by Lily Morton
It breaks the silence, and once he’s gone, Henry starts to talk about a renovation they’re doing at home. Max chimes in, mentioning my boat, and within seconds we’re all talking with an ease that, quite frankly, astounds me.
I don’t think I ever imagined a meeting like this. When I used to think of Henry and Ivo after my breakup with Max, I’d fantasised about scenes where Max proclaimed his love for me and his disdain for Ivo. Looking back, I realise how young and hurt I’d been back then. It’s easy to see now that Ivo is not the enemy or the villain. He’s just a beautiful, intelligent man who shared some incredibly intense experiences with Max. None of what happened was his fault. I’ve villainised him over the years because he had what I so desperately wanted, and it seemed to mean nothing to him.
Max’s phone rings and he looks down and curses. “Connor’s been trying to get through all afternoon.”
Ivo grins. “Poor Connor. He’s always been so bewildered by your social life.” He jerks, and it’s very obvious that Henry just kicked him.
I shake my head. “If you’re trying to cover up the fact that Max has shagged more people than Peter Stringfellow, I wouldn’t bother.”
“Not for a long while though,” Henry says quickly and very loyally. “And even at his worst, Max never had a mullet.”
“What a glowing character assessment,” Max says sourly.
“Not my business.” I look over at Max. “You should take his call.”
“I’ll speak to him later,” he says, darting an uneasy glance around the table.
“They’re not going to bite me, Max. I’ll be fine alone with your friends for a few minutes.”
He narrows his eyes at me and then stands, palming his phone. “Please try not to put Felix off me any more than possible,” he says earnestly to Henry and Ivo. “Don’t share any more of your little stories, Ivo. They do not help.”
Ivo makes a zipping motion over his mouth, and Henry laughs.
When Max leaves, a small silence falls, and then Henry pushes away from the table.
“Where are you going?” I ask, slightly panicked at being left with Ivo.
“Just to the loo. I’ll be back in a second.” He glares at Ivo. “Please try not to help, Ivo. It never goes well.”
“I find that quite offensive,” Ivo says indignantly.
“You’ll find it quite lonely in the spare bedroom too, if you upset Felix,” Henry says serenely and wanders off.
Ivo and I regard each other silently for a few moments. I feel intimidated by him. He’s handsome and older than me, and it’s a fact that he’s seen more of the world and lived a more exciting life than mine. But I remind myself that I bring my own talents to the table. Even though snarkiness and extreme sarcasm don’t seem to be things that are in demand career-wise.
“You’re wrong,” he says suddenly.
I raise my eyebrows, unsure if I said the last bit out loud. “Why?” I ask cautiously.
“Max is your business, and he’s all yours.”
“That was a long time ago, and it ended badly. I don’t think my confidence can take a second go.”
“Because he was in love with me?”
I gape at him. “You’re very… forthright.”
He smiles. “You can say rude. It’s fine.” He leans forward. “Max was never in love with me.”
“Well, he gave a very good impression of it,” I say faintly.
He shakes his head. “He’s a loyal friend and confused that with love. He’s always been looking for someone to love and who will love him back for everything he is. He’s amazing,” he says with a devoted doggedness that is oddly touching. “Anyone who has him at their back will be lucky, because he’s kind and funny and once you’re in with him, you never leave his affections.” He toys with his glass of wine, his long fingers tracing invisible patterns. “He’s loyal to me because of the shit we went through. No one will ever know what we shared as hostages, and that's a very good thing,” he says fervently. “But we could never have been together. We didn’t suit. We were okay for a roll around in bed, and we had some amazingly fun times, but it amounted to nothing for both of us. Both of us,” he says, looking into my eyes. “It just took longer for Max to realise. I was always in love with Henry, and Max just needed to find his own person.” He shrugs. “It took him a while, and of course he had to fuck his person off first until his person wanted to murder him. Wouldn’t be Max, otherwise.”
I smile, my head spinning. Ivo’s words ring with absolute truth and mesh with things that Zeb has said in the past.
“He was never the same after you left,” Ivo says. “He lost his spark.”
“And yet he seemed to discover it by excavating the tonsils of most of London’s men,” I say wryly.
“Only after he found out you were in a relationship.”
“What?” I jerk out.
“He went looking for you to get you back.”
Shock runs through me like I’ve seized an open wire. “When? Why didn’t I know that?”
“He found out you had a boyfriend from a friend of yours.”
I stare at him.
“Then apparently Max found you,” Ivo says.
I shudder at the thought of the awful conversation Max and I had outside my boat that night. I’d been so mad, and he’d hardly said anything. I’m reeling at the thought that Max had come to me to get back together.
“Why didn’t he say something?” I squirm as I remember that I didn’t exactly give him a chance to say much. I wonder if things would have been different if I had. I’ll never know.
Ivo sighs. “He came to us that night and got as drunk as I’ve ever seen, and he’s a journalist so you can imagine how much booze he sank. Henry was really worried.” He shrugs. “Then Max threw up in the kitchen sink, and Henry felt less worried and more ragey, but that’s Max. Never met a good thought he couldn’t enrage.” He smiles sadly. “He told me that you were finally happy and that’s all he wanted, that he was a mess and didn’t deserve you.”
I swallow. I hated him at the time, but now I hate that he was sad. I remember the parade of men and alcohol-soaked nights Max had consoled himself with for years and steel my resolve. “Well, he got over it.”
“Did he? Because as soon as he found out you were single again, he stopped the men. Doesn’t say to me that he’s over you.” He drains his glass in one long swallow. “Something to think about anyway,” he says, glancing towards the other side of the terrace. “I see Max has finished his call, so I’ll say no more except I hope that we can be friends. Max is very important to me. That will never change. I just hope you can get over the fact that we used to fuck each other and have fun with other people on occasion.”
I shake my head. “My last boyfriend had a cat who used to try and shit in my shoes, and I put up with it. I suppose your and Max’s sex life is in the same category.”
He looks stunned for a second and then bursts into loud laughter. I can totally see why people fall for him. Once the arrogant self-confidence fades, there’s a warm and funny man beneath.
“I like you,” he says.
I smile, because the ridiculous thing is I like him too.
Max arrives, out of breath. “Sorry. Connor wouldn’t stop talking.”
“It’s okay,” I say serenely.
Max looks unconvinced. “Everything okay?”
“You know, I think it is,” I say slowly.
Ivo helps himself to a chip from Max’s plate. “We laid a lot of ghosts to rest.”
“Really?” Max asks hesitantly. “As long as the talk didn’t centre too much around who we laid, I’m fine with that.”
“Really, Max,” I say blithely. “You’ve got to get over your wallflower propensities and get out and meet people.”
Ivo laughs, and even though he’s sitting here looking vivid and beautiful, I know that I’ve laid his ghost to rest too. It’s a relief, but also a worry. Ivo has always been the barrier preventing me from taking Max back.
What does a boy do when everything he wants falls into his lap? Does he take it, or does he run?
Chapter Nineteen
Felix
Max is very quiet on our way back to the hotel, sitting close to me in the water taxi and watching me intently. He seems hesitant and worried, and I say little, opting on the side of discretion.
When we walk into the hotel, Giulia is sitting behind the counter. She smiles at us. “A parcel came for you, Max,” she says. “It’s been taken to your room.”
He murmurs his thanks and tugs me to the lift. Once we’re in the tiny cubicle and he’s pressed the button for our floor, I sneak a look at him. He seems far away.
“You alright?” I ask.
He glances up from his study of his shoes. “I’m fine,” he says cautiously. “The more important question is, how are you?”
“Why is that more important?” I say, bewildered. “Don’t you count?”
His eyes are dark and confusing. “You’re more important to me than anyone,” he says, the words stiff and almost formal.
“Since when?”
“Since the day I walked into the biography section of Waterstones and saw you there,” he says steadily.
“Bollocks,” I say without any real heat. “I was just a shag.”
The door opens on our floor, but he puts out a hand to stop me leaving. “You were never just a shag,” he says quietly. “I just wouldn’t allow myself to recognise the fact.”
“Allow?” I’m struck by his use of the word. “What do you mean?”
“If I had sobered up and admitted what you were coming to mean to me, it would have scared me shitless.”
“Why?”
“Because it made me question everything.” The words seem to tumble out of him now. Ungraceful and rushed and filled with so much emotion and so unlike him. “If I felt something for you, then what did that mean about my feelings for Ivo? The one thing I prided myself on was my loyalty. Sometimes it was the only thing that kept me going. If I had switched my affections so quickly, what did that say about me?”
“You never showed any signs,” I say.
“Felix, I was a bloody mess,” he says in a despairing voice. “A fucking godawful mess that summer. I was reeling at giving up a job that was my life and trying to make a life outside of it. I never expected to live through my correspondent days. It came as quite a surprise to find myself on the other side. I hadn’t got over that when I met you, and I was struggling with what I now know is PTSD. I just couldn’t show you any of that shit.”
“Why?” I ask, pained.
“Because you were so young and so bright, you hurt my eyes. And I told myself that I’d have you for a bit, but it didn’t mean anything to me. I could do that and still be loyal. Then one day I woke up at the wedding of the man I thought I loved.” I flinch, and he reaches out and cups my face. “The man I thought I loved,” he says steadily. “Only to find that the man I’d really fallen in love with had gone because I was a blind and stupid idiot and he’d taken all the sunshine with him.”
“You were in love with me?” I whisper, my head reeling. I feel dizzy, like the lift rose too quickly.
“Were?” he asks. “Felix—”
“Excuse me, but are you going up or down?” A dapper old man with a cultured accent stands by the lift. He raises one eyebrow.
I laugh, feeling slightly hysterical. “Some days, it’s hard to know.’
Max murmurs his apologies and draws me out of the lift, his hand in mine. I follow him, and once we’re inside our room, I’m not sure what to say, “Max…” I begin.
“Let’s not talk anymore,” he says quickly. “Let’s just have a nice last night in Venice. We can talk tomorrow.”
I’m pretty sure I don’t hide my relief. I need to think about everything he’s just said. “Are you sure?”
He smiles sadly. “You’re about to start putting barriers up, so I’m pretty positive.”
“I’m not—” I start to say and then sag. “Maybe,” I admit.
He draws me to him and cups his hand around the back of my head. His fingers stroke through my messy waves as he kisses my forehead. The tenderness in his gesture makes tears prick in my eyes.
“It’s only natural,” he says quietly. “I hurt you, Felix. I took the love that you offered so freely and bravely, and I flung it back, not knowing how precious it was and how you gave it to so few people. And that’s on me. But now you can’t trust me to give it again.”
“I want to,” I admit, desperation in my tone.
He pulls back, smiling at me. There’s no trace of turbulence now—just a serene sort of resignation. “I know, and maybe you’ll never be able to again.” He breathes in. “Enough of this,” he says huskily. “I’ve got a present for you.”
“For me?”
“Yes, you. Is there anyone else in the room?”
“There’s barely enough room for you and your sense of humour,” I say tartly.
He grins, relief lighting his features. I’ve never met a man so enamoured of sarcasm. It’s odd, but sort of wonderful, because I have never pretended to be anything other than who I am with him. I think that’s why it hurt so much when he didn’t want my love, because he truly saw me. If he didn’t want the real me, then maybe I was lacking in some way. Now I know that it was him who was lacking, and the thought lifts a weight from my shoulders that I never knew I carried.
I look up and meet his gaze. He’s regarding me with an understanding that feels deep and significant somehow. “Yes,” he says simply. “Now you see.” He reaches over and grabs a brown paper parcel from the ornate side table. “This is for you.”
“Is it lube?” I ask cautiously. “Or sex toys.”
He laughs. “You’re so very easy to buy for, Felix, you little hedonist.” I grin, and his face lights up with eagerness. “Go on, open it,” he says, looking suddenly like the small boy he was once.
I tear open the wrapping and open the parcel to find layers of bubble wrap. It falls away, and I draw in a sharp breath that almost hurts my throat. “Max,” I say. “Oh my God.” My voice is clogged with sudden tears because in my hands is the Rupert annual. The one I remember telling him about at the book signing. The one with my favourite story in it. The one my father took from me and gave to some other child he liked better.
“Do you like it?” he asks.
I laugh and drag a hand clumsily over my eyes. “Max, why are you so fucking wonderful?” I bemoan.
He laughs, gathering me close and kissing my wet eyes. “I can’t help it. It’s my curse in life,” he says solemnly.
I snort a laugh, and he hugs me tight. I want to protest that he’s crushing me, but his grip is perfect in the way that Max is perfect just for me. “It’s too much,” I mutter. “But it’s so fucking brilliant. Thank you.”
He smiles. “That’s okay.”
I shake my head. “No, it isn't. You listen to me. You really listen.”
“I always will,” he says steadily. He hugs me again. “I was going to whisk us off for a very elaborate dinner, but how about we get into our PJs, order room service, and you read that story for me?”
“You want me to read a Rupert the Bear story to you?”
He nods solemnly. “Definitely. Can’t think of anything better.”
And the crazy thing is that he means it. As we lie in bed, his head resting on my shoulder, our legs entwined, and my voice reading the silly and lovely little story, I can feel the happiness radiating from him. He falls asleep holding me, and I lie for a while, thoughts teeming and churning in in my head as I listen to the water splashing outside. And although some of my thoughts include doubts, I still don’t loosen my grip on him.
The flight home is quiet. Max stares out of the window, his expression solemn and withdrawn. In the old days, I’d have been desperate for his attention and despairing that I wasn’t getting it. Now I just realise he’s in a quiet mood. He gets them when he has a lot on his mind.
They’re probably a respite from his exuberant personality. Nevertheless, he holds my hand, and when the flight lands at Heathrow, his grip tightens painfully, and I make a sound of protest.
“Sorry,” he says, giving me a quick kiss on my temple and letting go of my hand.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Perfectly fine.” He smiles.
We leave the plane and get through customs quickly. Maybe too quick, because our moment of parting suddenly arrives, and I’m not ready for it. And just like that, I know my decision.
“Max,” I say, stopping dead in the middle of the airport.
A man curses and swerves around me. “Watch where you’re going, you bloody idiot,” he mutters.
“Why don’t you mind your own fucking business?” Max says sharply. “And don’t speak to him like that, you massive bell end.”
“Max,” I say, tugging on his coat. “Leave the twat alone.”
He huffs before looking down at me. Something in my face must alarm him, because he grabs my arm and ignominiously hauls me behind a kiosk. “Felix?” he asks.
I laugh. “I give in, Max.”
“You give in what?”
“I give in. Let’s get back together.”
I fully expect a cry of delight and maybe a snog. Instead, a complicated expression crosses his face, and he pushes his hand through his hair in an agitated fashion.
“Max?”
“I can’t believe that I’m going to say this, but I want you to take a few days to think about it, Felix.”
“What? Why?” I ask, flabbergasted.
“Because you’re still not sure. You’ve been in the mindset of me being a cunt for two and a half years. It’s hard to change that.”
“To be honest, there are days that I do still think that.”
He huffs a laugh. “I don’t want to railroad you into loving me. I want your wholehearted participation.”
“But you always push everything. It’s what you do.”
