by Harper Fox
Chapter Seven
Christmas morning in a Northumbrian village. I stood at the window and looked out. I was shivering slightly despite the blanket I’d wrapped round myself. The beautiful stained glass kept in no heat, but my chills weren’t down to that. I folded my arms, pulling the blanket tighter. Across the street, Gwen’s green Morris was parked up. There was no sign of Gwen. Piers was asleep in the driver’s seat.
Asleep or maybe dead of hypothermia. I’d woken, despite my incandescent night, full of loneliness and fear, the sense of my own limitless power to hurt and do harm. Art and Lance had been sleeping so soundly I couldn’t even hear them breathe. In the night they’d found their way back into one another’s arms, though one of them—both, probably—had taken time to tuck the duvet round me. I’d left them brow to brow, their dreams like interlocking shadows in the room, more real than I felt to myself. In the living room, the fire had died. And clearly I’d been tripping out the night before—the immortal carpet, with its heraldic bestiary, was just an ordinary rug, the kind of thing a landlord would put down for a short-term tenant.
I’d never seen a street so deserted. Christmas morning was the only time of the year when traffic had quit rumbling outside my childhood home, and I’d loved the brief hush—festive magic being otherwise in short supply—but this was different. No kids were tumbling out to play with new bikes, no lights coming on behind the windows.
“Gavin.”
I jumped so hard I almost pitched through the glass. I turned round to see Art behind me, tousled and handsome in his dressing gown. “I didn’t hear you,” I said unnecessarily. “He’s… He’s out there. Piers.”
Art moved to look past my shoulder. He nodded in apparent satisfaction. “Of course he is. Good.”
“It’s not good. What if he’s… What if he got too cold out there and—”
“Oh my God.” Art broke into laughter. “You’re full of happy thoughts this morning, aren’t you? Take it from a rescue man—he’s fine. I can see him breathing.”
I looked again. So could I, now. “Sorry. I think I woke up with the creeps.”
“Charming.”
His voice was still rippled with amusement. Slowly my sleep-addled brain caught up and I smiled in my turn. “Funny.”
“You are.” He lifted a hand as if to touch my shoulder then withdrew it. He took a careful step back. “You’re funny. You’re sweet when you’re not being bitter, and you’re a terrific lay.” I opened my mouth to respond to this forthright assessment, but he didn’t give me time. “Why aren’t you out there reminding him about all that?”
“He doesn’t want to know. Gwen’s worth ten of me. I’ll go to his wedding. Be Uncle Gavin to his kids, if he’ll let me near them. Besides, I…don’t seem to have any clothes.”
“Oh. Right, yes. Lance washed them through for you last night—they should be dry by now.”
“He didn’t have to do that.”
“He wanted to. He likes to look after people.”
I blushed hotly, remembering the details of the care that had been lavished on me in Art’s bed. Distract him, Lance. I watched while Art gathered up my things from the dresser—not just washed and dried but neatly folded—and brought them to me. He handed them over at arm’s length, and flinched to avoid me when I took them. “Is that one of the rules?” I asked, stung. “If you and Lance share someone, you…you don’t touch them in the morning?”
“What? No, you idiot. Nothing like that at all.”
“But something. What’s wrong?”
“Let go your blanket for me. Please.”
It was so ordinary and so heartfelt a request. I obeyed him at once—at that moment I’d have done anything for him—and stood before him naked. He took me in with a look that banished all my fears of being no longer desired. “All right,” he said softly. “Now for God’s sake get dressed before you make me change my mind and stay.”
“Stay… Oh, right.” I grabbed my briefs, distantly glad I’d chosen a decent pair twenty-four hours ago. “You’re going out for Christmas lunch.” I bet he and Lance knew how to cope with their in-laws. Probably they all met in some cosy pub, glowingly proud of their sons. “Family?”
“Er… Yeah. That’s right.”
I pulled on my clothes as quickly as I could, aware all the time of his benign attention. I had no idea of the etiquette on leaving after a one-night stand, especially if I couldn’t touch him to hug him goodbye. And I couldn’t, could I? There was a chasm between us I couldn’t define. He looked different this morning. Fragile somehow, as if the grey light were falling through him. Unease suddenly rocked me. Why was the room so bloody cold? “Arthur…”
This time he didn’t correct me. He took another step back. Then the soft thud of a car door diverted both of us. “Sounds like your lad’s up and doing,” he said. “Don’t keep him waiting.”
“All right. But…”
“You gave me a second chance, Gawaine. Doesn’t everyone deserve one at this time of year—even you?”
I shrugged into my coat. It was beautifully warm. I flashed back to kind hands divesting me of it the night before. “Will you say goodbye to Lance for me?”
“I will.”
He showed me to the door. He didn’t open it for me, and somehow I didn’t expect him to. I let myself out, taking one last glance. I was down the stairs and unlocking the door to the outside before I realised what he’d called me—or what I thought I’d heard—and then it was too late to consider: I pulled the door wide, and there was Piers, gaunt and pale with weariness, standing in the middle of the road.
I stood in front of him. I didn’t know what to say. Where’s Gwen would have been a poor start, jealous and suspicious. “How long have you been out here?”
“All night. I took Gwen home and came back.”
“God, Piers. You must have been freezing.”
“I know. But the car stayed warm for some reason, and then I went to sleep. I…I’m cold now.”
“Yeah.” I put my hand out cautiously and took his elbow. It was my customary gesture, when he had got himself lost in abstract thought and started to fail to notice traffic. To steer and guide him. I hadn’t realised how clearly my palm had recorded the bony, warm press of his elbow. “Come on, before we get run over.”
“What by—a stage coach? What is this place, Gav?”
“It’s called Drift, I think. How did you find me here?”
“I wanted to know you were all right. Gwen followed the car you’d got into. I didn’t think I’d be able to find my way back after I dropped her off, but…it was weird. There only seemed to be one road.”
“Why didn’t you knock on the door?”
“I didn’t know which one. I wasn’t even sure I’d come to the right place. All the houses were dark.”
“No, the lights were on in…” I turned by the car and looked back. Where? The manor house now presented the same barren, black-windowed frontage as the scatter of others up and down the misty street. I couldn’t see the colours of the stained glass anymore. A lump rose in my throat, an indefinable grief. “Never mind. Come on, I’ll drive us back.”
“I’m fine to drive.”
“You hate driving.”
“You know, I’m actually okay with it without you telling me to go faster, grow a pair and carve the bastards up.”
I froze in my reach for the door. Well, now he was free to tell me all the things he’d been biting back for the sake of a quiet life. “I’m sorry,” I said, stepping aside. I hoped there weren’t too many more home truths to come. I felt sick as it was. And I couldn’t deny it—Piers’ summary of my co-piloting style sounded familiar as hell. I went around the bonnet to the passenger side.
Movement caught my attention. I looked up to the manor’s top-floor window, and there they were—Art and his other half, smiling and waving. I was glad. I’d have hated to leave without seeing Lance again. He gave me a thumbs-up and a gesture to get going, and I raised my hand in
return. His free arm was wrapped tight around Art, who looked tired but serene. As I watched, they stepped back into the shadows of the room and disappeared.
I knew how they’d be spending their Christmas Day, family plans or not. A sharp envy touched me, and a gaping sense of loss. I got into the passenger seat. Piers glanced at me from behind the wheel, and I tried not to calculate how many future Christmases with him I’d sacrificed. Even this one we were missing now felt intolerable. “Car’s freezing, Piers.”
“Yes, I know. It is now. Come on, let’s get going. I’ll put the heater on.”
That was the full extent of our conversation on the journey back to the hotel. Piers drove fine, I realised. He just didn’t care to rev and roar the way I did. I wondered why his quiet competence had irked me so. It was perfect for these icebound roads, and I tried to concentrate on the way his large, finely wrought hands managed the gears and the wheel. Beyond the village of Drift, the sun was shining, moors and sky opening up around us into a blazing midwinter day.
The hotel was much closer than I’d thought. It looked very ordinary in its trim gardens. Piers pulled up into the gravelled car park with its handful of other vehicles and a minibus provided by the Rotarians. He switched off the engine, and we sat in a reverberating silence. Eventually he said, not looking at me, “Did they treat you all right, then? Your rescue team?”
“Yes. They were really kind. Hospitable.”
“Good. Because you seem different. Less…” He hesitated, and I waited, curious and apprehensive. I’d seldom known him stuck for a word. “Less spiny.”
A short parade of beasts went through my head, increasing in size. Hedgehog, porcupine, anteater. Myself, armed with a pen, my hair in spikes of sarcastic frustration as I performed yet another autopsy on Piers’s notion of God. “I didn’t know I’d been…”
“Sometimes,” he said distantly, staring out to the glittering skyline, “just being with you makes me feel like I’m bleeding.”
“Oh God.” I popped my seatbelt and sat upright, checking in my pocket for my keys. There they were, no doubt carefully removed by Lance and just as carefully returned. “Look, love. It’s still early. You leave now, you’ll be back home in time for all the festivities.”
“Can I see you up to your room?”
He didn’t have to ask to spend more time with me. I couldn’t believe he wanted to, not even the ten minutes seeing me upstairs would take. I got out and followed him into the hotel reception, where the staff who’d been coerced into working Christmas Day greeted us laconically from under their paper hats. If the nightshift had mentioned to the dayshift that there’d been an emergency, my reappearance clearly wasn’t of much interest to them. Sheepish and relieved, I got into the lift with Piers.
“That’s the first time you’ve ever called me that.”
The lift jounced and hummed. I glanced up, trying not to confront our reflection in its smoky mirror glass. I didn’t want to see how we looked together, not now. “Called you what?”
“Love. You do to shop assistants sometimes. Even that old battleaxe at the library. Used to make me a bit jealous.”
“Oh. Er, it’s a Geordie thing. Nothing personal.” The lift stopped and I stumbled out, trying not to notice how he caught and steadied me. Tried not to breathe, see or feel, as I made a dog’s breakfast of turning the key in the heavy industrial lock to my room and he covered my hands with his, lifted them away and opened the door.
Chapter Eight
The room was a shambles. I’d had a go at tidying up the night before, I recalled, although everything prior to Piers’ call seemed to lie beyond a sheet of frosted glass in my mind. My clothes, books and papers lay where I’d left them. And what a tawdry mess daylight made of my attempts at decoration—the ivy withered, the candles guttered and standing coldly in their pools of wax. I pushed my hands into my pockets and stood surveying the wreckage. “Suppose I’m lucky I didn’t set the curtains on fire.”
“What? Oh, the candles… No, I put those out last night when I got here.”
I turned to him. He was absentmindedly gathering up my papers from the floor by the dressing table. “Last night? You were here?”
“Yeah. After we talked, I…left it an hour or two, then I called your mobile, just to see you were all right. You didn’t answer.” We both looked at my phone, still attached to its charger by the bed. “So I waited a bit more, and I called the hotel. They said they thought you’d gone out, but nobody had seen you come back. It was after midnight by this time.”
“So you…”
“Gwen drove me out here. I was… I’d had a sherry or two. I couldn’t make the staff here take me seriously about you, but at least they let me into your room so I could have a look around and see if I could work out where you’d gone.”
“Sorry I screwed up your Christmas Eve. I should’ve left a note or something.”
“Well, you more or less did.” He picked up the map I’d been working from the night before. “Hallow Hill, circled about ten times in highlighter pen.” Turning the map to the light, he suddenly frowned. “Gavin, this is an original from the antiquities department. What were you doing marking it up?”
“I don’t know. I don’t remember doing it.”
“Never mind. I knew you’d never be able to resist a place with a name like that, so Gwen and I drove up to take a look.”
“Wait up.” I was feeling a bit odd. The lack of breakfast, probably. I sat down on the edge of the bed. “You said the staff didn’t take you seriously?”
“No. They were too deep into the eggnog and mince pies. The police were bloody useless too—said they couldn’t even list you as missing for another twenty-four hours.”
“Then…who made the call to the rescue service?”
“I don’t know. I’d have done it myself if I’d been thinking straight. As it was I just stumbled about in the snow like an idiot, shouting for you. Gwen too, until I sent her back to the car. I don’t know how long for—it felt like bloody hours. We did find footprints, but they tailed off into a snowdrift. And then I looked up and saw you in the distance, just…running down the hill like nothing had happened.”
I put out a hand to him. He didn’t take it, but came to sit a cautious few feet away from me on the bed. I said—because suddenly it felt very important, and my mind was shying off other issues, like a nervy horse on ice—“It is personal, when I say love to you. I don’t know why I’ve never told you.” I put my head into my hands. I decided to keep it there. That way I wouldn’t have to watch when he walked out. “Now you really should go. Gwen will be waiting.”
“Gwen…”
He sounded uncertain, as if I’d mentioned a stranger. “Your fiancée,” I prompted him gently.
“Yes. Um… Gwen’s a bit pissed off with me.”
“I just bet she is. But I’m sure if you get yourself back there before lunch—”
“Not because I’m here. Not because of anything like that at all. Gav, if I tell you something, will you just listen and let me finish?”
Despite myself I stole a glance at him. He was sitting with his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clenched tight. Did I usually interrupt? Yes, I did—I was on the verge of doing so now. I shut my mouth and nodded.
“Okay. You know, out of all of us on the theology course, all the kids from religious families, I reckon she’s the only real survivor. You remember how good she was, how calm, when she found out about you and me? She told me afterwards she’d been relieved. She didn’t want to get married. She wanted—she still wants—to choose who she loves, and…to move on when she wants.”
He fell silent. Crazy possibilities raced through my head. Piers and Gwen in a marriage of convenience, like Barbara Stanwyck and one of her closeted Hollywood husbands. Piers in the marital home, smiling benignly over the top of his newspaper when she brought a new lover through the door. I opened my mouth, then remembered his injunction and closed it again. “It’s all right,” he said
. “You may speak.”
“I…I’m not sure I can. What are you telling me?”
“Gwen’s been very independent for a long time now. She’s pregnant, which is another reason I didn’t want her running about in the snow. And no, it’s not mine—she and her girlfriend used a sperm donor.” I’d been playing with my room keys without realising. Now I dropped them with a clatter. I made an involuntary squawking sound and began to cough. “Which is why,” Piers went on, a tremor of laughter in his voice, “she was all the more annoyed when I told her I’d used her as a reason for breaking up with you. You’re so bloody argumentative, Gav. I had to drop a bomb on you, make it something watertight, or you’d never have let me go.”
The laughter had faded. His last words sounded desperately serious. I couldn’t get my head round everything he’d just told me, but the upshot reached me like the lash of a scorpion’s tail. “You wanted me to let you go?”
“No. No, not for a second. But look at the way we were living, sweetheart. Lurching from fight to fight, grabbing at sex like a pair of scared rabbits, not even sharing a flat… I couldn’t make you happy, and when you invited me out here, I realised I just couldn’t do it anymore. Gwen nearly killed me—she likes you a lot—but she agreed to go along with it for old times’ sake. I’m sorry.”
I got up stiffly. The light in the room was merciless. I could see the lines of weariness around Piers’ mouth and eyes, a foreshadowing of how his lovely face would age. I couldn’t bear the thought of not witnessing the real ones as they came, and having him witness mine. A spike of childish astonishment suddenly leapt up out of these deep considerations. “Gwen’s a lesbian?”
“At the moment. Like I said, she just reserves the right to choose.”
Guinevere, fecund and splendid on her throne. Accountable to no-one but herself. My head spun. “I think I’m going nuts,” I said, and I dropped to my knees in front of Piers. “You’re not going to marry her?”
