Romancing the Ugly Duckling

by Clare London

  Perry reached down to rub Rory behind the ears. Rory’s eyes drifted shut like the sluttiest boyfriend ever. Greg wondered ruefully how he was going to recapture the bloody dog’s loyalty when Perry went back to London.

  Perry’s going back to London….

  I kissed Perry….

  Perry tasted so bloody good….

  “Look here—” Greg began, spraying a few toast crumbs over the table.

  “The agency called me,” Perry said at the same time. “I’m needed back there.”

  They both paused and stared at each other.

  Something made Greg wonder if Perry was telling the truth. He looked shifty in some weird way. “So. Okay. I mean.” Christ, couldn’t he even get a sentence out clearly? “You mean today?”

  “Soon as I can sort out a ferry crossing.” Perry buried his attention in the top of his mug.

  Greg didn’t think any cup of tea could be that interesting, even if his tasted like a welcome slurp of heaven. But Perry obviously didn’t want to face him. With an even worse stab of nausea, Greg wondered if this was all about the kiss?

  Dammit. He was amazed how distressed he felt if that was the case.

  Perry was talking again. “I mean, I think it’s pretty obvious there’s no mileage in this project for me, is there? You made that clear… um. Well, yesterday. After… when you saw the photos.”

  “Aye.” Greg couldn’t seem to make his head match up with his mouth. He wished Perry would keep quiet, just until Greg’s head stopped thumping, and he could get things straight enough to make a sensible reply—

  “What’s up?” Perry had looked up suddenly and caught Greg with his eyes all goggling. “You’re staring at me like a lunatic.”

  “Of course I’m bloody not.”

  “Ha-ha. That’s better. More like the Greg Ventura we all know and… well, know.” Perry cleared his throat, collected up his and Greg’s empty plates, and took them to the sink. He started to run the hot water.

  “You don’t have to do the chores,” Greg grumbled.

  “I want to help out.”

  “It won’t make any difference to my decision, you know.”

  The back of Perry’s neck went pink and his shoulders tightened. “I know that. Good grief, can’t you accept some help without thinking everyone’s out to trade?”

  “You’re the media man. You should know.”

  “Oh, fuck you!” And Perry pushed past him, out of the kitchen.

  Well, that went well. Greg stared morosely at his now empty tea mug and would have kicked himself if he had the energy to move.

  Rory barked at him, just once. It was definitely an accusation.

  THERE was a knock at the door, but by the time Greg stomped to open it, Bridie had already let herself in. No one locked their doors on the island, Greg had learned that in the first week he arrived, and he’d never had cause to regret it. Though maybe, judging by the serious frown on Bridie’s usually pretty face, he’d rethink that now.

  “What’s up with Perry? I could hear your voices from down the path.”

  Bloody village life. “Why the hell would I know?”

  “Because you’re probably the one who pissed him off.”

  “Oh for God’s sake. Why is everyone having a go at me?”

  She frowned. “So perhaps I should ask, what’s up with you? Have you been drinking?”

  Greg let loose of the whole damned mess, his temper along with it. “It’s my fucking house, my fucking time! Maybe drinking’s the only way to cope with life around here at the moment.”

  Bridie blinked hard but, as expected, didn’t retreat. “It’s not Perry’s fault you’ve got a stinking hangover.”

  “No? Why the hell not?” Greg knew he was being childish and cruel, but that wasn’t going to stop him right now, was it? His head ached, his mouth was dry, he really had pissed off Perry, and now Bridie was standing there with her holier-than-thou face on, when all he wanted to do was to be left alone to wallow in his resentment and self-pity. “He comes into my house uninvited, with his ridiculous London gloss and the wrong clothes. He tries to drag me back to that filthy, smoke-ridden city, to tart myself up like some prostitute, to take part in an obscenely tacky TV show. And you know what’s the worst?”

  “Greg. Wait—” Bridie’s eyes were wide.

  Greg ignored her. He was on a roll. “He’s even bewitched my bloody dog! What’s that all about?”

  “Shut up, you blithering idiot,” she hissed.

  At the last minute, Greg paused, sensing something from her expression. He twisted around slowly, and even his blurry hangover vision couldn’t miss what she’d seen seconds before he had.

  Fuck.

  Perry was standing in the doorway of the living room, his face white. He’d heard every word.

  Chapter Fifteen

  PERRY stood in Greg Ventura’s spare bedroom, his suitcase open on the bed, his small wardrobe of London clothes tumbled in any old how. He was usually such a careful packer. If you rolled shirts carefully, they’d emerge needing minimal pressing. Pack underwear into your boots, or around the edges of the case to prevent your toiletries from rolling about. Finally, place towels on top of everything, to keep the clothes even further protected. Perry usually followed this method religiously, because he didn’t have enough outfits to play spares. Every item was precious and wholly necessary for his professional London image.

  The state of his case today reflected the state of his mind.

  Rory sat at his feet, eyes gazing up at him, ears pricked. He was probably waiting for someone to take him for his morning walk. Perry and Greg had been too busy arguing to look after the dog. Shameful, Rory’s expression said, though maybe there was a flicker of sympathy in his big brown eyes.

  Perry let himself down onto the edge of the mattress and sank his head in his hands. “Sorry, guy,” he said. Yes, now he was talking to the animals. Another reason this place was way too disturbing. “I’m out of here. You’re stuck with the grumpy old git from now on.”

  He knew he had to leave the croft now. No other choice, right? But he didn’t want to go. And he especially didn’t want to go with those harsh words of Greg’s ringing in his ears.

  Ridiculous. Filthy. Obscenely tacky.

  Okay, so they hadn’t all been used to describe Perry himself. But to Greg, Perry was London, and vice versa. Perry was the walking proof of everything Greg hated and despised. This visit had been marked for failure from the very start. Greg had never hidden the fact he was hostile and dismissive, but Perry had continued regardless, and he’d made a complete fool of himself.

  At the doorway, someone cleared their throat.

  Perry nearly jumped off the bed. “What the hell?”

  “Sorry.” Greg stood there, looking like death that hadn’t even bothered warming up.

  “Creeping up on me like that—!”

  “No. I mean, sorry for what I said.”

  “You mean, I wasn’t meant to hear?”

  “No. I mean, I shouldn’t have said it in the first place.”

  “Oh.” Perry took a deep breath. It was a pretty fine apology, as far as they went. And there was no point in getting overexcited about things, was there? “You were right, of course. Possibly a tad rude about it, but the facts are there for all to see.”

  “A tad rude?” Greg snorted. “I was a bloody pig.”

  Perry also snorted, half disgust, half laughter. Are mannerisms contagious? “Sit down,” he said, gesturing to a space on the bed beside him. “You’re intimidating, standing up there.”

  “Not just standing up here,” Greg said, but he sat down regardless.

  “Has Bridie gone home?”

  “Aye. She just left, after bending my ear about what a shit I am.”

  Perry wanted to laugh, partly at Greg’s brutal honesty and partly at his miserable expression. “She speaks her mind, I must say.”

  “She actually came over to remind me about the ceilidh.”

&nb
sp; “What’s a kaylee? I heard the word before, like it’s something special.”

  “A ceilidh.” Greg repeated it as if the spelling would appear magically on the wall in front of them. It still sounded the same nonsense to Perry. “It’s a dance. A knees-up, in your language.”

  Perry was tempted to stick out his tongue. “No need for the translation, I know what you mean. So what about it? Is that the height of your social excitement around here?” To Perry’s surprise Greg didn’t lash back out at him, though Perry knew he was straying into the rude camp himself.

  “I’m afraid so. This community’s pretty small to start with, just one pub, one village hall, and a couple of musicians. You’d have to travel to Benbecula or Stornoway if you wanted anything like a proper club.”

  “I’m not here for the social life,” Perry said tightly.

  “Pity,” Greg said. He seemed very interested in playing with Rory’s floppy ears. “I thought you might want to come along.”

  “To the ceilidh?”

  Greg shrugged but his expression was far from casual. “It’s on Saturday. Everyone can take a guest.”

  “I won’t still be here, will I?”

  “Won’t you?” Greg shook his head in frustration, then winced as if it hurt. He turned his mournful eyes up to Perry’s face. “I’ll say it again, I’m sorry. Seriously, I am.”

  Perry was silent for a moment. Greg sounded genuine.

  Whereas Greg obviously thought Perry was unconvinced, because he continued, “You don’t have to leave, Perry. I didn’t mean all that shit. I was just lashing out because I’m a crappy morning-after drunk. You’re still entitled to your half of the deal, right? A chance to tell your side of the story. Explain what it’s all about. A fair hearing.”

  “There’s not much point, is there?” Perry raised his eyebrows. “Let’s be real here, Greg. Your kind of hostile audience doesn’t change its spots.”

  “God. You’re right.” Greg gave a rueful chuckle. “But I was still a shit. I’m sorry. I said that already, didn’t I?”

  “Yes. Several times.” Despite himself, Perry felt a smile twitch at the edge of his mouth. Greg might behave like a truculent toddler sometimes, but he was just as honest and full-on with his apologies. Perry could almost say it was charming.

  “Don’t go.” Was that a wheedle in Greg’s tone? “Stay a few days. Could you manage that? I mean, I know they need you back there straight away—”

  “No, they don’t.”

  “Huh?”

  Secretly, Perry doubted Eddy would pay his expenses for two days, let alone ten, but why the hell not? He sighed. “Actually, they said I was to take another week. So I guess I could stay. But the cost of the hotel—”

  “Stay here,” Greg said quickly. “That’s what I meant.”

  Perry sneaked a look at him out of the corner of his eye. Greg was quite flushed. “Okay. Thanks.”

  “Perry? About the kissing….”

  Perry bit his lip to stop the urge to butt in. I want him to be honest about this too.

  Greg gave a quiet groan. “It was really great.”

  “Yes, it was.” Perry found he was smiling. “So, whose guest will I be at the ceilidh? Bridie’s?”

  “Bridie’s taking Lisa.”

  It wasn’t a proper answer, nor was it the one Perry hoped for. Suppose he’d have to take what little encouragement he was given—

  “Mine,” Greg added awkwardly. “You’d be my guest.”

  Perry remembered something Bridie had said about Greg. “You don’t go to these events, do you? Not usually, anyway.”

  “No,” Greg said in a clipped tone. “I don’t, usually.”

  Perry smiled again, but this time to himself. Ridiculous how excited he felt at the thought of a night out in a drafty bar with homegrown music and some clodhopping line dancing.

  Or was it the thought of a night out with Greg Ventura?

  “That’d be fine,” he said brightly, good humor restored. “I’ll look forward to it!”

  Chapter Sixteen

  GREG was sort of disturbed at how quickly he got used to having Perry around. He’d always considered the cottage barely big enough for him on his own, but it seemed Perry wasn’t large or noisy enough to cramp Greg’s style. He moved quickly and gracefully, a slender creature who smiled and chatted, but not too excessively, and seemed to know what was happening in the croft’s schedule at any time, inside and outside the house. And by God, the man made brilliant scrambled eggs!

  Over the next couple of days, they ate all their meals together, which Perry usually cooked. At least, he did on condition that Greg took him to Dougie’s shop first, where he could stock up on ingredients. Greg’s fridge had never had so much stuff in it, most of which he had no idea what to do with. Luckily, Perry did. And Perry tidied up too. At first it had irritated Greg, not being able to find things in the same place as usual. But then favorite items he’d lost months ago started turning up. He also crashed into things less often—the small size of the cottage combined with his untidiness had been a stumble waiting to happen. Now the place was cleaner, and despite his natural clumsiness, he could stride confidently from one end of the house to another without breaking a single thing.

  During the days, Greg went diving or closeted himself in his studio, painting. He didn’t take Perry diving with him anymore, but they went together to deliver boxes of scallops to Marty, who showed Perry around his smokehouse with righteous pride. Perry looked impressed by it all, especially when Marty hauled the huge blocks of dried peat in for fuel, and Perry said all the right things about the facilities to make Marty smile wider than he ever did for Greg. In fact, Perry seemed to have that effect on most people. Greg had been prepared for villagers to find a London upstart pretentious and unsympathetic, but of course Perry wasn’t naturally like that, was he? At first, he still carried on like a Londoner, but his eyes were bright and curious, and he had genuine interest in learning what was going on. Plus, he seemed to be developing a fondness for the island that Greg had never anticipated—he wondered if it had taken Perry by surprise as well. Even Perry’s clothes were starting to look like an islander’s, albeit his borrowed fleece hoodie now had a couple of rainbow badges on it, and his hiking boots had neon-colored laces.

  Otherwise, Greg wasn’t entirely sure what Perry did with his time. Sometimes he heard cars draw up, some laughter, and the front door slamming as Perry “popped out for a bit!” Shopping bags would appear in the hallway, full of kitchen utensils or bathroom accessories, or random things with no visible use that also looked way too frilly and bright to fit with Greg’s austere décor. Needless to say, most of the items stayed, finding a sneaky place somewhere in the cottage. Perry also took Rory for walks and generally spoiled the animal with too much attention. But whatever he did during the day, he was usually around when Greg returned from a diving trip or emerged from the studio with hands covered in paint and a blinding thirst for tea. And he was always there at mealtimes. He even appeared to look forward to the time spent together.

  It was weird.

  Greg wasn’t sure what he was meant to make of it all. Another disturbing effect was that Greg was conscious of Perry’s presence all the time, even when Perry was being his most unassuming. They shared the bathroom amicably—well, Perry diplomatically let Greg go first in the mornings—and did laundry and chores together. Perry put his shaver on the bathroom shelf next to Greg’s; Greg moved his boots aside in the hall so Perry could put his new footwear beside them. Though Greg wasn’t sure about the blue-and-white-striped Wellington boots settled jauntily next to his plain khaki pair.

  Perry was certainly trying not to disrupt things too much, Greg could tell. And he was good company to have around. He even seemed to be adapting to Greg’s routines, though why the hell would anyone be bothered with that? Suspicious still, Greg wondered if Perry was creeping around him, still trying to persuade Greg back to London. Though Perry hadn’t mentioned the TV program again, a
nd Greg didn’t remind him. Let sleeping dogs lie, right?

  More disappointingly, in Greg’s opinion, there hadn’t been any further intimacy. No more snogging. They shared the evenings sitting in the living room, where Greg read his thrillers and Perry had appropriated the end of the sofa by the table, where he kept a sketch pad and a pile of magazines he liked to flick through. Greg had never seen any of them in the shop, so maybe Bridie had ordered them in specially. Greg drank his homemade wine after dinner and sometimes whiskey, but Perry stuck to water and the occasional gin and tonic. Greg knew Bridie had ordered that in especially for Perry.

  But no more kisses.

  On Friday evening, Greg cast a rueful glance over at the sofa, where Perry was engrossed in a magazine. He’d bought another load of chocolate at the shop that morning—almost as if he’d been starved of it before now—and was absently chewing on a square of it right now. For a few moments, Greg watched the movement of Perry’s mouth like his own personal movie. Then he bit back a sigh, and levered himself up out of the armchair. “Just gonna finish up in the studio,” he murmured. It felt odd: he wasn’t used to reporting in to anyone on his comings and goings.

  Perry looked up, his eyes wide, the blue color surprisingly clear. “May I see?”

  “See what?”

  Perry had developed this habit of raising one eyebrow when Greg barked at him. It seemed to represent a mixture of “get over yourself” and “moderate your language” and, much to Greg’s chagrin, had that very result.

  “Your work,” Perry said gently but firmly. “I’ve only seen the one in my—in the spare bedroom.”

  Greg frowned. “Didn’t tell you that was one of mine, did I?”

  “Maybe I’m psychic where art’s concerned,” Perry said with a small smile. “Or maybe it’s because you signed it at the bottom.”

  Greg rolled his eyes. “Oh, aye.” He didn’t keep many of his pictures—after all, if he had a market, he needed to sell them while he was still in fashion—but he’d kept a small study of the loch he’d taken Perry to that time, a scene from the very early morning. It was one of his personal favorites.