Babycakes by Armistead Maupin

pulled back and looked into his long-lashed hazel eyes. “Do you realize how lucky we are?”
He regarded her for a moment, then said: “I do.”
She picked up the bottle, took a swig from it, and handed it to him. He took a similar swig and gave the bottle back to her. “Why are we counting our blessings?” he asked.
She placed the bottle on the floor beneath their feet. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know … you always talk about how lucky we are right before you drop one of your bombs.”
“No I don’t.”
“O.K., you don’t.” He gave her his I’m-not-looking-for-a-fight smile.
“I just … well, as a matter of fact, I did want to talk to you about something.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “Great. Shoot.”
“Well, I thought it would be nice if we hyphenated our names.”
“Huh?”
“You know … if I became Mary Ann Singleton-Hawkins.” Brian studied her. “Is this a gag?”
“No. I told you before I feel like Mrs. Hawkins. Keeping my own name was never a big deal.”
“It was to the station,” said Brian.
“O.K. So if I become Mary Ann Singleton-Hawkins, they’ll still have their precious name recognition factor and … you know … it’ll be more like I’m married.”
He sat there slack-mouthed.
“Besides,” she added, “I think the name’s really pretty. It’s distinctive.”
Brian frowned. “Making me … what?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean … what do I tell the guys at work? That I’ve just become Brian Singleton-Hawkins?”
That slopped her cold. “Oh … well … yeah, I see what you mean.”
“What in the world are you …?”
“Forget it, Brian. I didn’t think it out. It was a stupid idea.” She smiled sheepishly. “Gimme that bottle, handsome.”
He did so. She took another swig. He reached out and touched the side of her head. “You know the name business doesn’t bother me. I told you that a long time ago.”
“I know.”
He laid his arm across her shoulder. “Christ, I’m a modern sonofabitch.”
The phone rang downstairs.
“I’d better get that,” she said, grateful for the reprieve. She clattered down the narrow wooden stairway and caught the call after the fourth ring, gasping “Hello.”
“Miss Singleton?”
“Yes.”
“Simon Bardili here.”
“Simon! How are you? Is everything going O.K.?”
“By and large. I’m in a bit of a scrape as far as accommodations are concerned.”
“Oh …”
“Do you think I might solicit your advice at some point? At your convenience, of course.”
“Of course! Hold on a sec, O.K.?”
She dashed back upstairs and confronted Brian. “It’s that Englishman from the Britannia. I thought I might invite him to dinner tomorrow night … if you’d like to meet him, that is.”
Brian’s hesitation was almost imperceptible. “Fine,” he said.

Simon’s Proposition
H E HAD ALREADY PICTURED THE ENGLISHMAN AS A sort of latter-day Laurence Harvey, a spoiled aristocrat with pretentious airs and esoteric tastes. He couldn’t have been more surprised when Simon Bardili ambled over to his record collection and perused the cover of Denim Gradations.
“A bloody shame,” he said.
Brian was caught off guard. “What? Oh … his death, you mean?”
“Mmm. Free-basing, wasn’t he?”
Brian shook his head. “Smack. According to the coroner.”
“Ah.”
“You … uh … you’re a fan of Bix Cross?”
The lieutenant smiled dimly. “More of a freak than a fan. I played nothing else in my rooms at Cambridge.” He held out the album so Brian could see it. “The lovely breasts belong to his wife, I understand.”
Brian smiled back. “You understand correctly. I met the lady this weekend.”
“Indeed?” If an arching eyebrow was any indication, the lieutenant was clearly impressed. “Katrina, isn’t it? No, Camilla … something exotic.”
“Theresa,” Brian told him.
The lieutenant rolled the name across his tongue. “Theresa … Theresa.” He turned and gave Brian a knowing, man-to-man look.