“You can’t pay me. I’ll work for you, but you can’t pay me.”
Tom raised an eyebrow, sensing victory. “I have to pay you. It wouldn’t be right if I didn’t.”
“I don’t want your money.”
“How will you live? You’ve got bills and rent. No one can afford to work for free in this city.”
“I have some savings. They’ll tide me over for a while.”
“Then why did you call me?”
Silence. Tom didn’t dare let himself speculate if Jake had called him with a motive besides the need for a job, that perhaps he wanted to see Tom again. Something told him if he pushed Jake too hard, he’d simply walk away. “How about I pay you after the event? We’ll develop and open the restaurant, and you’ll get paid when the job is complete.”
“How long will that take?”
Tom considered the question. It was October now, and they’d launched the Stew Shack from concept to opening night in a little over two months, but that wasn’t going to happen here. The rebuild would take weeks, maybe months, on top of everything else that needed to be done. “Six months,” he said. “Maybe more.”
“Fine.”
Jake seemed annoyed for reasons he kept to himself. Frustrated, Tom made yet another mental note to negotiate a living wage for Jake, and pulled out his phone to type a message to Cass. I just employed Jake as my project manager, kind of. That cool?
Tom didn’t expect a response till much later. Wherever Cass had been when he’d called, he was bound to be back in the kitchen now, but Tom’s phone buzzed within moments of him hitting Send.
It’s cool. Always. But I want to meet him.
Tom stood on the train with his shoulder wedged between a statuesque woman’s breasts and his face downwind of a ripe-scented vagrant. Peak time on the Tube was always hellish. He usually did his best to avoid it, choosing to start his day at dawn and finish well after the evening rush, but tonight he had somewhere to be.
The train rumbled into Belsize Park. Tom jostled his way onto the platform and let the crowd carry him through the station and above ground. From there, it was a five-minute walk to one of the oldest gay bars in London.
Tom pushed open the door. The King William was cosy and traditional, and smelled of proper brewed ale. It reminded Tom of the Stew Shack. Jake had chosen this pub to meet Cass in, and it was perfect. Cass was never happier than when he was snuggled up somewhere warm with a pint of real beer in his hand. With any luck, Jake was the same.
After scanning the bar, Tom spotted Jake sitting alone in a quiet corner, head down, shoulders hunched, and he found himself glad Cass was running a little late. Jake had surprised Tom when he’d finally agreed to meet Cass; Tom had figured it would be a lot longer than a month before Jake wanted that, if, indeed, he ever wanted it at all. He’d made his thoughts on Tom and Cass’s unconventional relationship perfectly clear.
Tom grabbed a couple of pints from the bar and made his way to Jake’s table. “All right, mate?”
“Hey . . . wankers.” Jake stopped and shook himself. “It always sounds weird when you say that.”
Tom slid onto an antique leather-cushioned bench. It felt good to sit—it had been a long day—and it felt even better to see Jake. It had been nearly a week since they’d last met up. “Say what? ‘All right, mate?’ What’s weird about that?”
“You sound like someone else.”
“Probably Cass. I told you he’s a proper cockney ruffian; I pick up all his bad habits.”
“Better his habits than mine.” On cue, Jake muttered something under his breath. “Where is he, anyway? I thought he’d be with you.”
“He got held up at Pippa’s. He’ll be here soon. Why? Are you nervous?”
Jake scowled. “No.”
But his restless gaze gave him away. Tom studied him over the rim of his glass. Aside from the week just gone, they’d seen a lot of each other over the past month. Jake had proven himself a gold mine of undeveloped skills and had drawn up construction plans for the Camden site worthy of any architect. Tom was thrilled. Shame Jake didn’t seem to know he was the bloody dog’s bollocks.
“Cass was up early this morning,” Tom said. “He’s never up early. I think he’s worried you won’t like him.”
That got Jake’s attention. “He’s worried I won’t like him? That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Doesn’t it?” If Tom was honest with himself, he was probably more nervous than Cass and Jake combined. He’d spent the three days since Jake had finally agreed to Cass’s request for a meeting feeling like his whole world was tilting on a precipice. “Why do you think that?”
Jake shrugged. “Because he’s got nothing to lose. Even if he hates me, he still gets to keep you. What’s going to happen to us? He’ll tell you to ditch me, and I’ll never see you again.”
Us.
Tom knew in his heart Cass would never tell him to ditch anyone, but before he could reassure Jake of Cass’s good intentions, the man himself took a seat at the table.
“Evening.” Cass reached for Tom’s pint and downed half of it in one. “Anyone want another drink?”
“I’ll get them.” Jake jerkily rose. His chair hit the wall. “Bitter, yeah?”
He brushed past Tom and was gone before anyone could answer.
Cass raised an eyebrow. “That went well.”
“He’s nervous.” Tom kissed Cass’s stubbled cheek. “Be nice.”
“I’m always nice.” For a moment, Cass appeared offended, then his face softened. “Honest. Best behaviour, okay?”
“You’d better.” Tom treated Cass to the rueful frown he often sent his way during the corporate meetings Cass hated so much, the frown that had precious little effect on Cass’s propensity to misbehave.
Jake returned to the table. He set two pints of ale down, then dropped back into his seat.
It didn’t escape Tom’s notice that he sat on his hands. Perhaps Cass noticed too, because his greeting was a simple nod.
“All right, mate? I’m Cass.”
“I’m . . . Jake.”
Jake looked like he was fighting something, like he couldn’t breathe. Cass touched his arm. “Don’t be shy about your TS. You can’t be more antisocial than me.”
“It’s true,” Tom said when Jake didn’t respond. “If Cass didn’t spend so much time shut up in the kitchen, he’d have an ASBO for sure.”
Cass chuckled, though it seemed a little forced. He let his hand fall away from Jake’s arm. “That’s why you bullied me into selling my market stall, isn’t it? So you could hide me away?”
“Keep you out of trouble, more like.” Tom grinned. “You’re a lairy bastard.”
Jake glanced between Tom and Cass, absorbing their exchange. He seemed to steel himself. “What did you sell on your stall?”
“Sausages,” Cass said. “Among other things. British street food. Tom fell in love with me over my toad-in-the-hole sandwich.”
Tom wasn’t about to argue with that. As a skint, hungry student, there’d been nothing better than the cheap comfort food a feisty young Cass had sold from his stall at Borough Market. “It was a bloody good sandwich.”
“How old are you?”
Jake’s question was abrupt, and followed by a muted run of clicking, but Cass remained unfazed.
“Twenty-eight.” Cass punched Tom’s arm. “So way younger than this middle-aged, middle-class git.”
Tom caught Cass’s hand in his own, and again, Jake seemed transfixed by their easy display of affection. They were pretty safe in a gay bar, but Tom and Cass had never hidden themselves from the world. Out and proud. Family, friends, and work. Tom wondered what Jake’s reality was. Wondered what he was thinking behind that shrewd brown gaze. Wondered about all sorts of things until Cass decided to make an awkward situation ten times worse.
“When did you develop TS?”
Tom kicked him under the table. They’d agreed beforehand to leave Jake’s condition well alone. Wha
t the hell was Cass playing at?
Though the sharp kick to his shin had to hurt, Cass ignored Tom and focused on Jake. “Did you have it when you were a kid, or did it come later?”
If Jake was offended by the question, he hid it well. “I was diagnosed when I was thirteen. I don’t know how long I’d had it before then. I’ve always been weird.”
“Weird is good,” Cass said.
“Yeah? I shouted ‘crunchy tits’ at my brother’s girlfriend in church.”
Tom felt his eyes widen. He managed to control his reaction, but Cass had no such restraint, and his laughter burst out of him in much the same way as Jake’s tics.
“Shit, sorry. It’s not funny, really.” Cass tried to calm himself with a mouthful of beer. Failed.
Tom kicked him again, hard, but Jake cut him off with a deep chuckle of his own.
“It’s okay. It is funny. My brother laughed at the time, but his girlfriend’s parents, not so much. I didn’t get invited to their wedding.”
Tom couldn’t find any humour in that, but Jake’s smile seemed genuine, so he let it go.
Cass gathered himself at last. “Do you mind talking about it?”
Jake shook his head. “No, I’d rather talk about it than have people stare at me. It’s never going to go away, you know?”
“I know.” Cass smiled, and for a moment, Tom sensed something flare between him and Jake, a camaraderie, perhaps the first blooms of friendship. Then Cass took Tom’s hand, and Jake’s tentative grin faded.
Tom breathed a silent sigh. Watching Cass and Jake interact felt good, despite the tension, but at the same time, guilt gnawed in the pit of his stomach. He’d always measured his words when it came to Jake’s TS. But had he made things worse? Made it harder for Jake to be himself? Did he feel invisible when Tom pretended not to notice his twitching and muttering?
Jake groaned and dropped his head. Cass jumped, startled. He reached for Jake, but Tom stopped him. He was familiar with this tic, and true to form, it was over before Cass had retracted his arm. Tom could tell Cass wanted to ask more questions, but something stopped him, and Jake broke the silence first.
“How long have you two been together?”
“Nine years,” Cass said. “That’s right, isn’t it?”
Tom nodded. “Something like that.”
“That’s a long time.” Jake took a pull on his beer. “When did you start fucking other people?”
And boom, there it was, the subject that made Jake squirm in his seat. Tom eyed Cass warily, but Cass surprised him with an easy shrug. “We’ve always done that. It’s not a big deal for us. Having sex with other people doesn’t negate a committed relationship.”
Jake clicked his tongue. “It is just fucking then.”
“Is it?” Cass retorted mildly. “Then why are you here?”
It was the million-pound question, and one Jake apparently didn’t have an answer for. Tom intervened before Cass could dig them a deeper hole. “You’ve never told me where you’re from. You sound Mancunian.”
The distraction worked. Jake broke his stare off with Cass and scowled at Tom instead. “Leeds, you idiot. I’m not a fucking Manc.”
“Sorry.” Tom couldn’t help his grin. “North of Hemel Hempstead feels like the other side of the world to us.”
“Bloody southern fairies.” Jake let his accent lapse into a broad Yorkshire drawl, deep and melodic.
Tom glanced at Cass. He was a sucker for accents. Cass caught his gaze, but turned away before Tom could gauge him.
“How long have you been down here?” Cass asked.
“A few years.” Jake finally brought his left hand—the one that seemed to twitch the most—up to the table. “I thought I’d blend in better. It’s the cockney way to repeat yourself, isn’t it?”
“We don’t do that,” Cass protested. “I don’t do that, do I?”
He looked to Tom for help. Tom smirked. “You just did, you numpty.”
“Twat.” Cass gave Tom the finger, but switched his attention back to Jake. “I haven’t noticed you repeating yourself. Do you do that a lot?”
“Not at the moment.”
Cass raised a curious eyebrow. Jake thought on it a moment before he elaborated. “My tics run in cycles; they come and go. I’ve only got a few that live with me all the time.”
Cass smiled. “Keeps life interesting, eh?”
“Like the wankers thing?” Tom said.
“Yeah, it’s my only swearing tic at the moment.”
“So you mean it every time you call me a bastard?”
“Probably.” Jake grinned at Tom for the first time that evening, and warmth bloomed in Tom’s belly.
“So . . .” Cass let the word hang long enough for Tom to get uncomfortable. “This Camden project. Have you two thought of a name yet?”
Jake raised an eyebrow. “Why are you asking me?”
“Tom said you’re doing most of the work. I figured you might have some ideas by now. Tom and I are both shite at names.”
“I’m only answering the phone.”
“You’re doing a lot more than that,” Tom protested, and it was true. Jake wasn’t great on the phone, but his sharp, articulate emails got things done, and he knew his way around a building site. “Besides, Cass wanted to call our last place ‘Chernobyl,’ so the less input he has, the better.”
They talked shop a little while longer. Cass managed to feign interest in the colour schemes the designers had sent through, and Jake showed genuine curiosity in the menu Cass was devising.
“So, you’ve got five types of beefburger already?”
“Yep, and I’ve got a venison one we serve at Pippa’s that I can adapt. I’m working on a pork patty at the moment. It’s kind of Thai, but it’s not quite right yet.”
“What about sides?” Tom put in. “Did you go with the shoestring chips?”
“Yeah, but I’ve got some gourmet wedges you can charge an extra couple of quid for. I know you like all that up-selling buggery.” Cass shot a glance at Jake. “Tom likes to get the most out of every mouth we feed.”
Jake seemed sceptical, but Tom wasn’t about to bore him with statistics, or maybe he was, until Cass programming Jake’s number into his phone stopped him.
It made sense, they were all working on the same project, but Tom couldn’t help but wonder what it all meant. Cass and Jake were very different men, but seeing them together, leaning over the same table, with their matching dark hair and contrasting eyes . . . it stirred something in Tom, something he’d been trying to ignore.
Eventually the discussion wound down.
“I need a piss,” Jake said at last. He threw an unreadable glance at Tom, pushed back his chair, and left the table.
Tom watched him go and noticed Cass doing the same. “What do you think?”
“Of Jake?”
“Yeah.”
Cass nodded slowly. “I think I should go home.”
“What?”
“I’m going to go back to the house tonight.”
Of all the things Tom had expected Cass to do, bailing on him wasn’t one of them. “Why?”
“He’s trying to hide his tics. He’s exhausted.”
Tom darted a glance between Cass and the gents’ toilet door. “How can you tell?”
“I Googled Tourette’s. He can suppress his tics for a while, but it only makes them worse in the end. He’s had enough for one night.”
Tom didn’t know what to make of Cass researching Jake’s TS. It was something he’d considered himself, but he’d never got round to it. “What else did you find out?”
“Nothing that you need to know today.” Cass shrugged into his coat and kissed Tom’s cheek. “I’m going to take the car and check on Souris. She was giving me evils on Sunday. Think she misses me.”
Bloody cat. “I miss you.”
Cass rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Stay here, okay? Spend some time with Jake.”
“I thought we were going to do th
at together.” It wasn’t a plea. Tom knew Cass and knew there was nothing he could do to make him stay, but Jake’s words came back to haunt him all the same. If he tells you to ditch me . . . Tom caught Cass’s chin in a gentle grip and held his gaze. “Something you’re not telling me?”
“No.”
“Sure about that? Because there’s nothing more important to me than—”
Cass sighed. “Fuck’s sake, Tom. I don’t want to be the most important thing in your life; I just want you to love me, and I know you do.”
Tom let his hand drop. Cass was the most important thing in his life, but it wasn’t a sentiment Cass often thought himself worthy of. “Jake seems to like you.”
Cass snorted. “Does he bollocks.”
A ripple of frustration ran through Tom. “It takes him a while to get going. Stay a bit longer, please?”
“Tom, it’s not going to happen. He doesn’t want me here.”
“Then we should probably both go.” Tom didn’t know why the thought of leaving Jake hurt so much. “I don’t want to do this without you.”
Cass shook his head. “No, that doesn’t feel right either. I watched you together before I came in. He’s different with you, comfortable; he trusts you. I think he needs that.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying, stay here and be what he needs. You’ve got a big heart, babe. There’s plenty of you to go around.”
Tom grabbed Cass as he started to turn away. “I love you.”
Cass smiled. “I know. That’s why I’m totally cool with this. I can see it, Tom . . . I can see what draws you to him, and it’s fucking beautiful.”
There wasn’t anything left to say, not tonight, at least. Cass left to catch the Tube to Hampstead, pick up their car and drive back to Berkhamsted, and Tom stayed where he was and waited for Jake to come back from the longest piss in the world.
And when he finally did, Tom realised Cass had been right: he was exhausted. They sat and talked for a little while longer, but when Jake started to look like he might fall asleep where he sat, Tom escorted him home to Kentish Town.
Misfits Page 7
