Ollie Always (10 page)

Tom squatted down and slowly turned his head, taking in the view while Ollie drank. “Can you think of anywhere in the world you’d rather be, or anything else you’d rather be doing, or anyone else you’d have here with you instead? I can’t.”

It was something of a showstopper, and Ollie’s fairly lengthy list in response to the first two stayed in his head, as he realised with something of a shock that the last one was actually true. He was enjoying Tom’s company, even though they were both in shorts. He hadn’t enjoyed anyone’s company so attired since that cricket team, aged seven. “Oliver was the one who asked the cricket master to check and see if he’d washed properly. In the books, I mean. In the books it was the other way around, and now I can’t work it out, because I genuinely don’t remember, whether that came first for me or him. It seems important somehow. I never told my mother what happened to me, so I think Oliver came first and Mr Williams, the cricket master, read it.”

“Jesus.”

“Not important for me, I mean. I’m not pissed off about it for me, but for all the other chaps on the team. They were only seven too, and he did it to all of us. And that may have been because of Oliver. But Oliver would have thought it was funny, and I didn’t.” He handed the water back. “I suppose I should be glad it wasn’t worse. At least we learnt how to wash.”

Ollie suddenly realised with a huge blush of embarrassment and shame that he’d just dropped a cue worthy of some cringingly bad gay porn. He could almost hear the hunky stud replying in a gravelly voice, “
Show me
.” He wrinkled his nose.

“We had to pay to use the shower. The older boys said they owned them, and we had to pay them if we wanted to wash. So we had to steal stuff. Had no money of our own.” At the look Ollie gave him, Tom added, “I was in care. My parents died and then my gran did too, so I went into care when I was three. I don’t remember anything else. I was lucky—about the showers—’cause I made friends with one of the older lads, and he sort of looked out for me.” He gave Ollie a sad smile. “It’s not only the toxins from the crap food you’ve been eating you need to sweat out. It’s the self-pity too. We all have horrible stories. I grant you, yours do seem particularly unpleasant, but then you’ve also had some noticeable compensations…” He gave another meaningful glance around at the scenery. “First time I saw a mountain, I was sixteen, in junior leaders. I fell in love and that was that. Never looked back since. Wouldn’t have been able to afford any of the things I’ve done if the army hadn’t paid for it all. Couldn’t even buy my own tin of boot polish when I joined up—local council paid for that, an’ all. Better? Ready to go on again?”

Self-pity.

That was something Ollie would have to think seriously about.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Ollie was drunk when his mother arrived. This wasn’t anything to fuss about as he’d spent most of his life nicely anaesthetised on alcohol before he’d met the annoying git Tom Collins. But he did feel a little guilty now, seeing as he was on a programme, a regime, a
journey
. Well, he’d taken his own little trip that evening on splendid Pinot Noir and had no intention of coming back again quite yet. He had not had sugar for two days and everything he’d eaten had been highly coloured but not with the food colouring he usually preferred in the icing of his cupcakes, so he reckoned everyone should cut him some slack.

They arrived all together in one large vehicle.

They’d spent a day or two in Singapore, enjoying a long layover and the sights, so unlike most travellers to New Zealand, they were not particularly jet lagged. His mother, naturally, would not have succumbed to such a plebeian disorder anyway had she flown continuously for the thirty-two-hour trip.

In a review of one of her later novels, Ollie’s mother had been described in The Guardian as the literary world’s Juliette Binoche. Thus termed, Ronnie had grown into a likeness that made no sense and had not particularly existed before, except for a certain European way of dressing, teemed with natural willowy thinness. Now, she sported a chic, lesbian-in-Paris hairstyle and wide-bottomed trousers, which Ollie was sure he’d last seen in
Querelle
. She smoked, and used her cigarettes like ordinary mortals used words. Mostly, Ronnie lived in a Dogme illusion—the reality star of her own drama, acting to maximum effect, always on her mark and ready to throw her fellow artists their cue.

It was infuriating for her, therefore, when other people didn’t know their lines.

Ollie and his mother exchanged air kisses. “Hello, darling. What was that chap called we met at that party? Do you remember? I’m positive I saw him in Auckland as we landed. How are you, anyway? Where did you have your hair done? It suits you.”

Ollie muttered, “
Cut
. Men get their hair
cut
,” then he greeted David with a quiet, “Hi.”

Jonas and Luke also needed kissing, however, and not with small, European gaps of air between them, nor on the cheek. Ollie was seized and given wet smacks from both men on the lips, which he discreetly wiped when they were heads deep in the boot, finding their luggage.

Leticia got a polite handshake. She was very attractive, but still sparked no memories of Old Norse.

Naturally, Tom’s presence created some considerable interest.

Ollie made the requisite introduction, but left out pretty much anything that explained who Tom was or why he was there. Tom added considerably to the confusion by offering to carry the bags, which immediately got him mixed up with the other staff who’d arrived earlier that evening from the agency, and who were now hovering with drinks or tending the
darling
Angus steaks on the barbecue.

Ollie could tell that he’d impressed his mother for once by hiring David Gandy as a porter for her. Who would he produce for a chef? The possibilities were intriguing.

It got slightly more confusing when Tom appeared at the barbecue a few minutes later, clearly expecting to be fed, and introductions had to be made once again.

David frowned deeply. “Friend? Of Oliver’s?” He didn’t actually say,
“What, Oliver has a friend?”
but it came out sounding as if he had all the same.

Ollie had been about to mutter something suitable when Tom replied, “Ollie. It’s Ollie. Always.”

Luke—who always reminded Ollie that no matter how many operas you attended, literary novels you claimed to have written or read, gay causes you supported, and PC credentials you espoused, you still only had one hairline, so value it—drawled, “Ollie, making friends with the locals? How passé. Did you know that Kiwis invented the condom? Made the first one out of a sheep’s lower intestine. They sold the patent but kept the sheep. They’d grown pretty fond of him by then… ” He honked his mirth at his own brilliance then had to listen to the silence this inanity had produced.

Jonas, clearly taking the opportunity to score a point against his lover, asked Tom, “English by the sound of it?”

Tom nodded.

Ronnie, who’d been following this small exchange, possibly waiting for the camera to focus on her once more, said grandly, “Any friend of Oliver’s, darling, is more than welcome.” She gestured with her cigarette to the spare space on the bench next to Ollie, and Tom joined them.

Ollie then expected her to give Tom a metaphorical grilling as intense as the real one the poor steak was getting on the barbecue, but she merely passed him a glass and carried on her conversation with David.

Ollie may have been floating pleasantly on Pinot Noir, but he wasn’t dull-witted yet. Something was up. Mother, not quiz him about the six-foot specimen of gorgeousness currently lounging next to him? Perhaps she was letting her professional interrogators do the job for her.

Luke had moved away from Jonas’s side and was leaning forward, elbows on knees, staring intently at them both.

Luke and Jonas had met some years ago. (The actual number now buried in myth, and many fibs told to quality newspapers.) Jonas, nineteen, had written a YA novel about a troubled young teen coming out. Fortunately, it was slightly more original in language than theme and so had garnered some favourable notice in the press. Luke, slightly older, and making his way as a reporter on a small-town newspaper, had been given the job of interviewing the local boy who was
wowing the literary establishment
. Luke quickly discovered that line was merely a fabricated exaggeration on Jonas’s bio and that thus he’d met someone more disingenuous than he was—Luke had entirely fabricated his degree in media studies to land the job on the Dorchester Gazette.

They co-wrote a novel about two gay lovers who pretended to be brothers when they won an all-expenses paid holiday in a luxury family resort. This was so successful they then co-wrote a book about two brothers who pretended to be gay lovers when they won an all-expenses paid holiday in a luxury gay resort. They did change the name of the hotel though. These two books began a very successful and lucrative writing partnership. Their prose was witty and bitchy, and appealed to a certain kind of reader—usually, Ollie had discovered, men he particularly tried to avoid speaking with at parties. But they’d hitched their career to the co-author ride and couldn’t now decouple. Stuck together for life, they muddled along, hating each other and scoring points in company but probably, Ollie suspected, quietly content when alone. Exactly like married life for everyone, as far as he could see.

That they had spent the last ten years trying to make it a threesome with him had not ruined their friendship in any way. They’d coaxed him with a sort of avuncular charm which, at fifteen and deeply unhappy, he’d found almost reassuring and soothing. Even now, aged twenty-five, it was like the family joke everyone enjoyed and was funny to those who knew the provenance. Ollie had never told anyone, because he had no one to tell, that one of his worst fears was one day waking up at a certain age, with a particular reflection and a total lack of achievement that would make accepting the offer attractive.

For the last few years the Jonas Barry and Luke Knowles writing persona
Barry Knowles
had penned a series of highly popular stories set in the eighteenth century: a single man in possession of a good fortune courts daughter of family with five girls, only to discover in the end that he’s actually in love with his best friend. Wealthy single man, close friend of young attractive heiress, has secret love affair with handsome adopted son of even wealthier family.

Ollie was waiting to see how they managed to make
Persuasion
gay, as it was the only Jane Austen they hadn’t yet tackled. He was betting on Frederick Wentworth doing it with James Benwick on the cobb.

In all honesty, he was slightly jealous of Barry Knowles and had secretly thought about writing a book about a misogynist bully who hires a young tutor for his ward and falls in love with him, despite one or other of them tumbling from some battlements and being blinded. He was going to write the whole thing from the dog’s perspective, Pilot being the only sensible one in the whole debacle. But a ninja cat had distracted him.

Embarrassingly, Ollie now discovered he’d been deep in conversation with Luke for some minutes but had no idea what they’d been talking about. He hoped he’d not agreed to something he might regret later that night.

“Well, that sounds absolutely fascinating. What does David think?”

Ollie wrinkled his nose. What could he have just said? It was unlikely he’d told Luke anything about where he lived. The word fascinating had been used, and if that was said in close proximity to Dunedin, acid formed on the tongue and choking ensued. It didn’t seem likely he’d volunteered anything about his life, either, although
he
thought cats ambushing each other out of cupboards
was
fascinating. Could he have told Luke about his book? Shit! Had he just relayed the entire plot of a brilliant novel but not actually been listening to himself? Was this masterpiece now lost to the world?

It would actually make a good story for a book. His main character would have to undergo hypnotherapy to recall the outline, and while under, sinister secrets emerge instead, which make the young, aspiring novelist have to go on the run with his new hypnotherapist, who volunteers to become his bodyguard and then something even physically closer that first night in the shower…

“…film rights, of course. Brilliant.”

What! Was his novel so good he’d just sold it to Hollywood?

He drained his glass, realised the Pinot Noir was empty, bent to refill from the second bottle he’d filched and discovered that had betrayed him, too.

Someone took his glass from his hand, and a long, tall one of ice-cold water appeared in it instead. He glanced over and found Tom watching him with a slight smirk. “Welcome back. Nice holiday?”

Ollie drank the water, keeping his eyes fixed on Tom over the glass in what he would have termed flirting if Tom were not married, or
he
was gay. Complicated. He felt someone squashing in next to him on the other side and turned to find Leticia. Jonas had also pulled his chair closer, so Ollie was trapped with four people, all looking at him for some reason. “More wine anyone?”

“So, Oliver, I’ve been telling Ronnie about that stunt you pulled on our Anglo-Saxon tutor. Do you remember?”

Tricky. He didn’t recall Leticia being at Cambridge at all.

“Remind me.”

She began laughing, which made her tale—something containing a gay porn magazine and a dildo—a little fractured and more edgy than the original had been.

No one but Tom appeared to notice Ollie’s reaction to the story. He tapped Ollie’s glass and murmured, “I can’t work out how to use the juicer, and your mother wants fresh orange juice for her vodka. Can you come and show me?”

No one had ever asked Ollie to work something mechanical for them before. He felt quite manly suddenly, older, more responsible and possibly able to strap small things securely into travel seats. Bemused, he nodded and followed Tom into the house, only requiring a steadying hand once, and that was simply because the light was fading and someone had moved the steps since he’d last used them.