by Lily Morton
He studies me and then grins widely. “This is perfect.”
“It’s perfect that I’m freezing to death? That’s quite heartless, Max.”
“No, I can fix the boiler for you. Saves you the cost of a plumber.”
“You’ll do what, now?” I ask warily and watch as he takes off his motorcycle jacket and the black jumper underneath it. “Wait. What are you doing?”
He rolls up the sleeves on his long-sleeve grey T-shirt. “I told you. I’m going to fix the boiler.”
“Is that after you get your plumbing qualifications?” I ask uneasily, following him as he makes his way unerringly to the little engine room. “Oh Max, you can’t do that,” I protest as he removes the boiler cover and looks at the innards with entirely strange enthusiasm.
He looks up. “Why not?”
“Well, you’re wearing a Gant T-shirt,” I say, eyeing the soft grey crewneck. “You’ll get mucky.” I pause. “Oh, and you don’t have any plumbing knowledge.”
“It’s lovely to watch your priorities in action. It’s quite fascinating.” He winks at me. “And how do you know I don’t have plumbing experience? Did you read my book, after all, Felix?”
“Of course not.” I sniff. “It’s holding up my table.”
He laughs, his teeth white in his stubbled face. “Well, I do know a lot about boilers. I like finding out about stuff like that. I love engines,” he says enthusiastically.
“I love Jaffa cakes. Doesn’t mean I can make or repair them.” I scratch my chin. “You really don’t have to do this. We’re not about that.”
“And what are we about?” He seems amused.
I shrug. “I don’t know. I have a hole. You have a dick. That’s it.”
“Wow, it’s like we’ve been written in the stars. Move over, Romeo and Juliet.” I huff with laughter, and he grabs my nape, kissing my cheek. “Relax. I just have a vested influence in not fucking someone who is attempting to be the world’s skinniest human ice cube.”
“That’s all right, then,” I say, relaxing slightly. Then I stiffen. “Wait. I’m not skinny.”
“No?”
“No. I am wiry and very fit.”
He starts to laugh. “You are as far away from being fit as Jacob Rhys-Mogg is from having a pleasant personality. You were puffing when you had to race to get to the bar at last call last night.” I glare at him until he finishes laughing. “Listen, it’s all good, Felix. I’ve repaired all sorts of engines and machinery. I wouldn’t be alive now if I couldn’t do that. I’ve repaired car engines in deserts and jungles and warzones. Now, do you have a pump plier?”
“Is that a sex toy?” I ask. “I’m afraid I’m a teeny bit vanilla, Max. I just have the one dildo and my hand.” I laugh as he makes flapping motions with his hands for me to move out of his way. “I’ll go and ask Rob, my neighbour. I usually just borrow tools off him.”
He shakes his head in disapproval, and I make my escape as he turns happily back to the recalcitrant boiler.
I lean against the wall when I’m out of his sight. It makes me uneasy to see him doing this for me. I dare say I’m being ridiculous. The man hasn’t proposed on bended knee. He’s just helping me out the way a mate would, with the added bonus of getting to stick his hands in an engine’s innards.
I bite my lip. It’s just that I try not to need people for anything. I do everything myself and don’t rely on anyone, and I’ve got a sneaking feeling that it would be way too easy to get used to having Max at my back. He’s just so competent and strong. Reassuring in a very charismatic package.
I give an exclamation of disgust. Get over yourself, Felix. He’s just helping out. Give it a few weeks, and you’ll never see him again. You’ll go back to being on your own, and he’ll go back to charming the pants off men in bookshops and never give you another thought.
I nod determinedly, already feeling better, and step off the boat to borrow some tools for him.
An hour later, after getting a load of my own work cleared up, I pop my head into the engine room to find Max and Rob bent over my boiler, conversing very happily in what appears to be a foreign language. Max has a streak of oil running down his face, blood on his knuckles where he’s obviously hit himself with something, and black streaks over his T-shirt and jeans. He seems lit up from within.
“How are we doing?” They turn to me, looking as if they’d forgotten I was even on the boat. I suppress a smile. “Any joy?” I eye their clothes. “Beyond the illogical lure of boiler grease.”
“I think it’s done,” Max says.
Rob squeezes past me, heading for the living area.
“Heating is coming on,” he calls after a moment.
Max fist bumps the air. “Yes!”
I shake my head. “I think it would have been cheaper to call a plumber than to destroy your very posh togs.”
He looks down, as if remembering that he was wearing clothes, and then shrugs. “I fit in better now, seeing as you’re dressing like an extra from Les Misérables.”
“I dreamed a dream,” I declare dramatically, and he laughs.
We turn as Rob comes back. “All sorted,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder. “Good bloke you’ve got here, Felix.”
“Oh, he’s not mine,” I say awkwardly. “I’ve only borrowed him for a bit.”
“Oh, yes?” Rob asks.
“Yep. I’ll throw him back when I’m done with him.”
Rob looks rather surprised, but Max just laughs. “I need to prove my usefulness,” he says earnestly to my neighbour.
Rob laughs. “Well, I suppose fixing a boiler would do it.”
I eye Max in a dubious way. “I still think flowers and chocolates are more the way to go.” I laugh. “But I gave my flower away a very long time ago, so a boiler is the way to go.” I smile at Rob. “Are you staying for some food?”
He shakes his head. “No thanks, Felix. Mandy’s shift finished half an hour ago so she’ll be home any minute, and I’ve got dinner on.”
“Well, thank you,” I say.
He smiles. “Anything for such a good neighbour.” He holds out his hand for Max to shake. “Great to meet you, Max. Good bloke,” he mutters to me again and then he’s gone.
I sigh after a beat of silence. “Okay, tell me what you now know about Rob.”
He grins. “What makes you think I know anything?”
“Because you can’t resist asking questions, Max.”
“He met Mandy when he shut her hand in a pub door. He’s allergic to mushrooms, and they’re trying for a baby.”
I blink and shake my head. “I don’t even know his surname.”
He laughs. “Felix, for shame.”
“Oh, fuck off. We don’t know people like that down here. It’s usually first names only in our little community.”
“Community? Is that what this is?”
I nod. “Oh, God, yes. People move in and out, but boat people are largely very friendly and helpful.”
“How long have you had the boat?”
“Since I was eighteen.”
He looks startled. “Bloody hell, that’s young. What did your parents say?”
“Well, one wouldn’t have cared less if I’d become a merman and gone to live in the Trafalgar Square fountain. And my mum died when I was seventeen.” He stares at me, something moving across his face, and I feel suddenly awkward. “Sorry,” I say quickly. “Didn’t mean to get personal.”
“My mum died when I was seventeen too,” he says.
“I’m sorry,” I say again after a pause. “Were you close?”
He nods. “Very. We were all we had. My dad died when I was nine, and after that, she made a really fucking stupid marriage, so it carried on being just the two of us.”
I wrinkle my nose. “At least I didn’t have to cope with a second bad marriage. My mum stayed in love with my dad.” I pause. “Don’t know which is worse, actually, because she could have done with binning that emotion straightaway.”
&nbs
p; “And were you on your own? Any siblings?”
“No. I’m close to my cousins though. My mum was one of six sisters.”
“Six? Fucking hell.”
I laugh. “And all the children seemed to belong to the family as a whole. I lived with my Auntie Jackie for a year when my mum died which was okay, because I had my cousin Misha there, whom I’m very close to.”
“Still, a boat on your own. You’re brave.”
“Or desperate for five minutes’ peace in the bathroom.” He grins at me and despite my instincts screaming at me to stop, I ask another question which is sure to be the slippery slope that will entail me wanting to know everything about him. “Any siblings?”
“I’ve got a stepbrother. He came with the stupid marriage, but he lasted. I don't know what I’d do without him.”
“Older or younger?”
“Oh, older. But lovely.”
“That’s nice,” I say awkwardly and then give an exaggerated shudder. “Oh, how cold it is. Let’s go and get in the shower and have sex.”
He laughs. “Oh my God, did we step into personal territory?”
“Yes. We should be spanked and sent to bed early.”
He edges close. “I don’t mind going to bed early, and I’ll spank you whenever you like, Felix.”
“Well, hopefully, you won’t tie me up at the same time. I don’t have time to dedicate a year to just one sexual encounter.”
He laughs, and I tug him into the boat’s living area. His gaze goes everywhere, and I turn to look at my space with fresh eyes.
When I first got the Aunt Sally, it was an absolute mess. Damp and dingy and on its last legs. The renovation had taken a lot of time because I didn’t have much money at the beginning and was learning the ropes. Now, however, it’s lovely. The floors are all stripped pine with handy cupboards underneath them. A seating area is at one end of the living space, with a sectional sofa I saved for a year to buy. It’s full of colourful cushions and is utterly comfortable. A fact I can attest to because I’ve often passed out on it.
Next to it is a door that opens wide, giving me a birds-eye view of the canal rippling in the sunshine while I lounge on the sofa. The kitchen is small with navy-painted units and a little bistro table and two chairs that I’d rescued from a skip and restored with much consultation of YouTube.
The bedroom is at the other end of the boat. It’s a cosy room filled with a big bed with lots of pillows and the green patterned eiderdown that my mum made for me when I was fifteen. It’s a little nest. Cool in the summer when the windows are open, and the breeze blows in off the canal, and warm and snug in the winter.
However, pride of place must go to the dressing room and bathroom. Bathrooms are usually tiny on boats, but I took out the second small bedroom and knocked through so now, although it’s still small, it’s big enough to fit a freestanding slipper bath and a separate shower. My dressing room is a long, narrow space running off the corridor and kitted out with rails and shelves all hidden behind a bright-coloured curtain.
It’s not big, and I dare say it looks shabby next to Max’s opulent hotel rooms, but it’s home, and it’s all mine. Two things I never take for granted and guard strenuously.
“It’s lovely,” he says, and the ring of truth in his voice makes me instantly relax. Then he steps forward and bangs his head on a low bit of the ceiling. I laugh, and he shakes his head. “You’re a terrible host.”
“I am not,” I say indignantly. “Would a terrible host blow you in the shower while fingering your bum hole, which is top of my to-do list for today?”
He blinks. “I don’t think they ever covered that scenario in Tatler.”
“Which is why I cannot possibly ever read it,” I say pompously, leading him to the shower room.
“Wow, it’s…”
“Teeny tiny?” I offer. “Petite? Wee?”
He smiles. “All of those.” He turns to me as I start to unbuckle his belt and unfasten his jeans. “How on earth will you succeed in your admirably detailed itinerary?”
“I’m very dedicated to always coming through on my promises,” I say solemnly. “I tell you, Max, sometimes it’s a curse.”
“I can tell that.” He lifts his arms obediently so I can slide his T-shirt off. He groans as I fall to my knees and lick a wet stripe up the underside of his dick. “Felix, can I ask something before you blow my mind?”
I sit back on my heels and eye him. “Of course.”
“Do you think it would be possible for you to take off that hat first? It’s rather distracting.”
“Power through it,” I advise him, and his laughter turns to groans as he braces himself against the sink and thrusts his hips at my face. I lower my hand to my pyjama pants to fist my cock. Soon the only sounds in the room are his groans and my occasional gasps, and I’m glad he’s stopped his questions.
An hour later, I sit back from my plate of chicken korma and reach for my wine. My collection of candles burns merrily on the low coffee table, sending interesting shadows over Max’s face.
He watches me from the other side of my small sectional sofa. “So when you said you’d sort out the food you didn’t actually mean you’d cook it?”
I swallow my wine. “Fuck no, and you should be thankful for that. My skills are much more suited to takeaway apps.”
“If your food preparation is anything like your dress sense today, I certainly am thankful.”
I look down at my outfit of yoga leggings and a Hello Kitty T-shirt. “What’s wrong with this?” I ask, laughing.
“It’s not exactly pulling gear, is it?”
“I’ve already pulled you, orf,” I say, mimicking his posh voice.
He shakes his head and laughs.
I top up his wine and twist around on the sofa to lean against him. He’s toasty warm, which seems to be his normal body temperature.
He flicks through the channels idly, not settling on anything and therefore watching five minutes of everything. He does this a lot. The first time I didn’t pay attention and thought I was watching the world’s most confusing programme.
When he finally stops on a channel, I stare at him. “What the fuck? Crufts? Thirty-odd channels and you decide on a dog show.”
He grins and pulls me closer, lifting his free hand to brush it through my messy hair. “Reminds me of my younger days.”
“Why? Did they show you? What pedigree class were you in?” I laugh as he pinches me.
“No,” he says. “I apprenticed with my first paper when I was seventeen, and me and my best mate, who was also an apprentice, had to cover all the shit like this. Dog shows and county fairs. I remember watching this in a hotel in Afghanistan after covering a massacre. Made me yearn for England. It sort of represents the best of our country, like the village fetes and fairs. Faded genteel snapshots of a country that’s changing dramatically every second.”
I consider his expression. There was a lot of emotion in that statement. The most I’ve ever heard from him.
“Do you still see your friend?” I ask.
He looks almost startled as if he’d forgotten I was here. “Yes. We’re still best friends. We were partners for a very long time. He took the photos, and I wrote the pieces. Between us, we covered most of the shit that happened in the world for years. He’s retired now though. He’s a very famous painter.”
“Houses?” I ask, and I’m gratified when he laughs.
“I can’t wait to tell him that. Well, you’d know all about him if you’d read my book.”
I tut. “Can’t do it, I’m afraid. I’m waxing my inner ear this evening.” He laughs and then looks at me steadily. “What?” I ask.
“Why aren’t you with someone, Felix?”
I raise my eyebrow. “Oh, dear. Should I be with someone so I can be fulfilled?”
He grins. “Emotionally, you have a bottomless hole,” he says in a dramatic voice.
I laugh but then fidget with my T-shirt, smoothing the fabric down. “I don
’t want a relationship with someone,” I say slowly. “It makes you weak.” He jerks and I look at him curiously. “You don’t agree?”
He smiles, and there’s something very sad about it. “On the contrary, I couldn’t agree more.”
As if by mutual agreement, we turn back to the television. For a while, we watch Crufts in silence, making our way down a couple of bottles of wine and lost in our own thoughts. Finally, I stir.
“Jesus,” I slur. “These dogs have got very strange names. I swear their owners were pissed when they christened them.”
He gives a drunken chuckle. “It’s a combination of things. The first bit is usually their kennel name which has got to be one word and no longer than twelve characters. The Kennel Club is very strict about that. They reject about twenty percent of applications.”
“And they let this one through?” I say in disbelief as a dog flounces across the screen with a name that sounds like someone has squashed a load of shampoo bottles together.
He shrugs. “The rest of the name can be anything, but often litters are given themed names, or they’re named after the owner’s interests.”
“Let’s pick our own pedigree names,” I say impulsively, turning to him. I think hard while swigging my wine. “I know. I shall be Mrs Flimflam Sloppy Blowjob, and you can be Euripides Nice Hair Rimming the Third.”
He promptly snorts wine out of his nose. “What the hell?”
We cling to each other as we laugh, and then we select more names. They get wilder and ruder as the bottle gets emptier.
Finally, he turns to me, examining my face intently. “You do make me laugh,” he says in a low voice.
I stare at him. “Well, that’s good, isn’t it? And entirely undeserving of the tragic tone of voice you just used.”
He shrugs, peeling the label on the wine bottle almost nervously. “I’m not sure whether it’s good or not, to be honest.”
I watch him, and when he looks up, I sigh. “Neither am I,” I admit.
Chapter Five
Felix
I see him as I make my way through the pub garden. The weather improved last week, and it’s a warm day. The scent of flowers drifts from huge hanging baskets as I walk towards him. The sun shines brightly on his head, gleaming on red strands and catching the odd grey. He’s dressed in cargo shorts and a washed-out baby-blue T-shirt and has his phone to his ear talking in a very intense fashion.
