

"Native American? So when was I a werewolf?"

"In Twilight. You were originally a Native American werewolf. Then someone wrote a Twilight fanfic, discovered the magical power of find/exchange, published the fucking thing and bam - you're a handsy Mexican photographer."

Jesús squints. "Yeah. I'm gonna need the bong for this one."

"Don't sweat it, dude - it's fucking confusing."

"It seriously is. I don't even have a camera. Why are we discussing this again?"

"Because the alternative is discussing Hanna's love life, such as it is."

I wave. "Hi. I'm over here."

They ignore me. "Wait," says Jesús. "Isn't this whole book supposed to be about Hanna's love life?"

"Yeah."

Jesús stares into the middle distance for a while and shudders. "Dios mio \- that's like..."

"I know, right?"

"Fucking purgatory. I just had this vision of an endless grey wasteland – like the surface of the moon. Or Wyoming."

"For real," says Kate. "Tumbleweeds and all. And get this - there are two fucking sequels."

"Holy shit. Is boring the new kinky?"

"I'm right here. Hello?" What the hell is wrong with them now? They've said it themselves - this is supposed to be about me.

"Okay, so here's what we'll do," says Kate, smoothing down the front of Jesús' shirt. "I'll call Bennett Neigh and tell him to meet me at the Heathman. Then you sneak into the stockroom, we'll steal some more mini-bar bottles and sell them to freshmen - and if we can raise enough spare capital then we're going to fucking Barbados, how about that?"

"Barbados? Can I wear your bikini?"

"Fuck yeah."

"Awesome," says Jesús. "I'll get the car."

Kate turns back to me. "So, yeah," she says, scratching the nape of her neck. "That's kind of what we have planned - drugs, stealing, ripping off bondage addicts, weird sex and experimental transvestitism in Barbados. Just to keep you up to speed, you understand." She smiles and adopts a perky expression that reminds me uncomfortably of my mother. "So, what are your plans for today?"

I stare at the floor. "I was going to think about Crispian."

"Oh. Okay."

"He did a picture of me. It was pretty."

"Hmm." Kate nods. "That's nice. So you're okay with the whole cloppy-fucky pony thing now?"

"I dunno," I say, picking at my fingernails. "I think so? Maybe. I don't know if I'm fully okay with it, but I could be okay with it, if I never thought about it again and we never talked about it or mentioned it ever."

Kate sighs. "Yeah. I don't think that's going to happen."

I bite my lip in thought. "Maybe I could just learn to enjoy the cute parts?" I suggest. "I like My Little Ponys. They're adorable. If I just concentrate on the adorable and...I dunno..."

"Try to forget about the parts with dildos."

"Yes."

"And buttplugs."

"Those too."

"And double-anal penetration with the little dragon dude from the cartoon..."

"...okay, enough."

Kate exhales and stares at me. "Yeah - you're not going to be able to forget about that," she says. "You're pretty much mentally scarred for life. I know I am."

I sigh. "There's no getting away from it, is there?"

"There really isn't, Hanna. That's fucked up shit. You know what - if you can't handle it then just dump him and date someone else. You're a grown woman - if you find his sexual kinks gross and disturbing and he's not prepared to compromise then what the hell is the point of sticking around? Sounds to me like a recipe for straight-up misery."

"Or another ten thousand words of protracted unnecessary drama and two sequels," I sigh.

She grabs my arm. "Whoa - Hanna. You're coming over a bit meta yourself lately. You feeling okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," I bowdlerise. "Just thinking aloud. Voices in my head."

"You have voices in your head?"

"Yep. I have voices in my head and no gag reflex - I'm a well adjusted individual."

***

It's moving day.

Kate and Jesús did not make Barbados. Instead they almost got caught sneaking into the stockroom and had to make a mad dash for it. In my car. Wendy, my beloved VW bug, is now wrapped around a streetlamp a block away from the Heathman Hotel. I was with Crispian at the time it happened. We were having lunch in a fancy boutique restaurant in the forest, where he told me about how he was sexually molested by a lady jockey, a disclosure that left me reeling for several pages until the police called me and said I was about to be arrested for leaving the scene of an accident.

Kate has a big foam collar around her neck and several bruises. I have no sympathy.

She's lucky that Crispian can take time out from his busy, non-stop business life to help out. He sends his brawny brothers round - the ones Kate refers to as 'Mr. Beige' and 'Mufasa's Bitch' - and they start hurling our stuff into the back of a van as easily as if the boxes were filled with feathers.

Crispian doesn't like Kate, for obvious reasons, but for the first time in her life she can't say a thing. I have to admit, the moral high ground is pretty intoxicating, and I didn't even have to scramble up here to breathe the pure, sweet air of smug, annoying righteousness. As soon as Kate totalled my car it was like I hitched a helicopter ride to the summit.

"I'm sorry," she says, for the twelfth time in as many minutes. "I'm really, really sorry. My parents insurance will cover it."

"Can your parents give her back the memories she made in that car?" asks Crispian. "The melted hard candies in the glove-box? The pine Christmas tree air freshener that had long since lost its smell?"

"Or that weirdly diamond shaped stain when my period came early and I was stuck in traffic?" I add. Crispian goes pale and clutches the side of the door for support. He's not good with what he calls 'lady business'.

"Okay, I know," moans Kate. "I fucked up, okay? I'm sorry. It's like I'm already wearing the cone of shame." She gestures to the foam collar and winces. "Hanna, if it's any consolation I'm in a fucking shitload of pain right now. I've got three broken ribs and my tits are black and blue."

Crispian's phone rings.

"Business?" I mouth.

He shakes his head. "Bennett and Casper. They're at the new apartment. Apparently there's some Puerto Rican already there..." He holds the phone to his ear again. "And he's wearing a bikini. Do you know anything about that?"

"He's Mexican," says Kate. "His name's Jesús and sometimes he likes to dress up and feel pretty. Don't judge."

"I wasn't about to..."

"Good, because you're in no position to do so, My Little Pervy. You want me to speak to them?"

Crispian hands her the phone and goes out onto the balcony, clutching his forehead. I follow him. "I'm sorry about my friends," I say. "I know they're strange and terrible..."

He waves a hand. "They obviously like you."

"Sometimes. They call me an asshole a lot. Although not today - because they wrecked my car."

"No," he says, and he looks sad.

"Do you have many friends?" I ask. "Can I meet them?"

Crispian sighs. "They're mostly online," he says. "And to be honest I never had much of a social life growing up. I had Warcraft, of course. But meatspace friends - not really. That's why ponies were such a big deal for me. It's about friendship. That's special."

"Yeah," I agree, taking his hand. "It is. Even when they try to rip off a hotel storeroom and wreck your car."

He kisses me and smiles. "You're sweet, Hanna. I'll tell you what - why don't I get all my friends together for a party and you can come meet them?"

"That would be awesome. I'd really like that."

He drives me round to the new apartment so that I can start unpacking boxes. Jesús got off more lightly than Kate - with barely a scratch. She says this was because he drank half a bottle of tequila to 'help his nerves', so that when the car crashed he was as limp as a ragdoll.

"Your boyfriend left you this," he says, gesturing to a bottle of pink champagne on the mantelpiece. "Have fun. I can't even be in the same room as alcohol right now."

He scurries off and I hear him vomiting in the bathroom. At least, I hope it's the bathroom.

We do pretty well for a Mexican transvestite and a skinny Lit graduate, and by the time Mufasa's Bitch and Mr. Beige bring round the next load we've almost got the kitchen in order. There's a large pantry cupboard and a doorway at the back of it, which Jesús says goes up to the attic.

"Hey - you can be a real madwoman up there, Hanna," he says.

I stare at him. "What do you mean?"

"You know - Mrs. Rochester. The first one."

"Yeah. I know...I know. Jane Eyre."

"Yeah," says Jesús. "The madwoman in the attic. Although wasn't that a book too? The Madwoman in the Attic?"

"I don't..."

"Yeah, yeah. It was. Elaine Showalter and...and someone. You read it?"

Okay. What? "Er...I don't think so," I say. "Is it like...dirty?"

"No man. It's like one of the greatest pieces of feminist literary criticism ever written - all about the rise of the woman novelist in the nineteenth century. I would have thought Professor Jarrett would have had that right at the top of her list - her doctorate was about feminism and gothic literature and shit. Did you hear she got deported, by the way?"

"Um...I might have heard of it," I say. "When did you start reading books? I just thought you sat around playing Left 4 Dead and preparing for a career in the fast food service industry?"

"Duh. I'm a Literature Major."

"Oh my God - how did I not know that?"

Jesús sighs. "Look, Hanna - we probably need to clear the air, right? You know how I kind of stuck my hand up your skirt that time?"

I blush. "Yes."

"You know I was really fucked up, right? We'd been doing bong hits all afternoon and Kate made me do Jell-O shots and I vaguely remember snorting something off the top of a toilet in the little boy's room - could have been coke, could have been speed. Could have been toilet cleaner, to tell you the truth. I'm really not sure. The point is, and there's no nice way to say this, but that's how fucked up I had to get in order to make a pass at you."

"Oh."

"Yeah. You've always been kind of self-absorbed. I've always found that a very unattractive thing in a woman."

"Great," I say. "You stole my car."

Jesús bites the inside of his cheek. "Yeah. Yeah - I did do that. Borrowed. Borrowed - was totally going to give it back."

"Only now you can't."

He nods. "Sorry, sorry, sorry. Have I mentioned that I'm sorry? I just wanted you to know that you can totally feel comfortable around me, because I'm not going to try and eat your pussy again. And also you should probably pull your head out of your ass now and again and pay attention to stuff that other people say and do, because introversion is bad, man. It's bad. Especially now you've got a computer."

"What does a computer have to do with anything?"

"Tumblr," he says cryptically.

A horn honks outside and Jesús goes to the window. It's a loft window and he has to go on tiptoe to look out. Half a man-gland peeks out of the side of his bikini bottoms - Kate's bikini bottoms. When did he start dressing up in ladies underwear? And why does his butt look better than mine?

"Dios mio," he says. "Hanna, look what your sugar daddy bought you now."

I slap him across the backs of his legs and scramble up onto a crate. Crispian is grinning up at me, his head sticking out the sunroof of a brand new car. There's a pink ribbon tied across the hood.

"He is not my sugar daddy," I say.

"Whatever you say. First the computer, then a car. Hey, next time you guys have a fight could you ask him for a yacht? I've always wanted to have a yacht party."

I go downstairs. Crispian is still grinning but has removed his head from the sunroof. "Hey toots," he says. "Will this do?"

"What do you mean, will this do? You can't buy me a car."

"Why not? I can afford it, and you're currently between cars."

"But people will say I'm a hooker!"

"Who says you're a hooker? It's not like you're trading sexual favours for money."

"No, but in the last two days you've bought me a state of the art laptop and now you're trying to buy me a car. Don't you think it looks a little...whorey?"

"Depends," he says. "On who wants to get sued for libel. If I want to buy you a car I'll buy you a damned car. You can push it off a cliff for all I care - I'll just buy you another one."

I sigh. It's a nice car. It's a cute little white hatchback with orange trim on the hubcaps and wheel arches. "Is the colour scheme on purpose?"

"I saw it and thought of you," he says. "With those little orange cutie marks."

I shake my head and smile, remembering when I used to think Q.T. Marx was responsible for the art in his office. Now I know that a cutie mark is the picture on the pony's flank, in my case a couple of cheeto-orange crescents. Off brand. It seems such a long time ago that I was so innocent, but in fact it's only been a couple of days. Time goes slowly when you narrate everything. I blink, an involuntary reaction controlled by my brain sending signals to my eyelids. My eyelids move up and down, removing dirt, grit and stickiness from the surface of my eyes.

"It's very thoughtful," I say, "But I don't know if I can accept this. I think I need some space, Crispian."

"Space?" He pronounces the word as if I have said something obscene. "Hanna, it's just a car. You need a car. What's wrong? Are you still upset about the pony thing?"

I bite my lip.

"Don't bite your lip," he growls. "You'll make it bleed."

I sigh. "I don't know," I murmur. "I just don't know, Crispian. It's just...it makes me feel unsettled. And kind of sick. Sometimes I think I'm going to be okay with it and then other times I'm not. Do you think you can...change?"

He arches his eyebrow at me. "Why would I change?" he asks, rhetorically pointing to the 'Brony Pride' button on the band of his fedora. "This is who I am, Hanna. I want you to accept me for who I am - the way my friends accept me for who I am." He sighs and shakes his head. "I thought everything was settled after last night. I thought you understood me. Why are we even having this conversation?"

"You know why."

"I know. Two sequels..." He sighs again. "Hanna - take the car. I am ordering you to take the car."

"But I don't..."

"Shh." He presses a finger to my lips. "Shush now. No more talking."

"But I..."

"Shh. I bought you a car. Deal with it." He removes his finger. I hate him, but in a sexy way. "Come round to my place tonight," he says. "I think you need to learn a lesson - a lesson about love, and tolerance."

"What? You want me to dress up as a unicorn so all your friends can admire me?" I'm surprised even as I say it, but I can see from the light in his eyes that I've hit a nerve. Specifically several nerves. All of them below the waist. Oh my.

"No," he says. "But wear something nice. And just a heads up, you could probably use another lip wax. It's like kissing a sea otter. Grows back fast, doesn't it? Was your Dad Italian or something?"

### Chapter Thirteen

### A Harsh Lesson About Tolerance

Once again I am nervous, quivering with anticipation, tremulous with apprehension, waiting and worrying and ransacking the thesaurus for suitable verbs. Lately I seem to spend my whole life waiting for Crispian Neigh, even though I only met him about a week ago. It's almost like before I met him my life was pointless and futile.

It was. Still is. It just contains one hundred per cent more nerd cock than it used to, that's all.

\- Oh, it's you.

Of course it's me. You think I'm going to miss out on some enchanted evening with that nice Mr. Neigh? And by 'nice' I mean 'creepy compulsive masturbator and despoiler of little girls' cartoons'.

I sigh. It's going to be a long evening, I can tell. I'm plucked, waxed, moisturised and made-up to Crispian's most exacting standards, peering out of the window like Sister Anne, waiting for Naylor and the SUV.

No shit it's going to be a long evening. Couldn't we just skip to the party? Has the author never heard of in media res or is she getting paid by the word?

The SUV pulls up. I wave goodbye to Kate and Jesús, even though they don't deserve it, and go downstairs. Naylor is waiting, this time with an orchid corsage, a Blackberry and a small diamond tiara. I don't want to accept any of these gifts but Crispian is impossible when I don't, so I do. Besides, I can't help but think the tiara kind of suits me.

Yeah - you keep on telling yourself that.

I could really do without my Inner Goddess tonight but at least I should be partially grateful that she has at least given up mime. I drink two glasses of champagne on the journey to steady my nerves...

And keep telling yourself that too.

\- Oh my God, will you shut the fuck up?

Oh my, Hanna - defensive much? I'm just saying...

\- Well, don't.

... _you've been pounding them back since the Roman shower incident._

\- Have not.

Have too. It's like you're unhappy and drinking to forget.

\- Fuck off.

I am not unhappy. I am not drinking to forget. I say these words over and over like a mantra as the elevator carries me upwards to Crispian's apartment. Everything will be fine. He's probably right. Why shouldn't he like ponies? It doesn't hurt anyone, does it? It's not like he raped or murdered anyone. He just...has very specific needs.

The door is opened by a boy in a rainbow t-shirt. He is wearing what appear to be felt pony ears and a clip on tie. "Hi," he says. "I'm Daniel."

"I'm not unhanna," I blurt, managing to change it halfway through. Successfully? I'm not sure. He's looking at me strangely. "I'm Hanna," I finish. "Hanna. I'm Crispian's...girlfriend."

Am I? What am I to him? I want to be his girlfriend, not his pony. The Serendipity thing would be cute if he didn't take it so damned seriously.

Crispian's apartment is full of young men. Several of them are hunched around laptop computers, some are watching the pony cartoon with rapt attention. A large group in the kitchen are screaming their way through a song about winter and keep being shushed by the others. They're all shapes and sizes, colors and creeds, but they're all wearing something pony-related.

There are quite a lot of fedoras in this room.

\- So? Crispian wears a fedora.

My point exactly.

Crispian elbows his way through the crowd. "Glad you could make it," he says. "Come and meet my friends."

"Okay," I say. It comes out in a sort of squeak. I'm sure they're all nice people.

Nice people who spank it to My Little Pony.

\- I can't believe I'm saying this, but I think I preferred you when you were a mime.

Crispian bangs on the side of his glass with a spoon. "Hey guys! Guys! Listen to me!"

Slowly they turn away from their laptops. They pause the TV screen. I am bathed in the plasma glow of a giant pink pony face, wide blue eyes, mouth open like an equine version of The Scream.

"Guys, this is Hanna," says Crispian.

"Hi Hanna," chorus the bronies.

"I want you to make her feel welcome, okay?"

A large, bearded man grabs me around the shoulders and squeezes me. "We're gonna love and tolerate the shit out of you, Hanna," he says. He smiles, but for some reason it sounds like a threat.

"Um...thanks?" I whimper. He smells kind of ripe too. My Inner Goddess is ominously silent.

"So who's your favourite pony, Hanna?" asks a skinny brony.

"Er..."

"What did you think of the resolution of the season two story arc?" queries Beardo. I have no idea what any of them are talking about.

"Go easy on her," interjects Crispian. "She's new to this. Let's find you a drink, toots."

"I already had some champagne..."

"What's a little more booze between friends?" he says, and grins at Beardo. "She's twenty per cent cooler when smashed, if you know what I mean. And I think you do."

I pass the TV set where the cartoon is playing again. "Diabetes!" shrieks a boy, rocking back and forth in his seat with excitement. "It's so fucking adorable it's giving me diabetes ohmygod!"

I feel a strange cringing sensation at the nape of my neck and I want to leave. I don't think I can handle this. Thanks to the internet I can no longer see cute cartoon ponies without thinking about...horrible things. Dirty things.

But no - I promised him. I promised him I would give it a try. I can't back out now. Maybe if I try to forget what I've seen and concentrate on the songs and the pretty colours?

"Is this your girlfriend, Cris?" The next one to approach us is wearing blue foam wings and ears.

"This is her. Isn't she great?"

"She's cloptacular, man. Brohoof!" He bumps fists with Crispian.

Rude.

\- Did he just call me 'cloptacular'? And does that mean what I think it means?

Definitely. You've hit the manchild motherlode here. You think half these rejects have ever even talked to a woman, let alone acknowledged her as a member of the same species?

\- I'm not sure I'm a member of the species they're interested in. Do you think they all do...you know.That? To ponies?

Hell yeah. Check them out.

I glance over at one of the laptop huddles, their faces rapt, mouths open, reflected ponies capering in their glasses. I don't think I'm comfortable with this.

"She's a virgin too," smirks Crispian, jolting me back to the here and now.

"You're kidding," moans Blue-wings, staring at me. "You've never seen the show? Never?"

I shake my head, confused by his intensity. "I don't really watch TV. I prefer to read..."

"Oh, that's so Twilight Sparkle," says Blue-wings. He's grinning like a maniac as he and Crispian steer me towards a nearby computer.

"Get ready for the most awesome experience of your life, Hanna," says Crispian, and clicks play on the video.

It's not so much awesome as weird. For about fifteen interminable minutes I sit watching a child's cartoon, while two excited grown men watch my every blink and frown. "Isn't it great?" Crispian whispers, squeezing my hand. "Don't you think the writing is amazing?"

It's okay. It's not awful. If he wasn't staring at me the whole time I could conceivably see myself enjoying it, but not to the point that they obviously do. "It's very cute," I murmur. "I need some air. Is there a balcony or something?"

He leads me through the crowds of howling, squealing men, out through a glass door. I didn't realise this was here, but suddenly we're in a walled roof garden, with potted shrubs, a bamboo arch and a little pebble fountain bubbling away over the gravel. It's quiet and nothing short of magical.

"I never saw this part of your apartment before," I say, just as I realise we're not alone. Another brony emerges from a thicket of potted bamboos, cigarette in mouth.

"Well, you know \- you only saw the bedroom," says Crispian. "And the kitchen. Always an auspicious start to a relationship. This is Eric. You'll like him - he's kind of spiritual - reads books and stuff."

"Um...okay?" He leaves me there with Eric and disappears before I can even ask him where he's going.

"So you're the girlfriend?" says Eric, blowing out smoke. "Wow. Never thought we'd see Crispian get tied down to a chick."

"Nobody's getting tied down," I say. "Or tied up. Or spanked, whipped, caned or flogged."

Eric frowns. "I see. Do you want to be?"

"I don't know," I shrug. Do I? Would I prefer that to being forced to watch My Little Pony cartoons for the remainder of my natural life? Maybe not, as I really don't like pain, but on the other hand I could see myself getting very sick of ponies.

"You should know," says Eric. "Knowing is the first step to visualisation."

I sit down on the bamboo bench beside the deer-scarer. Dangling a modifier into the cool water, I lean forward, curious. "Visualisation?"

"Visualise what you want," explains Eric. "Visualise in detail. The more detail you supply the more likely the universe is to comply with your desires, you see. It's a kind of cosmic ordering, but more Buddhist."

Wow. He really is spiritual. "You mean if I simply imagine what I want I'll get it?"

"Positive visualisation, yeah. It's amazing. I read this whole book on it - it's like on the level with physics and quantum theory. It's all about energy, about harnessing it to meet your desires."

I picture a beach, Florida. I imagine Crispian holding my hand, smiling, being my boyfriend. We are sipping pina coladas and nothing is about ponies. Everything is about me. "This definitely works?" I ask.

"It takes a while," explains Eric. "Practise. Buddhist monks can take a lifetime to produce full thought-forms, although I'm unusually gifted. I had a full-on manifestation the first time I tried - I could feel her weight on the bed beside me, the texture of her hair. It was incredible."

"Her?"

"Rainbow Dash."

I take a deep breath. Holy crap. That's the blue one. I remember that much, even if I still get Pinkie Pie and Fluttershy confused. I should have known this was too good to be true. "So let me get this straight," I say, slowly. "You asked the universe to bring you a toy pony?"

"No. A real one. A living, breathing Rainbow Dash."

I stare at him for a moment, unsure as to what to say. Is he going to be offended if I explain that Rainbow Dash is a cartoon? Is he going to go insane with rage and disappointment and toss me over the parapet?

"They call it a tulpa," he explains. "In the East."

... _as opposed to the West, where we call it 'batshit insanity'_

\- Okay. So it's not just me? Do you think Eric might be a little odd?

No. I think Eric might be a lot odd. I think Eric might be straight-up H.P. Lovecraft crazy. Sure, he's seeing darling little candy coloured ponies where Randolph Carter used to see slimy tentacle abominations, but that doesn't mean he's not so far round the twist that it's practically non-Euclidean.

\- Is it wrong that I would actually prefer the tentacled abominations at this point? Help me - I don't know what to say.

How about 'bye'?

Crispian comes back out to join us, carrying champagne glasses and a fresh bottle. Eric makes his excuses and leaves while Crispian pours the drinks. "See?" he smiles, handing me a glass. "I told you they were great guys. Bronies are the best."

"I'm sure they are..." I murmur, gazing into my champagne. I watch the bubbles tickle the surface and am none the wiser, or more comfortable. It's not that I hate ponies - it's just that I don't think I want to design my life around them.

He knows something is up. He always does. I don't know how he does that. Maybe it's intuition, or bad writing. "What?" he frowns. "What's up, Hanna?"

"Nothing."

"It's not nothing. I can tell. Say what's on your mind."

Here's your cue handed to you on a plate. Tell the nice man that you are never going to be okay with the fact that he greases his pole to My Little Pony.

\- Oh come on. I can't say it like that. He'll break up with me.

And? Not seeing a downside here.

I hesitate for too long and Crispian gets defensive. "You think it's unmanly, don't you?" he says, scowling.

"I don't..."

"No, it's okay Hanna. You can say it. You think I'm some kind of little sissy boy because I love things that are pink and adorable, don't you? What do you want from me? You want me to be some big dumb jock boyfriend who abuses steroids and spends every spare moment at the gym?"

A moment at the gym would be a start; you have to admit he's kind of doughy.

I shush my Inner Goddess and sigh. "You're putting words in my mouth," I protest.

He grabs me, his hands on my ass, pulling me in close. "Feel," he says, rubbing against me. "Feel how much of a man I am - for you baby. All for you."

I carefully put down the champagne flute and return his embrace. "I never questioned your masculinity for a moment," I say.

Your sanity, on the other hand...

\- Will you be quiet?

He curls the ends of my hair around his fingers. "Did you like the show?" he asks. Holy crap - I think he's actually nervous.

"Yes," I say. It's not entirely a lie. "I liked it a lot. I thought the...the...characterisation was excellent."

His smile could light up all Seattle. "It's awesome, isn't it? They really thought it through."

"Totally. It's just...I..."

"Just what?"

"It's just..." I begin, haltingly. "It's just...Eric was saying some...strange things there and..."

"He was making obscene suggestions?" Now he's angry - oh God. He's so mercurial.

"No, no. God no. He was talking about spiritual stuff - like you said."

Crispian nods slowly. He looks like a pressure cooker on simmer.

"He talked about...thought forms?" I explain. "As far as I could make out he was saying like he believed he could imagine ponies, actual ponies, out of thin air."

"Ohhh," says Crispian. "That. Yeah - he is into all that."

"So you don't..."

"Try to think ponies into existence?" He grins, all rage forgotten. "No. That's just nutty stuff. Besides - I've got you. My Serendipity."

"Yeah. You have."

His grin takes on a bedroom quality. "So...what was that you were saying about dressing up as a unicorn?"

I laugh but I'm uneasy. It's all so...pony. I lost my virginity in front of an audience of My Little Ponys - isn't that enough for him? Why can't he try it my way?

I draw away from him and retrieve my drink. "Cris, I've been thinking..." I murmur, scattering ellipses.

"Hanna, you are not breaking up with me." It's not a question.

"No, I'm not," I say. "I just...want some space. To think. And I'd like to see my mother before I graduate."

"She's not coming to your graduation?"

I shake my head. "No. She has to stay in Florida. Something to do with Uncle Chet's root chakra. Or was it Uncle Tate's? I can't remember - anyway, she won't travel if her horoscope advises against it."

"So you're going to leave me?" asks Crispian, archly. Oh crap - he probably has abandonment issues and that just makes me want to stay. And fix him.

"Only for a few days."

He looks sceptical. "I don't know, Hanna. You never mentioned your uncle's taint before - why is it so important now?"

"It's not. I'm going to see my mother."

"Oh, so you're definitely going?" he says, his eyes glittering dangerously. "You're trying to dump me, aren't you? Because you don't think I'm a man. You think I'm gay, don't you?"

"How does being gay make you less of a...?"

He cuts me off. "Why did you ask me that? It was the first damn thing you said to me when you phoned me..."

"...I was drunk dialling from a nightclub bathroom! For God's sake, Crispian - I know you're not gay. Why are you so weirdly defensive about it?"

"I am not weirdly defensive," he says, scowling. "You don't know what we face, Hanna \- the discrimination we bronies suffer. Every day we encounter trolls who call us fags and homos, just because we are secure enough in our masculinity to enjoy a cartoon about the magic of friendship and toleration..."

"Well, maybe if you didn't talk about it all the time..."

Crispian stares at me in disbelief. "I don't think you understand," he says, his voice glacial. "I'm a Brony, Hanna. Capital B. This is my life. This is who I am. You want me to hide that? My essential self?"

"No, of course not, but..."

He shakes his head. "You know what," he says. "Go to Florida. We obviously both have a great deal of thinking to do. I'll have Naylor take you home."

### Chapter Fourteen

### Several More Pages of E-mail Filler

From: Kate Hannigan mrsjpinkman@gmail.com

To: Hanna Squeal serendipony@houyhnhmn.com

Hey Shitlord - sorry I missed you this morning. I found some resin in the bottom of my sock drawer and on top of the booze me and Jesús were fucked up by ten and unconscious by one o'clock. So I'm guessing your My Little Pony sex-party was a bust. Where are you?

From: Hanna Squeal serendipony@houyhnhmn.com

To: Kate Hannigan mrsjpinkman@gmail.com

Several things -

1. I am not a shitlord. I don't even know what a shitlord is. a) I am female therefore the correct title is 'lady' and b) how can one be lord of shit?

2. It was not a sex party. It was just a My Little Pony party. And I don't want to talk about it.

3. I'm at the airport Starbucks. I'm going to Florida for a couple of days.

Hanna

From: Kate Hannigan mrsjpinkman@gmail.com

To: Hanna Squeal serendipony@houyhnhmn.com

Bullet points, Hanna? Really? Your asshole must have the gravitational pull of a small black hole. If Crispian Neigh ever disappears off the face of the earth we'll know exactly what he was trying to do to you at the time.

1. It's fucking easy to be lord of shit - shit is shit. If you're lord of shit it means you're not shit, right? - it's a compliment. If I wanted to insult you I'd call you a Shitpeasant. It's totally feudal.

2. If you didn't want to talk about it you would never have typed 'I don't want to talk about it.' Dish.

3. Say hi to Teresa for me. And tell her to stop sending us those fucking macramé potholders - I just unpacked about six of the things and between them and Jesús' pubes it looks like it's 1974 in here. You'd think he'd have watched enough porn to know most guys at least trim these days.

From: Hanna Squeal serendipony@houyhnhmn.com

To: Kate Hannigan mrsjpinkman@gmail.com

I don't know anything any more. I'm so confused. I really really like him, but he wants to talk about ponies ALL THE TIME. And his friends are even worse - they're completely obsessed. Crispian is furious because I asked him if he could maybe tone down the pony thing and he accused me of trying to hide who he is. What do I do?

Hanna

UFrom: Kate Hannigan mrsjpinkman@gmail.com

To: Hanna Squeal serendipony@houyhnhmn.com

Have you tried dumping him?

From: Hanna Squeal serendipony@houyhnhmn.com

To: Kate Hannigan mrsjpinkman@gmail.com

Somehow I think you missed the part where I said I really, REALLY liked him.

Hanna

From: Kate Hannigan mrsjpinkman@gmail.com

To: Hanna Squeal serendipony@houyhnhmn.com

I didn't miss it at all. It was just kind of cancelled out by the fact that you hate his weird obsessive hobby, you don't seem to like his friends, he doesn't care to compromise and I know for a fact that you're grossed to fuck out and back by My Little Pony porn. (As you should be, because that shit's fucked up.) You have two options here, and I'll bullet point them - just for you. Because I care. Sort of.

1. Stay with Crispian. Attempt to 'fix' Crispian. Try to turn him onto Nineteenth Century literature and petty theft and all the things that turn YOU on. Eventually admit defeat and seek refuge in alcoholism, spending sprees and emotionless but hot and heavy affairs with your tennis instructor.

2. Copy and paste this into your next e-mail,

Dear Crispian,

After a lot of soul-searching I have come to the conclusion that I can't be with you because I don't want to be with a man who gets sexually aroused by photoshopping vaginas onto pictures of cartoon ponies. Face it - it's just not right. You should probably seek psychological help. Thank you for the good times,

Hanna.

Try it. You'll feel so much better.

From: Hanna Squeal serendipony@houyhnhmn.com

To: Crispian Neigh bronynproud@neigh.net

Are you still mad at me?

Hanna.

From: Crispian Neigh bronynproud@neigh.net

To: Hanna Squeal serendipony@houyhnhmn.com

Hanna,

This is a difficult letter for me to write. I find it hard to articulate how hurt I felt last night when you asked me to compromise, to tone down my essential self. Please allow me to explain.

I was always an unusually intelligent child, and it was for this reason that I was bullied at school. My interests were not those of the average teenage boy - I was sensitive and preferred the world of my imagination. I remember the derisory laughter of my classmates when we were asked to do a presentation on 'My Greatest Achievement'. Not for me the home run or the swim trophies - I opted to present an introduction to my novel 'A Dwarf and His Lady' - a Lord of the Rings fanfiction about the forbidden love between Gimli and Lady Galadriel.

The remainder of my academic life was spent largely as the recipient of what are known as 'swirlies'. Occasionally chocolate.

So you will forgive me if I seem unusually sensitive about my hobbies and passions - my chagrin comes from a place of loneliness, suffering and pine-scented disinfectant.

Crispian

From: Hanna Squeal serendipony@houyhnhmn.com

To: Crispian Neigh bronynproud@neigh.net

This is so weird. Did I ever tell you my middle name was Galadriel?

Hanna.

From: Kate Hannigan mrsjpinkman@gmail.com

To: Hanna Squeal serendipony@houyhnhmn.com

Hey again Shitlord. It's been like three fucking hours. You come to any decisions yet?

From: Kate Hannigan mrsjpinkman@gmail.com

To: Hanna Squeal serendipony@houyhnhmn.com

Hanna, seriously. Did you e-mail him?

From: Kate Hannigan mrsjpinkman@gmail.com

To: Hanna Squeal serendipony@houyhnhmn.com

Come on, Hanna. Reply already. Did your plane crash or something? If you're doing what I think you're doing then you're an even bigger asshole than I previously thought you were.

From: Hanna Squeal serendipony@houyhnhmn.com

To: Kate Hannigan mrsjpinkman@gmail.com

My plane WILL crash if you don't stop e-mailing me. It interferes with the equipment and makes them fall out of the sky. So stop it.

Hanna.

From: Kate Hannigan mrsjpinkman@gmail.com

To: Hanna Squeal serendipony@houyhnhmn.com

There's no way you're still in the air, unless Florida has moved two whole timezones east in the last three hours. You did it, didn't you? You went for option A. What are you going to do? Start him off on Black Beauty and hope he'll come around to Middlemarch? It's not gonna fucking happen, Hanna. You're not going to prove your womanhood in some way by nurturing him into a new, acceptable, non-freakazoid shape. You'll just end up disappointed, lonely and drunk.

From: Hanna Squeal serendipony@houyhnhmn.com

To: Kate Hannigan mrsjpinkman@gmail.com

I can stop drinkfSDF ANY time i like. and I dont like tennus mom says hi

Hnaa

From: Kate Hannigan mrsjpinkman@gmail.com

To: Hanna Squeal serendipony@houyhnhmn.com

Shall I call the Betty Ford clinic now or when you get home? Drink some water. And remember – take down your panties BEFORE you pee.

***

I dream of moths. I am the moth. I am dusty and drawn to the light. The flame is so hot and it burns, but I flicker, flutter, my tiny wings beating against the heat haze. I feel it scorching my antennae but I cannot resist. It singes, and it smells. I wonder what it means?

As Hanna Squeal awoke one morning from uneasy dreams she found herself transformed in her bed into a gigantic moth.

Oh. Apparently it means my Inner Goddess has woken up before me and she is in a deeply sarcastic mood.

It's Kafkaesque – kind of like the experience of waking up and realising that That Book is still at the top of the bestseller charts. None of us know or remember what we did to apparently deserve this terrible punishment.

Besides, if you're going to regularly brainfart clichés like moths-to-flames you should know by now that I'm going to make fun of you. What are you going to whip out for an encore? Icarus flying to close to the sun? Literal fruit standing in for the forbidden variety? Pandora rummaging in her box?

\- I don't even know what you're talking about.

Figures. You're the most illiterate English Major to ever train for the fast food service industry. How's your head?

\- Mothy. Feels like something is pupating in there.

Probably a brain tumour. That or it's the four wine coolers, three Bloody Marys, two Cosmopolitans and the partridge in a fucking pear tree you chugged since yesterday afternoon.

I ignore her and close my eyes. There is a rushing sound around me; it sounds like the ocean, mainly because it is. The room smells strongly of jute. A hundred macramé potholders dance on the ceiling above my head. There is another smell too - something singed and salty that penetrated my dreams. I reluctantly recognise the smell as vegetarian bacon.

I am in Florida. The last thing I remember is e-mailing Kate, but that was kind of fuzzy. And it's true that I had a couple of drinks on the plane but doesn't alcohol affect you more at higher altitudes or something?

Depends how much you drink of it.

\- I don't like you this morning.

Likewise. It's dreadful enough inside your head without everything smelling like the ghosts of Keith Moon, Amy Winehouse and Janis Joplin had a drinking contest in there.

\- I am under a lot of pressure, okay?

No you're not. Either dump your unsuitable boyfriend or don't. It's not exactly 'To be or not to be', is it?

\- It totally is.

Only if you're thirteen.

My mother calls from downstairs. I swing my feet onto the floor and feel something wet down there. Oh - my period. I'd totally forgotten about that. Ew - it's running down my leg.

I half mummify myself in toilet paper while I search in my suitcase for tampons. I did have one in my purse but it had been in there so long that the paper wrapper had worn away and the end of the tampon, poking out of the top of the applicator, had gone all frayed and fluffy and covered in face powder and purse-crud. I feel like using it would be putting myself at risk of some kind of unspeakable infection.

My mother knocks and peers around the door. "Poopkin, are you coming down to breakfast?"

She sees my clumsy toilet paper wrappings and understands immediately. "Oops. Do you need a pad?"

"If you have one." She's over forty. Does she even need them?

She comes back with a winged thing, and there the similarity to sanitary pads ends. It's made of quilted cloth and Velcro strips and the cloth is printed with various names of the Goddess. I blink at it for a moment before I realise that she wants me to use one of her craft projects down there. I suppose I should at least be grateful that she hasn't taken up making macramé tampons.

"Um..." I prevaricate.

"Hanna, what's wrong? These are the Goddess Pads I sell in my Etsy store - I get great feedback."

"I know, but...cloth?"

"Yes. Reusable. It's so much greener than the throwaway protection. It's so moving to me that you should still be in sync with my cycle after all these years," she says, her hand on her heart. Her voice catches a little. "If only you had a diva cup, then we could collect it and do some mother and daughter menstrual painting."

I have no idea what she is talking about, and a small voice in the back of my head whispers that this is probably for the best.

"Come on down when you're ready," she says. "I'll tell Uncle Bob to keep your hash browns warm for you."

I clean up, brush my teeth and go down to the kitchen. My Uncle Bob is standing behind the kitchen island, wearing an apron that says "Kiss the Non-Gender Specific Cook," amongst other things. He doesn't appear to be wearing much else. He's bald, beardy and incredibly hairy.

"Hey pumpkin," he singsongs. "How's my girl? How are you feeling?"

"Fine."

"She's having her Goddess Time," says my mother. "So we must treat her extra special."

"Oh God...Mother, do you have to tell everyone..."

"What, that you're menstruating?" she says, her hands descending on my shoulders. "Why not, honey? It's a normal, healthy, beautiful thing for a woman." She kneads the nape of my neck. "No wonder you were hitting the booze last night, baby - so much tension in these shoulders! And you look so skinny. Are you sure that boyfriend is treating you properly?"

"He bought me a car," I explain. "I'm not used to the seat height yet."

"A car?" My mother backs up and frowns.

"It's like a hybrid or something," I tell her. "So don't start lecturing me about the environment, okay?"

"Wouldn't dream of it," mumbles Uncle Bob, coming out from behind the kitchen island to hand me a glass of freshly squeezed. As he turns back to tend to the hash browns I see that the apron is the only thing he is wearing. That can not be hygienic in a kitchen.

I sit down beside Uncle Chet, who is maybe three years older than me. I can't remember him being quite so...oh my. He wears a pair of tattered old jeans and nothing else. His hair is a tangle of dark gold curls and the bright morning sun glints on the red-bronze hairs in his day-old beard. "Hey," he heys.

"Hey yourself," I murmur. "How's the...um...root chakra situation?"

"You know," he says, shrugging shoulders that I swear got bigger since I last saw him. "Rooty." He grins, showing a couple of hundred perfect teeth and calls to my mother. "Hey Teresa - can I be a pain in the ass and get first dibs on the hash browns? Only I'm gonna be running late if I don't go soon."

"Coming up!"

I watch Bob and my mother clatter around the kitchen. They seem happy with their strange living arrangement and I wonder if it could ever work for me and Crispian like that. Like, Mom has more than one man in her life and they don't seem to get jealous of one another – so why am I getting so hung up on sharing Crispian with a bunch of plastic ponies?

Um...because they're fucking plastic? Say what you like about four way fuck-communes but at least all of the participants are sentient.

\- Yeah, so there's someone to be jealous of. Isn't a conscious living person more of a threat than a curly haired cartoon pony in a dress?

Once again, you're missing the point.

\- Am not. God, you think you're so smart. You know what, I'm smart. I'm my mother's daughter – she was an academic and wrote all those feminist books...

... _yeah - before she went a bit Etsy and shacked up with three different guys of varying degrees of bisexuality..._

\-...oh finally she gets around to the 'Your mom' jokes.

I don't care who your mother fucks. The point is, she likes it. They like it. Two ladies, three men – biddley bee – whatever. Everyone is happy with the relationship. Unlike you and Mr. Hands, who seem to just make one another increasingly confused and miserable.

My mother glances over at me and frowns again. "Hanna – are you okay? You look a little...distant."

"I'm fine," I say, but then I'm rescued when Uncle Tate comes out (Glasses, goatee, dark hair - he's Canadian and has a little tattoo of a maple leaf over his heart.) and sees me.

"Here she is," he says, kissing my hair. "The prodigal kid. Rumour has it that your love life has taken a turn for the billionaire."

I'm just about to say that it's nothing like that but Uncle Tate swoops down on Uncle Chet and kisses him - a real kiss, sloppy and slow, with lots of tongue. Uncle Chet is close enough to me for me to feel the tension in his body as he responds. My Inner Goddess is making small, strange squeaky noises.

"I'm just passing through," says Uncle Tate, by way of explanation. He runs his hand through Uncle Chet's golden curls. "Have a good day at work, you." Then he leaves to go do his tai-chi. I feel weird.

"You got a job?" I ask Uncle Chet.

He nods and digs into his hash browns and gross vegetarian bacon. "Yeah. I'm a tennis instructor."

I swallow with some difficulty and stare down my Inner Goddess, who is sporting a tennis outfit. It's nice that she's finally got with the programme but she has a racquet in one hand, a dirty martini in the other and an even dirtier told-you-so expression on her face. Not for the first time I suspect her of collusion with Kate.

### Chapter Fifteen

### Pirates, Poop Decks And The Inevitable Anal Sex Jokes

After breakfast my mother suggests a walk down by the ocean. I wouldn't usually go but Uncle Bob has taken his apron off and hasn't put anything on, so I follow her along the marinas, where the yachts are moored - huge, sleek and expensive. They remind me of Crispian. He hasn't e-mailed this morning. I hope he's still asleep and not sitting up moodily doodling unicorns on his drawing board. Or fat, busty dwarf maidens. Especially not fat, busty unicorns. Ew.

"Did you hear Professor Jarrett got deported?" says my mother.

I stiffen and stare at my shoes. "Um...no."

"You didn't? Hanna, have you been paying attention to school at all or is it all about this boy?"

I blush. "Boy," I confess. "And he's a man. A fascinating, complicated, intruiging man."

My mother sighs and adjusts her sunhat. "I thought the same thing about your father," she says.

"You did?" I don't remember my real father. He died in a bizarre balloon huffing accident when I was two.

"Oh yes. He seemed very intense. He would stare into the middle distance for minutes at a time, as if he was on the verge of some great philosophical revelation - some fierce moment of clarity." She smiles at the memory. "Turned out he was just trying to remember his left from his right. And other times I think it was probably gas. Helium, mostly."

"Am I like him?" I ask, breathlessly.

She looks at me and nods poignantly. "Yes. You are, baby." She sighs again. "It's a good thing he was pretty."

We walk a few more yards down the jetty. "I'm glad you're finally having sex, Hanna," she says, at a volume I'm sure can be heard in Cuba.

"Mom..."

"Don't be prudish. It's only sex. None of us would be here without it - and you're twenty one and beautiful. You should be experimenting with what turns you on. I just...I just worry."

"It's not only sex," I hiss. "It's deep. It's a connection."

"Right - is that why you've been drunk, crying or both all the time lately?" She folds her arms and glares at me. "Oh, don't look at me like that, Hanna. Kate told me everything."

She sold me out, the bitch. I should have known. She lulled me into a false sense of security, but at the end of the day she is still a blonde.

"You don't understand," I say. "Okay, so he's a little bit...strange in his habits, but he really, really likes me. And I think I really, really like him."

"You think?" She removes her wide-brimmed hat and runs her fingers through her sweaty hat-hair. "Hanna, listen to me - I don't know how much clearer I can make this..."

There is a pony behind my mother. For a moment I think I'm going crazy, but I blink and there it is again - a blue pony decal on the side of the big white yacht behind her. She doesn't realise - she's still droning on.

"...there is no point trying to have a relationship with someone if you don't like what he does, what he is. You think 'I can change him' - you can't. There is nothing to be gained from banging your head against that particular wall. Didn't you learn anything from literature? Isabella Linton and Heathcliff, Dorothea and Casaubon..."

I gaze upwards. Holy crap - he's here. He's staring down at us from the deck of his yacht. He removes his hat and smiles at me, and my heart skips a beat.

"...Hanna, close your mouth. Are you even listening to me?"

I point and my mother turns around. Crispian grins - a child with an exciting toy. "Care to come aboard, ladies?" he says. "I promise not to plunder your booty. Much."

My mother arches an eyebrow and stares at me for a moment. "Really?" she says.

"Hey toots," says Crispian. "Miss me?"

I'm speechless. It's so romantic. Stalky, but romantic. "I don't believe this," I say. "You sailed all the way from Seattle, just for me?"

My mother and Crispian exchange weird, glassy looks. "Gets it from her father," my mother explains, apologetically. "He was...directionally challenged. Amongst other things."

"I flew, Hanna," he says.

"Ohhh..." I nod. Of course. Silly me. Why would he sail to from Seattle to Florida when he could take his helicopter? "Crispian has his own helicopter," I tell my mother. She might have three men and a pile of feminist books to her name, but have any of her boyfriends got a helicopter? I think not somehow.

"His carbon footprint must be enormous," she murmurs, as Crispian welcomes us up the gangplank.

She would bring that up, wouldn't she? Thanks to Uncle Bob's nudey habits I now know what enormous looks like. "It's about average," I say, defensive. "But how many inches do you actually need?"

My mother shakes her head. "Oh Hanna," she sighs. "Right now I think the only number you need worry about is his I.Q."

Crispian, his hat thrown back and his hands on his hips, smiles broadly at us across the deck. "Welcome aboard my humble luxury yacht, mateys, " he says, doing a pirate voice. "Perhaps you bountiful wenches would care to join me in talking like a pirate for the duration of the voy-age?"

"Perhaps not," says my mother. She has what I call her 'manhater' face on, but Crispian is not intimidated. He approaches, takes her hand and kisses it.

"Arrrrgh I'm charmed to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Squeal, so I am."

"It's Ms," says my mother. "Ms. West." She doesn't ask him to call her Teresa. "And could we please lay off the piratese?"

"I think it's fun," I say. He sounds kind of British when he does a pirate voice, and that's sexy. "I can't believe you came all this way to see me."

"Neither can I," says my mother, turning bitchier by the second. "Especially when you called me in tears saying you were coming to get some 'space' and 'time to think.'"

"Arrrrgh..." Crispian begins, but my mother stops him short with a look. "...you wanna come see the lounge?" he finishes, in a normal, if nervous voice. Sometimes I think my mother's floaty hippy act is there to hide the fact that she's actually a stone-cold ball-breaker.

He gestures towards a flight of steps. "Do not get pregnant by this man," my mother whispers urgently. "Are you seeing a gynecologist?"

"No he's an internet billionaire, Mom," I whisper back, confused.

"Goddess help us..." she moans, rolling her eyes.

The lounge is like a full sized living room - on a boat! There are helium filled balloons and my favourite pink roses and champagne on ice. I think I might be ready to forgive him for stalking me on my private alone-time vacation. One of the balloons twirls lazily in the air, revealing the picture on the other side. It's Pinkie Pie. He loves Pinkie Pie almost as much as he loves Rarity - Rarity is classy and beautiful but Pinkie Pie is the party pony.

I fucking hate Pinkie Pie.

"Excuse me a moment ladies," he says. "I've been having some trouble flushing the head - that's boat-speak for crapper." He gathers up my hair and kisses the side of my neck. "I should get Hanna to do it, right Ms. West? She flushes often enough - am I right?"

"Shesuffersfromacutesocialanxietydon'ttouchmydaughter," says my mother, drawing me away from him.

As soon as we're alone I round on her. "What is wrong with you? You don't like him, do you?"

She sighs. "Poopkin, it's not that I don't like him - I just...find him repellent."

"Repellent? In what way?"

"I can probably think of at least fifty different ways. And that's just off the top of my head."

"Like what? Name one."

"Okay. He belittles you, he follows you, he invades your personal space, he demands your hands-on participation in his hobbies and interests but never once asks what you want out of a relationship. He preys on your low self-esteem. He manipulates you with expensive gifts and grandiose gestures. He calls you 'toots' when your name is Hanna. He makes you cry all the time. He doesn't want to spend time getting to know your friends and he masturbates to My Little Pony..."

"...Mom, I get it. I'm your only child, and I understand that I'm your special little girl..."

She grabs my shoulders. "You're damn right, Hanna. You are my special girl. Real special. And that's exactly why you should not be in a relationship with someone like him."

The world melts away in that moment. I see her lips moving but the sounds coming out of them make no sense. It hits me like a truck, a glorious, rose-festooned truck that's full of bluebirds and doves and champagne. A truck of love. I am in love. Oh God, I am in love with Crispian Neigh!

"I don't care," I say, my eyes filling with tears of joy. "I love him!"

My mother sighs. "Okay sweetie. Invite him over for dinner tomorrow night. And don't go sailing off in this thing - I'm making you an appointment with my gynecologist."

"You're not mad at me?"

She sighs again. "I don't know any more, Hanna. You're a woman now. You have to make your own mistakes. Just remember that whatever happens, I love you very much, okay?"

"Okay. Do you want to stay and have champagne with me and Crispian?"

"I would, honey, but just looking at him makes me itch."

"He does that to me too," I say. "Itchy and tingles."

"Oh crap," says my mother, and leaves.

After a few moments of meaningless introspection, I am joined by my beloved. He is clutching a wire coathanger and wears a frustrated expression. "Hanna, I know this a stretch..." he falters. "But do you know anything about plumbing?"

I shake my head. I know nothing but him in that moment. "I love you!" I gasp.

He drops the coathanger. "You're not mad at me for stalking you across country and putting GPS trackers in your computer, your Blackberry, your car and several items of your underwear?"

Once again I shake my head, my heart aflame and my you-know-what aquiver.

"Wow," he says, taking me in his arms. "I guess all the nice girls really do love a sailor, huh?"

His kiss is fierce and passionate. He pulls my t-shirt up and kisses the tops of my breasts, his tongue lashing back and forth over my skin like a delicious fleshy scourge. My Inner Goddess is being noisily sick into a fire-bucket.

\- Seriously, what is your problem?

... _hnng...urgh._

His hands fumble up under my skirt and he drops to his knees. "I'm going to love you with my lips, Hanna," he says.

... _bleeeeeuuuuuugh oh God this is worse than that time you had that sex dream about him in nothing but a fedora...oh dear God make it stop..._

I ignore her and surrender to bliss. Crispian pulls down my panties and then I remember - I'm still wearing that gross smelly 'Goddess Pad' that my mother gave me. Crispian takes one look at my red-stained root-chakra and falls to the floor in a dead faint.

And this is why you should never date manchildren. What are you going to do now, Hanna?

\- Up yours. If there's one thing a grounding in Nineteeth Century Literature teaches a woman, it's how to revive people who have fainted.

Cool. So where does he keep the smelling salts?

\- Idiot. It doesn't have to be smelling salts. It can be any strong, bad smell.

Ah. Then I recommend the coathanger.

He comes to. "Oh hey," he says, and closes his eyes. "Oh God."

It's then I realise I'm standing over him with my skirt on the floor and my panties around my knees. "Sorry," I say, and pull up my underwear.

He doesn't open his eyes but shakes his head. "Yeah, that view of your...GPS tracker is kind of gory." He takes a deep breath and murmurs, "Don't throw up don't throw up don't throw up...toilet's blocked so don't throw up..."

"I'm so sorry," I apologise. "I completely forgot that I was on my period. Are you okay?"

He sits up slowly. "Can you get me a glass of water?"

"Still or sparkling?"

"Hanna, what the hell does it matter? So long as it's cold and it's wet."

I pour him a glass from the jug on the table. "It's amazing," I say, kneeling beside him. "I like water too. And 'cold' and 'wet' are two of the exact same reasons why I like it so much. It's like we're in sync with one another."

"Synergy," he whispers, and kisses me again.

"Do you want to talk about it?" I ask, stroking his fingers with their touching, cheeto-stained nails. "Your fear of blood? Is it something dark and damaging in your past that I can fix?"

Crispian frowns. "Uh...well, there was this one time when I had this insane dentist. He tried to take my lower wisdom teeth out under local anaesthesia - that wasn't good."

I picture him, vulnerable, mouth-gaping, making small, helpless aaaaaaargh sounds as the cruel dentist goes to town on his tender gums. Oh my darling \- what did they do to you? I press him to my breasts, vowing that the world will never hurt him again as long as he is mine.

My Inner Goddess pushes the bucket away with her foot and adjusts the ice pack on her forehead. I take back what I said about your relationship being boring she says. At this point it's strangely fascinating, sort of like a nasty accident or those books about child abuse.

\- You shut your hole. He's damaged and complicated and my mother hates him. I have never loved him more.

***

The heat has made my hair frizz. I try to beat it into submission with the hairbrush, but it springs back up and I sigh and roll my eyes at it. I wish it would behave. All I want to do is look pretty for Crispian – it's not that much to ask. Just one night as belle of the ball before I go back to being my usual large-eyed, pert-breasted and yet impossibly mousy self.

But no. It's enough of an insult to have bad hair, without piling it on top of the indignity of having a withered hag of an inner goddess bitching it up inside my head...

I can hear you, you know.

\- You're so fired.

That's not happening without heavy medication or possibly a lobotomy. Actually, if you could spring for the latter I'd be extremely grateful - it's not that your skull isn't roomy, but if you could see your way to having a bit snicked off a frontal lobe I could dust off those plans for an office-extension.

\- You're not funny. In case you hadn't noticed, you are contractually obliged to provide some kind of commentary on my sexuality.

I did. What did you think the bucket was for?

\- Look, I don't care what kind of weird, Victorian prude you are...

She snorts. How the hell do you get a degree in Literature without learning that the late nineteenth century was the golden age of dirty books? Oh, wait...I know this one. You find a billionaire to deport your English professor and buy your way to the top of th...

\- You shut your whore mouth!

No, but you did, didn't you?

\- I did nothing of the sort. You're just jealous because I'm having some of the hottest sex in literature and you're too busy clutching your pearls to commentate.

Oh please. It's positively tepid.

\- Compared to what?

D.H. Lawrence. Anais Nin. One Hundred and Twenty Days of Sodom. The Story of O. Emmanuelle Arsan. The dirty bits of Catullus, the Decameron, Aretino, Fanny Hill, Grub Street, print shops, libelles, Henry Miller, Nexus, Plexus, Fexus and fucking Texas, however many of the fucking things he wrote - both Tropics - Cancer and Capricorn. Snuff porn by William Burroughs. Fart porn by James Joyce. Fucked up Victorian sex diaries featuring incest, rape, pedophilia, necro, scat, and bestiality. Holywell Street. Portnoy's Complaint, Harold Robbins, Jackie Collins, that Shirley Conran one with the goldfish up the hooey. Anne Rice giving a horrible new twist to the phrase 'eating pussy' and don't even get me started on the maxi-pad incident. Good sex, bad sex, that German one where some girl's taint gets infected and she hangs around the hospital telling gross-out stories and stuffing avocado pits up her cooze. Nancy Friday, Kindle porn, Black Lace, Olympia Press, Harlequin Spice and Bill O'Fucking Reilly.

People have been writing about sex since shortly after writing was invented - that's what we humans do. We invent something and then five seconds later we look at it and think 'How can I masturbate to this?' Look what happened to the internet. Same thing probably happened with the Gutenberg Press. Same thing probably happened with fucking cuneiform. So feel free to stop acting like you invented written pornography any time soon, okay?

\- Oh dear. Is it that time of the month?

Two words - unmedicated schizophrenia.

She doesn't seem like she's going to get any nicer any time soon. I put on my purple shift dress, tie my recalcitrant hair back with a clip and put on a pair of black, high heeled pumps I bought back in Seattle. The effect is not too bad, even if I am too skinny and my eyes are too big. I wonder if I'm wearing enough make-up. I don't like using make-up - I think it's generally for people who are a lot shallower than me. Also Kate says I don't know when to stop with blusher and come out looking like a burn victim, although she can talk. In Junior year she was using so much bronzer she looked like an oompa-loompa.

When I leave the room I bump into Uncle Tate on the landing. He takes one look at me and whistles. "Heels, Hanna?" he says. "Are you sure?"

"Too slutty?"

"Honey, there is no such thing as too slutty. It's not your hymen I'm worried about you breaking - you're unstable enough in your Converse."

"Oh, don't worry about that," I say. "I'm much better now."

I go downstairs, where something is cooking. I don't know what and I don't know if I care to find out. It smells like beans.

"You look pretty, sweetie," says my mother, who is polishing wine glasses.

I squint at her and pour myself a glass of Chardonnay. I know what she's playing at. She thinks I don't know, but I do. Still, at least Uncle Bob is wearing pants tonight. I should be grateful for small mercies.

"Are you wearing heels?" he asks.

"Why does everyone keep asking me that?"

Uncle Chet sticks his head up over the back of the armchair where he is sitting. "You finally saw a doctor about that thing, huh?"

"What thing?"

"The dizzies," says Uncle Chet, as Uncle Tate comes back into the room. "The constant faceplanting. So what was it? I had fifty bucks on Ménière's disease."

"No..."

"Brain tumour," says Uncle Tate, triumphantly, holding out his hand for money. "Told you. Hand it over."

"You guys are assholes sometimes," says my mother.

Uncle Tate squeezes my mother's boob in full view of everyone and kisses her on the mouth. "I know. We're terrible and we're sorry." He wanders back to the living area and dumps himself on Uncle Chet's lap. "No, seriously - what did the doctor say it was, Hanna?"

"I didn't see a doctor."

My mother frowns. "It just cleared up on its own?"

"Yep."

"Huh. That's odd. I thought it was a minor character trait."

I shrug and drain my glass. "Just goes away sometimes, I guess."

"Maybe finally having a penis inside you reset your centre of gravity," suggests Uncle Tate.

"I don't think it works like that," says Uncle Chet.

"I dunno. I think your tennis game has improved significantly since we...reevaluated our physical relationship."

"You think so?"

"Oh yeah. Your balance is so much better."

"I practised. That's all. It had nothing to do with your dick..."

I slam the fridge door, spilling my fresh glass of wine. "Okay," I say. "Can we please lay down some ground rules for tonight? Please?"

Somewhere behind the depths of his enormous beard, Uncle Bob is chewing his lip. "We're not really 'rules' people, Hanna..."

"Mom..." I appeal.

My mother looks up from the cheese grater. "No, I agree with Hanna. Let's try not to embarrass her into a coma, guys. This is the first time she's ever brought a young man home, after all."

Brought a young man home. Where did she pick up this wonderbread vocabulary? She sounds like some kind of Stepford Wife. "Don't think I don't know what you're doing, Mom," I say. "Because I totally do."

"Okay, Hanna. What am I doing?"

"You're going to go out of your way to be nice to Crispian so that I think you approve of him and therefore find him less interesting."

"Well I never," murmurs Uncle Tate. "She really is smarter than she looks."

I turn on my three inch heels and point at him. "You," I command. "Do not say 'penis'. All night. Do you understand?"

I hear the door and march towards it, glass in hand. "Our little girl is all grown up," Uncle Bob mutters, as I walk out.

"Yeah, and rapidly morphing into Lucille Bluth," adds Uncle Tate.

I take a deep breath and open the front door. Crispian is standing there with a dozen pink and white roses and another pony balloon. Applejack, I think. "I was going to bring a bottle," he says. "But wine glasses are so goddamn huge these days." He whistles and Naylor appears from round a corner, wheeling a trolley with a huge wooden case parked on top.

"Mind if I bring this in?" he asks.

Everyone stares at the crate. "Holy shit," says Uncle Tate. "Don't let any Nazis open that thing or you'll be rinsing melted face off the soft-furnishings for weeks."

Crispian stares at him for a moment and then bursts out laughing. "Ha! Movie reference! Awesome!"

"Um...yeah?" says Uncle Tate. "That's the joke? Wow. So young and yet so nerdy."

Crispian throws up both hands. "Guil-ty," he singsongs. "You don't even know. I am such a nerd. I'm like King Nerd of Nerd Mountain. Seriously."

"Good for you," murmurs Uncle Tate, holding out a hand. "I'm Hanna's uncle Tate, this is Uncle Chet, the big Daddy in the chaps and apron over there is Big Uncle Bob - and I do mean big...and I guess you've met Mother Teresa and she hasn't eaten your head off yet, so well done on that score, I guess."

"Nice to see you again, Crispian," lies my mother, coming out of the kitchen area.

"Can we ask what's in the box?" asks Uncle Bob, through a cloud of steam.

"Knowing him it probably is the fucking Ark of the Covenant," mutters my mother. I attempt to skewer her Birkenstock with my heel, but she sidesteps in time.

"Well, you know," says Crispian. "I was going to bring champagne but a bottle doesn't go very far among six people. So I bought a case instead. It's a good year and only five hundred dollars a bottle."

"How very thoughtful and not at all tacky of you," says my mother. "Should I fetch glasses or a crowbar?"

Thankfully at that moment Uncle Bob calls us all to the table by banging a 'dinner gong' my mother made using more macrame and an old trash-can lid. Unlike her other art she has made no attempt to sell it - she says it has sentimental value, or at least that's her story. It goes 'clunk' when banged with a wooden spoon.

"Dinner is served," says Uncle Bob.

"You're very privileged," Uncle Tate tells Crispian. "It's Uncle Bob's Tofu Surprise."

"What's the surprise?" asks Crispian.

"Flavour."

### Chapter Sixteen

### The One With The Tampon

As it transpires, Uncle Tate may have been over-optimistic. Dinner appears to be beige and tastes much the same. My mother keeps giving Crispian man-hater face over the wholewheat macaroni and I have never been more sure that I want to spend my life with this man. Right now I can even face any number of ponies - at least they're colourful and have nothing to do with macramé, trash-can lids or upcycling.

"...everyone thinks its for kids," Crispian is saying, enthusiastically. "But there are references that only an adult would get. Like there's this one episode where they go bowling and there's like three ponies who look like John Goodman, Jeff Bridges and Steve Buscemi..."

"Wait," says Uncle Chet, holding up a forkful of what once might have been mushrooms. "A pony that looks like John Goodman? How does that work?"

"He doesn't look much like a pony," agrees my mother.

"Steve Buscemi, on the other hand..." says Uncle Tate. "With the teeth..."

Crispian laughs loudly. He's really taken a shine to Uncle Tate. "Oh my God – totally. They should have a Gary Busey pony – that would be hi-larious."

My mother sighs and gets up from the table. She hates him. Good.

"Back in a moment," says Uncle Bob, and follows her out.

"Anyway," Crispian continues. "It's a Big Lebowski reference – the three ponies that look like John Goodman, Jeff Bridges and Steve Buscemi. It's not like eight year old girls are into the Coen Brothers, right?"

"Right," says Uncle Tate, with a sigh. "Yeah, I get that but..."

"But could we please stop talking about My Little Pony?" says Uncle Chet.

"Oh my God, thank you," moans Uncle Tate, throwing down his napkin.

Crispian shakes his head. "Wow," he says, looking hurt. I grab his hand but he brushes me off. "No, it's okay, Hanna. I appreciate that some people don't understand Friendship Is Magic."

"It's not that they don't understand," I begin, but Uncle Tate interrupts.

"...it's that we don't care," he says, and frowns across the table at Crispian. "This might sound rude and I don't mean to be – I used to be a nurse back in Toronto – but do you often have problems reading social cues?"

Crispian raises his eyebrows. "Social cues? Seriously? You're the ones being rude here."

Uncle Tate exhales slowly and rubs the bridge of his nose. "Yeah, okay," he says. "Maybe we are. Sorry. It's just...I'm just really not interested in My Little Pony and it's been like, half an hour..."

"It's fine," says Crispian, acidly. "I understand how some men might feel threatened by it." He eyes Uncle Chet's biceps. "Jocks. Gym types. I know they think it comes off as gay – and maybe you're not secure enough in your masculinity to enjoy cute little pink things..."

Uncle Tate's left eyebrow almost hits the ceiling. "Oh honey – I am secure enough in my masculinity for any number of cute little pink things, believe me."

"Hey - less of the little," says Uncle Tate, giving him a dig in the ribs.

"I didn't say that."

"You implied it."

"I didn't imply anything of the sort, Chet."

"You totally did."

"I did not! You are so insecure. How many times do I have to tell you that you have a perfectly good sized penis?"

"Hey!" I say. "Didn't we talk about not saying that word?"

"Oh my God, Hanna, shut up," says Uncle Tate. "Penis penis penis penis fucking penis, okay? I guess he can stand to hear it." He turns back to Crispian. "I mean, you've got one, right?"

"Yeah, I don't think you'd be interested in it," says Crispian, pale and nervous all of a sudden. "It's very small and not at all cute. Or pink."

My mother and Uncle Bob come back in. They're giggling and smell like the inside of Kate's bedroom. I think they must smoke the same brand of cigarettes. "Hey gang," she says. "Having fun?"

"Terrific," says Uncle Tate. "Crispian's just trying to put me off his penis."

I sink down in my chair, wanting to die.

"Seriously, I'm not gay," says Crispian, trembling slightly. "I'm not. I like ponies but I'm not gay."

"It's cool," says Uncle Chet. "Even if you were we wouldn't wanna fuck you."

"Well Tess, looks like we came back just as the party was getting started," says Uncle Bob, sarcastically.

"We sure did," says my mother. She bats the Applejack balloon out of her way and sits back down. "Play nice, boys – don't scare him away. I think it's sweet that he can overlook Hanna's disadvantages."

"Disadvantages?" asks Crispian, the colour slowly returning to his cheeks. "How do you mean?"

My mother peers at him with a nasty glint in her eyes "Her old man was a model, you know – like a hotter, dumber version of Derek Zoolander. Now, I freely admit I was dazzled by his beauty, forgot to make him wrap it before I tapped it and nine months later, Hanna was born. She takes after him – both in brains and beauty."

I blush. "Oh Mom. Thank you."

"See?" she says. "Just not that bright."

"Mom!"

"Honey, you thought hyperbole was pronounced 'hyper-bowl'. You submitted an essay on Jane Eyre in which the word 'gimpy' was used. You thought Tess of the D'Urbervilles was some kind of strange late Victorian hybrid of Bridget Jones' Diary and Nine And A Half Weeks, and according to Jesús you thought that Camus was some kind of chickpea based dip."

"It's pronounced cammus, actually..."

She sighs. "And you're also too dumb to admit you were wrong - a fact that probably wasn't lost on your boyfriend here..."

Crispian snorts. "Well, it's no wonder your daughter has self-esteem issues..."

"...which you are more than happy to prey on," says my mother. "What's your game, Mr. Neigh? I admit Hanna's maybe been given an easy ride because of my academic reputation, but ever since you showed up on the scene all kinds of strange things have been happening..."

I start to cry. "You don't understand what he means to me!"

"I do, honey. What I want to know is what you mean to him. Why is my old college room-mate's wife calling me in tears because Becky is in the process of being deported? Why is my spawn-of-a-Darwin-Award daughter suddenly class valedictorian..."

I jump up from my seat and run upstairs to my room. This is terrible - unimaginable. I want to run away so that there is him - only him, and nobody can come between us and he can tell me that I'm smart and pretty and everything he has ever wanted. I'll even dress up as a fucking unicorn if that's what he wants. If only he'll take me away from all this.

I catch sight of myself in my jewellery box mirror; I look like a raccoon. Hearing footsteps on the stairs, I hurry to the bathroom to repair my make-up.

"Hanna?"

"In here!"

Crispian comes in, flushed and furious. I throw myself into his arms, sobbing. He kisses me with a fevered passion I have never experienced before and hooks his thumbs into my panties. "Right here," he whispers, pressing me against the sink. "Let's do it right here - they can't keep us apart."

My Inner Goddess takes a deep breath and pulls up a bucket. My skirt is up around my waist and Crispian has discovered an impediment (Seriously - impediment. Who else would use words like that, except for a smart person?) in the shape of a dangling, blue tampon string.

Oh shit. I'd completely forgotten about my period. "Um..." I prevaricate. "Er...you might find I've got a little...er..."

"How do you take it out?" he growls, his voice full of urgency and his eyes ablaze.

"Just pull the string, but you're not..." I'm about to say that the last time we tried this it didn't end so well, but he doesn't seem to care.

"Nothing is ever going to come between us, Hanna," he pants, and with one smooth motion yanks the tampon clean out of my you-know-what. Oh my. He's so masterful, or at least he is until he sees what's in his hand. He goes to toss it into the toilet [Author's note - Do not do this. Please use the bins provided.] but he's unfamiliar with the inside of a ladies' en-suite, in that the toilet lid is closed. The tampon lands on the lid and lies there, grinning gorily up at him like a mouse with a Glasgow smile.

My lover goes down like a felled oak and lands face up beside the bidet in a widening pool of blood. He doesn't move, so I begin to scream.

***

I stare at the floor, the antiseptic smell of the hospital hallway stinging my nose and knotting my stomach. "I can't believe it," I murmur, for the fourth time in as many minutes. "I just can't believe it."

"I know," says Uncle Tate.

"Seriously," says my mother, exhaling slowly.

We sit side by side on the plastic chairs, waiting, waiting interminably. What am I going to do?

"I don't understand how that happens," says Uncle Tate. "How do you confuse Albert Camus with hummus?"

My mother shakes her head. "I don't know."

"Maybe it's because they're both sort of North African. Wasn't he Algerian or something?"

"Don't think so, but I think he played soccer for an Algerian team?"

"Ah yeah. I think you might be right there."

They stop talking for a moment. I grind my teeth loudly but they take no notice of me.

"Yeah, but even so," says Uncle Tate. "Even with the North African connection, one is a seminal post-war existentialist writer and philosopher and the other is..."

"...a delicious snack made from garlic and chickpeas. Yeah – I know. Who knows what goes on in Hanna's head, huh?"

She scratches the crown of my head and I grind my teeth louder. Crispian could be dead for all they know, and they're talking about Algeria.

"You okay, honey?" asks my mother. "You want some more tea?"

I shake my head furiously. I suppose it's too much to ask for some actual support around here? Tea. What's that going to solve? Besides, they don't even have Twinings.

Just then an Indian doctor comes down the corridor towards us.

"Is he okay?" I ask, leaping to my feet. "Can I see him?"

"In a moment," says the doctor, holding up a clipboard. "I've got notes from the front desk but they're a bit...confused."

"Sorry – she was a little agitated when we checked him in," says my mother.

"Understatement," mutters Uncle Tate.

The doctor smiles stiffly. "Right," he says. "If I could just clarify what happened to Crispian then that would be helpful. What were you doing when he fell?"

I stare at him. I don't know how to explain it.

"Miss," he says, patiently. "I'm a doctor, a member of the medical profession. We have heard more stories of 'things found in bottoms' than any other group of people on Earth - I really doubt you could shock me."

"Depends," says my mother. "Are you shocked by a sexually active twenty one year old who still calls her vagina her 'you-know-what?'"

I can feel my face turn hot as I flush harder than a New Delhi toilet in backpacking season. "I can't..." I stammer, as I contemplate the things I must say. "I can't..."

"For God's sake, Hanna," says Uncle Tate. "Just explain so he can take a full case history. If Crispian did hit his head on the bidet then he needs all the help he can get."

"What do you mean, 'all the help he can get'?" I ask, panic rising.

"Tate, don't spook her," says my mother. "You know how she gets."

"I'm not spooking her," says Uncle Tate. "Not much, anyway. Even minor head injuries can be fatal."

"Fatal?" I blither, my soul descending into Hell there and then. I have flown too close to the sun of happiness and now I am doomed to fall like Icarus, drowning in the cold, dark depths. Oh Crispian, how will I ever live without you?

"There's probably nothing to worry about," says the doctor. "The x-ray showed no fractures. It would just be tremendously helpful if you knew if he hit his head on the bidet or not and how he behaved before he passed out."

"He's...he's alive?" I gasp.

"Yes, yes - of course he's alive."

I jump up and hug the doctor, my heart dancing with fifty kinds of rapture, my Inner Goddess shaking her head and checking her watch. "Oh thank you, thank you! You saved his life!"

"Well...we're trying to," he says, disentangling himself. "But there's still a chance of internal bleeding and that would definitely not be good. Perhaps you'd like to try again and tell me what happened?"

I step back and nod. "Yes. Yes, I think I can do that."

"Hallelujah..." mutters my mother. I glare at her and steel myself to tell my story.

"We were in the bathroom," I explain. "Getting ready to...you know."

"No."

"You-know-what."

"Vagina?"

"No. The other you-know-what."

He frowns. "Penis?"

I frown back. Why does everyone seemed determined to keep saying 'penis' at me tonight?

"I'm guessing both were involved," says Uncle Tate, sighing. "I think what she's trying to say is that they were about to have sex."

"Yes," I say. "That."

He sighs again. "Mind if I step in, Hanna? Otherwise we're going to be trying to tell this story via semaphore in order to spare your blushes while your boyfriend slowly bleeds out into his brain. It's pretty simple, Doctor - he yanked her tampon out in order to get to the goodies, saw the blood and went down like a blowjob aboard the Titanic."

"Oh, I see," says the doctor. I want to die. I actually want to die. Oh my God. And yet he doesn't seem that bothered by it all. "Has he fainted at the sight of blood before?"

I nod.

"And he didn't convulse or anything when he passed out? He didn't shake uncontrollably or lose control of his bladder?"

I shake my head.

"Sounds like a pretty straightforward syncope," says the doctor. "And the x-ray would indicate he's a hard-headed young man."

"You have no idea," I say. "He's very stubborn. Can I see him, doctor?"

"Very shortly, Miss."

"Thank you," I say, and decide to do something for him since he's been so nice to me. "You know...I don't think you pronounce the e on the end of syncope. It's sin-cope. The e makes the o long, you see. I don't know how you pronounce it in your country..."

"...Hanna..." interrupts my mother. She pushes me aside.

"...no, Mom - he might have difficulty because of his native language..."

"English," says the doctor. "My native language is English. I'm from England. Leicester, if you want to be specific..."

"I think you'll find that's pronounced Ly-cester, actually..."

"Oh my God, get her out of here," groans my mother.

Uncle Tate leads me towards the snack machine. "Come on Hanna - let's get some candy," he says. "You like candy, don't you?"

"...I'm sorry," my mother is saying. "She doesn't mean to be racist. Her father was nominated for a Darwin Award, you know..."

"Nominated but didn't win? I hope that means he survived?"

"No, he died. But he was disqualified for already having added Hanna to the genepool."

I take one look through the glass of the snack machine and start to cry. Staring back at me is a bag of the same off-brand cheetos we ate that night in his apartment. What will I do without him? What if he's a vegetable? What if he's all mashed up and gimpy like Mr. Rochester?

The doctor comes back towards me. "Would you like to see him?" he says. "Just to set your mind at ease?"

I nod, sobbing uncontrollably. "I feel like Jane Eyre..." I wail. "Is he...is he...badly disfigured?"

The doctor frowns. "No. No - not at all. It was just a scratch. He must have caught the back of his head on something as he fell."

"Hanging basket bracket," says Uncle Tate, shooting a dark look at my mother.

"What?"

"You put a hanging basket over the bidet, Teresa. I think you need some kind of macramé intervention. Who the hell wants a plant and a bunch of tassels dangling in their face when they're trying to wash their balls? It's distracting..."

I walk away, light on my legs, my head feeling as floaty as the Applejack balloon Crispian bought me. His last gift. Well, that and the case of champagne. Oh God, what if he's not okay?

Crispian sits in a chair beside the window. He looks...normal. Not mashed up and gimpy at all. He has both hands and hasn't been set on fire. Not like Mr. Rochester. Thank God.

"Hello you," he says, uncertainly.

I practically skid across the polished hospital floor and fall at his feet. "Oh my God - I was so worried. Are you okay?"

"Think so," he says, and raises his hand to touch the back of his head for a moment before thinking better of it. "I've got stitches. Am I in the hospital?"

I nod and clutch his hands, my tears raining down on his fingers. "My mother drove us here."

There is a brief flash of anxiety in his eyes when I mention my mother. I don't blame him - she's kind of a bitch.

"So..." he says, slowly. "Refresh my memory...who are you, exactly?"

I stare up at him. "It's me. Me!"

He squints at me for a moment and then recognition dawns. "Of course," he says. "Bella!"

"Bella? Who the fuck is Bella?"

"Uhm...not you, I'm guessing? Sorry - you just kind of look like a Bella."

"Crispian, don't you remember my name?" Oh my God - he has amnesia. He doesn't remember me!

The doctor takes out a tiny flashlight. "Well, this is odd," he says, advancing on Crispian. He shines the light in Crispian's eyes. "Okay - follow my finger. Good. This way. The other. Good. Look up. Look down."

He puts the flashlight away and steps back. "Strange," he says. "All the scans were clear. Who's the President?"

"George Bush."

"Senior?" says the doctor.

"No." Crispian laughs. "Junior. Dubya. Unless I've fallen through a hole in time to 1991 or something."

"Oh dear," says the doctor. "What's two plus four?"

"Er...beans?"

"And you don't remember your girlfriend's name?"

I'm torn. On the one hand I want to skip with joy that the doctor referred to me as Crispian's girlfriend and on the other I'm worried that he doesn't remember me and may also have some major traumatic brain injury. Still - girlfriend!

Crispian looks at me and shakes his head. "Nope...sorry."

"Rhymes with 'spanner'," says the doctor, helpfully.

"Anna? Blanna...no, that's not a name. Um...Hanna?"

"I knew it!" I cry, jumping up and down. "I knew you'd remember me eventually! How could you ever forget me?"

"How indeed?" says the doctor. "Listen, Mr. Neigh - I don't want to release you just yet if that's alright with you. The memory loss is a bit of a concern - might have to run more tests."

"Why?" I say. "He's fine. He remembers me now, don't you honey? The helicopter and the car and the money and the tiara you bought me and the state of the art laptop computer - you remember all those beautiful things about our relationship, don't you?"

He nods, but his eyes say no. After everything we've been through together how can I lose him and go on living?

"If we go back to Seattle..." I say. "To your apartment. And you can see the girls again! That'll jog your memory! How can you forget the girls?"

"Girls?"

"Yes! Rarity and Fluttershy and Pinkie Pie and Twilight Sparkle! They're your whole world, remember?"

He frowns. "So let me get this straight - we have four daughters together?"

I start to laugh. Even though he's lost his memory he thinks I could be the mother of his children! We're destined to be together.

"And for reasons best known to ourselves we chose to give them...those names?"

"No, silly! They're ponies! My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic. It's your favourite thing in the whole world. Don't you remember?"

He shakes his head slowly. "Isn't that for like eight year old girls?"

"Well, yes, but there are..." I start to say, and then realise that I have an opportunity here. It would be foolish just to squander it, wouldn't it? "Yes," I say. "Yes, it is."

"And that's my...what...hobby?" he says

I nod. "Yes. Only I wouldn't call it a hobby. It's more of an obsession really."

"Right," he says, nodding. "Okay. Um...that's a little weird. If it's okay with you, I'm not going to do that anymore."

"It's okay with me," I say. "Whatever you want is okay with me."

### Chapter Seventeen

### Serendipity

The beach is beautiful in the late afternoon. I lounge under the sun-umbrella, sipping a cold Bloody Mary, the warm Gulf coast breeze fanning my skin. Everything is perfect, so it would figure that Kate decides to phone.

"I need to tell you something," she says, sounding breathless. "I need to tell someone or I'm going to explode."

"Um...okay, I guess?"

"I can't stop fucking Jesús."

"Huh?" I sit up and put down my drink. "Wait...you're sleeping with Jesús?"

"Sleeping with? Hanna, who says 'sleeping with' outside of network television? I'm fucking him. Boning him. Banging him. And I do mean banging - we put a dent in the wall with the headboard last night. It was his fault. He was lying there on my bed wearing nothing but a pair of my panties, reading the hot parts of Cien Anos de Soledad in the original Spanish. He'd handcuffed me naked to a chair and wouldn't let me touch him until he'd finished reading and as he was reading he was getting harder and harder from just looking at me until the top of his perfect, perfect beautiful fucking gorgeous cock peeked out from the lace at the waistband of my panties and oh holy shit...you have no idea. It was ridiculous. Once he unlocked the handcuffs we just went to motherfucking town on one another. Like beasts. I think I'm in love."

I hold the phone six inches from my ear and blink at it, wondering what I have done to merit a dirty phone call from Kate, of all people.

"And when did this start?" I ask, dispassionately.

"The sex? Oh, I don't know exactly. I mean, he gave me sloppy drunk oral one time when we were lying around shitfaced at the old apartment. You know how he loves to do that when he's drunk, right? He said something like 'It's your turn to get the beers from the fridge' and I said 'Eat me' and I guess he took me at my word."

I blink again. "I'm sorry - am I following you correctly? You let a man you didn't love kiss you...there?"

"Fuck yeah. I'd heard from his freshman year girlfriend that he had a tongue like Gene Simmons and really enjoyed giving head. I mean, he made me come pretty hard but it wasn't like an 'Oh my God, marry me' orgasm. It was more of it 'Okay, that was fucking boss and you can totally do that again sometime' orgasm. You know what I mean?"

"No...absolutely not."

"...and then he started getting into my underwear drawer and it was like...oh my God. You know those sheer black panties of mine? With the tiny little red hearts? As soon as I saw those on his tight little round ass it was like a switch flipped in my fucking brain. I couldn't keep my hands off him. It's so freaky - I don't know why it does it to me but every time I see him in something pretty and lacy and girly I'm just like rrrrrrrrooooowr fuck yeah, drenched to the fucking knees I swear to God..."

"That's all very interesting but..."

"...I can't stop thinking about him. There isn't a single working battery in this apartment and I've burned out the motor on my vibrator because he loves watching me come. What the hell am I going to do, Hanna? He says he loves me and I think I might kind of love him back, or is it just sex - like, really, really good sex."

I sigh. "Kate, there's no easy way to tell you this, but Jesús has been carrying a torch for me for the longest time."

"What?" She laughs. "Because he tried to eat your pussy that time? He told me that he explained that to you - that he would never have hit on you if he wasn't drunk out of his fucking mind..."

"...yes, but you and I know he was trying to hide his feelings for me so that I wouldn't feel so bad about going with Crispian instead..."

"What the fuck? No he didn't - he told me he told you that he'd never hit on you sober because quite frankly, Hanna, you can be a self-absorbed little see-you-next-tuesday..."

"...me? Self-absorbed? From the woman who calls me to talk about her foofy for ten minutes at a time without so much as a 'How are you?'..."

"Oh please. I figure you could stand to hear about my love life for a change, since we hear enough about your boring-ass boyfriend..."

"...you don't know what I'm going through here, Kate. Crispian's in the hospital and I don't know if he'll ever be right again..."

"Whoa dude, back up," she says. "Did you say he was in the hospital? What the fuck, Hanna? Are you okay?"

I sniffle into one of Crispian's monogrammed handkerchiefs and sigh. "I don't know. He's an outpatient at the moment - they said there's no reason for his memory loss and the brain scans were clear, but Uncle Bob's taken him to the neurologist this afternoon..."

"Wait, what? What the hell happened? He's in Florida with you?"

"Yes. He followed me here."

"Creepy, but carry on."

I explain what happened, leaving out the most embarrassing parts.

"Amnesia?" says Kate. "He has amnesia?"

"Yes, that's what I said."

"Holy shit, Hanna - your life is like an episode of Sunset Beach. He doesn't remember anything?"

"He remembers me...I think?"

"You think?" I can hear her cigarette lighter over the phone. "So let me get this straight - you're trying to carry on your relationship where you left off when he doesn't even fucking know who you are?"

"Well...not exactly..."

"Dude, you're not fucking him. Please tell me you're not fucking him."

"Of course not. That would be gross."

"It would," she says. "Gross and deeply creepy."

"I know. I'm still in the middle of my period."

Kate snorts. "Nice to see you still have some ethics," she says, sarcastically. "Hanna, come on - this is fucked up. He doesn't know who you are."

"He knows I'm his girlfriend. So okay, he's never heard of Barack Obama and thinks four plus two makes beans, but he's still the same Crispian I fell in love with. Sort of."

"No, but he doesn't remember falling in love with you. Hanna, this is wrong. This is flat out fucking wrong..."

"You're breaking up on me," I say, moving the phone to a distance.

"...so he's a douchebag but he doesn't deserve..."

"...sorry, this signal is terrible..."

"...Hanna, don't do this. What kind of sicko are you?"

I hang up the phone just as Crispian comes down the beach towards me. He wears a straw panama and a pastel blue short sleeved shirt I bought for him yesterday. We're talking about getting his ear pierced - I always liked an earring. Gives a man a bad-boy edge.

"Did the doctor say anything new?" I ask him.

He shakes his head. "Not really. Just that the brain scans don't show any reason for the memory loss. He says it could be traumatic - people do that sometimes. Block things out because they can't cope with them. He recommended a therapist."

"Aren't I therapy enough?" I ask.

He nibbles on the celery from my Bloody Mary. He never ate vegetables before. It's like he's a different person. A better person. "I guess," he says. "It depends if you can meet my needs."

"Why? What do you need?"

"Show me your boobs."

I peer discreetly out from under the sun umbrella and seeing that nobody else is around, I flip down my bikini top and flash him. He laughs and kisses my neck.

"I don't know what I did to deserve you," he says, taking my hand.

We lie side by side on the sunloungers for a while, not talking, just enjoying the sound of the ocean. Then it comes back to me - that strange Eric guy at the party. He said it was all about visualisation - imagine the thing you want most in the world. Then imagine it again, and harder. Imagine every aspect of it, imagine the sun on your face, the sand under your toes, the ice melting in your drink and his hand in yours.

This.

This is what I imagined. This is what I wanted. Oh my God. It's perfect - call it karma, call it fate, call it a gift from the universe to me.

"It was luck," I say.

"Hmm?"

"Luck. Some kind of serendipity that brought me to you. If my roommate hadn't gone on an Ecstasy and coke binge the night before she would have interviewed you instead of me, and we'd never have met."

"Perhaps she'd be here instead," he says.

"I doubt it. I don't think you're her type."

"What's she into?"

"Latin men in women's underwear. Apparently."

"Oh. Right. No \- that's not me," he says, shaking his head. "Although, you know - I don't know what is me." He fingers the shirt I bought him. "Pastels. Am I a pastels person?"

I remember his garish rainbow pony t-shirts and Hawaiian silk shirts and shudder. "Definitely," I say. "Pale colours bring out your eyes."

"Do you think so?"

"Oh, I know so." He has the most wonderful brown eyes. When he wears light colours they look much darker, more mysterious. He smiles across at me and I lean over to kiss him. "I'm so in love with the person I'm turning you into," I tell him.

"You have awesome tits," he says, and kisses me again.

We don't need a sequel. We've found our happily ever after.

### The End

Oh, you wish.

\- Oh God. Not you again.

Yes, me again.

\- The book's over. Go. Away.

How can this be over? This shit's messed up – he nearly smashes his brains out and you turn him into your own personal Ken doll? I can't believe I ever thought he was creepy...compared to you...

\- What part of 'go away' do you not understand?

What part of 'Chapter Eighteen' do you not understand?

\- What?

Turn the page, numbnuts.

\- Wait, what? That's not fair! There is no Chapter Eighteen. This is it. This is the end.

Sorry.

\- You are not sorry.

No, you're right. I'm not.

\- You know, you really are a cunt.

Aw. Thanks. I thought you'd never notice.

### Chapter Eighteen

### Goodbye Horses, Hello Crazy

Last night Jesús shaved his pubes.

At first I persuaded him to trim them, but as soon as he realised that a trim made his dick look bigger he wanted to go for the full Brazilian. He came out of the shower with a silky smooth undercarriage and a boner nearly up to his fucking nose. He said he felt like a porn star, so I made him act like one until Hanna banged on the bedroom wall and screamed that we were perverts.

Jesús is currently sleeping it off, while Hanna is doing some serious passive-aggressive clattering in the kitchen. I've cut her a lot of slack lately on account of what happened to her car, but when it comes to emotional blackmail Hanna's the disproportionate response kind. Actually I think she's forgotten about the car and is now more pissed at me for mentioning that it's about fifty different kinds of effed to carry on boning a guy who can't even remember your name. If I didn't have my reasons for suspecting that My Little Brony is faking it bigstyle then I'd probably call the police, but like I say - I have my reasons.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

It's graduation day, and the dingus in the kitchen is actually going to go ahead with it - I think she honest-to-Christ believes that she's the genuine class valedictorian and not some moron whose mega-rich boyfriend bought her way to the top of the class. Hanna makes me think the pharmaceutical industry are missing a trick; I have a theory that there is some unknown neurochemical coursing through her weird little veins, some magical substance that bestows unfounded confidence in the face of totally contradictory reality. If you could sell it you'd make a fortune – it'd be like ketamine but without the screaming.

She's drinking a typical Hanna-breakfast of Twinings tea and air, which - if not exactly the breakfast of champions - is a great breakfast if you're a self-obsessed shithead who likes to imagine herself the heroine of a nineteenth century novel. It holds grand possibilities - possibilities of fainting, swooning and other neurasthenic antics.

"I didn't sleep so well," she says, the moment I catch her eye.

"I know," I say. "That's because I was having really noisy sex with Jesús." It's best to deal with Hanna this way - just come right out and say what she's needling at, otherwise you'll be there for weeks while she attempts to convey meaning via blinks, sniffles, sighs and simply looking sad. Once I got so sick of her shit that I told her to cut to the chase and take up interpretive dance, but she just sat there and looked confused and I couldn't be completely sure she wasn't doing it on purpose.

"How's the man who never was?" I ask her.

More blinks.

"You know," I say. "Whatsisname. Tabula Rasa. Your amnesiac amour."

Hanna sighs into her tea. "Complicated."

"Spare me the details," I say, filling the coffee machine. The only thing I hate more than complicated men is assholes who describe their relationships as 'complicated' and think it makes them deep or interesting. Having shitty relationships does not make you Sartre and Simone – it just means you have shitty relationships and lack the nads to end them.

Phrases like 'spare me the details', 'don't care' and 'shut the fuck up' tend to wash over Hanna, so it's no surprise when she does a little more blinking and says "I had the most intense revelation last night."

Oh God. "Hanna, if this is a G-spot story I don't want to hear this..."

She frowns. "Um, no. It's not that. Unlike yours, our relationship is based on more than just sex."

"Okay, that's true," I say, since her relationship is also based on self-deception, bribery, corruption, co-dependency, emotional manipulation, alleged amnesia and possible grounds for a federal prosecution.

"I think..." says Hanna, gazing into the middle distance in a way that she thinks makes her look thoughtful but makes everyone else worry that she's having some kind of brain event. "I think that I finally understand what it is that I want out of a relationship."

"A yacht? Because I gotta tell you, I'm with Jesús on this one – you should definitely hold out for a yacht before you break it off."

She glares at me. "Nobody has ever really loved him, you know," she says. "His mother's a harridan and his birth mother gave him up as a baby. And I'm so scared to try and love him. What if I disappoint him like every other woman who has abandoned him?"

I don't say anything. What can you say to this kind of soggy, pop-psych fuckery, even when it's not coming from the lips of a woman so creepy that she thinks amnesia is an attractive trait in a man?

"I just had this moment of blinding clarity," says Hanna. "It's like, I want his love. I need his love. It's like I have this deep, fundamental need to be loved for myself. I never realised that about myself before."

Holy shit. That's her revelation? Will it blow her mind completely if I tell her that she has thumbs? "Yeah," I say, slowly. "That's not just you."

"But you see, he's damaged," says Hanna, all breathy and big eyed. "What if he can't love me the way I need to be loved? Because of his mommy issues? What if it doesn't work out?"

I squint at her and listen to the coffee drip behind me. I like Hanna's mom, but something went fundamentally fucking wrong here. Is this what happens when you praise your child's every bowel movement?

"Hanna," I say. "That happens to everyone. Everyone wants to be loved for themselves. Everyone feels apprehensive when they're starting out in a relationship – that's part of the whole roller-coaster ride. The only reason you think this is the greatest inner revelation since Sigmund Freud first wheeled out the couch is because if your head was any further up your own self-obsessed ass you'd be wearing your pancreas as a fucking hat."

She gets up from the breakfast bar. "I know what this is about," she says, with the serene, knowing air of one who is scarily clueless about more or less everything.

"Really? Do you?"

"Oh yes," says Hanna. "It's okay. I get it, Kate. I know you're prettier than me, and blonde. And I know you think you should be the one who gets the billionaire..."

"...what the fuck?" I'm not mad anymore. I don't have the energy. I always try not to get mad at her because there's no point – most of the time she's just too fucking stupid to understand that she's being a terrible person.

"...but he chose me. Go figure."

"There's not much to figure out," I say. "He's a weird pervert who's scared of normal women and you're not a normal woman."

Hanna peers down her nose at me. "Right. By normal I guess you mean blonde Barbie girls who date him for his money and look pretty hanging off his arm..."

"...and have enough self-esteem and experience to recognise that he's fundamentally broken. Barbie girls? Will you listen to yourself? Do you honestly believe that every other woman in the world is a slut?"

"No," she says, although she totally does.

She dumps her teacup in the sink and heads for her bedroom door. "Look," she says. "I'm sorry that your boyfriend doesn't have a helicopter, but there's no reason to take it out on me."

I laugh. I do that a lot whenever she forces me to think about Crispian Neigh in a boyfriend context; I read somewhere that smiling suppresses your gag reflex. "Oh honey," I say, pouring out two cups of coffee for me and Jesús. "My boyfriend doesn't need a helicopter to take me to heaven and back."

I take the coffee into the bedroom, where Jesús is sitting naked on the bed, rolling up a doobie. "I'm guessing from the yelling that she going through with it?" he says.

"Yep. She is."

"Then I'm not going," says Jesús. "I'll puke if I have to watch her make a valedictorian speech. She has no right to. She didn't even graduate."

"I know." He'd have a lot more moral authority if we hadn't stolen a bunch of shit from the Heathman, but then everyone steals shit from hotels. That's why they hang notes on the bathrobes saying 'Please Don't Steal Me'. It's like an invitation. Or reverse psychology.

My phone bloops – a text message from Teresa. "Hanna's mom," I say, holding it up.

"She must be so proud."

"She's pretty pissed, actually. She hates flying – says it upsets her chi or some such bullshit. She wasn't even going to come but it turns out she's an old friend of Professor Jarrett..."

Jesús perks up. "You're kidding?"

"Nope. I think they went through That Phase together in college – well, Hanna's mom did. Professor Jarrett was just born fabulous, but you know what I mean."

"No," says Jesús. "I don't. Why is she texting you?"

"Because she doesn't like Hanna's boyfriend," I say, confiscating the joint. "And she wants to see him suffer."

"Then she should let him carry on dating her daughter."

I laugh. "Get dressed, shitlord. We're going to this graduation and it's going to be fun. You'll see."

***

The hall is packed. We're all dressed up in our doofy caps and gowns, waiting for the speeches and for the guest of honour to hand us our sheepskins.

Said guest of honour is sitting at the side of the stage, minus his fedora and dressed in a dull grey suit with a even duller grey tie. Hanna's choice, probably. I almost feel sorry for him but then I see his gaze dart nervously to the corner of the hall.

I knew he was faking. Seriously – has there ever been a case of amnesia that didn't turn out not to be amnesia after all?

Hanna gets to speak first, but I can't see her lasting up there. For a start I snuck a couple of drops of laxative into her mid-morning Earl Grey and she's bound to flip her shit (Maybe literally.) when she sees who Teresa's brought along as her plus one.

Neigh looks satisfyingly antsy, still trying very hard not to look at the guys in the corner. They're big guys, solid, but that's not the most nerve-wracking thing about them. Their jackets are bulky in a way that makes you think they're packing, and the chill in their eyes removes all doubt that they are – or maybe we shouldn't have smoked up so close to the festivities; Jesús' new sticky weed makes me paranoid as hell.

I slip backstage, only to find that Hanna is coasting pleasantly on her own brand of naturally occurring, scream-free pet tranquiliser. There are roses everywhere and tied to the back of a chair are several helium balloons that say things like Congratulations! and Happy Graduation! in pink, swirly letters. No ponies – a significant symptom of Neigh's 'amnesia'.

"Do you think this gown makes me look fat?" she asks.

"Yes." There's no way not to look fat in a graduation gown. We're each wearing enough fabric to constitute a small yurt each. A modest Mongol horde could shelter and graze their horses in the shade afforded by our asses right now.

I don't rationalise this to Hanna, hoping it will dent her confidence, but she just mutters something about her hair frizzing, adjusts her cap and looks patiently up toward the lectern where the Dean is still talking.

Worried, I head further back into the wings where Jesús is sulking next to the fire exit. "Okay, I think she's really going to do it," I say. "She's amazingly chilled out. I thought she'd be bouncing off the walls by now."

"So much for that fun you promised me," says Jesús, tossing his cigarette outside and closing the door.

"I know. She hasn't even shit her pants. Sorry about that."

He sighs and takes my hand. "It's okay," he says. "I like it that you owe me some fun – gives me something to look forward to."

The thought of having fun with Jesús takes my mind to interesting places. Mainly my lingerie drawer. I get so distracted by how hot he'd get in stockings and garter belt that I barely notice when his hand slips out of mine and he goes striding off towards Hanna, his graduation gown billowing dramatically as he walks.

He says something to Hanna and she just crumples, like a deflated whoopee cushion. She slides off her chair onto the floor, greenish white and already gasping. Ah, this is more like it – a good old Victorian case of the vapours, brought on by a breakfast rich in only fancy tea and self-regard.

I hurry to her chair, where Jesús, unnoticed, is removing one of the balloons. "Hanna, what's wrong?" I ask. "Are you okay?"

The Dean is winding up his speech and Hanna knows it. Her huge eyes look like they're about to pop clean out of her head and she gasps convulsively. I give her water to sip but she waves it away, panicking.

"Here," says Jesús, handing her a large brown paper bag. "Breathe in, breathe out. That's it – nice and steady..."

She takes a few slowing breaths and gets her panic attack under control. "Okay?" says Jesús.

Hanna nods as the Dean draws to a close. She starts to speak but no sound comes out, so she takes a gulp of my water before the Dean welcomes her on stage.

There's scattered and grudging applause as she steps up to the lectern – nobody likes a cheater, after all. "What the hell did you say to her?" I ask Jesús.

"I told her I'd seen Professor Jarrett," he said.

"Oh. You knew?"

"Knew what?"

"That Professor Jarrett was here?"

"She's here? For real?" asks Jesús. "I was just lying to freak Hanna out."

"No dude, she's really here. With Teresa." And judging by the look on Hanna's face I think Hanna has spotted the Professor right about now.

"Fuck," says Hanna, which was not the first word on her notes. Her voice sounds squeakier than usual and there's a ripple of laughter from the crowd.

"Excuse me," says Hanna, in the same Alvin and the Chipmunks voice as before.

Jesús opens the brown paper bag and shows me the inside. I see the crumpled silver foil of the helium balloon and suddenly Hanna's squeakings make sense. "You evil piece of shit," I say, impressed.

"Stop it!" Hanna is yelling. "Stop laughing!" As she gets madder she gets even higher, until her voice is close to a pitch that only dogs can hear. The ripple of laughter is now a roar.

As she runs offstage in tears I see Crispian Neigh checking out the exits. My first instinct is to stop him, physically if necessary, and that's how I find myself standing behind the lectern.

Shit. Definitely shouldn't have smoked that earlier.

The good news is that Hanna's freaky boyfriend hasn't run off stage after her and the big guys in the bulky jackets are still watching him like heavily armed hawks. The bad news is that I've just run on stage and the crowd are beginning to stop laughing.

And they're looking at me.

"Er...hi," I say. It seems like a good start. Oh God. My mind's gone blank. I look down at Teresa, who is sitting in the front row next to Professor Jarrett. 'Go on', she mouths.

Somehow I make words come out of my mouth. I think I might have peed a little. Did I say that? Please say I didn't say that.

"Um...so, our class valedictorian has some issues," I say.

"No shit!" someone shouts.

I swallow and wonder if my tongue will ever feel wet again. "It's crazy," I say. "Being here. Isn't it? Seems like only yesterday we were sitting our finals..."

"...it was like last week or something," someone else says.

Huh. So it was. Weird.

"Yeah, what's up with that?" I say. It didn't mean to say it aloud but I obviously do because someone shouts back "Bad writing!"

"Yeah, okay," I say. "Settle down." For real – the last thing I fucking need right now is meta-hecklers.

"So..." I continue. "I guess I should just fill in for Hanna and introduce our next speaker and benefactor here – Mr. Crispian Neigh."

He starts to rise from his seat but I wave him back down.

"Whoa there, Cloppy," I say. It just slips out but I can see by the look on his face that he's pissed. And here he's supposed to be an innocent amnesiac, with no knowledge of his former life or his weird hobby. I glance at the bulky guys and realise that it might be helpful if I jogged his memory.

"I'm sure you're all familiar with our special guest," I say. "I'm sure you've all heard about his fortune, his talent and his sudden, tragic, inexplicable memory loss. I'm sure you're all familiar with the inspiring story of how, despite hundreds of thousands in seed capital and a very expensive education, Crispian Neigh built his online empire from almost nothing. Sure, you might think him just another one-per-center who got lucky – and I admit, I thought the same thing. I did."

I glance at him but he doesn't react. "But that was before I got to know him," I continue. "As a person. As a brony."

Crispian Neigh's right eyebrow does some kind of amateur dramatic move, something between 'I have no idea what you are talking about' and 'proceed with caution.' I don't think he's going to be bothering the Academy Award judges any time soon.

"Naturally I was heartbroken when I got that phone call," I say. "Saying that he'd beaned himself on a bidet and couldn't remember even one of his numerous addresses – not the ski-lodge in Aspen, the apartment in New York, the sleazy sex pad in Seattle. His mind - his brilliant, unique, innovative mind – was a total blank, which was a blessing for his attorneys should he have to answer for anything he'd done before the bump on the noggin, but for us, his friends...it was a tragedy."

Hanna's pale, pointy little face peers out from the wings. She's never going to forgive me for what I'm about to do next.

I am so fucking okay with that.

"We miss the Crispian that we knew," I say. "We miss his boundless enthusiasm for his stupid hobby, his unending obsession with My Little Pony. It didn't matter to him if your eyes had glazed over five hours ago, or even if you'd given into boredom and straight up hanged yourself right in front of him – nothing was going to stop him from pontificating about the failures of the plot arc in the season two finale. That was how much he loved My Little Pony."

I look over at Neigh and he already looks like he's about to explode. This must be his personal idea of hell – not being allowed to talk about My Little fucking Pony.

The big guys at the back are looking antsier than ever, so I take a gulp of water and get ready to deal the coup de grace. "I don't know if you're familiar with bronies," I say. "That's what they call themselves – bronies, adult male fans of My Little Pony. If you are familiar with them them you'll know that they are some of the most committed people on earth. Some of the most loyal too.

"It doesn't matter to them that their precious show is a shitty little Flash-style animation that anyone with a laptop could put together in five minutes – they love it all the same."

His nostrils flare. Oh yeah. That's the stuff.

"They don't give a dancing pink shit that the scripts are juvenile, the characterisation is shoddy and the voice acting is annoying..."

He's getting properly fucking pissed now. Come on, you big manbaby – you just gonna sit there and sulk while I talk shit about your favourite TV show?

"...they don't even care that the pony characters are shallow, shrill and dumber than a sack of backwards rocks. They love it unconditionally. And that's a beautiful thing, especially when you consider that Fluttershy is a passive-aggressive asshole, Twilight Sparkle is a stuck-up nerd, Applejack is probably the product of incest..."

Oh fuck yeah. He's nearly there. This is almost better than sex.

"...and Pinkie Pie is a slut."

Crispian Neigh's chair clatters off the edge of the stage. The next thing I see is a couple of hundred pounds of enraged neckbeard diving in my general direction. The audience are on their feet just as I'm knocked off mine.

"You take that back," yells Crispian Neigh. "You skanky little lying whore!"

He has hold of my gown, so I slide out of it and get away, just as one of the bulky guys takes hold of Crispian Neigh from behind.

"Naylor?" shrieks Hanna.

Crispian Neigh is cuffed and jerked upright. "Agent Naylor, ma'am," says the big guy, and I recognise him as Neigh's chauffeur and dogsbody. "And I wouldn't advise trying to skip out on us, if that's what you're thinking."

I don't think Hanna understands what's going on or the implications of what he's saying, but quite frankly nobody – perhaps not even Hanna herself – knows what goes on in that girl's strange, triangular mind.

"Pinkie Pie is a LADY!" screams Crispian Neigh, pony-pink in the face. "SHE'S A FUCKING LADY, OKAY?"

Hanna stares at him with a weird mix of disgust and belligerence. You can say one thing for Hanna – while she's misguided in almost every single way ever, she's not a quitter. "She's a fucking cartoon horse, Crispian," she says, with a sigh. "I thought we were over this."

Jesús reaches down and helps Teresa and Professor Jarrett up onto the stage. "Kate, what the fuck is going on?"

The hall is filled with shouting, cheers, jeers and catcalls, but we can still hear Hanna's molars grinding. "I'll tell you what's going on," she says, hands on her hips. "Someone was faking amnesia so I'd think he'd given up his pony porn habit."

"...Hanna..."

"...no, look at me, Cris – isn't this what it's all about? You knew I didn't like it. You knew I'd never like it, so wasn't it convenient that you happened to lose your memory?"

Agent Naylor sighs. "I know I shouldn't say this," he says. "But you two are both as bad as each other. Eesh." He leads Neigh towards the door.

"Wait!" squeaks Hanna, and goes to follow, but just like that there's a bulky guy behind her too. It's weird how they move as silent as clouds, even though even the smallest one is built like a brick shithouse.

She's all eyes and mouth as they put the cuffs on her. By the time she realises she's being arrested she looks like she's trying to impersonate The Scream. "Mooommy!..." she wails.

"It's okay, sweetie," calls Teresa. "It's just for questioning. I've called my attorney..."

She frowns as the crowd closes behind her daughter. "Oh shit. I'd better go after her. Excuse me, guys."

"No, no problem," says Professor Jarrett. "Go and see to her."

"Okay, does someone want to explain to me what just happened?" asks Jesús.

"It was very simple," says Professor Jarrett. "He was faking it, but not to hide his pony porn habit from Hanna. He was faking it because he knew the government was onto him."

Jesús gawps. "For what?"

"Piracy," I say. "That torrent site of his has been infringing copyright for years. Media companies have been consistently lobbying to have something done about him but you saw how the last round of attempted copyright legislation went down."

"A clusterfuck," agrees Professor Jarrett. "The law's so full of loopholes that trying to pin down Crispian Neigh was like trying to nail jelly to a wall. Fortunately he got a little bit careless when he was trying to get me deported, and bribed an official whose staff were slightly more honest than the average civil servant. The bribery charge gave them something to hang the case on."

Jesús stares at her. "And he knew about this?"

"He knew enough," says Professor Jarrett. "Enough to worry when Teresa raised the subject and enough to know he could get some mileage out of memory loss."

I nod. "Except everyone sensible knows that amnesia is not a thing that happens outside of soap opera plots."

"Or marvellously cheesy novels with Fabio on the cover," says Professor Jarrett.

Jesús raises his eyebrow at her and she turns slightly pink. "What?" she says, defensive. "You didn't think I read nothing but nineteenth century novels, did you?"

"What's going to happen to Hanna?" he asks. "Is she going to be okay?"

"I think so," says Professor Jarrett. "I don't think she's done anything illegal – at least, not knowingly, and Teresa has an excellent attorney."

"Actually she's probably enjoying herself," I say. "She's the centre of attention and she'll get to suffer and pine while he's in the pokey. You know, it's funny – I can kind of picture her as one of those weird women who end up writing love letters to Death Row prisoners and shit."

Professor Jarrett nods. "I think you might be right there. I daresay she'll be as happy as a clam providing they don't let him watch My Little Pony." She runs her hands through her hair and sighs. "Right, I must leave you kids. This has been an interesting afternoon but I must get home and surprise the wife."

"She doesn't know you're back in the country?" asks Jesús.

"No. Although strictly speaking I never left it – the diplomatic corps recruits rather heavily from Oxford, so luckily I knew people who could get me to an Embassy while the mess was sorted out."

"Ha," says Jesús. "And they said a degree in Literature was useless."

"It has its uses," says Professor Jarrett. "If you'll excuse me."

She gets halfway into wings before turning back to us. "Oh, and congratulations! I keep forgetting it's a graduation!" She laughs and carries on walking.

"Certainly a memorable day," I say.

"I'm not likely to forget it either," says Jesús. "It's not often you see a grown man go crazy because someone called a cartoon pony a slut."

"Yeah. On reflection I was a little harsh on Pinkie Pie. She likes to party but she's not trashy about it."

He laughs but not that convincingly. We look out over the hall, at the caps that got discarded and the chairs that were overturned in the crush when everyone went outside to rubberneck at Crispian Neigh's arrest. It looks like the aftermath of a disaster, or a party – a really wild party that went on for four whole years while we pretended we didn't care what would happen when it was over.

There just aren't enough billionaires to go around in this economy.

Jesús takes my hand. "What's the matter? You look sad."

"No. Not really. A little. Maybe." I sigh. "We're going to have to get jobs, Jesús. Be grown ups."

"Only as much as we need to. Anyway, I have a bone to pick with you."

"Dude, I'll pick your bone any time - you know that."

He laughs and puts his arms around my waist. "Did you call me your boyfriend? I heard you - when you were talking to Hanna this morning."

Oops. This wasn't supposed to happen. I have a lousy degree because I spent senior year sitting around on my ass thinking that if I did enough drugs I'd turn into Hunter S. Thompson. Obviously I didn't - I just got the munchies, gained ten pounds and Jesús started making remarks about 'junk in the trunk', which might explain why we're here right now.

I have no idea how to turn that degree into a real job - I might have to move across the country while Jesús sits around in Seattle figuring out what to do with his degree - which will probably involve flipping burgers and dreaming of becoming the next Junot Diaz.

This could not have come at a worse time in my life. On the other hand, every time he smiles it's like my heart does the lambada and every time I touch him I turn into a raging horny beast who wants to do him in every way humanly possible. And then some.

"Yeah," I say. "I kinda did."

### The End

No, really. It's the end.

Well, for now.

We hear there's money in this dirty book thing.

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