This was what he’d been looking for: the letters, photographs, diaries—all the personal effects that might finally tell him what he needed to know. For it was no longer just about understanding how he had upset Josh. They’d been working and living together for the best part of a year, in almost every sense a couple. He had always worshipped him and always would, but he kept himself closed off—from everyone. OK, so he would freely tell them all that he loved them, and could positively gush with gratitude if he felt it appropriate, but the real, underlying emotions were carefully managed and contained, like the contents of the ottoman, and his current bad temper was only the second time ever that George had seen him on the brink of losing that control, the other being due to extreme sleep deprivation and stress. The mere existence of these photos and letters indicated he did care far more deeply than he was prepared to admit to his friends, but at this moment, what George wanted to know above all else, was what had happened between Josh and Sean. For now, though, the chance was lost, as Josh was due home any second, and a car had just pulled up outside. George quickly replaced the bedding and lowered the lid, quietly slipping out of the room and back into his own as the front door opened and closed again. He could feel his heart pounding and tried to steady his breathing, listening to the sound of keys being set down, the click of the kettle being turned on, all amplified above their usual volume by the excitement of almost being caught in the act. Josh came upstairs, and stopped on the landing.
“George?”
He panicked. He was supposed to have returned to Eleanor to avoid this happening. What was he afraid of exactly? This was Josh, after all. George cleared his throat and opened his door, feigning a stretch.
“Hi.”
“We need to be ready by seven,” Josh informed him. “OK?”
“Yeah. Cool.”
Josh nodded and went back downstairs. George quickly grabbed his bag of clothes and made a dash for it.
“I’ve got to go and see Ellie. I’ll meet you there,” he said and disappeared out of the front door. Josh carried on making his coffee. He’d expected George to have gone somewhere else to get ready and was surprised to find him home, but he wasn’t going to think about it. During the course of the day, he’d been able to gradually suppress his anger, and whether George was there or not, he was bloody well going to enjoy James’s stag night.
George was halfway between home and Eleanor’s apartment when she phoned to warn him that James’s mother and father had arrived unannounced, his father apparently having decided that he would like to go out with his son before his impending matrimony. He got the impression that what she was really saying was that he would be best not to come at all, if that were possible, so now he was really stuck. He couldn’t go back to the house when he’d fled so hastily, and a quick return call to Eleanor confirmed his interpretation, so he headed for the only other place he could think to go: Kris and Shaunna’s.
“You know what I was telling you on Saturday night?” George said by way of a greeting when Kris answered the door. “Well, it may have come to a head already. Can I get changed here?”
“Sure,” Kris stepped aside to let him pass. “You can use my room. You know where the bathroom is. Use whatever you need.”
“Thanks.” George dashed up the stairs. He had less than an hour to get ready and make his way to the jazz club.
Back at home, Josh was taking his time, and not because he was enjoying the chance to get ready in peace. His usual trick of redirecting wasn’t working and as a consequence he was so wound up that anything even remotely energetic was sending him into such an agitated state that he daren’t risk it. He sat and drank his coffee, checking the time every so often and trying to ignore the blank wall. Half an hour left; he needed to shower and change. Surely even he could do it in that amount of time? He plodded to the kitchen and rinsed his cup, then up to the bathroom to turn on the shower, and to the bedroom. On the floor, to the right of the ottoman, was a cushion. The vision turned him statuesque, as there were only two possible explanations for it being there. The first was that he’d left it out the previous night; the second, and this was not his favourite by a long shot, was that George had been through his things.
The possibility made him cold inside, but not angry. Perhaps it was simply that he couldn’t get any more angry than he already was, or that he had no grounds to complain, given he had done the same thing himself a few days ago. So now they were even. Josh knew George’s secrets and he knew his. That might make it easier to resolve the matter once and for all. He picked up the cushion and put it on top of the ottoman, too little time to go and get his keys, when the shower was running and he only had twenty minutes left.
There again, he mused as he left the house precisely twenty minutes later, a little adrenaline can go an awful long way. He climbed into the pre-booked taxi and arrived at the jazz club with ten minutes to spare. None of the others were there, so he bought a bottle of beer and perched on a bar stool, allowing the music to wash over him, like cool rain on a hot summer’s day. He was feeling much calmer, and only experienced a minor surge of annoyance when George came over.
“You were quick,” he said, taking the next stool along.
“Yes. I should get angry more often.”
“Hmm. Perhaps not.”
George ordered a beer and they sat, intermittently sipping at their bottles while listening to the female vocalist and pianist creating the low-key jazz backdrop. It was faked, the listening, a convenient excuse not to speak to each other. The singing was soulful, the singer a small, dark-haired woman whose voice rose from her abdomen in waves, each note urging on the previous, as it flowed out across the room. There was nothing wrong with the music; it was beautiful, but that sustained sense of control in the singer’s voice, as if she were holding back an almighty yell, mirrored George and Josh’s situation so closely that it was almost painful. James and his father made a timely arrival, closely followed by Eleanor’s father, uncle and brothers, but it was the two Browns who initially drew their attention and they were pleased for the distraction. Mr. Brown senior was a glimpse into James’s future; greying hair in an identical cut, the same squared chin and deep brown-black eye colour. They were both dressed in what they considered to be casual attire, and here again the choices they made were strikingly similar. As the Davenport men ordered drinks, Josh and George switched to watching them, noting the tiniest, most subtle hints of their friend seeping through the interactions of her male kin. Josh had met them all and knew Mr. Davenport senior very well, so had no problem identifying which of the twin brothers was Eleanor’s father, although George was struggling.
“Until you spot the more obvious differences, I’ll give you a clue. Ellie’s dad’s wearing the black sweater,” Josh told him.
“And their clothes are not a more obvious difference?”
“At the moment, maybe. You’ll see what I mean.”
James passed a tumbler to his father and indicated to an area in the corner of the room where there was enough space for their group to sit or stand. His father held back, waiting for James to make his way around the rest of the men, greeting each and pointing to the free tables, and so they all assumed their various positions for the evening, George and Josh taking the two chairs opposite one sofa, Eleanor’s brothers Ben and Luke taking the next two along, while her dad and her uncle shared a sofa with second youngest brother, Ed (or Teddy, as his family insisted on calling him). Peter, the youngest Davenport, sat next to James, whereas Mr. Brown chose to stand for the time being. George thought it might be to avoid sitting too close to other people and immediately offered his chair; Mr. Brown brushed the offer aside, although not in an ungrateful way.
“Too many hours sitting in the car,” he explained briefly, “but thank you.” He almost smiled.
A muted round of applause signalled a changeover of musicians, with this particular ensemble having been at James’s request, and consisting of a drummer, sax player, bass guitaris
t and the same pianist as before. With the exception of the saxophonist, the band were all older men, which somewhat depleted George’s optimism that things might pep up. If he’d been feeling a little out of place at the reunion, then he was positively irreconcilable now. He barely knew any of these people, and as the band started to play their first number, Josh moved over to the sofa to chat to James.
“Well isn’t this the best fun I’ve had in ages,” George muttered under his breath. Even Mr. Brown senior was absorbed in the music, leaving him feeling very alone. So much for having a hangover on Wednesday, he thought. He downed his beer and went off to the bar to buy another, choosing to stay there for the time being. He took out his phone and sent a text message to Kris: “Wish you were here.”
A few seconds later, the reply came: “Is it awful?”
He sent back: “Feel like a fish out of water - again!”
Kris had been invited too, but had declined the invitation, and his next message simply reiterated why. “I think James only invited me out of politeness. I don’t really know him that well. Drink more beer!”
“Ha ha! I intend to. Speak later.”
George put his phone away and watched Josh and James from afar. They were engaged in quite a heavy conversation, as far as he could tell, leaning in to each other to talk or listen, whilst keeping their eyes focused on the band. Brief applause, followed by the drummer clicking his sticks together, and into a slightly more up-tempo number. Mr. Brown senior came over and took the stool next to George.
“This is not your sort of music, I take it?”
“Not really. It’s very good though.”
“I agree, though I prefer classical music myself.”
“I’m more a dance music man.”
“By this, you mean modern dance music?”
“Yeah, but not that dreadful racket they play on the radio these days.”
“That is an appalling noise, I quite agree.” Mr. Brown held up his empty glass by way of indicating his requirement for a refill; it was a request that was immediately met. He ordered a bottle of beer and passed it to George. “We should return with our drinks and imagine that we are enjoying the evening,” he said. His tone was stern, yet conveyed his sympathy.
“Thank you,” George replied, taking the beer and following Mr. Brown back to their tables. He was right; this was James’s night and he was being inconsiderate. To redress the situation, he honed in on the only other person who looked like they were hating every minute.
“Hi, Peter. How’s it going?”
“Not too bad.”
“Finished uni?”
“Yeah, last year. Just trying to find a decent job now. At the moment I’m working for the council, at the recycling centre.”
“What’s your degree in?”
“Environmental science.”
“Oh well. At least it’s relevant!” George joked. Peter laughed.
“That’s what people keep telling me. It’s a job, I suppose.”
That brought the conversation to a close, for George could think of nothing else to say, or nothing he could actually say, as he knew Peter was also gay and with a couple of drinks inside him, the urge to tell him to stop living a lie was on the brink of getting the better of him. Seeing the damage it had done to Kris, not to mention the trauma he’d put himself through at the reunion, gave him a sense of being qualified to pass comment, but then he could also, even at this level of moderate inebriation, appreciate that Mrs. Davenport would not cope well with the revelation of her youngest son’s sexuality.
More applause and the band began another number; James stood up, ready to go and replenish his drink, only to be greeted by a chorus of offers. He looked most disconcerted.
“You’re the groom. You’re not supposed to buy your own drinks on your stag night,” Josh reprimanded him. He opened his mouth to protest, but Ben had been very quick off the mark and was already back at the table with a large glass of red wine. He passed it to his future brother-in-law.
“Sit,” he said. James did as he was told. “And don’t make me have to tell you again,” Ben added with a wink.
“Just like Ellie,” George laughed.
“Yes,” Josh agreed. Eleanor and Ben were very different to look at, but their personalities, mannerisms and the way they spoke were almost identical.
“So, how’s the talking job these days?” Ben asked Josh.
“Same as always,” he responded, and off they went. George swigged at his beer and nodded to James across the table.
“Are you enjoying yourself?”
“Yes, thank you. I was very worried when you and Josh suggested a stag party. I have seen many men subjected to dreadful humiliation on these nights.”
“Well, I promise you nothing like that is going to happen tonight,” George said sincerely, then added: “Ellie would kill us.”
“That is very true,” James laughed. “I was just telling Josh about our young sax player over there.” George turned to watch him for a moment. “He’s just started studying music at university; a very talented young man with a natural ear.”
“Yeah. He sounds pretty awesome, not that I know much about jazz.”
“He was one of Alistair Campion’s protégés. He started to get into trouble at school, although nothing too sinister: a couple of skirmishes with the police. They did the decent thing and sent him to Alistair, who loved the music more than I do. I daresay that is where my own passion for jazz originated.”
“I never met Alistair Campion,” George said thoughtfully, “but it sounds like his death was a loss to us all.”
“Indeed,” James agreed, momentarily absorbed by the grief of losing the man who had influenced him most in his life. He would have been here this evening; he was to have been his best man. “However, his few remaining assets are in good hands,” he added with a hopeful smile.
“How so?”
“Jason Meyer, his son. He is quite exceptional and has many of his father’s traits, including a keen eye for a business opportunity and a knack for persuading people to invest in his ideas.”
“So Campion Holdings isn’t defunct then?”
“It lives on as Campion Community Trust. Jason asked Dan and me to become trustees, and we, of course, accepted.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you. And now I must communicate with my father, or else he will wonder why he allowed my mother to talk him into driving up for this evening. Excuse me.”
With that, James arose and carefully stepped around the low table, making his way over to his father, who actually looked quite content to be left alone. Josh and Ben were still engaged in a witty dialogue about various shared experiences over the years, while the other Davenports were ready to commence a not very well thought through drinking marathon. The Irish influence was strongest in Eleanor’s uncle, who still lived in Dublin and had a fantastic, melodic accent; the more they drank and talked, the stronger Eleanor’s dad’s accent became too. They were on the stout by this point, although this bar served an American one, much to their vocalised dismay. Still, they were dauntless in their endeavour, and Eleanor’s uncle now had Luke and Ed ready with pints in hands.
“Three, two, one, go!” The two lads tipped their drinks and glugged, black liquid trickling down their faces and necks. Luke finished first and slammed his empty glass on the table. Raucous cheers all round; now it was Ed versus his dad, apparently the rule being that the loser went through to the next heat. Poor Ed looked like he was about to throw up, but was putting a very brave face on things. The men stopped to applaud the band and Eleanor’s dad signalled to George, inviting him to join them in their drinking game. He shook his head, happy to be only an observer. The band were taking a break, and the bartender put on some background music, turning it up a notch, evidently in an attempt to drown out the ‘Stout Wars’ taking place in their corner of the club.
“Is that alright for you?” A young male voice spoke and George turned to find the sa
x player standing right behind him, a pint of lager in his hand. Condensation dripped off the glass onto George’s shoulder and startled him. “Sorry about that, mate,” the sax player said hurriedly. He looked as if he was expecting George to start a fight over it.
“Don’t worry about it,” he smiled. “You’re doing a fantastic job, by the way.”
“Yes, it’s excellent, Phil,” James said, shaking the sax player’s hand. “Thank you for agreeing to play tonight.”
“Thanks for asking me.”
“This is George,” James introduced him and he nodded an acknowledgement. “This is Phil, the young man I was telling you about.”
“So, you’re enjoying the music?” Phil asked.
“Yeah. It’s great. I think you might want to crank it up a bit when you restart, though.” George could only just hear himself above the current round in the drinking contest. Phil laughed.
“I’ll have a chat with the lads and see what we can do,” he said, and headed back across the club, stopping at the bar so James could buy him a drink, before returning to the stage. It would seem he was true to his word, for when the band started up again a few minutes later, they were much louder than previously and the best thing of all was that no-one seemed to mind. In fact, a few people were dancing, which was rare for this establishment on a Tuesday night. The party atmosphere was also bringing in extra customers, and the lone bartender was doing an excellent job, helped by most people drinking bottled beers and shorts that were quick to serve. It was only the Davenport louts making his job more difficult, with a dozen empty glasses cluttering the table next to them. George collected as many as he could carry and took them to the bar with him on his next trip. While he waited, he passed the time watching Eleanor’s dad and uncle throw back what must have been something like their tenth pint. Now he could see what Josh meant: in spite of similar hair cuts and sharing the same build, height and facial features, they no longer looked identical to him. Having relied on the initial distinction of the black sweater to clearly identify who was who, he was now absolutely certain that he would never mistake one for the other again.
The Harder They Fall Page 18
