Best Man (Close Proximity Book 1)

by Lily Morton

  “So, do they know about you and Patrick?”

  I nod. “I met them a few times when I was with Patrick because his dad was friends with Frances’s father. We didn’t particularly hide what we were to each other.”

  “So, how will they take to you being there?”

  I smile. “They’ll be very charming and welcoming, but if I cross them or look like I might throw a spanner in the works they’ll unleash hell. Charles is utterly ruthless.”

  “How lucky it is then that you’re bringing your younger and much more socially adept new partner with you. Someone who will put Patrick to shame and charm the entire party.”

  “Have I arranged for someone else to come with me?” He laughs, but I sober. “Patrick’s parents will be there as well. They hate the gays because they think we’re all prowling around waiting to find our next victim. Like some sort of glittery zoo animals. They also think I’m a sexual predator, and that I somehow tricked their son into being gay.”

  “How do you trick someone into being gay?” he says, and there’s a great deal of interest in his voice. “Is it through card tricks or something to do with the rabbit in the hat?”

  I laugh, something I never thought I’d ever do when talking about Penny and Victor. “They’d like me to disappear. Or worse.”

  “Lovely,” he says faintly. “So a few days in the Cotswolds with a wanker. Sorry, I mean a banker. And old-aged murderous homophobes. Anyone else?”

  “Quite a few of Patrick and Frances’s friends, obviously, and the bridesmaids.”

  There’s a long silence, and I’m sure he’s thinking of opening the door and just walking back to London, and then he laughs.

  “Well, I’ve always liked a challenge.”

  “This isn’t a challenge, so much as a suicide mission,” I say glumly.

  The next hour passes surprisingly well. He takes control of the stereo and synchs it to his phone. I make a token protest but find that we have a startlingly similar taste in music. He loves the eighties, declaring that it’s retro, which makes me wince slightly because I fucking grew up then.

  With “Long Hot Summer” by the Style Council playing, we turn off the motorway and start to travel down winding roads, the trees spreading their branches over us like the world’s oldest and greenest gazebo. We pass through little villages that look chocolate-box pretty with their village greens surrounded by houses made from the ubiquitous honey-coloured stone.

  “Have you ever been here before?” I ask as I click the indicator and pull into the car park of an old pub. Made of the same Cotswold stone as the rest of the village, it has wisteria growing prettily up its sides and mullioned windows that gleam in the light of the sun. The pub garden has lots of benches with bright red umbrellas, and even though it’s just midday, there are already a few customers sheltering under the umbrellas. Their happy voices reach us as we enter the pub and blink to clear our eyes and let them adjust to the cool dimness.

  “No, I’ve never been here,” he says. “My mum and dad spent one of their anniversaries here though. They loved it.”

  I wander over to the bar. “I thought we’d have lunch before we get there and our appetites totally disappear,” I throw over my shoulder.

  The barman comes over and I order an orange juice for myself and the cider Jesse requests. After a look at the menu we add our requests for Ploughman’s, and on an assurance that they’ll bring our food out to us, we head out to the garden by unspoken accord.

  “I suppose we should get our stories straight,” he says and I turn abruptly, almost tripping in the process.

  “What?”

  He grabs my elbow gently and steers me to a table in the far corner by a big lilac bush. Bees are dancing lazily amongst the flowers and the air is heavy with the scent.

  “I mean,” he says, “that we should work out our story. Where we met, how long we’ve been together. That sort of thing.”

  “I never even thought of that,” I say in astonishment as I sit down on the sun-warmed bench.

  He smiles wryly. “That’s because you’re very straightforward. I bet you haven’t told many stories.”

  “Lies, you mean,” I say baldly. “No, I haven’t. I had enough of…” I stop abruptly, unable to believe I was just about to bring my father up.

  He shrugs. “It’s okay. And they’re not really lies. They’re more what my mum used to call fibs. Something that doesn’t harm other people. We’re not harming anyone, are we?”

  I shake my head. “Of course not.” I consider his words and find that I’m peculiarly okay with them. “Alright,” I say slowly. “Where did we meet?”

  “Patrick doesn’t know what I look like, does he?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “No, he knew your name at one point, but I don’t think he’ll remember it now. He doesn’t retain people’s names well unless he needs them for something.”

  “Okay then, we met at a club. I think it was Magenta,” Jesse says promptly. “You spilt your drink on me and promised to pay for the dry cleaning. That’s how you got my phone number.”

  I look at him with my mouth open. “I’m very smooth,” I say slowly.

  He laughs. “As butter,” he says mockingly. “Now, what job should I have?” He clicks his fingers. “I know. I’ll be an architect.”

  I blink. “Do you actually know anything about architecture?”

  He grins. “I know buildings have roofs and doors and windows. And I was fucking brilliant with Lego when I was little.”

  I groan. “This is going to be a disaster.”

  He laughs. “Lighten up.” He leans forward, his face alight with enjoyment. “It’s a game,” he says in a low, teasing voice that goes straight to my cock. “We’re who we want to be and there’s fun in that.”

  “Fun?” I echo, and he nods.

  “Fun.” His face becomes businesslike. “Okay, we’ve mentioned that we like eighties music, so that’s covered. What books do you like?”

  “Crime thrillers and mysteries. What about you?”

  “Gay romance.” I blink and he smiles. “Really. There are some brilliant books around. I’ll lend you one. I’ve got a couple in my case.”

  I stare at him. “I never imagined you–”

  He looks at me wryly. “Did you think I couldn’t read?”

  “No, of course not.” My words are fast and embarrassed. “I just thought you’d be too busy.”

  “Shagging?” He bursts into laughter at my undoubtedly horrified look. “I’m kidding.” He pauses. “Well, not about the shagging. I love that.”

  “Of course you do,” I say faintly.

  He smiles. “But I like reading too.” He sits back as the waitress hands us our plates and cutlery and I watch as he charms her. It isn’t a false charm. Patrick could be very charming when he wanted to, but a lot of it was only surface deep. Even while he was doing it, I’d see the thinness to the veneer covering him. Jesse doesn’t have that because his charm is true. He genuinely likes people and his interest in them seems to make them come alive under those warm, twinkly eyes.

  He turns back to me when the waitress disappears and unfurls his napkin with a flourish. “Okay,” he says, a businesslike tone to his voice now. “Likes and dislikes?”

  And so for the next hour that’s what we do. We sit in the sunny pub garden working our way through a laundry list of our likes and dislikes, and I’m alarmed to find how many we have in common. Alarmed and enthralled. I sigh. That about sums up my attitude towards Jesse Reed.

  Chapter Three

  Jesse

  I continue questioning him when we get back in the car.

  “This is like Mastermind,” he grumbles, starting the engine.

  I try not to stare at those big hands on the steering wheel and the veins on the back of them. However, by not staring at them I am now focusing on the scent of oranges and sandalwood. I love the smell. It’s warm and rich, and underneath is the scent of his skin that makes my mouth water.

&n
bsp; I’m beginning to think this trip might be a bad idea, mainly because he seems allergic to the slightest hint of a fib which is richly ironic as he hired me to play a part with him. However, it’s a certainty that the crush I’ve always had on Zeb is in danger of becoming magnified the more time I spend with him.

  He simply does it for me. I know he’s older, but I like that. I like the way he’s sure of himself and quietly confident. I like the huskiness of his voice and the way one eyebrow raises whenever he listens to me. I like how funny he is and how he can talk on any subject. He’s funny and wise and more interesting than any man I’ve ever met, and, when I talk, he listens to me as if there’s no one else worth listening to.

  I’m not stupid. I know he’s dismissed me over the last few years as a kid. He put me in that box the day I came for an interview, and looking back, I can see how young I was. But he doesn’t seem to see me as I am now. Although why would he? I think of the funeral fight and sigh.

  “You okay?”

  I look up to find him watching me with a hint of concern in those bright blue eyes.

  “Yes, I’m fine,” I say quickly.

  “You sure? We can turn round.”

  “You’d go back to London for me?”

  “Erm, no. I’d drop you off at the station.”

  For some reason that makes me laugh hard, and he stares at me quizzically, that one eyebrow raised as I chortle and snort.

  Sobering, I straighten up. “Well, there’s no need to test my potential hitchhiking skills.” I look at him and gesture down my body. “All of this says no to thumbing a lift.”

  He shakes his head and starts off. “Okay, what else do you need to know? Inside leg measurement?”

  “Dick size?” I say, laughing as the car swerves slightly. “Only kidding. Surely no one is likely to question me about that.” I tap my nail against my tooth thoughtfully. “Okay, we’ve covered how we met and how long we’ve been together. Music tastes and books. Coffee or tea?”

  He looks blank. “Tea, of course.”

  I dramatically slump back in the seat. “Phew, I don’t need to tuck and roll out of a moving vehicle. All will be well. We can settle down and have ten children now without me worrying.”

  “That’s your yardstick for worrying? Hmm.”

  I laugh and he looks at me for a second before returning his serious gaze back to the road. It’s empty but he still drives as if expecting a major disaster to happen any second. It’s oddly endearing.

  “We haven’t spoken about family,” he says. “That’s the number one question amongst the set of people we’re about to be sharing a hotel with. Would they know your family?”

  “Unlikely,” I say lightly. “Well, not unless they’ve attended Evensong at St Mary’s Church in Dunsford.”

  He jerks. “Your father’s in the church?”

  “That makes him sound like a squatter. He is a vicar, but nice sexism,” I say sternly. “It might have been my mum.”

  “I’m so sorry,” he says earnestly. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  I laugh. “If you knew my family, you’d be spot on. There is no way my mum could have been a vicar. She’s far too impatient.”

  “So, your father is a vicar?” He seems oddly enthralled by this piece of information.

  “Yes, you seem slightly disbelieving,” I say, nudging him gently.

  He scratches his chin, the intimate sound of the scrape of his stubble seeming to hit me in the back of my teeth and making my mouth water.

  “Well, that’s because I am,” he says baldly, startling a laugh out of me. “You don’t seem like a vicar’s son.”

  “And what does a vicar’s son seem like?”

  “Well …” He searches for words. “Pious,” he finally says. “Quiet and studious and humble.”

  I start to laugh. “Well, my dad must have lucked out, then, because none of us conform to that.”

  “None of you? How many are there?”

  “I’m the youngest of eight children.”

  “Eight?” His voice goes slightly high. He coughs and clears his throat. “Eight children,” he says in a marvelling voice. Silence falls for a second until he nods. “No wonder you’re so loud.”

  I laugh. “That’s true. I had to be loud or I’d have been forgotten and left at a service station somewhere.”

  “Was that a thing?” he asks cautiously. “Did that happen?”

  “Oh yes,” I say cheerfully. “It was like Home Alone but with handy slot machines and a WH Smiths.”

  “Oh my God. How long before they realised?”

  “Luckily they hadn’t got out of the car park, which is a good job because it was another twenty miles before the next slip road.” I sigh. “I was doing so well on those slot machines too. If they hadn’t come back, I might have been a millionaire.” That startles a laugh out of him and I smile. “My family is loud, gossipy, and in your face. No wonder my dad went into the church. It’s the only peaceful place apart from the loo.” I look over at him. “How about you?”

  He jerks slightly. “Oh, there’s just me,” he says lightly. “My mum died having me and my father died about ten years ago.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, feeling guilty about mentioning my family.

  He shoots me an embarrassed look. “No need to be,” he says brusquely. “It was all a long time ago.”

  I sense there’s a story here, but his voice tells me I won’t be hearing it. I open my mouth to say something, but he says, “We’re here” with a strong note of relief in his voice.

  He clicks the indicator and steers down a long drive that weaves in and out of trees, offering occasional glimpses of a huge golden-stoned building. Finally, we enter a straight stretch and the hotel is in front of me. It’s four storeys high and set in acres of landscaped grounds, including, according to Zeb, a fishing lake. It’s made of Cotswold stone that glows in the sunshine and the paintwork is a soft heather grey. The leaded windows twinkle in the light.

  “Wow,” I say faintly.

  He shoots me a glance. “I think you’ll like it,” he says as he pulls to a stop. “The staff are very friendly, and it’s comfortable.”

  “You’ve been here before, then?”

  He nods. “Patrick and I used to spend our anniversaries here.”

  My mouth drops open, but before I can express my amazement at the unending depths of crassness that his ex possesses, he exits the car and I see a uniformed man coming towards us. I jump out, inhaling the scent of freshly mown grass, and smile at Zeb and the member of the staff.

  “Peter will take the car round for us, and they’ll bring the bags in,” Zeb says.

  “Lovely,” I say happily. “This doesn’t happen at a Travelodge.”

  Zeb laughs, and the man smiles kindly at me.

  I stand back, looking around me as Zeb slips the man some money, and the car peels away, crunching over the gravel. Zeb comes up beside me.

  “Are we near anywhere?” I ask, looking out over the green fields spread before me like a verdant carpet.

  He nods. “We’re not far from anywhere. Stow-on-the-Wold is a few miles away, as are most of the famous Cotswold villages.”

  “It’s really pretty around here.”

  He smiles. “It really is. We’ll shoot off if the group gets a bit much, and I’ll show you around.”

  I smile gratefully at him, and he must sense the slight nervousness I’m feeling because he frowns. “It must be a bit intimidating,” he says. “But I’m here.”

  I shrug. “Sorry. I don’t normally get nervous, but I don’t usually stay in places like this either.”

  “Not even with customers?”

  I shoot him a glance. “I seem to spend more time digging people’s gardens and getting their shopping. I haven’t done a pretend-boyfriend gig in ages, apart from the funeral incident.” I narrow my eyes at the suddenly blank expression on his face. “Why is that?” A horrible thought occurs to me. “Oh my God, is it because I’m too old?
”

  He shakes his head, a funny smile playing on his full lips. “You’re twenty-four, Jesse. No danger of a card from the Queen yet. And here you are being a pretend boyfriend. Your youth is assured. Rest easy.”

  I frown at him. “I can’t help but think you’re taking the piss out of me, Zebedee.”

  He glares. “Please don’t ever call me that again. What the fuck?”

  I start to laugh. “Time for bed, Zebedee.”

  “You’re far too young to have ever watched The Magic Roundabout.”

  “But my eldest brother wasn’t, and he had the DVD.”

  “I feel old,” he bemoans. “I remember the original.”

  “Never mind, Grandpa, we’ll get you a nice cup of tea and you can tell me about the war.”

  He shoves me, laughing, and my breath catches at how handsome he looks with that wide, white smile and the sun playing in the tangles of his hair, catching the red strands in there and seeming to kindle it.

  “Zeb,” comes a shout from behind us and immediately the smile is gone, replaced by his usual unsmiling exterior. He stiffens all over, and I know who it is without turning. Patrick. I rub Zeb’s arm, and for a second when he looks at me it’s as if he’s forgotten who I am. It’s surprisingly unpleasant. Then his expression clears, and he grips my fingers for a second before his hand falls loose, and he turns.

  “Patrick,” he says, and I turn and watch the man who was with Zeb for five years walk towards me. Viewed dispassionately, he’s gorgeous. He’s tall and wide shouldered with a head of blond hair which shines expensively in the sunlight. He’s wearing jeans and a purple polo shirt that hugs his muscled torso.

  I look at Zeb. They must have made quite the pair, I think, as Patrick comes to stand in front of him. Dark and light. The devil and the angel. I look at Patrick and mentally shake my head. No angel, this. His full mouth has a discontented pull to it, and he looks as if he could succumb to petulance at any minute. He looks spoilt and expensive.

  “Zeb,” he says, his voice low and intimate. “You came. I wasn’t sure you would.”