by Lily Morton
I pick up the pace, anger coursing through me. If anyone is in our house, they’re going to fucking regret it. I’m enraged when I find the door is unlocked, but after I burst through it, I stand stock still in amazement.
“What are you doing here?”
Gideon looks up from where he’s sitting on the rug by the fire. “That was some entrance. Are you auditioning for a role in The Professionals?”
I grin. “I think that might be one of your generation’s programmes.” He glares at me, and I laugh. “Only kidding. I watched it on ITV3. I would totally have been the one with the leather bomber jacket.”
He sniffs. “You’ve certainly got the hair for it. It looks like you last had it cut in the seventies.” He jumps to his feet, coming towards me. “I’ve got the weekend off.”
I hold my arms out to him, and he pushes into me, pulling me close and pressing his face behind my ear, inhaling my scent. Warmth and gladness fills me at the feel and smell of him, and all my doubts and anger leave me abruptly.
“Oh God, I’m so glad to see you,” I say hoarsely, and his arms tighten around me.
“Really?”
“Yes.” I push him back, ignoring his protest. “Gid, we argued. Nothing more and nothing less. It’s a sure fact that we’re going to argue again and again and probably again after that. It’s fucking life, and both of us are quite strong-willed.”
He huffs, a smile of relief not quite concealed. “Well, you are. I myself am a paragon of virtue. I’m just waiting for you to recognise the fact.”
“You’ll be waiting a long while, then,” I say sympathetically. “Shall I make you a cup of tea to make the time pass quicker?”
He laughs and hugs me tight, burying his face in my neck again. “I missed you,” he whispers.
I smile softly. Often when he says something tender, he hides his face. I stroke his dark wavy hair back. It’s longer now, as he hasn’t had it cut for ages.
A hairdresser had come to the house to cut it, and he’d offered to do mine, but I refused. I wasn’t going to be reduced to having my hair cut privately. My life was going to proceed as usual with the only thing changed being my relationship status on Facebook. I’d regretted that stance when I went to a barber in St Austell, and it was splashed all over the papers, with people speculating on whether we’d split up because Gideon wasn’t with me. As if we’d become conjoined when I put my cock in him.
He looks at me. “What’s up? You went all rigid.”
He has his own struggles with being in the public eye — I don’t need to add to them by giving him details about mine. He’ll feel guilty, and I harbour an awful feeling that if things get too bad, he’ll up and leave. He’s spent his adult life flitting from one thing to another like a very fickle butterfly.
And I know I’m doing him a disservice with these thoughts. He loves me. He tells me often enough, but it’s hard to be sure if love is enough for him. It’s only time and tests that make us truly relax and trust a relationship.
So, instead of confiding in him, I shake my head. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m fine.”
He raises one eyebrow. “That is never a good sentence to hear from a boyfriend.”
“Oh, now you’re using the boyfriend word,” I say cheerfully. “Have you had a change of heart. then? Are we due for a trip to Roller World?” I grin at him.
Caution lingers in his eyes, but his body relaxes, my reward for keeping quiet.
He shrugs. “I’d annihilate you on skates.”
“Them’s fighting words.”
“You know it.” He sobers. “You are my boyfriend. I say it as it is. You know how straightforward I am.”
“Straightforward or rude?” I ask, grabbing his hand and pulling him up the stairs.
“Pah! Depends who I’m talking to. Where are we going?”
I look back and wink. “Bed.”
His mouth twists in amusement. “Eli, I’m beginning to feel like a sexual object to you.”
“Only beginning to feel.” I smirk. “I must up my game. If you were a sexual object, you’d totally be a diamond dildo.”
“Stunning and expensive?’
“Totally impractical.”
His laughter seems to twine around me as we tumble into the bedroom and fall onto the bed.
A while later, when we’ve stopped panting and my heart has stopped pounding, I stir in the circle of his arms. “You’ve only been gone a week. Don’t you actors know the meaning of work?”
He snorts and kisses the side of my head. “It’s a bank holiday. Good luck getting any crew in for that.”
“Well, their loss is my gain. When do you have to go back?”
“Sunday afternoon,” he says regretfully.
“So soon?” I say plaintively and immediately want to smack myself. I sound like something from a Mills and Boon novel. I prop myself on my elbow and gaze at his features in the moonlight. I trace my finger down the sharp blade of his nose and then the softness of his lips under the scratchy beard. “I quite like this beard,” I say meditatively. I bend to kiss him, tasting come and a faint trace of peppermint. “So, what’s on the agenda this weekend, then?” He hesitates, and I groan. “Not house hunting again, Gid.”
“No, listen,” he says, coming up on his elbows. “We need to get out of here. Lovely as it is, it’s too fucking small for the two of us to live in. I want somewhere we can spread out in.”
“There’s only two of us.”
“When I spread out, I like to do it properly. You know that.”
“Half of the world already knows that. And the other half would pay to find out,” I say sourly, thinking of all the men after him now and all the years of his bed-hopping.
His brow wrinkles. “What?”
“Never mind.”
He lies back and pulls me close, so our legs tangle and I sink into him. “We need a proper base.”
“Is there any point in me reiterating that this is very fast and we might need some space to date and just get to know one another?”
“No,” he says quickly. “Eli, I know you better than I’ve ever known anyone in my life. Mainly because you’re the only person to ever interest me. I think that you know me even better, because, let’s face it, you’re better than me in every aspect of having a relationship.”
“Only because I’ve had relationships before.”
“No,” he says sharply. “Let’s not ever discuss your previous relationships. They weren’t me. End of story.”
“Your lack of confidence in yourself is very worrying to me,” I say demurely.
“Yours is even more worrying,” he returns sharply, and the humour dies away abruptly.
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean,” he says wearily. “You’re second-guessing everything at the moment. Thinking I’m going to leave, going to get bored.”
“No, I’m not,” I say sharply, getting out of bed and pulling on my sweats with quick, jerky movements. “You’re talking rubbish.”
“Oh, really? And is that why you’re getting so defensive?”
“I’m getting defensive because you don’t ever fucking listen to me,” I hiss, and he recoils slightly. “Shit!” I mutter. “I’m sorry. That was totally uncalled for.”
It really was, because the fault is with me. I’m the one not talking to him, and we both know it. However, every time I think of confiding my mess of feelings, the words tangle in my throat, and I don’t. Now is no exception. I reach down and kiss him apologetically. “Let’s not argue,” I say quickly. “We’ve only got the weekend. Let’s have a nice time and have a look at some houses.”
“You just said that in the same tone you’d probably use about a root canal.”
“That’d probably be preferable to Julian,” I say, thinking of our estate agent. “He’s getting fed up with our inability to make our minds up over which house.”
He’s also getting fed up with me tagging along with him and Gid, but I don’t say that.
“I’m sure he’ll get over it,” he says arrogantly.
“Maybe you should man an advice line. They’d be lining up to throw themselves in the river.”
“Once again you underestimate my talents,” he says loftily, making me smile.
But as I watch him dress I know we’re just tabling this argument. Nothing is sorted, and refusing to face the problems is going to make things worse in the long run. Nevertheless, I cowardly accept the détente for the rest of the night.
The next morning is as easy as it usually is with us. We wake up, make love, and shower together, laughing at the cramped confines of the shower. Then I make breakfast, and Gid washes the pots. We’ve found that he’s better at that than cooking. His perfectionism, as he calls it, shows up best in organising junk drawers and drying pots. I call it pernickety, but he ignores me.
It’s only when the phone rings and I hear Gid say, “Julian,” that it starts to go downhill.
Ah, Julian. A local estate agent. A gay local estate agent. Good-looking, very neat hair, and obviously wealthy. Oh, and he fancies Gideon something rotten, and it’s becoming very obvious.
I suppose it’s not exactly a surprise. We’d only thought of the backlash if Gid came out. I never considered that the numbers of his admirers would go up proportionately too, and now he’s become fair game for everyone. Whenever we go out, I somehow always end up standing to one side as he takes photos with men, oblivious to their heavy flirting. To add insult to injury, I’ve even been asked to hold the camera while they wrap their arms around my boyfriend and slip their numbers in his pocket.
That sounds like I don’t trust him, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. I know that he loves me. But there are so many men out there who would make more sense with Gideon than me, and their numbers are hard to ignore. It leaves me feeling whiny and uncertain. Two things I’ve never been in my relationships before.
Julian seems to have become the focal object of my ire. Probably because he’s always on the phone talking to Gideon. Not me. Me, he treats with politeness edged in disbelieving disdain that this is who Gideon Ramsay came out of the closet for.
Gideon doesn’t spot it. He’s far too absorbed in finding a home for us to notice anything else. And he’s oblivious to overtures because he’s had so many over the years. He’d admitted that I was the first man he’d ever chased.
He puts the phone down, and I hastily rearrange my expression. “Was that Julian?” I say, trying for enthusiasm and failing.
“He’s got some properties for us to see. He’s all ours for the day.”
“I bet he is,” I mutter, sliding the cleaning sponge around the hob.
“What?”
“Nothing.” I turn to face him, leaning against the cooker. “So, where are these places? Let me guess. They’re all ten-bedroom mansions with fittings made of gold in exclusive areas because God forbid Julian should actually listen to a word that comes out of my mouth over what I want price-wise.”
“Do you not like him?” he asks, worried. “Shall we get another estate agent?”
“No.” I sigh, moving past him and giving up on this conversation because there is no way I’m coming out of it covered in any glory. “Just saying it might be nice if someone around here listened to what I say.”
“Oh, I’m being dragged into this too. How lovely,” he says sharply. “I always listen to you. Haven’t I listened to you about every bloody property you’ve said no to?”
“Yes, you’ve listened, while planning what to say for the five hours afterwards that you’ll use to prove how wrong and stupid I’m being.”
“Eli!” he says in a shocked voice, grabbing my arm gently. “What the fuck? Where is this coming from?”
“Nowhere. Just ignore me, like my opinions,” I say pettily, feeling stupid anger rise in me. What the fuck am I doing? Am I deliberately trying to push him away? I shake his hand off. “I’m going to get changed, seeing as Julian dresses like he’s attending Ascot.”
“You don’t need to,” he says softly. “You look good in everything.”
I pull him to me, kissing him softly. His arms band around me tightly, and I know I’m freaking him out and worrying him, but I can’t seem to help it.
It’s only when I’m shut in the bathroom, brushing my teeth, that I assess my thoughts.
Am I trying to push him away? Do I think somehow that it’ll hurt less if I do it now rather than waiting to watch him walk away the way he’s done with everyone else?
I spit the toothpaste out and lean on the sink, sighing heavily. My brain is going round in my head like a hamster on a wheel, so I can’t think clearly. All I know is that Gideon doesn’t deserve this. He’s done nothing wrong.
Half an hour later, I tread down the stairs dressed in jeans and a navy and white striped T-shirt. Gideon’s out on the drive talking to Julian. The estate agent is leaning against the car in an expensive-looking navy suit. The paintwork of the car gleams in the sunshine and so do Julian’s teeth as he smiles widely at Gideon.
My other half is dressed in jeans and a black polo shirt. He’s laughing at something that Julian is saying, but as soon as I exit the house and shut the door behind me, his head turns, and he gives me the smile reserved just for me. Warm and very loving.
“Sweetheart, Julian’s got some good choices for us today.”
“I’ll look forward to it,” I say, smiling at Julian coolly.
He doesn’t return it, giving me a sneer instead. When Gideon isn’t watching or listening, Julian is totally dismissive of me. When Gideon is looking, Julian’s as friendly as if we’ve known each other for years. Unfortunately for Julian, today Gideon turns at the wrong moment, and although Julian hastens to smile, I think Gideon caught the sour expression directed at me.
“Okay, then,” Gideon says slowly. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
Julian springs into motion, holding the door open so Gideon can slide into the front seat and leaving me to scramble into the back. I clip my seat belt in and catch Gid’s eye in the mirror. A frown of concentration is on his face, and he looks closely at Julian as he climbs in and starts the engine.
“Let’s get this party started,” Julian says cheerfully. “Gid, I thought we’d start in Helford. There’s a fantastic five-bedroom barn conversion there that overlooks the river.”
“Gideon,” my boyfriend says, and I look up at the slight chill in his voice.
“Sorry?” Julian flashes him a quick look.
“My name is Gideon, not Gid.”
Julian looks nonplussed, and I hastily conceal a smirk. “Sorry, Gideon,” he says quickly. “It’s just that Eli calls you that.”
“Well, Eli is my partner,” Gideon says smoothly. “Different rules.”
There’s a short, startled silence, and then Julian rallies. “Of course there are. Okay, sorry,” he says, giving Gideon a charming smile. “Gideon, it is. So, barn conversion first?”
Half an hour later we pull up outside a stone building. It’s pristine with paintwork that gleams in the sunshine. It’s also huge and has three or four outbuildings on the property.
“Barn?” I mutter to Gideon as I get out of the car. “It’s a fucking mansion for cows.”
He grimaces and looks at the house. “I suppose it’s private. And it’s definitely nice and big,” he says consideringly.
“And nice and expensive,” I say softly, going past him. “My money won’t help much with this. I could probably afford to buy one of the windows.” I look at the house. “But only the small bathroom one. And that’s if it’s not double-glazed.”
“Eli,” he sighs. “I keep saying that it doesn’t matter.”
I turn to face him, aware of Julian coming towards us. “And that’s the problem,” I say softly.
Julian reaches us before Gideon can reply. “Let’s have a look,” he says, brandishing the key.
We follow him up the stairs, and I walk behind, listening to Gid and Julian talk abou
t the specs of the house and how much land comes with it. Apparently, it’s half of Cornwall, or at least that’s what it sounds like.
I look around. It is beautiful and peaceful, but it’s so utterly perfect in every detail, and somehow it’s just not us. Or at least not what I think Gid and I are. I don’t know, though. Maybe this is Gideon. Perhaps I don’t know him as well as I believe. I shake my head at my stupid thoughts just as Gideon stops walking.
“This isn’t right, is it?” he asks me.
“Why?”
He looks around, searching for words. “It’s just not us, love. We’re not multi garages and bidet people.”
“I’m definitely not a bidet person. My auntie had one in her house when I was five. I thought it was a posh water dispenser until my mum screamed at me.” He laughs, and I smile, filled with so much love for him that I almost can’t contain it. “No,” I say. “It’s definitely not us.”
We stand smiling at each other for a long beat until Julian stirs.
“So, not this one, then?” he says slowly. Then he pastes a smile on his face. “Well, I’ve got more.”
And he does. For the rest of the afternoon, we look at modern mansions and more barn conversions. All of them lovely. All of them in the million to two million pound price range. All of them modern and pristine. My spirits get lower and lower as the hot afternoon progresses, and I draw further and further away from them as they stride through the houses, discussing every detail.
I can’t contribute to any of this, I think despairingly, looking at Gideon’s head in front of me in the car as we drive to the next house. How can I? If we live somewhere like these places, I’ll always be a freeloader trailing along in his shadow. It’ll be the end of us, but I can’t articulate this to him. I’ve grown used to being the one who’s confident and knowledgeable, so it’s painful to be the unsure one now.
