Extra Time: The District Line #4

by C F White

  “It’s just this,” Seb lied, indicating the surroundings. “For years we thought all we’d be was a rock band. Now we’re musical theatre artistes!”

  “Hmm,” Martin said dubiously. “You know, if I was a psychologist, I’d say by owning and managing your own theatre production company you were clawing for both your parents’ approval.” He shrugged. “But I’m not, so I’ll just say, I’m proud of you. Everything you put your mind to, you achieve.”

  “This is yours as well. And Noah’s. We’re a team. A band.”

  “This is your story. Yours and Jay’s.” Martin flipped through the glossy brochure and stopped on the photo of the Drops, the article beneath detailing the band’s rise to fame. He smiled. “You decided where you’re going to have the wedding of the century yet?”

  Seb lifted one of the boxes of merchandise from the table. “Not yet.” He grunted. Then dumped the box on the floor, wiped his hands and sat atop the desk. “We’re looking into options.”

  “OK! And Hello! must be wetting their knickers to get to you first.”

  “Who did you sell your wedding pics to?”

  “NME.”

  Seb snorted but was cut off when his phone rang. He fished it out and answered, “Champ, was just talking about you.”

  “Can you meet earlier?”

  “Meet?” Seb asked. What had he forgotten?

  “We’re meeting Tom and his new bloke tonight, but I need to chat to you first. Can you get there earlier?”

  “Ah.” Seb checked his watch. “What time?”

  “Now.”

  Seb looked at all the boxes that still needed to be filled and all the bags that needed to be put together and the mounds and mounds of paperwork that had to be settled before tomorrow’s opening night.

  “It’s bedlam here.” Seb winced. “I’d feel like an arsehole if I left.”

  “Ain’t that what being at the top means? Leave it to the minions?”

  “You know me, Champ. I can’t trust anyone but myself to ensure this is done right. Can you come here? Can chat over envelope stuffing.”

  “You’re the other side of London. By the time I get there, we’d have to leave to go meet Tom.”

  “So tell me over the phone. What’s up?”

  There was a pause. “Nah. Don’t worry. I’ll tell you after.”

  Martin held up his phone screen in front of Seb and pointed to a tweet, eyes widening.

  “Fuck.” Seb slipped off the table. “Is it that you made the fucking England team?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Baby, that’s…Jay, we need champers tonight! I’ll order some in. Where are we meeting? I’ll get it delivered to the table.”

  “Seb, listen a sec—”

  “All right, all right, your strict diet just got stricter, I’ll bet. No problem, you can have a sparkling mineral.”

  “Seb!” Carly, his office manager, called from the back office, phone in hand as she waved to him.

  “Hang on.” Seb covered the mouthpiece. “What is it?”

  “Ben’s quit.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Says he’s too nervous. He can’t do it. You’re either gonna have to talk him into it, or find another actor to play you.”

  “Could play yourself?” Martin suggested.

  “Jesus, fucking God!” Seb yelled, then sliding the phone back to his mouth he put on his grovelling voice, “I’m so sorry, baby, I’m going to have to go kick an actor. I’ll meet you there tonight though. Maybe later than planned. Remind me where?”

  “The Connaught.”

  “Wow, fancy. They got a room there?”

  “No idea. At least get there by eight, babe. Please?”

  “I’ll do my absolute best.”

  And he would. He really, really would.

  After he’d wrung a kid’s neck.

  * * * *

  His best was screeching up in a private taxi outside The Connaught Hotel in Mayfair at nine p.m. It had taken a shit ton of coaxing and even more flattery and the promise of a pay rise if Ben got through the opening night for Seb to convince him that he was good enough. First time jittery nerves were normal, he supposed. But the kid was leading an ensemble of a musical that had controversy written all over it. So he’d panicked he wouldn’t be able to do it justice. Seb had his own jubilations now too, but it was too late to find someone else to play the role and the bloke’s understudy was no where near good enough.

  Seb would play it himself if he didn’t look old enough to be Max’s father and give more ammunition for the right-wing papers to declare the production as filth. He was awaiting those headlines regardless.

  The car pulled up to the entrance of the five-star plush hotel just off Bond Street and Seb whistled. He and Jay didn’t tend to venture out to these parts. Seb hadn’t ever wanted to relive where he’d spent the majority of his wealthy elite upbringing with Jay. He liked to keep that part of his life separate. So they preferred drinking local, if at all. Occasional extravagant nights were because of awards dos or charity gigs. They kept themselves away from the limelight during their downtime and were happy to have house parties with friends or dinner at a handful of restaurants who understood their need for privacy. They were high-profile commodities who kept a low-key relationship.

  The Connaught, though, was lavish indulgence at its finest and situated within the bright lights of the vibrant city of wealth. Seb couldn’t understand why Jay would have agreed to meet his old friend among such gratuitous opulence. Especially as Tom was all about helping the disadvantaged. Maybe his new boyfriend was the pompous douchebag to Tom’s liberal saintliness. Opposites attract and all that.

  He rushed through the entrance, tipped a nod to the maître d’ and his innate poshness seemed to fall out of him when he asked, “The Ruttman table, please?”

  “Follow me, sir.” The maître d’ practically glided through the cocktail bar.

  Each of the tables were filled with patrons and hidden by oversized toffee-brown leather sofa booths. Seb could pick out his blond among a crowd of them and he tapped the maître d’ on his back as he said, “Got it,” then scrambled toward the back, shrugging out of his leather jacket. “I am so sorry,” he announced to the table, slapping his jacket on the back on the leather two-seater. He had to put on his welcoming smile to Tom and leaned across the table to shake his hand. “Tom.”

  “Long time, no see, Sebastian.” Tom returned the handshake with his usual nauseating beam. “Lovely to see you again.”

  Seb wondered if it really was. Tom was a perfect specimen of human. Radiant model-like looks, slender and tall, chestnut hair perfectly and effortlessly styled. Mixing that with his humanitarian work and using his voice to elevate the underrepresented, he was the complete package. What sort of man would put up with such perfection and have it not hurt their gums?

  He turned to the tall and rather bulky bloke sat beside Tom to solve that conundrum.

  “Seb, I’d like you to meet—”

  “The fuck!” Seb baulked, then before he could stop himself, he spat the rest to Tom’s new love interest wrapped in scandalous venom, “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  Tom shut his mouth, gaping from one man to the next. “Do you know each—”

  Jay shifted in his seat, reaching up a hand to squeeze Seb’s arm. “Babe?”

  “What the actual fuck is this?” Seb asked, teeth clenched.

  “Seb, it’s all right.” Rich—the fucking Rich from New York’s Lighthouse bar—rose from his seat, accentuating just how tall and broad he was, and stood in front of Seb as though it was the most obvious place in the world for him to be and not a fucking mindfuck of epic fucking proportions. “I’m here with Tom.”

  “You two know each other?” Jay asked, his hand drifting from Seb’s arm.

  Seb’s voice was lost to his drumming pulse.

  “Sort of,” Rich offered and parked his arse back down on the sofa, the cushions grinding under his bulky frame and
his nipples protruding out of the thinnest T-shirt that might as well have been one of Jay’s base layers. He slipped a hand onto Tom’s leg when he uttered, “But not really.”

  “Care to fill us in?” Tom asked, his hand finding Rich’s and linking their fingers as though that was natural too.

  Seb couldn’t take this. He was still standing. Frozen. Unable to speak or respond. He was thrust back to a time he’d happily left behind and had never wanted to recount as to when he’d hit the bottom of the bottle, fell to his demise and landed in that man’s bed.

  “We met in New York,” Rich informed the table as if he was their spokesperson. Theirs. Him and Seb’s. As if they were a fucking unified allegiance. He then ran a hand over his mostly-balding head. At least that was some silver lining. Rich had lost his hair. Seb had only lost his self-respect.

  “New York?” Jay wrapped his fingers around his beer, not entwining them in solidarity with Seb’s like the cutesy couple opposite were.

  Couple? Christ!

  “Jay—” Seb stuttered out, attempting to invigorate himself to life.

  “When he lived there,” Rich clarified for no other reason than because he was an absolute arsehole. He winked too. Winked!

  Seb clenched his jaw, glancing down to Jay. His blue eyes that had first swam through confusion suddenly merged into horrid realisation. Seb’s heart pounded. He felt sick. Could he run out? Should he flee this situation like a guilty man in retreat?

  “He’s the fella?” Jay nodded to Rich before taking a swig from his bottle.

  All Seb could do was nod the confirmative.

  “Great,” Jay mumbled into his bottle then chugged it down his throat. He waggled the near-empty up to the roaming waiter. “Sit down, babe. Order a drink.”

  “I’m not sure if I want to,” Seb replied through gritted teeth.

  “Seb.” Rich sat forward, Tom’s hand sliding away from his and he held up his palms in an act of chivalrous surrender. “Look, this is my fault. Tom didn’t know I knew you and this past hour waiting for you, I figured I’d keep my trap shut and wait to see if you even remembered. It was a long time ago. You were drunk—”

  “I remember,” Seb spat, barely giving the man any attention before settling his gaze back on Jay. “I wish I didn’t.”

  “Charming.” Rich fell back in his seat.

  “Maybe we all need to take a breather,” Tom suggested as a waitress floated up to their table. “Another round, please. Seb? What’ll you have?”

  “JD.” Rich said that at the exact same time it fell from Seb’s lips.

  Seb glared at him.

  “Leave the bottle?” Rich’s intonation was a step too far along with his inappropriate chuckle.

  “Jesus fucking Christ.” Jay closed his eyes, sliding fingers across his temple.

  “I’ll have a wine. Red,” Seb told the waitress instead.

  “Any particular? We have an extensive list, the menu is just—” she went to reach to the middle of the table.

  “Whatever you have in the Bordeaux range.”

  She nodded and scampered off as Seb sat. Right opposite Rich. He smiled at him. Seb didn’t return it.

  “Right, well.” Tom’s chipper tone waded over the awkward silence. “I guess you know my boyfriend already then?”

  Seb arched an eyebrow silently telling Tom he could go fuck himself. Quickly. And quietly. And preferably somewhere else.

  “It’s a small world,” Tom mused and sipped from his garish cocktail. “And also not that uncommon. I’ve been to many a dinner party with friends where at least a couple of them have been with the others around the table too. It happens.”

  “But how?” was all Seb’s too tight throat allowed him to squeak out. “Like, how did you two even meet? Aren’t you from nowhere’s ville U S of A, and he in New York?”

  “I was doing some work in New York,” Tom said. “A housing project for disrupted teens.”

  Seb fought really hard not to roll his eyes.

  “Rich was part of the project. His LGBT charity had a few members we helped source and provide housing for.”

  “You run a charity?” Seb asked, disbelief in his delivery.

  “Started it up a few years back. Born out of my LGBT Supporters Group.”

  “Supporters group?”

  “For West Ham.”

  Seb widened his eyes then glanced to Jay beside him. Jay didn’t seem surprised so maybe that piece of information had already been dealt with in Seb’s absence.

  “It’s what got me and Tom talking. My Pride of Irons NY supporters club was growing, we had a few identified LGBT supporters of other clubs and I opened it up to a Pride of EFL supporters club. Gave them my bar as a safe space to watch the games and support their teams without persecution. Tom said he was a West Ham fan. It went from there.”

  “A West Ham fan?” Seb side eyed Tom.

  “By default, obviously.” He smiled.

  “Of course.” Seb tutted. “But how are you here? Together?”

  “We came for Tom to meet my parents.” Rich’s gooey eyes at Tom was nauseating.

  Seb grabbed Jay’s bottle and swigged back the dregs at the bottom to prevent throwing up in his mouth. Jay gave him a look that pretty much said, ‘don’t go there’, and snatched the bottle back.

  “It was him who suggested we meet up with Jay,” Rich continued through the unease, whether he was oblivious or not. “I jumped at the chance. I mean, without Jay, I wouldn’t have considered setting up a supporter’s group. He didn’t only change the game for players, but for supporters to feel pride in who they are too.”

  Seb glanced to his boyfriend. Jay’s tinted cheeks would have been delightful if that compliment hadn’t been delivered to him by Seb’s New York fuck buddy. The man he’d fallen into bed with, hoping and wishing it had been Jay.

  Could this get any more uncomfortable?

  The drinks arrived then, and they all stuck in, giving Seb time to digest the information as well as the alcohol.

  “So, knowing you were here to meet Jay,” Seb started, plummy blackcurrant spice sliding down his throat and warming his tepid insides. “You didn’t think to mention you knew me?”

  “Like I said, I wasn’t sure you’d even remember. I figured I’d leave it out. I mean, Tom was letting me meet a hero of mine. It might’ve dampened things if I was to say I’d fucked his boyfriend.”

  Jay closed his eyes at that.

  “Fiancé,” Seb corrected through rising nausea.

  “Congratulations.” Rich held up his bottle. “If it weren’t for you coming in and making a scene, I wouldn’t have mentioned it at all.”

  The silence that followed was bitter. Even Tom appeared out of joint with his pinched expression—the only positive aspect in all this was that the American didn’t appear so angelic right then.

  “Look.” Rich inched forward. “I’m sorry. Sorry, Tom, for not telling you that I knew Seb.” He slipped a hand around Tom’s back and nudged him in to kiss his temple. “Sorry, Seb, for making this awkward for you. It wasn’t my intention. And sorry, Jay, for fucking your fiancé. If it’s any consolation, he called me your name throughout the whole thing.”

  “Fuck off,” Seb spat.

  Rich chuckled. “Come on. This is actually quite funny when you think about it.”

  “No one’s laughing.” Seb swished his wine, his face no-doubt the same shade as the delightful Margaux.

  Rich slumped back in his chair, defeat crossing his face as he glanced down at his hands. Seb didn’t feel any remorse. He’d slammed headfirst into a scenario he’d never thought was even possible. Guzzling his wine, he had nothing more to say. Jay could handle this one. Which he hoped he would do by calling an end to the cosy reunion and going home to avoid any more mingling. Fuck the idea that they needed to get out more.

  “So, Jay.” Tom tapped the table, his beaming smile back. “England team? That’s awesome.”

  Seb shifted a sheepish glance to Jay besid
e him mid-sip of his wine, checking whether he was going to keep up this conversation or not. He was startled when Jay said, “Yeah.” But didn’t elaborate. He knocked back his beer, his blond hair falling into his eyes as he stared at the table and gripped the bottle.

  Shit. This was all his fault. This had meant to be a celebration. This was Jay reaching the very tip of his career and Seb had knocked the wind firmly from his sails. He should have handled the situation better. It wasn’t like Jay hadn’t known about Seb’s past, but he guessed he didn’t want it sitting opposite him at a swanky London hotel bar.

  Jay stood, Seb’s gaze following him up. “Back in a sec.” He then left the table.

  Seb blew out a breath then glared across at Rich and leaned forward to seethe through his teeth, “Happy now? Got what you want, did you? Ruin his night.”

  “I wasn’t out to ruin anyone’s night, least of all his.” Rich inclined his head toward the door of the gents where Jay had disappeared. “The world doesn’t revolve around you, Sebastian. We were getting on great before you swanned in here an hour late as though you’re the fucking Queen bee.”

  “Who the actual fuck do you think you are?” Seb waved a hand, his wine sloshing out and pooled onto his jeans. Lucky they were black.

  “What? Not had someone talk to you like this in a while?” Rich cocked his head. “Sebastian Saunders, the world at his feet, ain’t used to being told he’s not everyone’s cup of fucking tea. I don’t know how that bloke puts up with you.” He snatched his beer and hovered it to his lips. “Oh, wait, I do. You give a great blowjob.” He chuckled before throwing the beer down his neck. “They say don’t meet your heroes. But I think they can include not meeting your heroes other halves, that’ll dampen your view of them too.”

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  Rich laughed—belly laughed—and the whole damn hotel bar might have glanced over but Seb was too annoyed not to take his eyes of the prick in front of him.