by Lily Morton
I park the car on the verge and look up at Jesse’s home. It’s rambling and very old and has obviously had a lot built onto it at some point. It’s also very charming with wisteria smothering the brick and looking very purple in the sunlight.
Getting out of the car, I stretch after the long drive. I hope Jesse is here because otherwise I’m out of ideas. I unlatch the gate and walk up the path, inhaling the heady intense scent of roses from a bush near the front door. I look around curiously and it isn’t hard to imagine a small Jesse here playing in the garden, mucky and happy. The smile is still on my face when the front door opens and I find myself staring at an older man.
He looks to be in his seventies, his hair thick and silvery. His glasses rest halfway down his nose and he’s small in stature. He doesn’t look anything like Jesse, but when he smiles at me there’s something in the sweetness of the gesture that tells me instantly that this is his father.
He looks me up and down, and I fidget, suddenly aware that I’m still in full morning dress. I’d raced off without bothering to get changed and had therefore caused a few raised eyebrows in the service station surrounded by people in holiday clothes.
“Now at a guess I’d say that either fashion has become very formal in London nowadays or you’ve followed my son who appeared in the same style a couple of hours ago.” His voice is warm and rich with an undercurrent of laughter.
“He’s here?” I gasp, feeling relief pour through me and weaken my limbs.
He nods. “He got here this afternoon in a fearful temper. I set him to mowing the graveyard. That will make him cool down a bit and give us time for a little talk.” He steps back, and, before I can blink, I find myself in a dimly lit hallway.
He ushers me into a study with lead windows open to the warm summer breeze. The walls are covered in floor-to-ceiling bookcases that are crammed with books and papers and all around them are piles of more books. I look at his desk covered with folders and more paperwork and my fingers itch to organise it.
He smiles at me and gestures me to a chair in front of the desk. When I sit down, the leather is smooth and comfortable, obviously worn thin by the generations of penitent bums that have sat on it. He stares at me, and a silence falls, broken only by the sound of a mower in the distance. I wonder if that’s Jesse and feel a powerful yearning to get to him.
“So, you’re Zeb, then?”
I smile anxiously at him. “I am. It’s very nice to meet you, sir.”
He shakes his head. “Call me Michael.” He looks at me assessingly. “Jesse told me about you last week. He seemed very happy. Then.”
I squirm. “It’s my fault he isn’t happy now,” I hear a voice say and want to look around to see what idiot is talking, but it’s me, and I carry on. “I pushed him away and hurt him.”
“Why?” There’s no condemnation in his voice. Just honest curiosity on that kind face.
“Because I still can’t believe that someone like him would look at me.”
“With his looks, you mean?” A shard of disappointment crosses his face, and I shake my head.
“No. Oh, he’s pretty, but it’s not that. He’s such a good person,” I say earnestly. “He’s fun and clever and kind. And young.” I spread my hands. “You must see how much older I am than him.”
He sits back at his desk and gives me a wide smile that seems touched with whimsy. “There is a twenty-year age gap between myself and my wife. Jesse’s mother. Did you know that?” I shake my head and he nods. “I felt very similar to you when I met Gianna. You say how pretty Jesse is. Well, she was the same. Vivid and stunning. Very funny.” He folds his hands. “And I was smaller and older and far too serious.”
“What did you do?” I finally say.
He smiles. “I fought it. I told her very pompously that she deserved better. Broke up with her and set her free.”
“What happened?”
He winks. “I came up against the Bennici determination. Jesse has it too. A very passionate determination. Gianna declared that I was a fool, an idiot. She ranted at me in Italian for a very long time. Luckily, I didn’t know the language.” He smiles. “I still don’t. When she shouts at me, I think it’s probably best not to understand.” I laugh and he waves a hand. “She declared her intention of not being bossed around by her husband. I refrained from telling her that I hadn’t proposed yet, and instead gave in and got down on one knee. We married and all these years later we’re still together.” He looks intently at me. “There is still the age gap between us. That itself will never change.”
“What did change, then?”
He smiles. “I realised that I would rather be with her than be alone. I would rather have her by my side than have years of regrets. I realised that I was being arrogant by forcing her to abide by my concerns, when the only person who had a say in whether she stayed with me was her.”
I sit back in the chair. “I’m still worried,” I say candidly. “I don’t want him to regret being with me.”
“And I like that,” he says firmly. “It indicates a strength of character and a selfless concern for my son’s happiness that I want to see in the person he settles down with.” He pauses. “What I don’t like is cruelty, Zeb. If you don’t want him, set him free, but don’t string him along. He has a good heart and doesn’t deserve that.”
I sit forward. “I won’t. I promise.” I shrug helplessly. “I hate hurting him. I’d rather cut my own arm off.”
“Maybe keep your limbs and use your brain instead,” he advises gently. “My son is impulsive and chaotic at times, Zeb, but he’s the kindest and oldest soul you’ll ever meet.” He smiles at me, and I see an acceptance in his eyes that warms me. “I think you’ll suit him very well. I think you’ll actually suit each other. Relationships are all about finding that moment of balance and equilibrium so you don’t fall over in life. You’ll steady him out, and he’ll set you free to move along without any brakes for a bit.”
“I need to see him,” I say, and I can hear the ache in my voice.
He stands up. “I’ve got to go up to the church because I left my sermon for tomorrow up there. I’ll show you the way.”
We walk out of the study, and I smile at the photos that line the wall. Jesse’s mum is extraordinarily beautiful. She looks a little like Sophia Loren, with jet-black hair, prominent cheekbones and a slightly wild look. It’s easy to see where Jesse’s looks come from. I pause by one photograph. It’s a black and white large photo of a young Jesse. He’s standing in the garden staring at the camera with a huge gappy smile. The charm is evident in every inch of him even then.
His father shakes his head. “He was such a rambunctious boy. Always running and shouting. Never quiet.”
“He’s not changed much,” I say honestly. “He’s still extremely noisy.”
He laughs. “He hated school. Couldn’t abide to be caged up. It still amazes me that he’s endured university, but I suppose that it was easier for him because it was for the job he wanted. He’s the most astute and caring young man. He studies people because he likes to make them happy.”
“He’ll make an excellent social worker.”
He nods and taps Jesse’s face affectionately. “My mother always called him a merry soul. She wasn’t wrong.”
We walk out of the door and blink in the bright sunlight before he guides me to a path leading towards the stone bulk of the church.
“If you don’t mind me saying, I’m a little surprised that we’ve had this conversation so easily,” I say tentatively.
He looks at me and smiles. “Because he’s gay and I’m a vicar?” I nod, and he laughs. It’s Jesse’s laugh. Warm and familiar. “I’m a man of God, Zebadiah, but my God is a loving one. I tell my congregation that when Jesus came to Earth to save mankind, he entered into a great compact with man. He went over everything that was wrong and needed to be fixed.” He smiles at me. “He never mentioned homosexuality once. That’s like Alan Sugar’s lawyers forgetting to mention how
much he’s selling a business for. No, we are all created in God’s image, Zeb. My son is as loved by him as anyone else. God doesn’t make mistakes.” He nudges me. “Besides, I wouldn’t like to be him if he snubbed my son, and my wife got hold of him.”
I laugh and follow him through the late evening sunshine. He comes to a stop by the huge curved wooden door. “Well, this is me,” he says lightly. “You’ll find my son round the back. Let him bring you down to the house for supper. Gianna is making her lasagna. It’s not to be missed. Nor is your imminent interrogation by my wife.” He winks. “I’m looking forward to both.”
I laugh. “Thank you. I’d like that very much.”
He vanishes into the church, and I follow the path around the building to a long graveyard. It’s a peaceful spot. Ancient-looking trees hover over the gravestones, some of which lean to one side drunkenly. They’re covered in lichen like a blanket for the dead. The smell of cut grass is heavy on the air.
I spot him immediately. He’s sitting under an old, twisted chestnut tree. He’s shirtless, dressed in faded blue shorts and wearing ratty-looking trainers that are covered in green smears. His T-shirt is a puddle of fabric at his side and sweat glistens on his soft chest hair.
I swallow hard. I’ve never in my life seen a more beautiful man than Jesse. Even though his mouth is drawn tight and a frown plays on that high-boned face, he’s still stunning.
I walk softly across the grass. Someone in a house nearby is playing “Lucky Man” by The Verve and I hope it’s an omen. The beautiful song drifts around us, mingling with the sound of birdsong.
“I like this one,” I say nervously, and his head shoots up. Astonishment and gladness are there for a brief wonderful moment before he shutters them, and his face becomes a mask.
“Mrs Simpson likes them,” he says coolly. “She went to all the festivals in the nineties and was in love with Richard Ashcroft. She always said that if he’d met her he’d have been writing happy love songs.”
I stare at him. “Do you think that’s true?”
He shrugs. “She’s got seven children and five grandchildren. Richard must be quaking in his Clarks Wallabees.”
I laugh and then shift awkwardly as his expression remains impassive. In my head this had gone a lot better. A lot easier. I don’t know why I expected that. I certainly don’t deserve it.
He looks me up and down. “You’re a bit dressed up for a graveyard, Zeb. How was your wedding?”
“His wedding and I have no idea. I left.”
His stoical expression breaks. “What? Why?”
“I had to find you.”
He shakes his head, his hair tumbling silkily around that thin face. “But what happened to your promise?”
He looks down as he pulls nervously at the grass by his leg, and I stare at his downcast head. “I realised that I was making promises to the wrong person,” I say slowly.
He lifts his face and stares at me. His eyes are turbulent. “What do you mean?”
I shift my stance. “I mean that I shouldn’t have kept old promises to someone who means nothing to me, when there was a far more important person in my life. I’ll never stop being loyal and taking my word seriously and keeping my promises. It’s just that this time I’ll make them to the right person. You.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t understand you at all. You got what you wanted.”
“Not yet, but maybe soon.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re still sleeping with him. You were in bed when you agreed to be his best man. That’s disgusting.”
“It is,” I say fiercely. “But I didn’t know. He led me to believe that they’d split up, and I fell back into bed with him. It was more familiarity by then rather than passion.” I pause and add honestly, “I didn’t ask too many questions though, and that’s on me. But in my defense, she was sleeping with him while he was with me. I didn’t owe her any loyalty.”
“I saw you on the balcony, Zeb. It looked pretty passionate to me. You were exactly where you’ve wanted to be. With him.”
I break my stasis and crouch next to him. “It wasn’t what you thought,” I say fiercely. “He grabbed me and kissed me. If you’d stayed around a second longer you’d have seen me push him away.”
“What happened?” His fingers have stopped their frenzied uprooting of the poor grass and I grab his hands and kiss the long, slender fingers. I can smell the scent of green tea from his pulse and taste a trace of salt on my tongue.
“I ran out of there. I got back too late to stop you leaving, so I followed you. Jesse.”
“Why?”
“I’ll always follow you.”
“What are you saying, Zeb?”
I hate the caution on his face. He’s meant for sunny smiles and that careless warm charm. “I’m saying I want you.” I swallow hard. “I’m saying that I’m falling in love with you.”
He swallows hard, something fierce and impassioned in his face that makes him suddenly look older. “Why? I’m too young and irresponsible and flippant and–”
“And perfect,” I say quietly, cutting through the tumbling words. “You’re just perfect for me.”
For a long second we stare at each other, and I hope that’s enough. I don’t have any more words. I’ve said everything in my heart. Then he mutters something and throws himself onto my lap. Caught off guard, I flounder before falling backwards with him lying on top of me.
“Oof! Jesse,” I get out before he kisses me fiercely. I taste a flash of blood and then hug him tight, lost in the kiss. I make a murmur of disgust when he pulls back, but he laughs jubilantly.
“You really love me?” I nod and he kisses me again. “I love you too,” he says softly, and there is so much weight and passion to his words that I feel humbled.
“Really?” I ask almost shyly.
He nods, cupping my face in his palms. “I love everything. I love your sarcasm, your cleverness. I know you see age when you look at us, but all I see is the person I’m in love with. He’s funny and clever and kind. He’s protective, and he’s vulnerable. I don’t see how old you are or what you look like anymore, Zeb. I just see you and you–” He smiles. “You’re fucking everything to me.”
I kiss him then, feeling his weight and smell all around me. He feels safe. He feels right. He feels like my home. He’s perfect.
Epilogue
Six Months Later
Jesse
I let myself into Zeb’s flat with a quiet sigh of relief. It’s eleven o’clock at night, and I’m bloody shattered. I’ve been at work since seven this morning and it’s been a harrowing day with a case, but I can rest easy now because everything is settled and a mother and her child are now safe.
I look around the flat, inhaling the scent of vanilla and furniture polish on the air. He’s left the lamps on for me, and they shed pools of light on the wooden floors and white walls. It’s an oasis of calm and as far away from the feel of my workplace today as if I’d stepped into a house on the moon.
A clicking of claws sounds out on the floor and then a bundle of fur leaps at me from the shadows. “Clarence,” I whisper. “Were you lying on the bed, you naughty little monster. You know Daddy doesn’t like it.” I laugh. “Just like he doesn’t appreciate me calling him Daddy.”
The dog pants and tries to lick my chin, his little face creased in what looks like a smile. When I encouraged Zeb to get a dog – okay, when I forced Zeb to get a dog – I thought he’d go for a pedigree dog. Something expensive and well groomed. Instead he marched off to the local dogs’ home and came back with something small and unkempt that looked very much like a tiny sheep on spindly legs. God knows what breed Clarence is. There’s some terrier in there and a few other breeds, but he’s a bundle of love and slobber and he adores Zeb beyond reason. Wherever he is, you can be sure to find Clarence. The dog accepts me as an extension of Zeb, but we both know who his master is.
I take off my jacket, slinging it onto the back of
the sofa, and wander into the kitchen, followed closely by Clarence who sussed out very early on that I’m a soft touch and will always slip him food. There’s another lamp on in here and a plate on the island with a note propped against it. In Zeb’s neat writing is written I’ve left you some lasagne, love. I want you to eat it or you’ll be ill.
I smile at the prosaic note that still somehow manages to punch me in the heart. I’ve found that Zeb is very much like this in love. He doesn’t overwhelm me with questions and demands. Instead he thinks hard and studies me and always looks after me. And because he’s studied me over the months so intently and lovingly, he somehow gets it right every time.
I’d texted him when I knew I was going to be late without going into detail. But still he’d known that I needed him, and this is his way of showing me that he’s with me always, regardless of physical presence, with my favourite meal that he learnt to cook from my mother.
I heat it up in the microwave, inhaling the delicious scent and feeling my mouth water and the knot in my stomach unravel. I love my job passionately. I think I’m good at it, and I know I’m helping people, but it still takes a toll, and it’s good to be home. I still as the microwave dings. Home. Is this my home?
I look around the kitchen. It’s still the same beautiful room as it was the first night he fed me dinner and asked me to pretend to be his boyfriend. However, I can see the new additions in the colourful blind that I picked out, in the photos on the fridge and windowsill, and the bright red teapot on the dresser.
I reach out and touch the corner of the photo I like best. It’s a black-and-white shot of the two of us at a party. I’m laughing, and Zeb has his arm round me. A wide smile is splitting his gorgeous face, and his eyes are creased around the edges, but it’s the way he’s looking at me that I love best. As if I’m everything he can see. I smile. It’s the way I look at him too, but he never realises that.
