by JL Merrow
Con appeared startled. “What—oh, you mean Alf? Yeah, I went up to his on Friday, just to check he was okay.”
“And was he?”
“Yeah—well, you know. Still a bit down about Miss Wellbeck not wanting to talk to him.”
Hah. Spinster of this parish. Tristan had known it. “I’ve been thinking about this. I wonder if an approach by a disinterested third party might work?”
Con gave him a suspicious look. “You mean you, don’t you? Why would she wanna talk to someone she doesn’t know from Adam?”
“Because, dear boy, she clearly has some painful associations with your aged acquaintance. Something must have happened between them.”
“That’s the whole point, though. Alf reckoned nothing ever happened between them. He knew her when she was a little girl and my grandad was living with them, but when they grew up she wouldn’t even speak to him.”
Tristan frowned. “And the reason for this?”
“Alf reckoned it was ’cos him and Bill used to tease her when she was little.”
“And she’s borne the grudge for the last seventy years? A little extreme, one would think. What on earth did they do to her?”
Con shrugged. “Nothing that bad. But she was definitely upset about something when I saw her.”
“Oi, who’s upset?” Heather leaned over the table.
“I am,” Tristan lied easily. “Devastated. All the time I’ve spent learning my new lines, and you didn’t call upon me tonight for a single word.”
“Well, ’scuse me for thinking you might want a bit of time to learn a whole new part.”
“Moi? In the matter of learning lines I, dear child, am swifter than arrow from the Tartar’s bow. I’ll put a girdle round about the earth in forty minutes—”
Heather appeared unimpressed. “That’s two different speeches, you know. And who are you calling child? If you’re old enough to be my dad, you’re hiding it well. Had some work done, have you?”
Tristan narrowed his eyes. “Con, dear boy, remind me why I’m doing this woman a favour by appearing in her wretched play?”
“Uh…”
Heather interrupted with a grin. “Oh, we all know why you’re doing it. ’Nother drink?”
She swept off to the bar, leaving Tristan more than a little discomfited. But then Sean chipped in with a snippet of local news, and conversation remained on safer ground until closing time.
Although they all trooped out of the pub together—minus a few of the older Sham-Drams who had already fallen by the wayside—Tristan contrived to be alone with Con as they walked the short way down the High Street before their paths would diverge. They’d had a triumphant rehearsal followed by an hour and a half sitting very close indeed. It was a Saturday night, and they were pleasantly mellowed by several drinks. The iron, he judged, was as hot as he could make it. Time to strike. “I, ah, wondered,” he said, unwonted nerves swirling in his stomach, “if you’d like to come to my place for a coffee?”
Con stilled, and it was a long moment before he answered, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Nah, thanks, but I, well, it’s been a long day, you know? Think I’d better get to be—to sleep.”
“It is Sunday tomorrow,” Tristan coaxed without much hope. The butterflies in his stomach had apparently been constructed out of modeling clay, judging from the way they were now coalescing into one leaden mass.
“Yeah, but… You know. I’d better go.”
No, thought Tristan as he trudged home alone, more than a tad miffed. He didn’t know at all. He’d thought they’d been getting on well. And what was all that business about pressing so close to Tristan when they were in the pub? If that wasn’t a come-on, he didn’t know what was. Yes, granted, they’d been tight for space, but still.
Con, Tristan reflected, needed to sort out once and for all these mixed signals he was sending.
Chapter Twenty
Life’s Fitful Fever
It was a good thing Con didn’t have anything to get up for on Sunday morning, he thought, staring at his darkened ceiling. He reckoned it was going to take him a bloody long time to get to sleep tonight. He was still buzzed from people actually liking how he’d played Bottom.
And yeah, all right, he was buzzed from being in the pub after too. Sitting so close to Tristan had been torture—Christ, they’d been pressed together like sardines. Con had been fighting a stiffy half the time. Thank God he’d got his round in early and hadn’t had to stand up again until the end, when he could hold his jacket in front of him to hide the evidence.
He’d been so close to saying yes when Tristan had asked him round for a coffee. What with the buzz, and the beer, and, well, Tristan, Con was pretty sure it wouldn’t have been coffee he’d have got if he’d given in and gone. And God, yeah, he’d wanted it… Even now he was half-tempted to sling his clothes back on and jog round to Valley Crescent. It’d only been half an hour. Tristan would almost certainly be up.
Con bloody well was.
And it’d be good, he knew it would be. He knew Tristan well enough now, trusted him enough, that it’d work between them. God, would it really be such a bad idea? They both fancied each other—why not just give in and get it out of their systems?
Except… It wouldn’t work like that, would it? For Tristan, maybe—probably—but not for Con. Sod it, he was half in love with the bastard already, if he was honest. Sleeping with him would just make it so much worse when Tristan jetted off to his new life in New York. Face it, once he was out there with his new job and his new friends, how likely was he to even think of Con? Even if he went out with the best of intentions, which… Which wasn’t all that likely, was it? Not after your work-roughened hand in marriage, he’d said.
Shit. It hurt, thinking about that.
Con needed to remember that hurt.
God, though, if they did sleep together, it’d be bloody amazing. Con could just imagine Tristan flashing him that wicked, Puckish smile of his before dropping to his knees…
Oh, bloody hell. Con was going to have to jerk off again.
Twenty minutes later, with one cause of sleeplessness sorted, Con was still wide awake and staring at the ceiling. Now he’d got rid of one problem, all the rest were ganging up on his mind.
Like, was Heather right about Con needing to do something proper with his life? Needing to have plans for the future? He’d thought it was all bollocks when she’d said it, but now he was starting to wonder. He’d never really thought there was anything he could do apart from being an odd-job man—but then he’d thought there was no way he could be an actor, and that seemed to be turning out a hell of a lot better than he’d expected, didn’t it?
Not that he was daft enough to think he could make a go of it as a career—for a start, he couldn’t expect Tristan as an unpaid coach all his life—but it showed it might, just might be worth trying something else. Like getting his reading up to speed, or maybe even trying to get some qualifications?
There’d be stuff starting at the local colleges in September. Evening classes, adult education, all that guff. Maybe he’d ask them in the library if they could help him find something.
And then there was Miss Wellbeck. After talking to Tristan, it did seem a bit weird that she’d still be pissed off with Alf for stuff that happened when they were kids.
Maybe Con should go round there again, on his own this time, and ask her.
In the end, though, it was Alf Con went to see Sunday evening. He made sure it was after seven, ’cos he was not gonna invite himself to anyone’s Sunday dinner. ’Specially as Alf might not be so pleased to see him anyway, this time. What with things going badly with Miss Wellbeck and, well, the whole gay thing. Con wasn’t ashamed of being gay, but he knew it was harder for old folks to accept, what with them growing up when it was still illegal and all that. Then again, half the “larks” Alf had tol
d him about getting up to during his National Service had been pretty dodgy in the eyes of the law.
But anyway, Con still had to take a deep breath before knocking on Alf’s door.
He needn’t have worried. Alf’s wrinkled face still broke into a smile when he saw who it was. Then he frowned and wagged a stern finger. “You’re late. Here I was with a whole chicken to myself, and where were you? Never mind, never mind. Come on in and I’ll cut you some meat off the carcass.” He turned and shuffled back into the kitchen.
“Uh… I’ve already eaten. Sorry,” Con said, following him.
“Not to worry. I’ll wrap it up for you. You can make one of your pies. How about that? My wife always used to make pies from the Sunday roast, but I’m afraid I never learned how.”
Con grinned. He could bring it round and share it one night. “That’d be great.” He sat at the kitchen table while Alf stripped the bird of way more meat than he’d have thought it possible to get off one small chicken. Con snaffled a couple of bits while he was at it, because, well, it smelt bloody good and it’d been at least an hour since tea. Well, half an hour, definitely.
Neither of them mentioned Tristan—or Miss Wellbeck, for that matter—but Alf did tell him about a couple of lads he’d known in the army who’d used to sneak into each other’s bunks after lights out and had almost got caught more than once when they’d had surprise inspections.
It was a good evening.
Chapter Twenty-One
Fortune’s Fool
By Sunday afternoon, Tristan had come to a momentous decision. It had become clear to him his homophobic neighbour was not a fit person to be looking after Nanna Geary’s cat. He would only lead her into bad habits and indeed quite probably already had. Action needed to be taken.
Not least because that bloody frog was back.
Tristan had developed a theory, while nervously scanning the kitchen for other unwelcome invaders as he stirred milk into his tea. Meggie, or so his theory went, was only leaving these little living or, as it might be, not-so-living billets-doux because she was unsure of her welcome. She was trying—misguidedly, but then she was only a cat, so one could hardly blame her—to ensure that, when she finally judged it safe to introduce herself to Tristan, he would already be predisposed to like her.
He therefore needed to assure her of his lack of enmity. And then, please God, the stream of visitors of the rodent, amphibian and for all he knew (his knowledge of biology was, it must be admitted, a tad sketchy) every other genus and phylum of the animal kingdom, would cease.
To that end, he had dug deep in Nanna Geary’s store cupboard and located a tin of rather horrid-looking, reeking chunks of unidentifiable meat, which he had painstakingly forked out into a bowl marked Cat. He then placed the bowl upon the kitchen floor, where he would no doubt tread in it within the hour and spend the rest of the day stinking of offal.
But he was trying, damn it.
What else did cats like? Judging by Meggie the Original and Best, they liked sunny spots, warm laps and sleeping. Preferably all at the same time. Trouble was, he could hardly spend his life sitting in the sun in hopes the cat would magically appear and jump up for a snooze.
Also, Tristan remembered more hopefully, chicken breast and tuna fish. Right. Those went straight on the mental shopping list.
Along with air freshener. Hmm. Perhaps he should prop open the cat flap? That would serve the dual purpose of sending Meggie a welcome message and ventilating the kitchen. Initial efforts using pencils tied together with string were not, alas, successful. Of course, Tristan mused, Con could probably knock something up in a jiffy. Perhaps he should call him…?
No, no. That way madness lay. Well, extreme frustration at the very least, which no doubt would turn into madness given half a chance. Extended contemplation of Con’s many fine physical attributes with no release in sight could not be good for a man. And damn it, now he needed a distraction.
Tristan sat down with his book to read through Puck’s speeches once more, but even the words of the bard could hold him only so long. Huffing with annoyance, he opened up his laptop and called Amanda.
She was already online, which struck Tristan as a trifle sad—surely it was high time she’d got herself an actual life out there? Tristan thought about mentioning it to her, but she wasn’t looking in the most receptive of moods so he decided discretion would be the better part of not getting his head snapped off.
“You’ll be happy to hear your birthday present is even now in the ever-capable hands of the Royal Mail,” he led with instead.
Amanda did not appear mollified. “You said that last time we spoke. Am I to infer it’s actually true this time?”
Oops. “I might simply have forgotten I’d told you, darling.”
“Occam’s razor dictates otherwise, darling. So what have you got me?” For the first time, she showed some animation.
“A surprise, naturally. Get back upon your monument, patience.”
Amanda pouted. “You’re no fun.”
“Au contraire. I am the very definition of fun. You’ll find me in the abridged Oxford dictionary, nestling between fuck and fundament.”
“Oh?” She seemed to perk up a tad. “Is that what your extremely rude mechanical tells you? Come on, darling, if you want me to pay up you’ll have to provide all the juicy details. In fact I should probably demand pictures as proof you’ve won the bet.”
Tristan deflated. “He’s proving surprisingly resistant—”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake. How long do you need to seduce one village idiot?”
“I don’t know,” Tristan replied, his temper rising. “How long do you suppose it’ll be before you take some notice of what I’ve been telling you and stop calling him that?”
“My, we are touchy, aren’t we? Don’t tell me you’ve developed tender feelings for the oaf.”
Tristan shut up his laptop with a snap. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of movement—as, say, of a cat that had nervously crept in to say hello and fled, startled, at the noise.
Damn it, damn it, damn it. Slings and arrows of outrageous fortune? Tristan was besieged by the entire might of the US bloody army. And as a distraction from thoughts of Con, the call to Amanda had been positively counterproductive.
Had he developed tender feelings for Con?
That would be ridiculous. He’d only known the man a matter of weeks—and would be leaving the country in a matter of months. Sudden fear pierced him. Was it still months? Yes, yes, he had over two months to go. Relief trickled over Tristan like a lukewarm shower in indifferent digs. God. Two months was nothing.
All the more reason to enjoy what little time he had left.
Con’s next rehearsal with him was scheduled for Monday morning, but suddenly that seemed far too long to wait. Tristan glanced at Nanna Geary’s clock. Just past seven. Was that too early for a Sunday evening visit? Trouble was, if he left it much longer, it’d be too late. No, now was the time. Tristan checked his appearance. Hmm. Jeans. Too casual?
No, that was ridiculous. Con would prefer casual. And, hopefully, appreciate the way they fit around Tristan’s arse. Jeans it was. And the shirt? It was a faded Edinburgh fringe T-shirt from three years ago. Casual, yes, but possibly not the most flattering garment. Tristan raced upstairs to exchange it for a plain black one.
Much better.
Tristan strolled through the village to Con’s flat and pressed on the buzzer. And waited.
Nothing.
He pressed again.
After a long moment, a voice came through the intercom. “Are you after number 6a?”
“Yes,” Tristan admitted cautiously.
“Think he’s out, dear.”
And once again, fortune vomited on Tristan’s eiderdown. Of course Con was out. Of course. Because unlike Tristan, Con actually had a life
here, damn it. He was probably out carousing with Heather and Sean and no doubt every single other attractive young person of the village. Probably of the county.
Damn it.
Tristan trudged home, his mood as black as his shirt.
Might as well get an early night.
Monday morning, Tristan was feeling a lot more sanguine. For a start, he’d just poked his head out of his bedroom window and seen Con ambling down the street. Beaming, Tristan checked his clothes—present, good—and scurried downstairs to fling wide the door.
“All right?” Con said, his voice equally cheerful.
This boded well. This boded very well. And at ten o’clock in the morning, if called upon for some extracurricular activities, Con could hardly plead the lateness of the hour.
“Come in, come in,” Tristan urged him genially. “Tea? Coffee? Pound of flesh?”
“Nah, I’m good, thanks. We can just get straight down to it, if you like.”
Tristan reminded his libido sternly that it, in Con’s mind at least, undoubtedly referred to rehearsing. “Oh, no hurry,” he purred. “I thought we could have a little chat first.”
“About what?”
“About… Well.” Damn it. Tristan cudgelled his brain, out of which all thought had fled like a classically educated young lady pursued by a centaur. “Did I ever tell you how I got into acting?” he asked with sudden inspiration.
“Uh…no.”
“Well. It was quite by chance, as a matter of fact. I was approached—much as has happened here, in fact—to take over a role at the last minute when the actor playing it was sent down.”
“Sent down where?”
“God, I don’t know. Ah—I see what you’re getting at. No, this was in my Cambridge days. Getting sent down meant expulsion. He was a chemistry student, and, shall we say, a little too interested in the commercial opportunities presented by his subject. Anyway, he was supposed to be playing Malvolio in Twelfth Night, which happened to be a play I’d studied—and, well, to cut a long story short, I was asked to do it instead. I believe alcohol may have been involved.”
