’ We both knew that but Harry liked to get money stuff sorted. I’d agreed a budget with Lauren, far more than I reckoned would be actually necessary and told Harry so. ‘I’ll get on it. I’ll call you every day.’ I’d tried to call Angie a couple of times but her phone didn’t answer or go to mail. Frank and I escorted Lauren, usually with Jenny, to a number of appointments without incident. Business as usual in fact. I was a bit pissed off with Angie, though. But she’d made it clear it was not a romance and so, well, I could live with it. One evening I was staying at Lauren’s house. She was throwing a dinner for some important guests, including the MP, Ellie Saunders and it had been decided that I should be there in case some lunatic decided to do something unpleasant. Lauren had her own, domestic security but my boss, Carl, wanted me to be there. So I was wearing a long, black frock with a slit up the side that gave me access to the weapon strapped to my thigh. Not the best arrangement. He licks his lips, stares out of the window and drinks lager. It’s Bud, which is a surprise; I’d have expected Stella. Then I notice it’s one of those 568ml cans unique to Bud that is almost the length of my forearm. Cunning.I get out my phone and open the Grindr app. I don’t get much hassle for being trans on there, and it’s usually from losers whose ‘firm views’ wither under fire from a series of one-liners I have devised for the purpose. People slag Grindr off, but the trans apps are useless, and Tinder is too fiddly. I wait for the app to refresh with my new location, gathering interest for use on my return journey.Of course, I don’t really care about Grindr. I care about Millwall, whose presence has evolved into a smorgasbord placed just out of reach of a starving woman. Phones are as much a prop as anything else. ‘Look how busy and popular I am’ goes one narrative. ‘Regard my concerned expression and consider what daunting drama my life involves’ goes another. I am currently.
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