Ollie Always (6 page)

Skint was silent, and Ollie didn’t blame him. Hearing that was probably a bit of a downer when all you wanted out of life was one little apartment on the lake.

He lay down, a suitable straight-man distance away, and picked up his book. After a while, he glanced over. Skint appeared to be asleep, but it was hard to tell behind the dark sunglasses. For all he knew the man was staring at him. He stuck his tongue out to test this theory, not sure how he’d explain it if Skint was awake, but apparently he had dozed off.

Ollie sat up. He had Skint’s whole body to admire for a while, naked except for the strip of black across the taut buttocks. The swimsuit was shorter than the running gear and Ollie smiled at the abrupt end of the tan somewhere just near mid-thigh. Skint’s back was lighter than his arms and legs too, this almost bone-white smoothness ending in a dark brown circle around the back of his neck. Clearly, Skint had been in very strong sun for some weeks, but, naturally, he seemed to have very pale skin, like Ollie.

He was absolutely perfect.

As hard as Ollie tried, he couldn’t find a single physical flaw.

And here they were on a deserted beach in warm sunshine side by side. And he was still drunk and very, very horny.

He wondered idly what Oliver Fitzroy would do. The one who’d discovered he was gay when, aged seven, he’d seduced his father’s best friend whilst on holiday in their French chateau. That had been the first book.
No Boundaries
. A groundbreaking exploration of the power and danger of prepubescent love. His mother had been hailed as a cross between Edmund White and J. D. Salinger.

Only seventeen when she’d penned this masterpiece, Ronnie was embraced by the literary elite as a genius, feted, adored. Perhaps a little too much. Nine months later, he’d been born, father unknown. And she’d called him Oliver. A double birth that year, in a way. Twins. One eclipsing the other.

Ronnie had plunged into motherhood by hiring a nanny and then went back to her typewriter and began her second Oliver novel. Ollie grew alongside phantom Oliver, fictional Oliver stalling in a floating timeline, waiting for his alter ego to catch up with him. Ollie was three when book Oliver turned eight. By six, the timeless Oliver was only nine. When Ollie took the pills, his paper twin had still to turn ten—he’d had a very busy summer that year, sailing and doing other things in old men’s yachts in the Mediterranean. Once Ollie caught up, they’d then aged together. They were both twenty-five now. Ollie had an unshakable faith that their relative aging would diverge very soon. Would Oliver make it to thirty? Ollie sincerely doubted it. He would stay forever hovering around the perfect late twenties when everything was still beautiful and promising. One day, Oliver would become his Dorian, wearing his beautiful face, walking around in his perfect body, whilst his real one succumbed to the ravages of alcohol and sugar.

He sometimes wondered what would have happened if he’d been born with bright ginger hair, if he’d been a fat toddler, if he’d been ugly—and he had no doubt his mother would have judged him deficient on all three of these and more. What if he had not been blessed, or cursed, with a face more beautiful even than the one she’d given
him
…his alter ego. His nemesis. Perhaps then she would not have dragged him to her literary parties, touting him as the spirit of Oliver, whilst he cried silently, “I’m Ollie. I’m just
me
.”

Perhaps if he’d been that other, ugly little boy, not the angelic, pretty one he’d been, he wouldn’t have found himself aged seven in a toilet on the first day at his public school confronted by four prefects with a copy of
No Boundaries
wanting him to demonstrate his seduction technique.

Ollie ate a piece of shortbread as he contemplated the simple man lying asleep alongside him. Simple and innocent.

Most people, of course, like Skint, had not heard of the Oliver series. But wasn’t that true of any book, even the most popular—that the majority of the world wasn’t aware of it? What made the Fitzroy novels so special was that all the right people read them. They appealed to the critics, the literati who described them as, “Prime examples of the Künstlerroman,” or delighted that they displayed a “Prism of language, richly hued and textured,” that they needed to be approached with, “Trepidation for the allure of illicit eroticism.” “Astonishing,” was another description liberally thrown at the hijinks of a sexually amoral sociopath who, apparently, “Makes an important contribution to the discussion on the meaninglessness of intrinsic spatiality in both temps and temporalism.” That had been in The Guardian.

By the third book, Ronnie had ditched her original Indy publisher and signed on with one of the greats: David Purelass, of Purelass Press. The literary marriage had been spectacular and extremely lucrative for them both. Now, Veronica Fitzroy merited advances. Large ones.

So seven-year-old Ollie had gone to boarding school.

Oliver Fitzroy got to party in the Mediterranean.

Wasn’t life full of lovely little ironies when you looked for them?

CHAPTER SIX

It started to get cold when a small drift of cloud obscured the sun, and Skint woke with a grunt, reaching for his shirt. He glanced over at Ollie who was reading. “You wanna come over tomorrow? Hang out? If you’re not…writing or anything.”

“I have to leave tomorrow, or I won’t get everything ready in time.”

They packed up their few things in silence and began to stroll across the beach, heading back to Ollie’s place, although he was tempted to point out that it was in fact closer for Skint to return to his own house on the hill. He didn’t though. Eventually, Skint said, as if he’d been thinking deeply about this, “Can I beg a favour? I feel bad asking.”

Ollie shook his head rapidly. “No, I still owe you. Sure. Whatever. If I can.”

“Some friends of mine from the army are on an adventurous training exercise near Queenstown. I still haven’t done anything about getting a car. Can I cadge a lift with you tomorrow? Close as you go to the Cardrona valley, anyway. I can hike the rest and meet up with them for a few days. Is that okay?”

Ollie made a dismissive reply that agreed easily to the ride whilst at the same time not sounding all that keen. He actually wasn’t. It was like being an alcoholic in a bar with free drinks—a very dangerous environment.

“What time are you leaving?”

“Early, I guess.”

“Seven?”

Ollie’s brows rose. “Eleven.”

“Oh, okay. Well, I’ll come down about half ten then?”

“I’ll pick you up.”

Skint suddenly slung an arm around Ollie’s neck and knuckle-rubbed his hair. “Thanks.” Ollie laughed dutifully but quickly dodged to one side.

When they got back to the steps leading up to his crib, Skint suddenly stopped. “Quicker for me to shoot up across the hill from here, I guess.”

Ollie sensed the man didn’t want to come in. Perhaps he’d taken more from the slight step away than he’d intended. Maybe Skint had got exactly what he’d meant by that gesture. To test his theory, and to punish himself for the things he’d been thinking all afternoon, Ollie asked casually, “Got time for a drink?”

Skint was fastening his shoes back on his feet in preparation for tackling the triffids. He looked up, and a slight flush crept over his defined cheekbones. “Janice is Skyping tonight. I’ve gotta go. Another time, sure.”

Well, good. Didn’t that totally put the finishing touch on a perfect day?

Ollie watched the lean figure jog up and out of sight.

There was an email waiting for him when he got back.

But he watched a few dog cyst videos before he felt sufficiently calm enough to tackle it. He’d tried cutting once at school but hadn’t liked it very much. Watching large sebaceous cysts being excavated filled the void that self-harm had left. He clicked the email open, fortified by a hobnob.

Dear Ollie,

Very much looking forward to seeing you next week. Perhaps we can chat about your progress on the novel? I’m bringing an old acquaintance of yours, Leticia Cameron. Do you remember Letty? She was at Cambridge with you. She did Anglo-Saxon, Norse, and Celtic. So quite useful really. She had a seminar with you once or twice apparently. Anyway, she’s working on her first novel now, so you’ll have lots to talk about. By the way, I never thanked you for the flowers you sent for Bea. I was very touched.

Ronnie has your note, as per your request.

Has she told you the news about Oliver?

I’d better not. Hell hath no fury and all that.

Armour up for Jonas and Luke. They’re going through a phase.

Yours with fondness and anticipation for our catch up,

David

And his day just continued to get better and better.

Still at least the catch up wouldn’t take very long. Jonas and Luke were always going through a phase and, no, he didn’t remember someone called Letty. He’d had something else on his mind during seminars at Cambridge.
Someone
. She was probably confusing him with Oliver. A lot of people did. Of course, Oliver had also gone to Cambridge. He’d been the most brilliant undergraduate in the English Department. Funny old thing that. A decade of drug use and fornicating with old men hadn’t dulled Oliver’s formidable brain apparently.

Ollie could genuinely not work out which came first—his life or Oliver’s. Had Ollie told Ronnie he was applying for Cambridge and then Oliver in book six went for a look around in the upper sixth and had a brief but highly charged liaison with the professor of modern linguists? Or had
he
been aware of his mother’s plans to send his nemesis to the finest educational establishment in the world and could not bear to come second to a better version of himself?

And, in the long run, did it really matter?

Maybe Oliver could fucking write his novel.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Ollie woke at seven with a headache and a stomach full of acid. He sometimes pictured the sugar and alcohol mixing in his belly and finding new and potent ways to kill him slowly. But everyone always said it was good to eat something when you drank. They never said a whole packet of hobnobs didn’t count as something.

He staggered to the bathroom and contemplated making himself sick but didn’t want to face bad breath and red eyes. Instead, he took four painkillers and forced himself to drink a couple of large glasses of milk. It was slightly off, so it needed using up before he left. He wasn’t sure how long he’d be gone. He intended to only fulfil his mother’s instructions, say hello, and leave. But history told him this was a vain hope.

By nine, he was feeling much better and contemplated eating but there was nothing very much to have. It was going to be a long drive.

By eleven, he was packed and heading up to Skint’s house.

Army-disciplined, the other man was waiting for him, looking fresh and edible. Ollie squashed this last unfortunate thought and indicated the bag by the man’s feet and then the boot of the car.

Skint locked his door and hefted his rucksack over to the car.

After stowing it safely next to Ollie’s bags, he came around to the driver’s door and held out his hand, apparently for the keys. “I’ll drive if you like.”

“Why?”

Skint hesitated then admitted, “Because you look like shit, and before you jump down my throat, that’s not a criticism but a truthful observation, and I’m allowed to make truthful observations whenever I want.”

Ollie was suddenly regretting the two pints of slightly stale milk and feeling decidedly green on the inside, so without too much further argument he climbed out and dropped the keys into Skint’s hand.

They began.

Ollie had to get him to pull over before they’d even left the driveway as he scrambled out and vomited discreetly behind a triffid. He was half-expecting a cool hand to land on his neck in that comforting buddy-buddy way it had the day before, but Skint remained in the car, staring ahead. His gaze might have been thoughtful, but as he had the dark shades on again, it was hard to tell. Ollie wasn’t all that fussed what the man was thinking. It was his car. The silence, however, was worse than a lecture, so as they were descending the hill to the highway, Ollie was debating lightening the mood with a witty observation on vomit, but Skint interrupted his thoughts with, “Route?”

“Huh?” Jesus. Six years at Cambridge and
huh
was the result.

“Which way? You’ll have to navigate.”

“Navigate?” Ollie almost laughed, but his head was hurting so he didn’t. “There’s only one road.” He pointed left. “Just keep going.”

“One road?”

“One road to Invercargill, although I don’t think anyone has ever gone there and actually confirmed it exists. One road to Christchurch, or where Christchurch used to be, and one road west to the lakes. That’s it.”

“Blimey.”

“It’s because of the Moas.”

“The Moas? Those big, extinct ostrich things?”

“Absolutely. They had set paths between their nesting grounds—they ran of course, as they couldn’t fly—and when the Maoris ate them all, they kept the pathways as sacred routes to honour the food. Then
we
came, and it was obviously the easiest way through the bush.”

Skint appeared to be thinking about this, his mouth pursed, his fingers tapping on the wheel. Ollie reckoned his version of history was as likely as any official one, and who was going to call him on it?

Skint drove smoothly and much slower than Ollie would have. But Ollie had never worried too much about losing his licence. Or his life, come to that. This man clearly didn’t live enough in the now. After half an hour, Skint was clearly starting to get restless, checking his mirrors, frowning. After another five minutes, he muttered, “I need some lunch. When’s the next village?”

Ollie consulted his watch. “About two hours.”

“What! But…”

Ollie suddenly grinned and rummaged in the glove box. “Shortbread?”

§§§

Feeling a lot better after a large pasta meal in Alexandra, Ollie took over the driving. They were coming to the start of the scenic part of the trip, and he wanted Skint to be able to enjoy it fully. Concentrating on the road also meant he didn’t feel the need to make conversation, which he had as a passenger. For some reason, the one thing he’d always relied on, his quick tongue and acerbic wit, utterly deserted him whenever he got to within striking distance of this man. And thinking of it as striking distance was probably a big clue as to why he felt continual awkwardness around Skint.