by Lily Morton
“Oh no,” I break in quickly, feeling my heart flop and sink. He couldn’t have made it clearer if he’d written it in the sky that he doesn’t consider me a viable proposition to date. “I just don’t want to embarrass you,” I finish lamely, feeling my face burn.
He stares at me and a kind look crosses his face. “You couldn’t,” he says staunchly. I raise an eyebrow at him, and he smiles. “Come as you are.”
“Well, thank you, Kurt Cobain,” I say tartly.
He laughs. “I like the way you dress.”
“Really?” I say doubtfully. I pull myself together, still thinking of that almost pitying look in his eyes a few seconds ago. “Well, that’s good, I suppose,” I finish coolly. “But I think I’ll still get changed.”
The outfit that had seemed okay a few hours ago now feels like a red flag. As if I’ve embarrassed him in front of his peers by dressing like a kid. I think of the story Max told me, and all of a sudden I feel small. This kind, gentle man asked me here to help him. He trusted me to do that, and all I’ve done so far is muck about and make passes at him that obviously make him uncomfortable.
He hesitates like he wants to say something and then settles for looking worried. The silence stretches, and I watch him. “Okay then,” he finally says. “I’ll be in the car.”
I nod and walk away and give myself a talking to in the lift. By the time I get to the room, I’ve settled my mood. Just because I fancy him doesn’t mean he has to fancy me back. This isn’t a rom-com. It’s real life, and in real life he’s a wealthy older man who probably has far too many well-groomed men throwing themselves at him to be interested in a walking disaster of a twenty-four-year-old undergraduate who still dresses in Sesame Street T-shirts and doesn’t keep enough control of his mouth in social situations.
I change into smart grey chino shorts, a pale pink shirt, and leather deck shoes. I look in the mirror and decide I definitely look more suitable now.
“At the end of the day, I’ll be gone from his agency soon,” I say out loud. “And I’ll become that funny story he tells about his old member of staff at dinner parties he throws with his very perfect boyfriend.”
The thought is peculiarly painful, so I do what I always do. I push it to one side and focus on being friendly. I’m going to make him happy this week.
“I’m going to behave and not let him down so I’ll be more of a pleasant memory to him,” I say solemnly and my face looks back at me carefully. I let that settle, and by the time I reach the car and hop in, I’m smiling more or less naturally.
Zeb
I watch him worriedly as he gets into the car. I don’t know what happened earlier. One minute he was full of life, fairly glowing with fun and a simple sort of joy that seems to hang around him like glitter. Then he visibly shut it down, and I can’t work out why. Catching hold of him is like trying to cup water as it runs through my fingers.
The only thing I can think of is his peculiar insistence on getting changed. I’m slightly disappointed in this buttoned-up version of Jesse in perfectly ironed shorts and shirt. I preferred the earlier Jesse with that shiny hair held back by a bandanna and that ridiculous T-shirt. It was so him. So vibrant. Now, he seems almost colourless.
I can’t say anything, though. I’m his boss, I think desperately. It seems like I’m clinging onto that lately like it’s a raft that’s slowly disintegrating underneath me.
“Where are we going?” he asks, thankfully interrupting my thoughts.
“Bourton-on-the-Water.” I steer the car down the drive. “It’s pretty, especially in the summer,” I say somewhat desperately.
“Sounds lovely,” he says politely.
I shoot him another quick glance and open my mouth to speak but he reaches over and quickly switches on the radio.
I fall back into silence broken only by his increasingly cheerful conversational asides.
He brightens up, however, when we get to Bourton-on-the-Water. It’s a pretty, quintessential Cotswolds village with beautiful golden-bricked cottages and little stone bridges that span the River Windrush that runs all the way through the village. And tourists. Hundreds and hundreds of tourists.
“Why is everyone in the world here today?” he marvels as we step around what feels like twenty thousand pushchairs and wandering children to get out of the car park.
“It’s pretty,” I say, grabbing his arm to steer him around an old couple.
“Even so, there are just too many people here,” he grumbles. Then he pauses. “Oh, it is pretty,” he says in a delighted voice. Ahead of us the river moves past old houses with mullioned windows looking down on it. Paths branch off, leading to shops and more houses. “It’s like the Lego village,” he says delightedly. He pauses, shooting me a sideways look, and I see the flush on his cheeks.
What the fuck is going on here? I open my mouth to ask, but he diverts me by pulling me along. I realise he’s deliberately avoiding talking about whatever problem he currently has about the same time that I realise we’re now holding hands.
He pulls me down the sun-dappled path, pointing out houses he likes, and I nod and smile and I must make sense when I talk because he displays no sign of unease. That’s good because inside I’m a turbulent mess. I can’t focus on anything. It’s like I’ve been blinded by the sun and can’t see anything apart from snapshot impressions. Like the sun on the mink-brown strands of his silky hair, the brightness of his eyes, the long length of his legs and the feel of his hand in mine.
I try to remember when the last time was that I held hands. It must have been with Patrick, but I can’t ever remember feeling like this before. I search my memory banks for a name for it, but I can’t find it. It leaves me uneasy. I don’t like uncertainty. I like to be fully prepared at all times. But nothing prepared me for him.
When we get into the village with its shops and cafes, the crowd disperses a little and I watch him as he looks around with those bright eyes of his. He’s still holding my hand, and I’m aware of several disapproving looks. However, they don’t motivate me to drop his hand at all. Instead I tighten my grip as he pulls me along.
He stops, looking up at a house that has scaffolding all over it. “What do you think they’re doing to it?” he asks.
I send a cursory glance over the building. “New roof, from the looks of it, and they’re repointing some of the brickwork.”
“How do you know that?” he asks, his bright eyes set on me.
I shrug. “I told you my dad was a property developer. He didn’t just buy houses. He did them up too, and I helped him. By the time I was fifteen, I could do most stuff.” I look up at the cottage. “It’s a good feeling to renovate old properties and see them come back to life.”
“Why aren’t you doing it, then?”
The question is stark, and I flounder slightly. “Erm, well, I suppose that was just something I associated with my dad.” I come to a stop, unable to explain how, for some ridiculous reason, doing up properties seemed to edge too closely to becoming my father in my mind.
He cocks his head on one side and looks intently at me. “Shame,” he says quietly. “You need a challenge.” He walks slowly away, examining another house while I stand struck dumb. Coming to my senses, I bolt after him.
We pass an ice cream parlour, and he nods to himself and smiles. “We need ice cream,” he decides.
I shake my head. “You’re such a child,” I laugh but it falters as I catch the shadow crossing his face. “Hey,” I say. And suddenly I’ve had enough. I look around and pull him down a side street. It’s quiet in the morning sunshine and the only sound is the chuckling water running near us. “Okay,” I say abruptly. “What’s the matter? And tell me the truth.”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” he says evasively, and I pull him to face me.
“Yes, you are. Why the sudden bouts of quiet? You’re not quiet. It’s a completely unnatural state of being for you.”
He half smiles. “I think I need to work on that. I
’m a bit loud.”
“Who said that?” I say fiercely.
“Erm, you.”
I hesitate. “Oh, well.” His lip twitches, and I shake my head. “I was wrong.”
He tips his head to one side, the shiny brown strands moving silkily against the tanned skin of his neck. “Really?” he asks mockingly. I shoot him a warning glance, and he chuckles. “Sorry. But I think Noah might have been building a boat the last time you said you were wrong.”
“It doesn’t happen often,” I say slowly. I smile at him. “I like the sound of your voice. I like listening to you talk.”
“But you like quiet too?”
“I admit I’m not loud. But that’s why it’s so good to be with you. You’re funny and quick-witted, and you liven things up around me.”
“But you’re used to older men.” He hesitates. “More sophisticated men.”
It hits me like a thunderbolt. “That’s why you changed into that outfit that makes you look like you’ve been body snatched by Ralph Lauren.” He glares at me, and I reach up and cup his shoulders, looking into that lively face of his. “You don’t need to dress like Patrick. You don’t need to be silent, or discuss politics in a very loud voice. You don’t even need to smoke a pipe and wear a cravat or whatever idea you have of someone who is with me.”
“But that’s what you’re used to. I don’t want to embarrass you. You think I’m a kid.”
I stare at him. “I have never thought of you as a kid.” He looks at me with one eyebrow lifting slowly, and I smile. “Okay, I tried to think of you as one.”
“Why?”
The question is bald and not one I’m prepared to answer. It’ll lead to things that really can’t happen no matter how much I’m growing to want them. I want his hand back in mine, I want to kiss those plump, puffy lips. I want to fuck him. But as he’s my employee, and happier and twenty years younger than me, I’m not going to do any of those things.
“Sometimes habit is not a good thing,” I say. I shake my head. “I was with Patrick for a long time but that doesn’t mean it was good. Max is right. I do feel more alive with you around. I don’t want you to change. I like that you’re inappropriate sometimes. I never got the chance to do that, so it’s nice to listen to.”
“I don’t want to be a clown to you.”
The statement is quiet and firm, and I look at him in amazement. “You could never be that, Jesse.” I hesitate. “I guess the truth is that I admire you.”
“You do?” The astonishment is palpable in his voice.
I sigh. “I do. You’re so full of life. You take chances and throw yourself into things. You care about people.”
“You care about people too. You care about far too many people, if you ask me.”
I shrug, suddenly becoming aware that we’re standing very close to each other. His eyes examine my face and his full lips are so close. I let my hands fall and step back slightly, seeing the faint look of disappointment he can’t hide. Fuck, this is getting into quicksand territory very quickly.
“I do care,” I say slowly. “But sometimes I don’t want to. Sometimes I’m tired of problems and solutions.” I shrug awkwardly. “My father was a bit of a character.” He tries to look surprised, but he’s not a good actor, and I sigh. “Max told you, didn’t he? I saw him talking very intently. Interfering wanker.”
He steps close again, and I inhale the scent of green tea on his skin. “He wasn’t being disloyal.”
“Of course he wasn’t. He’s my family.” I sigh again. “Oh well, at least I don’t have to go into the nitty-gritty.”
“You can though,” he says softly. “I’m sure your nitty-gritty is very different from his.”
I stare at him, wanting suddenly to talk to him, to tell him about my childhood. I wish I could describe the man my father was and how our relationship epitomised confusion, how I’d learnt at an early age that it is possible to love someone very deeply and still want to hit them over the head with a chair.
Instead, I smile and shake my head. “Not now,” I settle for saying, and he smiles with understanding written in his eyes. Over the last few days it’s amazed me how attuned our moods are. He seems to sense mine and steer around or through them in the same way I do his. It’s an astonishing feeling to someone like me who’s led a very self-contained life.
“Okay, then,” he says calmly. “Let’s have a wander.”
“And an ice cream,” I say sternly. He looks at me, and I nod. “Ice cream and when we get back you can burn that fucking outfit and put your Sesame Street T-shirt back on.”
“That’ll put the cat amongst the pigeons at the formal dinner tonight,” he says demurely.
“Will the cat eat the Nina pigeon?”
“Not unless it wants severe heartburn. That woman has indigestion written all over her.”
My laughter is loud on the quiet street.
Jesse
We eat ice creams and wander the pretty village, following the river, crossing bridges and finding ourselves in little roads filled with gorgeous houses. I spin fantastical stories about who the owners are, becoming bold again under that warm gaze of his that looks at me so attentively.
As we walk, I lean closer, feeling the occasional brush of his hand against my leg and inhaling the scent of oranges and sandalwood on him. It used to epitomise the distant glamorous figure of my boss, but these last few days have given me a different view. Like I’ve shaken up a prism and seen different colours and patterns. Now, he’s still glamorous but he’s not distant anymore. He’s the kind, funny man with tired eyes that still show a faint hint of the self-contained boy he must have been, striving to take care of people in a world filled with ever-shifting priorities.
I still see the perfect good looks and charm but they’re buttressed by the way I now know that he’s secretly a little awkward in social situations. I can see past the shiny exterior to the way his back gets stiff and a faint furrow appears between those pretty eyes when he’s having to make polite conversation. It gives me a heady thrill to have this secret knowledge.
I shake my head as we stop outside an art gallery. I don’t know what to do with this new knowledge of him that I have. I watch him looking at a huge watercolour with lively appreciation. In a month I’ll probably never see him again.
The thought makes me flinch. Where once I couldn’t wait to start the new job and begin my life properly, now I just think of how much of a fucking hole he’ll leave in my life.
“You alright?” he asks, staring at me with a look of concern.
As much as I love that he seems to see me now, I also hate to be yet another person that he has to worry about, so I smile brightly and convincingly, pleased to see the shadow leave his eyes.
“I’m fine. Do you want to go in?”
He shoots a longing glance towards the door. “I’d love to. Would you mind?”
I stare at him. “Why would I mind?”
“Well, I can get a little lost in these places. Patrick always used to moan about it.”
“Remind me not to let you go to Waterstones with me,” I say, nudging him towards the door. “You can lose me for hours in there.”
“Oh, me too,” he says eagerly, a wide smile on his lips. “Especially with the sofas.”
“And the coffee. I could live there.”
We smile, and I follow him into the shop. It’s filled with light, and Zeb immediately makes a beeline for a group of pictures hanging near the front of the shop. They’re bold and vivid abstract paintings that would look amazing in the high-ceilinged rooms of his flat.
I study him for a second. He looks as if he belongs somewhere like this in those chinos that cling to the long muscled length of his legs and the checked shirt that makes his eyes look very blue. An assistant brushes past me, making hasty tracks to someone who obviously has deep pockets, and I turn away and wander further into the gallery. It’s quiet and has a very expensive atmosphere, and I walk from one exhibit to the next undistur
bed by assistants or other customers.
There’s a lot of stuff from local artists, but it isn’t until I’m making my way back towards Zeb that I spy something I like. It’s a huge canvas filled with pink peonies painted on a black background and it seems to glow against the white walls of the gallery. The passion and talent in every stroke of the paintbrush is mesmerising. It’s part of a group of paintings, all obviously from the same artist, and I move from one painting to another but always come back to the original one.
I’m looking at it when I catch the scent of warm citrus and feel Zeb come up next to me. “You like this one?” he asks, standing next to me staring at the art. I nod thoughtfully, looking at the painting again.
“It’s beautiful. I’m not one for flowers at all, but–” I hesitate, afraid of looking stupid, but he just looks at me enquiringly, and I know suddenly that he’ll never laugh at me. With me, yes, but never at me. And something in me relaxes instantly and unfurls a little bit. “I get the impression that it’s about more than flowers,” I say slowly. “It feels full of emotion somehow.”
He grins. “Probably is. That’s Ivo Ashworth-Robinson’s work. He’s slightly temperamental, so I’m sure it’s absolutely chock full of very loud feelings.”
“You know him?”
He shrugs. “Vaguely. He’s one of Max’s best mates. They were apprentices at a newspaper together and then worked together a lot. Ivo was a war photographer but he’s a full-time artist now.”
I turn back to the picture, admiring the colours. “It makes me feel happy,” I finally say judiciously, and when I look at him, he has a look of almost astonishment on his face. “You alright?” I ask. “Did you buy that picture you were looking at? Do you need a sit down now? We can catch the moths that flew out of your wallet later on. You’re my priority at the moment,” I finish solemnly.
He frowns at me but it doesn’t work and he bursts into laughter. It’s loud and almost shocking in the cool, quiet room.
“Cheeky twat,” he says almost affectionately. “I’ve bought it. It’ll look amazing in my bedroom.”
