by JL Merrow
Tristan folded his arms once more and resisted the urge to tap his foot. As he was currently, he realised for the first time with a swiftly stifled pang of embarrassment, wearing a pair of Nanna Geary’s tartan slippers, the gesture would in any case have lacked oomph. “You’re free now, aren’t you?”
“No, as it happens. I’m s’posed to be over in Bishops Langley in ten minutes. I wouldn’t have come over at all, ’cept you kept saying it was such a bloody emergency.” Con folded his arms, and Tristan couldn’t help but notice the strength in those uncovered biceps, particularly as compared to any other biceps that might be in the vicinity. Dark brows lowered over stormy eyes, the man a veritable Heathcliff to Tristan’s Isabella.
Catherine. He meant Catherine, damn it.
They glared at one another for a long moment.
“Fine,” Tristan ground out. “I shall await your leisure.”
Con drew a breath, then clearly changed his mind about whatever he’d been about to say. “Yeah. See you.” He stomped to the door, jammed his feet into his boots and left, closing the door softly behind him.
Bastard. Guilt surged anew at having visited Nanna Geary so infrequently in recent months.
Tristan would have been camped out in her living room twenty-four seven if he’d known this was the sort of company she’d been keeping.
Chapter Two
All the Devils are Here
Con stomped out of Mrs. Geary’s house wanting to punch something. Preferably her grandson’s face. Poncey, smug, entitled prick.
How did someone as nice as Mrs. Geary end up with such a total git of a grandson? She’d had proper class, she had. She’d never treated him like he was just the odd-job man. Always brought him his tea in a cup and saucer when he was working round her place. There’d always been a bourbon biscuit or a custard cream to go with it too. He’d used to stop work, and they’d have a bit of a natter while they drank their tea, ’specially after she’d found out his gran had just died and he didn’t have any other family. Well, none that counted.
The way she’d talked about this Tristan bastard, Con had expected someone totally different. Someone who was actually nice. Course, he was an actor, wasn’t he? Probably put on some manners when he was with his gran. Wouldn’t have wanted her to leave him out of her will, now would he?
And he’d had to be good-looking, hadn’t he? And pretty obviously gay. He looked a bit like Mo, if Con thought about it, which he didn’t, all right? Mo was ancient history. Tristan was small—well, a good head shorter than Con, at any rate—with a bit of a curl to his dark hair and God, those sharp brown eyes of his… Like he’d been laughing at Con inside the whole bloody time, and reckoned even if he’d said the joke out loud, Con would’ve been too bloody thick to get it.
Con fumed his way up the road to where he’d wedged the van in between a Mini and a Renault with a dent in the side. He just wasn’t in the mood for Heart of Darkness right now, so he changed the CD to Harry Potter Book One before he eased the van out into the narrow channel between the rows of parked cars that lined Valley Crescent. Most of the houses were dead old, so driveways weren’t exactly a thing.
Stephen Fry’s soothing voice did its job of calming him down a bit as he drove. Funny, really, what with him being a posh git and all. Then again, maybe it was just how it always reminded Con of Gran. She’d bought him a Harry Potter audio book a year for Christmas, right up until she died, and they weren’t cheap either.
Harry’s Aunt Petunia would’ve loved Tristan, Con reckoned, with his plummy voice and ninja sodding spelling ability. What the bloody hell did it matter if Con had spelt a word or two wrong? The bloke had still known what it meant.
Course, Tristan probably wouldn’t have thought much of her. Aunt Petunia, that was. Tristan probably didn’t think much of anyone except himself.
Shit. This wasn’t helping. Con wished he still had the latest Terry Pratchett, but it’d gone back to the library. Con got a lot of his audiobooks from the library, always had—they were way too expensive to buy all the time—but it was a pain not being able to listen to them again whenever he wanted. Course, he had all of Gran’s old books at home. Trouble was, more than half of them were on cassette tapes, and it was getting harder to find things you could play ’em on. And, well, Mills and Boon romances weren’t exactly the sort of thing he’d want to be caught listening to in public. Even if they were actually a lot better than you’d think, as a rule.
He got a few digs for the Harry Potters, come to that, but they could just shove it.
Con was in a much better mood by the time he drove back to Shamwell at the end of the day. The afternoon spent clearing gutters and replacing tiles in the sunshine probably had a lot to do with it. He wasn’t a roofer, but that sort of thing was easy enough if you had a head for heights. Con actually liked being up high—you could see stuff, and the air was clearer, somehow.
Harry was at Hogwarts now—Con had skipped ahead a bit—and the descriptions of all the food at the welcoming feast had his stomach rumbling louder than the van’s engine.
He parked the van round the back of the post office, and headed up to his flat. It was pretty poky as flats went—just one bedroom, which was also the sitting room; a kitchen that was too small to swing a mouse in, let alone a cat; and a shower room, because there wasn’t space in it for a bath. Which would have horrified his gran but was fine by Con—bathtubs were always too small for him to really get comfortable in anyhow. Oh, and there was a small walk-in cupboard, or if you were an estate agent, a “dressing room”.
But small as it was, the flat was home. It hadn’t been easy making the rent when he’d first moved to the village, but work had picked up steadily since then. Villages like this, people didn’t like to look in the yellow pages when they wanted some work done. They’d go round and ask their neighbours who they got in to do such-and-such. And Con would tackle pretty much anything, as long as it wasn’t too technical and there weren’t any safety issues, and even if he said so himself, he was dirt cheap, so word got around fairly quick.
His mate Heather liked to say it was his looks that got him half his jobs, but Con reckoned people were a bit more savvy with their money than that.
He’d be seeing Heather down the pub tonight, her and Sean. Con smiled as he kicked his boots off and nudged them with his foot until they stood more or less neatly by the door. He’d be able to tell Sean what a narrow escape he’d had, not going round to deal with Tristan Bloody Goldsmith and his Plague of Frog.
Con padded into the kitchen to fill the kettle. Maybe he should live down to Tristan’s expectations and organise an actual plague of frogs. That’d send the bloke screaming for his mummy. Con grinned to himself. He could see it now—Tristan all wide-eyed and panicking, and Mummy, who probably looked exactly like him, only smaller and not as pretty—
Shit. Did he just think Tristan was pretty? Must be time to get some food down him before he got any more light-headed. Con opened up the fridge and pulled out ham, eggs and cheese. By that time, the kettle had boiled, so he grabbed a mug and bunged in a teabag.
Quarter of an hour later, Con was sitting on the sofa in front of the telly, a plateful of omelette, beans and toast warming his lap. Nothing like a hearty meal after an honest day’s work. He bet that tosser Tristan wouldn’t know an honest day’s work if it bit him on his well-shaped arse…
Oh, bloody hell. Con switched over from the news to an old Top Gear. If Jeremy Clarkson and his mates being all ultra-blokey couldn’t stop him thinking about that poncey git, nothing could.
The Three Lions pub was right on the edge of the village centre, where the High Street turned into The Hill and stopped having shops and stuff on it. Con walked past the wine bar, Badgers, on his way. Now that was much more the sort of place Mrs. Geary’s grandson would meet his mates for a drink. If he had any mates.
Con laughed at himself. Nah
, course Tristan would have mates. They’d all be stuck-up posey gits like he was, who thought they owned the world and probably did and all.
He reached the pub just as Sean was getting off his motorbike in the car park, so instead of diving straight in, he wandered over to greet him. “All right, mate?”
Sean pulled off his helmet and ruffled his hair up from where it’d gone a bit flat. It was really short at the mo, so he ended up looking a bit like a ginger hedgehog. “Yeah, I’m good. You?”
“Good, ta. How did your sister’s checkup go?”
“Great—still cancer-free and no sign of it coming back. Debs has even got a date tomorrow, actually—she got talking to this bloke in Tesco, and he asked her out. Me and Rob are looking after the lads.”
Sean was looking pretty happy about it, which Con didn’t reckon was down to the prospect of babysitting his twin nephews. He’d heard they could be a bit of a handful. “Yeah? That’s great. So, you know, if it works out, think you and Rob’ll move in together?”
Sean laughed. “Bloody hell, it’s only the first date. Give ’em a chance! But, well, you know. Might have crossed my mind, yeah.” He ducked his head. “Hey, how’d you get on with the bloke with the frog?” he went on as they walked over to the pub door.
Con groaned. “Bloody nightmare, he was.”
“Bit of a tosser?” Sean asked, pausing just outside the entrance.
“Too bloody right. Ex public schoolboy who thinks he’s too good for this place, and we’re all just a bunch of peasants he can order about.”
Sean gave him a sidelong look. “He can’t help it if he’s posh, you know. He didn’t ask for his family any more than you asked for yours.”
Shit. He’d forgotten Sean’s bloke was an ex public schoolboy too. “Yeah, but… Your Rob. He’s posh, right? And educated and all that. But he never makes me feel stupid, or… Or like he thinks I’m common, or anything. Not like this bastard, with his big words and his jokes about my bloody spelling, the git.”
“Okay, point taken. He’s a dick.” Sean grinned.
“Yeah, and would you believe he’s old Mrs. Geary’s grandson? That nice old lady who used to go to all the Sham-Drams stuff, remember her? She left him the house in her will. Christ, why is it always the bastards who luck out in life? If someone left me a house, I’d think I’d won the bloody lottery.” Tristan probably thought it was just his due.
“Yeah, but didn’t your gran leave you something when she died?”
“Well, yeah, but she never had much, Gran didn’t. The flat was rented from the council, so by the time I’d paid for the funeral, there was just a few hundred quid left from her savings account and some bits of furniture.” Con’s mouth twisted, the memory still a bitter taste. “Caroline took all her jewellery.”
“That’s your mum, right?” Sean’s tone was cautious. Con hadn’t said a lot about his family to his mates here—it’d all still been a bit raw when he’d moved to the village—but they knew some of it. Like how he felt about his—about Caroline.
Con nodded. “Turned up to the funeral after three bloody years of us not knowing if she was alive or dead. Said she ought to have Gran’s rings and her locket as she was her daughter, and it ain’t like you’re ever gonna ’ave a girl to give them to, you big nance.” He mimicked her tone, still able to hear her mocking voice in his head.
Sean winced. “Sounds great, your mum.”
“Why’d you think I don’t call her that anymore?” That, and the fact she’d barely been around since he’d turned three. Con shrugged, feeling a bit bleak. “Doesn’t matter. I’ve got other stuff to remember Gran by. Bet she never even kept it—the jewellery, I mean. Probably just sold it straight off and spent the money on booze. Only thing I’m ever likely to inherit from her is a bill from the off licence.”
“All goes to prove my point, doesn’t it? You can’t choose your family. Now, are we going in this pub, or are we just going to hang around outside till it gets dark?”
Con gave a sheepish grin. “Sorry. Keeping you out here moaning on about stuff.” He pushed the door open, and they stepped inside.
Sean clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. What are mates for? Hey, look, Hev’s here already.”
Heather was sitting at a table by a window, tapping away at her phone. She looked up as they waved, and gave them a smile. Con liked her smile. It was genuine, like the rest of her—not all painted-on eyebrows and bleach-blonde hair extensions like a lot of girls these days. Next to girls like that, Con always felt like he’d just wandered down off a mountain somewhere—all rough and unpolished. Heather kept her hair its natural dark brown, crinkly like her Jamaican dad’s and just pulled back into a bouncy ponytail, most of the time. You could relax with someone like that.
Course, it was just possible he was channelling his gran a bit too. She’d had some very firm opinions on modern fashions. Con smiled at himself and made a do you want a drink? gesture, but Heather held up her bottle of Beck’s and shook her head, then went back to her texting, so he turned to Sean. “What’re you drinking?”
“I’ll get ’em. Pretty sure it’s my round. Pint of bitter?”
Con nodded. “Cheers, mate.” He leaned on the bar while Sean ordered the drinks, looking round. The place was pretty full—mostly of men, but the one or two women there besides Heather didn’t look uncomfortable or out of place or anything. The Three Lions was a lot friendlier than the town centre pubs he’d been used to in Bedford.
“Here you go, mate.”
Con took the pint Sean handed him and took a long, slow swallow, savouring the dry, hoppy taste.
Sean grinned at him. “Better now?”
“Yeah. Well, getting there, anyhow.” Con even managed to smile back.
They wandered over to Heather’s table. “Won’t be a mo. Just gotta…” she said without looking up as Con and Sean pulled out a stool each and sat down.
Sean and Heather had had a thing, once upon a time, but they seemed to be fine as just friends now. Con wasn’t sure how that worked, so it was probably just as well Sean had been snapped up by Rob before Con could work up the nerve to ask him out. Sean was a good mate, and good mates were hard to find.
Course, in a small place like this, finding blokes who were into blokes and who you actually fancied wasn’t easy either. Bit of a shame Tristan turned out to be such a total wanker…
Con was glad of the interruption to his thoughts when Sean spoke up. “Listened to any good books lately?”
“Having a go with Heart of Darkness, but it’s a bit grim.”
Sean grinned. “Yeah? Who’d have ever thought it from the title, eh?”
“Shut up. Hev recommended it. And it was free on Amazon. It’s very… I dunno. Literary. The word ‘ivory’ rang in the air, was whispered, was sighed. You would think they were praying to it,” he quoted, laying on the ominous tone a bit thick to get a laugh. “That sort of stuff.”
“Yeah? You want to go back to those Discworld books. You had me in stitches with those bits from… Which one was it? One of the ones about the city guards.”
“Probably Guards! Guards! then. I can see why you forgot the title. Nothing to link it with the subject at all.”
“Tosser.”
“Dickbrain.”
Heather shut up her phone and bunged it away in her bag. “For God’s sake, can’t I leave you for five minutes before it descends into name-calling? Men.”
“All right, Hev?” Sean said, straightening his face. “Rehearsals going okay?”
She groaned. “Don’t bloody ask. We’ve barely even started rehearsals, and it’s already a nightmare.” Con smiled, and she gave him a sharp look. “What?”
He shrugged self-consciously. “You know. Midsummer Night’s Dream, nightmare? Sorry.”
“Oh. Yeah, well, it’s not funny. Alan’s saying he can�
�t do Puck after all, ’cos he had this big split with his girlfriend and now he can only act in tragedies, which, like, what? And that means Patrick’s got to do Puck, ’cos he’s the only one who’s even got a hope of not looking stupid. So now we’re short a Bottom.”
Sean laughed. Heather looked daggers at him, and he straightened his face out quick. “Sorry. Just sounds a bit funny, that’s all.”
“Yeah, laugh a bloody minute, I am. I’ll just go do a gig at the Comedy Store.” Heather stared into her Beck’s like she wished she could dive in.
Con felt pretty bad for her. Patrick and Alan were two of the society’s best young male actors. There wasn’t a lot of competition, to be honest. Half the male actors in the society were the wrong side of sixty, let alone thirty.
“Actually, that reminds me of something,” he said slowly. “Not the Comedy Store or the…Bottom. The other bit. You know old Mrs. Geary’s grandson? Tristan, you remember? The one she was always on about like he should be heading up the Royal Shakespeare Company.”
Heather perked up a bit. “Ooh, yeah, I remember her talking about him. What about him?”
“Well, he’s here. In the village. She left him her house. I was round there today.”
“Yeah? You met him? What’s he like? Is he staying?” Heather leaned forward, an eager expression on her pretty, dark face.
Con frowned. “Thought you were going out with Chris, now? And anyway, I don’t think he’s into girls.”
“Checking you out, was he?” Sean laughed.
“Nah, nothing like that,” Con said quickly. His face was a bit hot, probably because Tristan bloody well had been checking him out. Con knew he hadn’t meant anything by it, though, so why mention it? “He’s just a bit, well… Can’t really see him with a girlfriend.”
Heather tsked. “I’m not after that. I just wondered if he’d be up for some amateur dramatics while he’s here.” Con and Sean exchanged looks. “What? I’m serious. We’re having a crisis at the moment, and it’s all on me. I mean, everyone said it was a mistake to do Dream, there’s just way too many young parts, and there was me being all no, it’s fine, we can do it. Should’ve bloody listened, shouldn’t I?”
