by Clare London
“You gonna tell him?”
“What?” What a shocking thought. “Of course not. We’ve only been doing it for fun.”
“For… doing what?”
Aidan ignored that. “He thinks I’m you. He was only doing this for the money. I’m not his type. And it’s all over, didn’t you hear me?”
“Got any more?”
“More…?”
“Excuses,” Zeb said dryly. “Look, Ade—”
“Don’t say it. I know. I’m fine.” Aidan saw a cab approaching and darted out, his hand outstretched. He used the excuse of rushing to account for the wobble in his voice as he finished the call with Zeb. “Just come home soon, okay?”
Chapter Twenty-Five
DOMINIC Hartington-George was at the top of the Eiger with one of the most fantastic views in the world unfolded in front of him. He was surrounded by some of his best friends: men he would trust with his life, and often had need to. The expedition had been a great success, the weather and conditions had smiled on him, and he had some really superb photographs to document the trip.
And he felt like the loneliest man on God’s bloody earth.
“Missing your girl, Dom?” joked Gerald, a lean, bald, but heavily bearded climber with years of experience and a long-term friendship with Dom.
“Man,” Dom said instinctively. He barely registered the grin on Gerald’s face—what he could see of it under the bundle of mask and scarf.
“Aha! A new man, I assume? Never seen you mooching around after someone before.”
“I don’t bloody mooch,” Dom said, again instinctively.
“Of course not. After all, you’re way past that, old man.”
“Fuck off,” Dom said, this time quite cheerfully.
He and Gerald laughed together. The two of them had stepped off to one side away from the main group, ostensibly for Dom to take more photos, but also to savor the successful conclusion of the climb. For a while they just stood there, companionably silent, admiring both the view and their privileged situation. The air was icy, but the light was wonderfully bright and clear. The snow covering the rock face crunched under Dom’s boots as he crouched and stretched to take some more informal shots. Gerald just watched him work. They’d known each other a long time, and Dom was glad Gerald knew when to leave a topic alone.
“Good climbing equipment,” Gerald said casually, as if they were discussing the morning’s weather, rather than the superb quality gear that had helped them to this achievement. “Clothes too. You did well there, old son.”
“They’re a good company. Decent guys running it too,” Dom said absently. “But yes, it made all the difference. Dad would’ve appreciated the same kind of quality in his day.”
Gerald shifted carefully, leaning on his stick. He didn’t meet Dom’s eyes. “Your dad didn’t make it to the top here, you know.”
Dom frowned. “Of course he bloody did. I read his book. I listened to his stories. I lived in the same bloody house!”
“Steady on.”
“Why did you say such a stupid-arse thing?”
Gerald sighed. “Just to provoke you, obviously.”
“No.” Dom parked his outrage. This place and time was too awesome for him to fall out with one of his best friends. “Sorry, man. You caught me unawares. Tell me what you meant. I can take it.”
Gerald looked unconvinced but continued. “He was on the trip, definitely. But he got sick just before the final ascent. Some kind of vicious stomach bug that wiped him out, and he couldn’t make the last crux. The climb was relatively short and not too steep, and he argued a long time that he could do it. But they’d left it too late in the season, the ice was dangerously smooth, and water was already running down it. He may not have had the strength to keep up—it would’ve been lunacy for him to try and fail.”
Dom was truly stunned. He’d never heard any of this from either his father or his mother. “And you know this how?”
“I have other friends, Dom, not just you.” Gerald said it with a smile to take the sting out. “Some of them related to other climbers in the original team.”
“Good God.” Gerald didn’t volunteer any more information, and Dom wasn’t sure he wanted any. All he knew was that he’d just surpassed his father in more than footsteps. He’d actually achieved more as a climber.
Does it matter? He shocked himself with the thought. Dom had been driven for so long to reproduce—and improve on—his father’s achievements, only to find that he didn’t experience the fierce sense of victory he’d expected when he did.
“Crafty old bugger,” he muttered. “I’d never have known it from his account of the climb.”
“You’re not upset? Mad at him?” Gerald looked wary.
Am I? Dom didn’t think so. And that was another shock, wasn’t it? He’d been wedded to that resentment for far too many years. For some reason things had changed recently, and Dom’s emotions and motives had moved on. Mellowed, in fact: not a word he would ever have associated with the Hartington-George menfolk before now.
For some reason? Now he was being both naive and dishonest. He knew damn well what had changed in his life in the last few weeks: something—or someone—that had shown him there was much more to existence than just his beloved climbing.
“Jesus, Ger. There are too many other reasons for me to be mad at him to need another one. And it doesn’t matter really, does it? He was the same man in the end.”
“Of course it doesn’t matter. The team achievement remains. And your dad was perfectly entitled to write about conquering the mountain, even if he never stood on the top himself.”
Dom turned to face Gerald fully, the wind biting into his face. “Why didn’t you tell me before now?”
“I don’t know. Well, I suppose I wondered how far your rivalry would take you. And then you’ve been so different this climb… distracted, I’d say.”
“Yes, I have been. You’re right.”
Gerald looked almost as startled as Tanya had when Dom hugged her. “Who are you, and what have you done with my rude, unapologetic bastard of a friend?”
Dom winced. “Shut up. I can still take you on, Ger, and thrash you where you stand.”
“You can try, you great bully. But not right now, we’d cause an avalanche.” Gerald laughed and clasped Dom’s hand. “I’m glad, you know? Your life’s your own, Dom. You’ve got your own path to take, and I wanted to let you know you’ve done it. I mean, it’s great you honor his legacy—”
“Only his climbing legacy,” Dom interrupted.
“Really? No other?”
“No,” Dom said more quietly. “He was my father, and so there’s always respect and love when I think of him, however twisted it is with resentment and some pain. But I don’t want to live the rest of my life like him.”
Gerald nodded. “So that’s good. The job’s done. You can go back home, tell the usual mad stories at the pub, do what you want with your photos, be your own man.” Gerald took a sly look at Dom. “Get your own man too.”
“Ah,” Dom said. “Well. About that.”
“For God’s sake!” Gerald clapped Dom’s shoulder with a little too much force. “Don’t tell me you’ve fucked that up, old man?”
Dom didn’t want to blush. He really didn’t. But he still did. “We… it was a casual thing, at least to start with. No promises.”
“And?”
Bloody Gerald was relentless. When had he, Dom, ever given Gerald such grief about his love life? Of course Gerald had been married—and divorced—three times, with a brood of children of a variety of ages, so he was probably somewhat more qualified to preach than Dom. “It ran its course, that’s all. Just before I came away on the climb.”
“Bollocks!” Gerald said cheerfully and so loudly that the rest of the team glanced over their way in alarm. “You wouldn’t be brooding like this if it was over. Who dumped whom?”
Dom shook his head. “It wasn’t like that. We… kind of… parted.”
“Kind of? When was Dom Hartington-George ever heard waffling phrases like ‘kind of’?”
“Fuck off.” But Dom knew his protest was halfhearted.
Had Zeb dumped him? He couldn’t remember Zeb actually saying so, apart from that shitty comment about “all part of the service.” Or had Dom been too quick to misunderstand? Had he dumped Zeb, purely by being so wrapped up in his bloody sponsorship deal? It had just been implied that the end of the campaign meant the end of Dom’s socialization. The end of their public dating. But the look on Zeb’s face when Tanya had gone blathering on about exit strategies… when Dom had said he was leaving within the week….
All he knew for a fact was that they hadn’t seen each other since that day in Tanya’s office. “I’m not sure he’s mine. I’m not sure he wants to be.”
Gerald laughed, though not unkindly. “Well, I wouldn’t be surprised. You drink like a fish—and one with expensive tastes. You don’t know how to give a compliment, you’ve never had much dress sense outside long johns, and your farts are legendary. I can’t imagine who the hell would put up with that.”
“I’m not all bad.”
“No.” Gerald grinned broadly. “You stupid pillock, I’m joking. You’re loyal and witty and bloody hardworking. And you don’t take shit from anyone. Your standards are the hardest I’ve ever had to face up to. But I appreciate that honesty and that openness.” His expression softened. “You’re a bloody good friend, Dom. Any man would be lucky to have you.”
“It’s the other way around,” Dom said morosely. “I’d be lucky to have him. If I got the chance.”
“Oh, shut up with your whining, and let’s start preparing for the descent. The sooner we pack up, the sooner you get back to sea level and recapturing your moochworthy boy, right?”
And Gerald took him by the shoulders, turned him around, and pushed him firmly back toward the camp.
Chapter Twenty-Six
AIDAN couldn’t settle. He paced the floor of his living room, muttering, back and forth, again and again, with a copy of his new script crumpled up in his fist.
“Do you think it’s early-onset dementia?” Titus muttered from his usual place on Aidan’s sofa. His generous body took up two of the three narrow cushions, leaving little room for anyone else, though Simon had managed to squeeze in beside him. Titus also had a copy of the script and a pair of flimsy cherry-red reading glasses perched on the end of his patrician nose.
“Is he reading from the script?” Wendy asked doubtfully from her seat on the armchair. “I wasn’t aware of any angsty teenage characters.”
“He’s in love,” Simon said.
Aidan continued pacing, but Wendy and Titus turned to Simon in surprise. There was no surprise in Simon’s adoring stare in return, totally focused on Titus.
“Give me my glasses back,” Wendy said, leaning over the coffee table and snatching them off Titus’s nose. “This is something I must see.”
“I admit our young Shakespeare hasn’t seemed himself for weeks. Why hasn’t he told us he’s courting?”
“It hasn’t gone so well in the past, Titus. Least said, soonest mended and all that.”
“Bloody nonsense! Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, is what I say.” Titus and Wendy often had these quotation banters. “But he’s been busy on the play, hasn’t he? When’s he had the chance to eye anyone up? Or be eyed up, for that matter. Has he been cruising bars?”
Wendy gave a slight shudder. “Unlikely, when I have to drag him out for coffee and cake, else he’d surely starve.”
Aidan rolled his eyes. Couldn’t people just leave him alone to suffer? It didn’t look like the Dreamweavers were going to let up anytime soon, though.
“Who could it be?” Titus wondered, both aloud and loudly. “The postman? That simpering fool at the dry cleaner’s?”
“There’s been an embarrassing increase in attention when we’re out in town, you know.” Wendy tilted her head, appraising Aidan. “And most of it’s directed at your boy Aidan.”
“He gives out a very assertive air nowadays,” Titus said pompously. “It’s like dogs scenting the pack alpha.”
“He won’t thank you for that analogy,” Wendy smirked.
“And I am still in the room,” Aidan snapped.
“At last the wordsmith remembers us!” boomed Titus, totally unfazed.
“Temper, temper,” Wendy murmured.
Simon, who’d been silent while all this was going on, shifted on the sofa and accidentally nudged a book on the coffee table with his foot. It was a large glossy hardback, and its thump as it fell onto the floor startled them all.
“Be careful of that!” Aidan cried. Then he sank into the armchair and put his head in his hands. He could feel the other three staring at him. Through his fingers he could see Wendy quietly pick up the book as if to return it to the table, but instead she sat with it on her lap for a while.
“Aidan, darling, it’s only because we care about you and hate to see you unhappy.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” And he was. It wasn’t the Dreamweavers’ fault he’d messed up potentially the best thing in his life for the sake of… what? A game? Paying the gas bill? Sibling loyalty? “But you can’t do anything about it. No one can.”
“The boy feels the pain. He’s been in love before,” Titus said with a sigh.
“But never with anyone worth his while,” Wendy said sadly.
“He needs a man with some bloody spirit,” Titus said baldly. “Not one of these weedy types with floppy headgear and saggy jeans. ‘Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, But not express’d in fancy—rich, not gaudy; For the apparel oft proclaims the man.’ Clothes maketh the man, as our Shakespeare’s namesake says.”
“But that’s what I did,” Aidan said softly. The pompous quote couldn’t have been more apt for the mess he’d got himself into. Couldn’t have been more accusing!
“Pardon?”
“I put someone else’s apparel on. I let the clothes proclaim the man I was—or perhaps, if I’m honest, the man I’d like to be. But for all the wrong bloody reasons!”
Wendy glanced at Titus, who frowned in bemusement, then back at Aidan. “We don’t understand what you’re talking about, darling,” she said.
“I dressed and acted as something—someone—I wasn’t.” He shook his head in misery. How could he expect them to understand? He didn’t deserve their sympathy, let alone empathy.
“Is our Shakespeare considering a new version of Twelfth Night? I’m not averse to a bit of cross-dressing,” Titus said in a loud stage whisper and then snickered.
Simon fairly glowed with excitement beside him.
Aidan leapt to his feet. “It was all my fault. I should have been honest with him.”
“The least initial deviation from the truth is multiplied later a thousandfold,” Titus quoted.
“What play is that from, darling?”
“Aristotle,” Simon chirped up.
Wendy and Titus both stared at him again.
“Smart boy,” Titus murmured, his eyebrows raised and his curious gaze lingering on the furiously blushing young man.
“So, Aidan, is that what it is?” Wendy asked softly. “Are you in love?”
“What the hell does it matter?” Aidan cried, startling even himself. “I let him think it was all just… just… a job! And now it’s all over.”
“If we can hel—”
“But you’re right. Oh yes, I am!” he interrupted, barely hearing Wendy’s kind words. God, it was true, wasn’t it? “I do love him. I miss him like hell. Oh God, I didn’t realize. I never said. Oh God.”
“I’m still betting on the teenage character,” Wendy murmured. “He has the angst and all the speech mannerisms quite perfectly.”
“You can tell us about it, kid,” Titus said in an uncharacteristically gentle tone.
“No, I can’t. I can’t tell you any more than that. It’s a horrible mess, and it’s best if you just leave me be. I’ll
call you in the next few days to start rehearsing again.”
“Now, wait a moment, Shakespeare—”
“No, we should listen to him.” Wendy put out a hand to halt Titus’s protest. “Aidan, darling, you know where we are if you need us.” She stood, and Titus hauled himself off the sofa with Simon’s eager help. Wendy still held Aidan’s book in her hands. “You know, I love these coffee-table tomes,” she said. “Though I had no idea you were keen on either geography or mountaineering. But it’s a vicarious thrill, isn’t it, darling? One can almost live the adventure with the author. It’s about Makalu,” she said to Titus, who was staring at her with incomprehension. “A wonderful mountain peak in Nepal, I believe.”
“Fifth highest in the world,” Aidan muttered under his breath. Shit, he was quoting mountaineering facts now.
“Oh, and just before I go—” At the door, Wendy turned with what Aidan knew she called her Columbo moment, probably to give him more unhelpful advice on running his love life. Then he felt guilty at being so churlish. “—there’s a press conference tomorrow in Covent Garden, for that mountaineer who’s just got back from the Eager.”
“Eiger,” Aidan corrected before he realized what he was saying.
Press conference?
Wendy stared at him, not as if she was concentrating on him, but rather as if she was trying not to catch Titus’s eye. Her mouth twitched oddly. “It’s at a studio very close to our agent’s. Did you want to go?”
“Me? It’s not a performance, Wendy. Those things are just for journalists.”
“No, it’s open to the public too. One of my nephews is a reporter for the National Geographic, and he has some VIP tickets.” Aidan should have guessed there’d be a nephew involved somewhere. “What’s the man’s name?” she continued, musingly. “Hardly-George or something? I read his father’s book about his climbing career, you know. It was fascinating. A tad arrogant, but then the man was like that in life, I believe. His son’s photography is marvelous. I only hope he hasn’t inherited that arrogant streak.”
“He hasn’t,” Aidan said. And when was he going to learn to keep his mouth shut?
