by Lily Morton
“I need a new religion.” He sighs and I smile, getting up to shake his hand. I swallow at the tingle I get when our palms meet, and, looking at him, I know he feels it too.
“Shame,” I say softly so his assistant doesn’t hear.
His face twitches, and I watch the cool expression slide over his face. “Not where I eat,” he reminds me, and I step back, walking towards the door.
“It’s because the inside of cucumbers are twenty degrees cooler than the outside air,” he says just as I get to the door.
I stop and turn back. “What?”
“You asked where the idiom ‘cool as a cucumber’ came from. That’s what it means.”
“I don’t know how I lived this long without knowing that,” I say solemnly, and his face creases into a smile.
“Welcome aboard, Mr Reed.”
“Aye aye, captain,” I say. “And it’s Jesse.”
“Welcome aboard, Mr Reed,” is his reply. “Don’t let the door hit your arse on the way out.”
Chapter One
Three Years Later
Jesse
I walk through the narrow, whitewashed alley, coming out into the glory of Neal’s Yard. Even after three years, this place still makes me happy. It’s almost a shock to cross from the main road with its cars and noise into this small courtyard full of the scent from the window boxes hanging from the tall, narrow buildings that are painted intensely vivid colours from pink to lime green to sky blue. It’s hidden in plain sight and I’ve always thought it was like a psychedelic Diagon Alley, full of small shops, restaurants and cafes, and tourists taking the perfect Instagram shot.
According to Zeb, the area was once the home of occultists and astrologers, and to me it seems that atmosphere lingers a little in the open and welcoming feel of the courtyard.
Zeb’s building is one of the prettiest. It’s four storeys in the original brick with windows painted bright orange. It has the original bay doors from when it was a warehouse, and pretty Juliet balconies. His front door is painted lime green with a discreet sign advertising the name of the agency, and when I open it and walk into the hallway, it’s blessedly cool and filled with the scent of roses from the flower arrangement on a low table.
I saunter through the reception area, which contains the usual load of people waiting to see Felix or Zeb. Felix grins at me.
“Why the sunglasses inside, Brad Pitt? Hiding from the paparazzi?”
I shake my head. “They’re needed today.”
“Have you got a hangover?” he asks sympathetically.
“Why does everyone always leap to the conclusion that anything I do is alcohol related?”
“Because it is,” comes a deep voice from behind me. I whirl round to see Zeb standing in his doorway. He’s in his shirtsleeves, his tie at half-mast, clutching a handful of papers and wearing a sardonic smile.
“I feel judged,” I say. They keep looking at me, and finally I sigh and lower my glasses.
Zeb drops his papers and strides towards me immediately. “What the fuck?” he says angrily. “Who did this?”
I gape at him as he lifts my face and examines my black eye intently.
“Well?” he says. His voice is sharp, but the fingers he touches to the side of my eye are gentle. I blink at him, smelling the scent of oranges. I’m sure he doesn’t realise how close he’s standing, but I’ll take the time to enjoy it while I can.
Felix shifts position and realisation comes into Zeb’s eyes as well as discomfort, and he drops his hands from my face.
I mourn the loss of his closeness before I realise that he just said something. “Huh? What?” I say.
He shakes his head. “Did you hit your head when this happened?”
“No?”
He sighs. “Okay, this is just normal behaviour, isn’t it? I keep forgetting that.”
Felix breaks into laughter, and I shake my head before putting my glasses back on. “It’s a long story,” I say slowly.
“Ah, would it have anything to do with the very long email I received from Mr Sampson this morning?”
“It depends on whether that email is praise or recrimination.” He stares at me and I shake my head again. “Okay, a bit of both, then,” I say sadly.
“Into my office, Mr Reed,” he says, waving his hand towards the door as if I’ve forgotten where it is.
I square my shoulders. “Just so you know, this is totally like being called in to see the Head. And not in a good way.”
“Is there a good way?” he asks, his mouth twitching at the corner as he shuts the door.
“In porn there is.”
“Ah, I can’t help feeling, Mr Reed, that watching porn has given you rather unrealistic expectations of life.”
I slump into the chair opposite his desk. “Maybe. But I have realised by now that it’s never that easy to get a plumber.”
He can’t help the smile this time, but he quashes it remorselessly and sits down in his chair before resting his elbows on the desk and steepling his fingers together. It’s a thoughtful pose, but I can testify that it’s a better interrogation technique than anything MI5 use. And more threatening, I think morosely.
“Well?” he murmurs.
“Oh, okay then,” I say sulkily. “There might have been a tiny fight at the wake.”
He blinks. “And did you cause it?”
“No, of course not,” I say indignantly. He stares at me and I slump some more. “But I might have finished it. You should have seen Peter Sampson’s family. All of them glaring at him like he was Voldemort arriving for the wake, rather than just a gay man with his partner.”
“Pretend partner.”
I stare at him. “Of course.” I furrow my brow. Surely he can’t think it’s anything else? I know the rules and I abide by them. No fucking the clients. I open my mouth to break in, but he speaks and the moment is lost.
“So, what happened?”
“The coffin was set up in the front room, and Peter tried to go in, but his elder brother was drunk and barred his way. Said no faggot was coming into his house.” Zeb grimaces but motions for me to carry on. “Anyway, he laid his hands on Peter and pushed him, but Peter shoved him back.” I grin. “Quite surprised me. Made me feel almost proud.” I shrug. “But then it was open season, and in the fight that happened next, there was a lot of pushing and shoving and a great deal of family members who appeared to have very strong feelings about homosexuality. And not the good, strong feelings you get at Vibe at midnight.”
He frowns. “So, what happened? How did you finish it?”
I shift in my chair. “I punched the eldest brother. He deserved it,” I say quickly. “The homophobic git slapped Peter round the face.”
“And then?” I look at him and he sighs. “There’s more. I know there’s more.” He shakes his head. “There’s always more,” he says with weary resignation.
I try to summon up indignation, but I can’t manage it because he’s telling the truth. “I punched him, and I must be a great deal stronger than I ever imagined because he flew through the air and landed on the coffin.”
“Jesus Christ,” Zeb mutters and rubs his eyes.
“Do you know that in Spanish that’s Jesu Christo?” I nod. “I know that because it was shouted a lot after that.”
“Why?” It’s the voice of doom.
I bite my lips. “Because the old lady sort of fell out of the coffin.”
“Sort of? How does a body sort of fall out of a coffin?”
“Your voice goes alarmingly high when you’re angry,” I observe.
He breathes in slowly. “Jesse Reed,” he says ominously.
“Okay, okay. Since you actually used my first name, I’ll tell you. But it wasn’t used terribly nicely. You could really do better.” He glares at me. “So, the old lady’s body sort of fell out of the coffin, and the brother landed on her.” I shrug helplessly. “It brought the party to a bit of an abrupt stop.”
“I should imagine it did,�
� he drawls. “Is that how you got your black eye?”
“I’d like to say yes, but the undignified truth is that one of the old lady’s shoes flew off and hit me in the eye.”
There’s a very long silence as he steadily goes red in the face. Alarmed, I wonder if I should ring for an ambulance, but at that moment he starts to laugh. And laugh. And laugh.
I stare at him, feeling my own lips twitch because his laugh is so contagious. You could actually catch his laughter like a little germ and feel it taking root in yourself.
After a few minutes, he stops laughing and looks contemplatively at me. I try a smile, but I think the true glory is a bit wasted today with my sunglasses on. I probably look like I’m still pissed.
Zeb shakes his head. “That explains Mr Sampson’s email.” His voice wobbles slightly and I frown at him. “He apologises for the fracas at the party and would like to tell you that the package was picked up and put back where it belonged.” His voice falters again but he firms his expression. “He says how happy he was with the service and would definitely like to use you again.”
I stare at him. “So, that’s good, then. Brilliant.” I clap my hands together. “Another satisfied customer.”
“Let’s not speak too rashly. That goes against the grain.” I open my mouth, but he holds his hand up. “No, I’m not explaining that.” I subside back into my chair. “Let’s face it, these last few months have been rather eventful for your career at the agency.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” I say uneasily.
“Really?” he says silkily. “You wouldn’t? Hmm, let’s see. Last month you were asked to escort Mr French to an office party and what happened?” I mutter something and he smiles mockingly. “No need to whisper.”
“I fell on the buffet table,” I say clearly. “Because someone tripped me up.”
He smiles. “Yes. Yes, you did, and then what about the next week when I asked you to sort out Miss Hendon’s garden, and you decided that her prize collection of ferns were actually weeds and pulled them up?”
And he’s off. It’s almost admirable how he can speak without notes. He’d have a great career on the after-dinner speaking circuit. Although only if the title of the speech was The Misadventures of Jesse Reed, I think sulkily.
There’s a big, expensive-looking, square envelope on his desk with Zeb’s name on it in italics. It looks like an invitation of some sort, and I crane my neck to try and see more while he rants on. However, I can’t, so I’m forced to grin and bear it.
Finally, after what seems like a week, he lets me go with the suggestion that I pull my socks up. I contemplate telling him that I’m not wearing any, but I abandon that when I see the glint in his eye. Instead I half salute and scarper.
Once the door shuts behind me, I look at Felix and fall to the ground, groaning dramatically.
He laughs. “Was it bad?”
“Define bad,” I mutter into the carpet. I raise my head. “He’s vile sometimes.”
He shrugs. “But fair.”
“He’s even more bad tempered than usual,” I mutter, getting up and slinging myself into the chair next to his desk. “Is Patrick giving him a hard time?”
Patrick is Zeb’s partner of six years. He’s a beautiful man and quite a bit younger than Zeb, but from the photos I’ve seen of them together they seem to be happy. I consider that. Maybe. Patrick looks like he’d be bloody hard work, but luckily that’s Zeb’s problem and not mine.
Felix stares at me. “Didn’t you know?”
“Know what?”
“They split up.”
“Get away. When?”
He smiles. “Last year sometime.”
I sit up straight. “Why didn’t I know this?”
“Didn’t know the subject interested you,” Felix says casually as he rifles through the paperwork. He shoots me a quick glance and I feel my cheeks flush.
“Well, obviously I like to know these things,” I say robustly. “His mood directly impacts my job security situation.”
“Oh, okay,” he says, overdoing the nodding. “Of course.”
“Does everyone know?”
He shrugs. “Probably. Zeb hasn’t advertised it, but he hasn’t exactly hidden it. Plus, Patrick came into the office shouting a few times which sort of gave the game away, as did the furniture removal.”
Zeb lives in a three-storey flat over the agency offices. I’ve heard it’s lovely. Heard, because I’ve never been invited up.
“I’m surprised I didn’t cotton on,” I say slowly.
He laughs. “Well, usually your meetings with Zeb don’t run to the format of a cosy chat.”
“No,” I say morosely. “They’re more hurricanes, earthquakes, and a fucking great tsunami.”
“The earth moved though.”
I laugh, but it’s thoughtful, and the news about Zeb is still on my mind as I let myself into my flat later on.
“That you, Jesse?” comes the call.
“Is there anyone else who has a key?”
My flatmate Charlie appears in the door. “Eli’s got a key.”
I smile at the thought of my best friend who now lives in Cornwall in domestic bliss. “Eli is shacked up with a famous actor. Don’t think he needs a key to this shithole anymore.”
He smiles. He has the widest grin that seems to light his whole face up, and with that and his long blond hair, sometimes he fairly glows. That smile led to him being nicknamed Charlie Sunshine. It suits him because he’s the prettiest and most angelic-looking man I’ve ever met, with a head full of blond waves and blue eyes. He’d have made a fantastic model but instead chose to be a librarian. His beauty is almost startling.
“Aww, they’re so happy together,” he says.
I’m sorry. I forgot that. His smile and his outlook on life led to him being called Charlie Sunshine. He sees the good in everyone. When Eli and I set up interviews for a flatmate, we took one look at Charlie and crossed everyone else off the list. We’ve never regretted it. He’s funny and calm and like my baby brother.
I look a bit closer at him and then frown. “You’re very pale. Are you okay?”
He waves his hand airily. “I’m fine.”
I narrow my eyes. “You don’t look it. Did you have a turn?”
He turns and wanders back into the lounge. “A small one.” He catches my eyes. “Only a little one. I was only out for a bit. I’m fine. Just feel like I’ve got a hangover now.”
“Are you out with Vic tonight?” I frown at the thought. It’s almost like a reflex now when I think of his arsehole boyfriend. Born with a golden spoon in his mouth, it’s always seemed a shame that he didn’t choke on it. He’s been with Charlie for a year and while he’s ecstatic to have such a good-looking man on his arm, he doesn’t treat Charlie right at all. He talks to him like he’s shit most of the time and Charlie waves it off, making excuses for him like “he’s tired” and “he works so hard.”
I sigh. Who am I to judge anyway? I haven’t exactly done well in the boyfriend stakes. Three of them cheated and one stole my wallet. Not to mention the charmer who took out a credit card in my name.
Charlie sneaks a glance at me and shakes his head, lowering himself to the sofa with a weary sigh. I hover slightly because he looks fragile. “No, Misha is coming over tonight,” he says, closing his eyes.
Unseen, I sag with relief. Misha is Charlie’s best friend. They’re closer than two peas in a pod but as different as broccoli and a nuclear bomb. But it seems to make their friendship stronger, and Misha has always been very protective of Charlie. If he’s here, nothing will happen.
“Good,” I say. I settle down onto the sofa next to him, raising his legs so they rest on my lap. I massage the calves while he makes happy sounds. “I like Misha,” I say slowly. “Good-looking bloke.” I pinch his knee. “And your best friend.”
He shakes his head disapprovingly. “Stop matchmaking, you’re shit at it. Misha and I are friends. I love him and he loves me, but tha
t’s it. It’ll never be anything else.”
“Why?” I ask curiously. We’ve spoken about this before, but it’s the first time we’ve done it sober. I’m sure he’s answered it before, but either it didn’t make sense, or I wasn’t listening, or I’d passed out.
“Because Misha is a complete tart and I’m not,” he says, smiling at me. I’m relieved to see the colour coming back into his face. “And we don’t see each other like that. We were friends too long for that.”
“Oh, okay.” I was right. It doesn’t make sense.
“Do you want to get Chinese?” he asks.
I shrug. “Sounds good. You need an early night then and so do I. My eye is killing me.”
He smiles kindly at me. “Do you want me to get you an ice pack?”
I shake my head. “No.” My phone starts to ring and I raise a finger and answer it, surprised to hear Felix.
“Jesse, are you settled in for the night?”
“Not really.” I tug at my tie. “It’s only seven o’clock. I’m not sixty and Midsomer Murders is a repeat.”
He chuckles. “Can you come back in?” he says apologetically.
“Now? Why?”
“Zeb needs to see you.”
“Oh, has he forgotten a misdemeanour he needs to bollock me about?” I say sourly. “What a tragedy.”
He laughs. “Can you come in or not?”
“I notice you’re not denying it.” I look at Charlie and sigh. “Okay, I’ll be there in a bit.”
I click End and Charlie grins at me. “Going to pay a late-night visit to Mr Super Sexy?”
“I wish you wouldn’t call him that.”
He nudges me with his foot. “You wish I wouldn’t, or that you didn’t call him it in your head?” I groan and he laughs. “You’re in denial, Vivian.”
He likes to call me this, and no matter how much I tell him that I’m not a prostitute with thigh-high boots, he keeps at it.
“I didn’t kiss him on the mouth, Daddy,” I say in a high voice.
“You’re my boy now,” he growls, and I snort.
“Okay, enough. It’s making me uneasy. I’m going to have a shower.”
