Reversing Over Liberace (14 page)

“Oh, great. So now I'm incapable of looking after myself
and
indecisive?” I gathered my things together. “Thanks very much, guys.”

Katie caught my arm. “Will, sit down. We're not having a go at you, we're just telling as we see it. From our perspective things seem to have moved incredibly quickly and, yeah, it's a fantastic coincidence that you met Luke again, and it's wonderful that you've come into this money and everything, but we want you to be sure that you're doing the right thing.”

“Bullshit. You think he's after my money. Look, how many times do I have to point out that Luke didn't know I
had
any money when we met. Hell,
I
didn't know I had any money. Luke isn't like that anyway. He's sweet and he loves me and we're going to get married and we've set a date and I was going to tell you, but now I'm not even sure that I'm going to invite either of you because you're horrible to me and I'm going.” The three of us eyeballed each other for a moment, or at least Katie and I eyeballed. Jazz raised his eyes ceiling-ward and mouthed “bloody women”, then we all burst out laughing.

“You can't not invite me,” Katie said. “I have to be the one in the pictures who makes you look all thin and gorgeous.”

“What, you mean like I was at your wedding?”

“Yep. I have to wear something so bright that it strobes, and have a fat face with a horrid headpiece which makes me look like a hamster in a wig. 'S obligatory.”

Jazz grinned. “And I have to look sensationally shaggable so your new husband gets all jealous and punches me.”

“Gosh.”

“Yeah. He has to break my nose or it's not a proper wedding, apparently.”

“Ooh, ooh!” Katie bounced and squeaked. “And I have to be caught in a compromising position with the best man. So if you could steer Luke to pick someone who's good-looking, or at least doesn't smell, I'll be grateful.”

“
I
didn't get caught in a compromising position at your wedding.”

“No, but you did get my grandma stuck in the toilet. That counts.”

“Oh, yes.” I collected my bag and jacket. “I'm glad we got that sorted out. Now I really am off home. Luke and I are going to Cornwall this weekend and I want to pack.”

It was a tiny fib, not even that, more a fibbette. I
did
want to get home and pack, but first I wanted to go and investigate the new flat. The key shone virgin in the evening sunshine as I fitted it into the lock and pushed the door open. Inside, the late light sliced in over the balcony and fell just
so
on the spot where I planned to put the intended Italian leather sofa. Mocha, a nice practical colour I could liven up with throws. I wandered around the rooms, much as an artist might walk around a blank canvas—potentially, an iron-framed bedstead just
here
and some light gauzy curtains over
these
windows. Then I went out to stand on the balcony to watch the last of the natural light drain from the sky. Luke was right. It was a fantastically central, wonderfully appointed, fabulous investment. It just didn't feel as though it would ever be my
home
.

 

 

 

As I walked back across the river, I felt a familiar sense of potential hanging over my head. This usually meant the return of my twin—I've explained to you already, haven't I, that Ash and I have the twin-unspoken-communication thing, although neither of us wants it—and, sure enough, there was the red Yamaha slouched in the front garden as though it had never been away. Proving, however, that away had very much been the case, was the rucksack left pointedly by the washing machine. One undone strap gave us a view of grey lycra, like an overweight and grubby stripper flashing her underwear. Farther into the house, Ash was sitting on the kitchen table with his feet on a chair, holding forth to Clay on the beauty of Slovakian architecture, smoking a joint and spinning a beer bottle top in a saucer.

“How long have you been back?”

“Nice to see you, too.”

“Sorry. Hello, brother dear. How was your trip and how fucking long have you been back?”

“That's better. Just since this morning. Clay tells me you're going away? With a
man
? God, I can't leave you alone for a moment, can I? Who is he, then? Anyone I know?” He looked at me through a cloud of blue smoke, eyes narrowed, doing Lauren Bacall for all he was worth.

“No. His name's Luke.” This was as much information as Clay had and I didn't feel up to giving them any more. “Why did you tell me Cal was gay?”

“And who the hell's he?” Clay asked.

“Friend of Ash's. You met him a couple of weeks ago.”

“Oh, yes. Dark guy, awful clothes, ate all the bread and I had to run up to Morrison's in my pyjamas.”

“That's him.”

“I didn't tell you he was gay.” But I could always tell when Ash was toying with the truth. He sort of blushed, although not completely. The tips of his ears went pink and he developed a nervous swallow. He was doing it now.

“You told me you were living with him.”

“All right, all right, but look”—Ash lowered his voice—“not here. Come on.” Flicking both the joint and the bottle top back into the saucer, he slithered off the table and headed for the stairs. I followed, and we ended up in his old room, sitting on the bed staring at a poster of David Boreanaz peeling off one purple wall. It was just like the old days. “I didn't want Clay to know,” Ash explained, draping himself across the bed. “He already thinks I'm a complete wanker.”

I shrugged and began picking at the blu-tac remnants on the wall beside the bed, where, until fairly recently, Robbie Williams had resided. “At the moment I'm not far behind him,” I said, carefully not mentioning the definitive kiss. “I felt a complete idiot when I found out he was straight.”

“Okay.” Ash took a deep breath. “Here it goes. I met Cal.”

“Three years ago when you were both in therapy, yeah, I know. Can we cut to
why you lied
?”

“Shut up, bitch. Let me tell it. So, I was…well, I was having some problems. So I went for help and met up with Cal. We hit it off. Used to hang out together on and off. I got the feeling he didn't see too many people. Not a social guy if you know what I mean.” Ash's idea of social was someone who went clubbing six nights out of seven, who slept with at least four different men a week and had a black leather organiser with more addresses and phone numbers in it than the Yellow Pages. “I never hit on him and he never hit on me, but, you know, I always got the
feeling
. Right, so, hadn't seen him for a year or so. Suddenly ran into him again about six months back when I had a PDA giving me problems. He sorted it out for me and we got talking. He was pretty low, he'd got very isolated, you know about the leg? He doesn't put himself about much. I was looking for somewhere to stay and he said he had a spare couch I could sleep on. Think he was lonely to tell the truth. You started going on about not meeting people, and I thought, ‘hey, I could introduce Will to Cal'. Thought he was straight enough, at least for you.”

“Oy!”

“Come off it, Will. You know you like 'em a bit fey. You're not a girl for a big guy who wants his ironing done and some little woman waiting at home for him, are you? Anyhow. By now I'm thinking he's not as straight as he makes out. He…we…okay, I reckon I fancied him. In fact, I'd started to wonder if he could be
the One
, if you see what I mean. Looking back, Christ, Will, I was fucking stupid. He was obviously interested in you, but I couldn't see it, and then…” Ash stopped and developed a sudden and intense interest in a loose piece of thread hanging from the underside of the mattress.

“Then, what?”

“Then, when I took your laptop for fixing, I dunno what happened. It was…”

“Oh, spit it out, man.”

“That's not what they usually say.” Ash gave me one of his mischievous grins.

“You are
such
a tart.” But I grinned too and a spark of the old twin thing flipped between us again.

“Cal was really, really uptight. Totally wired. I thought he'd got hold of some bad stuff. Guy says he doesn't do drugs but, huh, I mean, who is he kidding, anyhow. He's sitting there, strung out to hell, kind of crying. It was more than I could stand. I mean, Jesus but that boy is
ripped
. Something about the eyes, I reckon, just flips me out. So I sit down beside him, ask him what's happening. He says something about not standing a chance with anyone. Next thing I've got my arms round him, he's not fighting, not saying anything much so…”

“You kissed him.” God, if only it hadn't been my brother, this would have been funny.

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“And he kissed me back. Honest to God, full-on. So I go to take it a bit further, if you know what I mean, and he stands up, very quietly, and says, ‘sorry, Ash, but I think you misunderstand'. Something like that anyway. Then he says that I'm a good friend, all that kind of shit, but, basically, he doesn't go for guys. And I'm really screwed. Guy broke my heart, right, so I fucked off to Europe. Tried to ring you a couple of times and explain but never seemed to catch you in. That's it. End of story.”

A long pause during which we both stared at different parts of the room without saying anything.

Ash broke first. “All right, I'm sorry.”

“It doesn't matter.”

“
What
? Way you were carrying on, I thought it was some major fuck-up cause.”

“No. I just like to make you sweat, oh, and apologise. God, it feels good.”

“You bitch.” Ash got up off the bed. “So, you and Cal?”

“No. Like I said, I'm going out with Luke. Cal, he's a friend. Kind of. He's bloody weird though, isn't he?”

“Oh,
yeah
.” Ash and I gave each other a slightly ashamed smile. “Fucking sex-on-legs though. Wasted on girls.” He stretched himself out in the doorway. “Right. I'm off out.”

“Slapper.”

“Hey, I could be digging old ladies' gardens, all you know.”

“That's what you call it now, is it? Well, don't forget to put your Marigolds on before you plant anything.”

“I never forget.” Ash began to make his exit, but turned back. “Oh. FYI.”

“Mmmm?”

“Cal. Hung like a fucking donkey. Even bigger than Plastic Dave.” Plastic Dave was a silicon-enhanced beauty who ran a bar down one of the seediest sidestreets York had to offer and was reputed throughout the gay community to be A Big Man.

“And how would you know?”

Ash just tapped the side of his nose and winked, then spiral-jumped down the stairs. Seconds later I heard the bike engine fire up, a few moments of door-slamming as he came in and out, fetching helmets and gear, then the punctuating roar of the 750cc engine being kept, more or less, to the speed limit as far as the end of the road. I went to my own room to start packing, hoping that my eyebrows would begin to come down to their normal level before I had to leave for Cornwall.

Chapter Sixteen

Cornwall in late May, and the tourists were starting to pack into the tiny county, filling the beaches with flabby bellies. Bodmin Moor, isolated and, despite the general sunshine everywhere else, draped in torn shrouds of mist, was where we ended up, in a gothic hotel. The place looked not so much built as extruded, a huge pile of grey granite, towered, turreted and moated. The rooms were all high-ceilinged with room for half the Addams family under the beds.

But, on the upside, I got to see more of the great outdoors than I had in the Lakes. Luke had brought his laptop, needing apparently to catch up on some paperwork and also to drop a bunch of emails to prospective clients, so I booked myself on a day trek to Dozemary Pool. Riding a thoroughbred at the gallop across heather rid me of any tetchiness I'd been harbouring. And, since we also managed to fit in more than our quota of sex (more than the sex quota of a small Catholic country actually), I didn't really feel cheated.

Even better, when we arrived back on Sunday evening, there was no sign of either Clay or Ash. Luke kissed me goodbye, promised to pick me up the following evening in time to catch a film at the City Screen, with drinks beforehand, and hurled off in a slightly alarming puff of black smoke. The big black car had clocked up nearly a thousand miles that weekend, and it looked as though the distance was telling on significant valves.

The phone rang as I carried my bag upstairs. I ignored it, but it rang again as I was showering, and then again when I was making myself some tea. Figuring that anyone
that
desperate to reach one of us would probably be glad to get answered, I picked it up.

“Oh, Willow. Thank God it's you.”

“Hey, OC.” There was a breathy pause. “It's not the baby, is it?” I asked. OC still had a couple of months to go and I didn't like the sound of the silences coming down the line at me.

“Can you come?”

“What, now? Have you rung Paddy?”

“
Please
, Will, just come.” My sister's voice broke up and the line went dead. I stood and stared into the receiver for a moment, then started to panic properly.

Clay was out and besides he didn't have a car. Ash was God knows where, and anyway, if OC was in labour, being slung across a throbbing saddle would probably obviate any need for obstetric intervention.

I called Cal, but his answerphone was on, I didn't have his mobile number and the farm wasn't on the phone. So that was Cal out of the white charger rescuer league. Who else did I know with a car?

“Moat House Hotel, how may I help you?” The receptionist had a strong accent, French or Spanish.

“Um, I need to speak to one of your guests, Mr. Luke Fry. Could you tell me which room he's in, please?”

“A Mr. Fry, is that correct?”