by Lily Morton
I bristle and only realise that I’ve tightened my fists when Max reaches down and separates my fingers. “Okay, Rocky,” he hisses. “They’re just your ordinary garden variety of arsehole. No need for fisticuffs.”
I shake my head. “Pricks. He’s better than any of them.”
I can feel his stare on the side of my head like a sunburn. “Hmm,” he says contemplatively.
He opens his mouth to say more but at that moment one of Charles’s group shouts out, “Hard to hold a shotgun with a limp wrist, son.”
I move a couple of steps forward but Max grabs me and pulls me back just as Jesse turns and smiles cheerily at the man.
“Are you speaking from experience?” he asks happily. “You’ll have to give me some tips.” Then he turns and shouts “pull” in a way that inexplicably makes my balls tighten. He shoots the clay pigeon into smithereens. The first person to manage it so far including all of Charles’s group.
He gives the gun back to the man and smiles warmly at the crowd. “It’s all in the wrist action,” he says loudly, and a few of the girls giggle.
I shake my head as he comes towards me. “When did you learn to shoot?”
He shrugs. “One of my brothers fancied a girl who was into it. We went every Saturday.”
“One of them?” Max says. “How many have you got?”
“Five, and two sisters.”
“Fucking hell, it’s like meeting one of the Waltons.”
Jesse laughs. He turns to me, smiling, and I shake my head. “What are you wearing?”
He looks down. “Is there a problem?” he asks mildly.
“Is that a child’s T-shirt?”
“Of course not,” he scoffs. “You might not have noticed, Zebedee, but I’m a big boy now.” Max snorts, and he grins at him before turning back to me. “Although I did have one like this when I was little,” he says consideringly, looking at his name in bold letters. He grins. “It helped in our family to wear something identifying yourself at all times. My friend Eli bought this for me for my birthday.”
“And you are wearing it because?”
He blinks. “Well, because the itinerary said to come in period clothing, although that’s a slightly vague request.” He waves his hand downward. “Anyway, you can’t get much more period than Sesame Street.” He looks around. “Oh, you can,” he says in a disappointed voice.
I open my mouth to speak but Nina strides across to us.
“Nina,” Jesse exclaims as if she’s his long-lost family. “How are you doing this fine morning?”
Nina ignores him. It’s a neat trick and one I wish I could learn, but here we are with no sign of that happening yet.
“Well,” she sneers. “You’ve managed to make quite the spectacle of yourself today, Zebadiah.”
I blink. “Have I?”
She waves her hand at Jesse. “Your companion is making a total fool of you. If you must pick up very young men, at least make sure you pick a classy one.”
“Now, you wait a minute,” I hiss, seeing her look of surprise. In all the years I’ve known her, I’ve never risen to her rudeness, having been taught to be polite at all costs to women. But I’m not having her talk like that about Jesse. “We really shouldn’t talk about classy behaviour, Nina, because you’re not exactly displaying it yourself. You’re acting like a fishwife.” I pause. “Why do we say fishwife?” Jesse grins delightedly and I shake my head. “Never mind.” I look hard at her. “I’m here because your son asked me to come. The same way he asked to live with me. I spent five years looking after him, and I’m glad to rest the burden on someone else’s shoulders. However, I promised him I’d be here, and I keep my word. But I detest pettiness and rudeness. You don’t know Jesse, and I won’t have you talking to him like that. He’s a wonderful young man with a big heart. I’d explain what that means because you patently don’t have one, but I’d lose the will to live, and we’re out of time anyway as I have to shoot pottery now.”
Nina stares at me. For once she’s speechless and I give thanks.
Jesse breaks the silence as adroitly as ever. “I think your cauldron’s bubbled over,” he says helpfully to her.
She grimaces at him and stalks away.
“Did you know her husband was in the SAS?” Max says.
Jesse looks thoughtful. “If you were trained to kill in twenty different undetectable ways, wouldn’t you have knocked her off at some point?”
“Bloody old bitch,” I say forcefully and Jesse and Max turn to stare at me.
“Not now,” I say wearily. “I’ve got to go and shoot an imitation pigeon. Fuck my life,” I bemoan. I stalk off just as Patrick says “Zeb,” and comes towards me.
Jesse
Max and I stare after the stiff back of Zeb as he marches towards the man holding the gun. The man looks rather hesitant which might have something to do with the way Zeb is scowling, but he still bravely hands over the gun.
“Well,” I say slowly, and Max gives a sudden bark of laughter.
“You can say that again.”
“I don’t think I’ve seen him that cross since I spilt Tipp-Ex down his new Tom Ford suit.”
He smiles at me. “You seem to bring it out in him.”
“Is that good or bad?”
He hums and looks at Zeb. He’s talking to the organiser and has a frown of deep concentration on his face.
“I think a good thing,” he says. “He’s too fucking buttoned up for his own good.”
“He does like order,” I say, looking at Zeb as he smooths a hand over his navy and white checked shirt as if searching for wrinkles.
“He’s had to.”
Something about the grim tone catches my attention, and I stare at him. “Why?”
He hesitates for a long second and then comes to some form of conclusion. “This is very private,” he warns. He pauses. “But for some fucking reason I’m still going to tell you.”
“I won’t tell anyone else,” I promise, and he examines my face intently before nodding.
“His father wasn’t exactly known for steadiness,” he says slowly, his eyes going unfocused as if he’s remembering something. Then he smiles. “Eddie was one of the most charming men I’ve ever met. He was funny and loud and kind and very charismatic. When he came into a room, you knew it.”
“Are any of those things bad?” I look over at Zeb. The sun is kindling the waves of his hair, and everyone is watching him. “Zeb’s got the same charisma. People notice when he walks in a room.”
He smiles a little sadly. “The difference is that Zeb has willpower. He had to develop it very fast because Eddie didn’t have any. He was everyone’s friend and no one’s enemy and he loved a good time. Unfortunately, that good time meant womanizing and gambling.”
“Oh dear. I have a horrible feeling about where this story is going.”
He nods, staring at Zeb with a deep fondness in his eyes. “Eddie had a knack for making money, but he had an equal talent for losing it. Like the fairies at birth gave him too big a gift and had to hastily counteract it. He was exceptionally generous and lived like a king when the money was in, but then the next day he’d be dodging creditors and bailiffs. By the time he married my mother he’d had six wives. And the remarkable thing is they all loved him even after the divorces. There was something very lovable about Eddie.” He shrugs. “Even when you hated him, you still liked him.”
“Did Zeb hate him?” I ask tentatively.
He shakes his head. “God, no. He idolised him at first, by all accounts. By the time my mother and I came along, that idolisation had faded and there was something almost weary about his love for his dad. He’ll never speak badly about him, but Eddie’s the reason he is the way he is.”
“Organised and serious,” I say with realisation.
He nods. “He had to be. By the time he was nine, he was organising Eddie’s chequebook and squirrelling away any spare cash he could find in the house so they’d have something for what Eddie called
rainy days.” He shrugs. “It was England. Of course there were a lot of those. He went to ten different boarding schools. He’d last a couple of months there and then he’d be leaving because Eddie couldn’t pay the school fees. I don’t think he had friends because they never stayed anywhere long enough for him to make them. But he loved Eddie, and Eddie loved him.”
I sneak a peek at Zeb, and it’s as if I’m looking at him with new eyes. He’s always been far too organised and wears responsibility like it’s his underwear. Unseen and unnoticed. But to know what’s made him like that makes my stomach hurt. To think of a young and probably stoical Zeb packing up from another school and moving on with only Eddie for company makes my eyes burn.
Max smiles fondly as he looks at Zeb. “He still looks after all his stepmothers, you know?”
“I got that impression from the way he spoke.”
“He talked about them?” He sounds startled, but when I nod, he smiles. “He’s the best man I’ve ever known,” he says quietly. “He was immensely kind to me when his dad married my mother. I was young and probably really annoying.” I grin, and he winks. “I know it’s hard to believe.” His grin fades to a soft smile of remembrance. “He looked after me and made sure I was okay, and even after his dad died and his responsibility could have ended, he kept it going. He’d come to my sports days and wrote me letters every week when I was at boarding school and sent me treat boxes. Then when I was old enough, I decided he was my best friend, and I made him agree.” He chuckles. “It’s the best thing I ever did. He’s kind and fiercely loyal. When you’re in with Zeb, you never really leave.”
I look at Patrick who is staring at Zeb and oblivious to his fiancée’s glares. “Does that apply to Patrick?”
He shrugs. “We’re here, aren’t we?”
My stomach twists and something must show in my face because he grabs my arm lightly. “I like you,” he says quickly as Zeb turns and comes back towards us. “You’re good for him. Don’t let Patrick wind you up.”
“Am I good for him?” I say, startled. “I irritate him mostly. I’m too young for him, apparently, and too chaotic. He’s obviously looking for someone older and responsible.”
“He’s more alive this week than I’ve ever seen.” He shakes his head. “Zeb doesn’t know his arse from his elbow sometimes. He’s infuriatingly blind to what’s under his nose.”
“What are you two talking about?” Zeb asks as he comes up to us.
“What a terrible shot you are,” Max says, releasing my arm as Zeb glares down at it. He holds up his hands in defence. “We weren’t doing anything.”
Zeb shoots me a look as if to see if I’m okay, and I see now what Max was talking about. He wears that responsibility like Superman wears a cape. I smile at him. Some superheroes never get recognised, I suppose.
He looks a little startled at the warmth of my smile, and then his gaze focuses behind me, and he blinks a few times. I turn and start to laugh.
Xavier is walking towards us with a sheet wrapped around him.
Max groans. “What the hell are you dressed in?” he mutters as Xavier saunters up to us as cool as an ice cream.
He looks down at his outfit and up at Max as though he’s a moron. “A toga.”
“I can see that,” Max murmurs. “I should have actually said why are you wearing that?”
“It’s period dress,” he says, frowning at Max.
“Thank you,” I say triumphantly. “I told you that invite was badly worded.”
“Zeb?” comes a tentative voice from behind us, and as a group we swing round to face Patrick who is standing with a warm smile on his face. His blond hair glows in the sun and he looks unspeakably beautiful. My heart sinks a little from where it had been buoyed by Max’s words. Why on earth would Zeb look at me when this man was obviously his taste? I look at Zeb who is staring hard at Patrick as if analysing him and my heart sinks further. Still is his taste.
“Can I help you?” Zeb asks. “Should I be doing something? You never gave me any tasks this weekend.”
I smile a little. I’m sure mentally he’s cursing that he hasn’t got his diary on him. It’s huge and held together by bands because it bulges with paperwork and lists.
“Oh no, I just wanted you to have a good time,” Patrick says, drifting closer to Zeb and nudging me subtly out of the way. I open my mouth to object, but shut it as the two of them stare at each other like they’re mesmerised.
Max coughs and elbows Zeb who jumps.
“Sorry,” Max says cheerfully. “But I think the man heading towards me with the gun is indicating it’s my turn to shoot.” He winks at Patrick. “Unless he’s on a homicidal rampage, in which case I’m volunteering you to take one for the team.” He looks him up and down. “You’re so very good at that, after all.”
“Max,” Zeb warns, and Patrick bristles.
“Oh don’t bother, Max,” he says spitefully. “If I wanted some dinosaur of a reporter to cast judgement on me, I’d have gone to Piers Morgan. At least he’s famous.”
“You wound me,” Max says cheerfully. “I’m literally bleeding on the ground from your sharp words.”
“Better than bullet wounds because you couldn’t duck quickly enough,” Patrick says sharply and I gasp.
Now, I remember who Max is. He’s a famous reporter who quit after he was taken hostage in Syria. He was shot in an escape attempt but still managed to make his way through the country on his own until he reached safety. I hadn’t recognised him at first because his hair is longer now, and he’s grown a beard.
I glare at Patrick but Max just shrugs. “The bravest thing you ever did, Patrick, was to leave the house not wearing underwear. You’ll excuse me if I don’t take your words to heart.”
I laugh, and Patrick flushes and edges into Zeb’s side. I narrow my eyes, and Max stares at the two of them.
Then he takes the gun the man gives him, steps up to the line and calls, “Pull.” In one smooth motion, he turns slightly to the right and fires. A second later there’s the sound of breaking glass and a car alarm starts to blare.
“That’s my fucking Audi,” Patrick exclaims, and Max shrugs.
“Oops! Butterfingers,” he says casually.
Xavier starts to laugh.
Chapter Seven
Jesse
Patrick’s temper tantrum over his car rather puts the mockers on the shooting party, and people start to drift off back to the hotel, declaring their intentions of having a drink. Finally, there’s just Zeb, Max, Xavier, and me left standing by the field.
“Well, you know how to help a party along,” Zeb says wryly, and Max smiles happily.
“I think I might need my eyes tested.”
“Why? You hit his windscreen head on.”
Max shrugs. “I was aiming at the bonnet.”
The two men laugh before Max cracks the gun and wanders over to the man in charge, who looks like he’s preparing to give him a lecture. Zeb trails after him.
I turn to Xavier and smile. “Are you enjoying yourself?”
He scrunches his face up in concentration. “We’ve had some good times in bed, but this party is fucking shit.”
I burst out laughing. Zeb shoots me an intense glance before he turns back to answer something Max is saying. When I look back at Xavier, he’s smirking at me.
“So, you and Max?” I say quickly.
He looks blank. “What?”
“Will you keep seeing him?”
He scoffs. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because we’re not about that,” he says simply. He shrugs. “Don’t get me wrong, he’s an amazing shag, but he’s entirely wrapped up in someone else.”
“Who?” I shoot an uneasy look at Zeb, and Xavier laughs.
“Not him. Even I can see that. No, I think he fucked up something good and blah blah blah according to the semi-coherent conversation I had last night with him. And now he just fucks around.” He smiles affectionately. “That’s my
gain because he’s very talented in the bedroom.”
I blink. “Well, that’s good, I suppose.”
He smiles sunnily. “All good.” He whistles and waves at Max. He and Zeb amble back over. I blink at the sight of them, all dark hair and long legs. But Xavier just continues to smile. “I’m going tonight,” he says to Max. “So if you want a last go at my arse you’d best get moving.”
Zeb blinks. “It’s like pure poetry. Someone contact Goodreads and get them to write it down.”
Max laughs and slaps him on the back. “Got to go and burn the sheets up.”
“Do that afterwards,” I advise. “He looks strenuous.”
Zeb laughs and then Max and Xavier walk away, leaving us standing alone. The sun beats down on my head, and all I can hear is the sound of a wood pigeon cooing from the shade of a tree. I love that sound. It reminds me of summer.
I stir and look at Zeb. “What next?”
He smiles almost cautiously at me. “I think we now have a few hours free. Want to go explore the villages?”
I grin at him. “I’d love that.” It’s a little more enthusiastic than I’d like, but it’s too late to call it back now, so I settle for smiling innocently.
For now, though, he doesn’t get that worry frown he always gets when I’m being flirty. Instead, to my surprise, he grins happily. “I’ll get the car.”
I look down at my outfit. “I’ll get changed.”
He stares at me. “Why? You look fine.”
“Won’t you be embarrassed? I don’t exactly dress like–” My words trail off before I can mention Patrick, but I know he knows who I’m talking about. He draws me to a halt, holding my arm loosely, but I can feel his skin against mine and the slight roughness of his fingertips. His isn’t the hand of someone who sits in an office full time, which makes me curious.
“Do you want to dress like Patrick?” he asks baldly.
I consider him. “No, but you obviously liked the way he looked.”
He looks suddenly awkward. “Jesse, I chose to be with Patrick and lived with him, so that was a very different–”
