by Nicola Haken
“You just need a decent primer. We sell a great one at the salon. I’ll get you a bottle.”
“Oh, I’m too old for all that now,” she dismissed, dropping her hands from his shoulders.
“Fabulous looks good on any age, Mrs Day.”
“I like you!” she said, patting his arm. “You can stay. And call me Liz.”
“It’s good to meet you, son,” my dad cut in, offering his hand to shake.
Auntie Gemma came next, and I soon wished she hadn’t opened her big gob. “It is! It’s always exciting meeting Sebastian’s friends. Rob and I were just saying on the way here, it’s like being on one of those guessing game shows. Is he gonna go gay? Is he gonna go straight?” She started giggling. “The choice is yours!”
Honestly, I don’t think she intended to be offensive, and I also don’t think she realised she was the only person laughing in the room.
“Do you need any help with dinner, sweetheart?” Mum offered, probably so Auntie Gemma didn’t have a chance to dig her hole any bigger.
“No thanks. Why don’t you all go to the dining room and Oliver and I will plate up.”
Mum patted my shoulder, mouthing ‘sorry’ before leading everyone else into the dining room. In the kitchen, I removed the baguettes from the oven and put the lasagnes back in for a few minutes to reheat while I plucked the plates from the cupboard.
“I can only apologise for my aunt and uncle,” I said. “They weren’t supposed to be here.”
“Your mum’s great,” was Oliver’s reply.
“Deflection.” I raised an eyebrow. “I like your style.”
Laughing, Oliver walked over to the sink and washed his hands. After drying them on a tea towel, he starting cutting up the baguettes into slices without even being asked. I liked that, how well we worked together. It reignited that domesticated feeling I hadn’t expected to enjoy so much and I started wishing he were around more often. He made mundane, everyday tasks seem fun, and there was no doubt he was more helpful than Marv. He held up better conversation too.
“Okay, what next?” Oliver asked, clapping the breadcrumbs off his hands.
Sneaking up behind him, I grabbed his hips and spun him around. “This,” I whispered, pressing my lips to his. God, I’d missed him. I always missed him. The scent of his skin, the taste of his mouth, the sound of the hair skirting his lips grating against my stubble as I sucked his tongue between my teeth.
“Stay tonight,” I said. “I have Scott until tomorrow afternoon, and he has a pull-out guest bed in his room that Tyler can sleep on.”
“I dunno.” Oliver sighed. “I don’t think they’re really friends yet. Scott might not want Ty crashing in his room.”
Damn. He was probably right, and it left me feeling disappointed. A stolen kiss by the sink wasn’t nearly enough, especially when I could feel how hard he was beneath those tight jeans of his. That’s why I took a step back. If I didn’t create some distance between us I’d have been serving dinner to my family with a raging boner and that didn’t seem too appealing for any of us.
Tugging on his waistband, Oliver adjusted the position of his jeans which I imagined were pretty uncomfortable right now. With a proud smirk, I went over to the oven and removed the two trays of lasagne, putting the one Marv helped create to one side.
“Shall I take them through?” Oliver offered.
“Uh, no. We’ll plate in here.”
“Oh. Okay,” he said, his voice a tad dubious. Maybe I’d explain later. Once he’d had dinner with Uncle Rob, he’d understand.
Grabbing a sharp knife from the multi-coloured set I had displayed in a Perspex box next to the toaster, I cut even slices into the lasagne before scooping each portion onto a plate with a fish slice.
“Ready?” Oliver asked, picking up two plates.
“I’ll take that one,” I said, taking Uncle Rob’s from his hand.
With a furrowed brow, he stared me out. “Okay, what’s the deal with that lasagne?” he questioned, nodding towards the glass tray that only had one portion taken out of it. “Have you seasoned it with cyanide?”
“I may well have considered that if I’d known Rob was coming, but no. Marv started eating it when it came out the oven, and we’re already short on portion sizes with just one tray thanks to him and Auntie Gemma gate crashing, sooo…”
“You’re cruel.”
I shrugged. “You don’t know him well enough to make an informed opinion. Besides, the oven will have evaporated any cat drool when I reheated it. No big deal.”
Biting his lip, Oliver shook his head, almost like he wanted to laugh but thought doing so would condemn him to hell. “To clarify, I can give out the other plates to anybody?”
Chuckling, I nodded. “Yes.”
Smiling, he picked up another plate and headed through to the dining room. I did the same, and repeated the process until everyone had their meals and the large plate of garlic bread sat in the centre of the table for people to share.
I took a seat at the head of the large oval table with Oliver next to me, and Tyler and Scott next to him. My parents sat to my left, which meant my aunt and uncle were, thankfully, right at the opposite end.
“Oh! Drinks,” I remembered, pushing out from under the table.
“I’ll get them,” Mum said. “You’ve done enough making this.”
“Have you got any wine?” Auntie Gemma asked. “Red, preferably.”
“No, sorry.” I forced an apologetic frown as I lied to her. She was gobby enough without alcohol in her system.
My mum returned moments later with eight glass tumblers, four stacked in each hand, and a bottle of lemonade tucked sideways under her chin, which Oliver grabbed before it fell.
“Thanks, sweetie,” she said, setting the glasses out on the table.
As she started pouring drinks, Scott reached out to grab a piece of garlic bread, using his thumb and little finger – the only digits he had on his right hand.
I caught Tyler staring at his hand, a line of curiosity forming between his eyebrows. “What happened to your fingers?”
“Ty,” Oliver interrupted, his voice low yet slightly scolding.
“Nah, it’s okay,” Scott said, turning back to Tyler. “I’d rather people ask me than stare like I’m a freak. I had meningitis when I was a kid. I’ve got missin’ toes too. Wanna see?”
“Not at the dinner table,” I cut in, baffled and slightly amused by the pride he took in his missing body parts.
“Sick.” Tyler rolled up the sleeve on his hoody. “I’ve got this scar here from when I fell off my bike when I was six. Broke it so bad they had to operate and put a pin in it.”
Scott nodded, impressed. “Cool.”
I glanced at Oliver to see if he found their fascination with scars and missing fingers as bizarre as I did. I guessed he did by the shrug and somewhat bewildered look he gave me. But, hey, at least the boys were getting along and that was great to see.
“This tastes mint, Dad,” Scott said, shovelling another forkful of lasagne into his mouth. “How’s yours, Uncle Rob?”
I wanted to drown the cocky little shit in the bath.
Uncle Rob nodded, still chewing. “Good, thank you.”
“So, Oliver,” Auntie Gemma began. “How do you get that shine on your cheeks? Your face looks…” she trailed off, wiggling her fork in the air while she thought of the right word.
“Like a woman’s,” Uncle Rob mumbled under his breath.
“That’s outta line, Rob,” my dad chimed in.
Rob looked up from his plate, sitting back defiantly in his chair as he glanced between Oliver and my dad. “I’ve nothing against gays…”
Here we go…
“…You know that, but he’s a man, wearing you know, women’s things. Does he want to be a woman? I know that’s all the rage these days too.”
I opened my mouth to put the ignorant fool in his place, something I’d never done before – but he’d never insulted someone I care
d about before either, only Oliver beat me to it. “They’re not women’s things, they’re my things, and you’d probably be better asking me,” Oliver began. “No offense to Mr Day, but he’s only just met me. I doubt he’ll be able to answer any questions you have regarding my gender as adequately as I can.” And then, with a swift roll of one shoulder, Oliver carried on eating as if they’d simply been discussing last night’s episode of Coronation Street.
Straightening my back, I dropped my fork onto my plate, staring at Oliver, this incredible man, in utter awe. I’d known Uncle Rob my entire life, put up with his bullshit comments and homophobic slurs for as long as I could remember, and I’d just rolled over and ignored them or changed the subject because he was family and it wasn’t worth the hassle.
But not Oliver. He’d known him less than an hour and here he was, prepared to challenge him. Not that I held much hope of Rob actually listening.
“Well? Do you?” Rob asked.
The room fell deathly silent. Auntie Gemma chose to chew her lip and pretend to admire Scott’s school photos on the wall, my parents stared awkwardly at their plates, and Scott and Tyler gawped between Uncle Rob and Oliver with their mouths hung open.
“Do I want to be a woman? No. I’m very happy with my gender.”
“Then…why?” Uncle Rob’s nose scrunched up in what looked like disgust.
“Because I believe everyone deserves to feel good about themselves. I wear what makes me feel good. I don’t particularly like your jumper,” he said, pointing towards the argyle knit my uncle wore. “So I wouldn’t wear that, but under normal circumstances I’d never have told you that because you clearly feel comfortable in it and that’s all that matters.”
Uncle Rob looked down at his grey jumper, the disgust on his face melting into confusion.
“Plus, I’d be interested to meet the person who decided make-up is exclusively for women, given that it hasn’t always been the case. Men have been wearing it since the times of ancient Egypt. Maybe before.” Oliver shrugged. “I’m no historian. My point is, somewhere along the way someone, I don’t know who, decided we shouldn’t do that anymore. Well, unless we’re rock stars, actors, or new romantics, because that’s acceptable, right? Well, seeing as I don’t even know who decided I shouldn’t wear make-up simply because I have a penis, I don’t see why I need to listen to them.”
Oh shit. My mum started coughing and spluttering, choking on the lemonade she’d taken a sip of at, clearly, the worst moment possible. “You okay?” I asked her.
Still coughing, she raised her hand and attempted to nod as my dad patted her back. Oliver’s lips tightened into a firm, worried line, like he was afraid he might’ve been about to ruin what should’ve been a relaxed family dinner by killing my mother. But then she stopped coughing and managed to swig a few sips of the water Auntie Gemma had got from the kitchen without choking to death.
“If anyone’s still interested in what I was saying,” Auntie Gemma began, taking her seat back at the table. “I was trying to say your face looks like something out of a magazine. Photoshopped, almost. How do you get it to look so…so perfect?”
“Practice and good products,” Oliver answered with a proud smile.
“Do you do other people, or just yourself?”
Oh, Christ. Where’s she going with this?
“It’s just, Rob and I have a wedding coming up. My friend’s daughter is getting married in a few months. Could you make my face look as good as that?”
If you sprinkled glitter on a turd would it look like a diamond? I deserved a frigging award for not saying that out loud.
“Sure. I could do your make-up. I’ll give you the number for the salon I work in. Ring up and ask for an appointment with me.”
Thank fuck. At least that way we wouldn’t have to go around to their house for another hour of jaw-aching fake smiles and soul destroying awkwardness.
“Whoop! I’m all excited now!” she said on a squeal, clapping her hands.
Whoop? Who actually says whoop aloud? The same woman who often said LOL as an actual word, that’s who. I think she was trying to be ‘down with the kids’. Unfortunately, she only succeeded in being down with the idiots.
“Hey, Dad?” Scott piped up. “Can Ty and I go up to my room to play on the Xbox?”
“Don’t you want pudding? It’s spotted dick,” I said, raising my voice a notch higher. No one could resist spotted dick. “Custard too.”
Scott flashed the side-eye towards my auntie and uncle and said, “We’re full.”
“Sure,” I agreed. “I’ll save you some to reheat later.” Honestly, I wished I could hide out upstairs with them too.
My mum steered the rest of dinner conversation, talking about her gardening club, the jobs she’d had my dad doing around the house now that he’d retired from work, and every so often she’d ask Oliver questions about himself.
“I have an NVQ level 3 in women’s hairdressing, and barbering, and I’m a qualified nail technician too,” Oliver revealed, his voice passionate, hands animated as he continued to answer my mum. “I’m hoping to enrol on some refresher courses soon, maybe work towards some extra diplomas in the future because the industry’s constantly evolving.”
“Wow,” Mum said. “Your parents must be very proud of you.”
“My mum passed away ten years ago and, uh, my dad left when I was little.”
“Oh, Oliver.” Mum clutched her chest. “I’m so sorry.”
“That’s why Tyler’s with me. I’ve raised him since he was four.”
Reaching out across the table, I placed my hand over Oliver’s and squeezed it gently, for no other reason than I thought he was incredible and I needed to feel him.
“Well, what a remarkable young man you are,” Mum said with a warm smile and red-rimmed eyes. “My son has good taste.”
“Bloody ‘ell, Mum. Do you want to date him?”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Sebastian. You know I’m stuck with your father.”
“Oi!” Dad griped. “I’ve got ears you know.”
“Hmm,” Mum mumbled, side-eyeing him. “When it suits you.” Turning back to me she added, “Dinner was lovely, sweetheart, but let’s get you cleared up and then we’ll sod off and leave you boys to enjoy the rest of your evening.” Standing from the table, she stacked her plate on top of my dad’s, and then did the same with Auntie Gemma’s and Uncle Rob’s before carrying them through to the kitchen.
I did the same with the rest of the plates and followed her to the other room.
“You’re not cleaning up, Mum,” I said, stopping her from reaching for the tap at the sink. “You’re my guest.”
“Balls. A mother is never a guest. It’s my job to help you no matter how old and sarcastic you are.”
I checked behind me to make sure we were alone before leaning in closer and whispering, “So, do you like him?”
My mum turned to face me, her smile bringing out the wrinkles around her lips. “He’s…different to anyone I’ve seen you with before. If I’m honest it shocked me a little at first. Not him, but the fact you’re together. At first glance it looks like you have nothing in common, but then I see the way you look at each other, the way you smile around him, and it makes this mother’s heart very happy.” Patting her chest, she sighed. “I’ve not seen you smile like that since you were a teenager and you fancied that boy across the road. What was his name? Neil?”
“Nathan.” Oh, Lord. I hadn’t thought of him in years. I kissed him once when I was sixteen and then he never spoke to me again. “Nathan Walton. You knew about him?”
“Of course I did.” She shooed her hand and shook her head like I’d asked a ridiculous question. “Mothers know everything.”
Jeez, I hoped that wasn’t true. There were some things a mother should never find out. Like the time I used her expensive face moisturiser to wank off with when I was fourteen. My dick had never felt so smooth…or smelled so good.
She didn’t need to kn
ow that.
“I think he’s a very handsome, very smart, and very courageous man,” she continued. “I liked him as soon as I met him. After hearing him put Rob in his place? Well, I think I may well be a little in love with him.”
Chuckling, I nodded in agreement. “Yeah. He’s…he’s amazing.”
“You know what, I think I will leave you to clear up after all. The sooner I get Gemma and Rob out of your hair the sooner you can relax with Mr Amazing, eh?”
“Oh no, I wasn’t trying to get rid of you when I said you didn’t need to help.” Okay, maybe I was a little… “But I wouldn’t be tremendously sad to see Uncle Rob leave,” I added with a wink.
“No problem, sweetie.” Standing on her tiptoes, she kissed my cheek. “Come ‘round to us next time. I’ll do a Sunday roast. Oh, and I can get your baby photos out of the loft to show Oliver!”
“The excitement…it burns deep inside.”
She slapped my shoulder. “You’re a sarky sod,” she muttered, tutting. “Go and say goodbye to your father.”
Back in the lounge, I found my dad deep in conversation with Oliver discussing…
Pottery?
“Really?” my dad answered, his eyes sceptical. “Looks like an old pisspot to me. It was in with the junk we emptied out of Liz’s granny’s house when she died.”
“Sounds like an old Moorcroft piece. Look for the signature on the bottom. Green means it’s older, William Moorcroft, and blue would mean a more modern piece by his son, Walter. Still, if it’s in good nick, could be worth a lot of money. You should get it checked out at an antique shop or an auction house.”
And once more, Oliver Clayton surprised me all over again. “I didn’t know you were into antiques,” I said, strolling up to him and slipping my arm around his waist.
“I’m not an expert or anything.” He shrugged. “And obviously I’ve not got the cash to be a collector, but they do interest me. I get it from my mum. She used to take me to car boot sales every Sunday looking for hidden gems. Mostly it was all tat, but she made a few hundred quid on some salt and pepper pots we found once. And I love the shows on telly. Antiques Roadshow, Bargain Hunt, Secret Dealers. Oh, oh, oh…” Oliver bounced on his toes, an excited, beaming smile illuminating his face as he turned to my dad. “You should wait and see if Dickinson’s Real Deal comes into town. Love that show. I could come with you. Damn, I think my mother would rise from her grave if I got to meet the Duke.”
