“Not quite. I went for a drink after. He found me in the bar and brought my diary back to me. I’d left it on my table.”
“That’s even worse. So, Jake, eh? I like that name, and I liked his ink. He has some epic tattoos.”
“So do you.” Tom took a pull of his pint and considered Cass. He and Jake had different eyes. Jake’s were warm and brown, while no one on earth had stormy blues quite like Cass. “Did you notice anything else about him?”
“I didn’t get much chance. I told you, he legged it.”
“You didn’t talk to him?”
“Not really.” Cass set down his beer, perhaps sensing Tom was trying to tell him something. “And he didn’t say much at all, apart from calling me an arse-bandit wanker, which I thought was pretty rich. Why? What am I missing?”
Tom reached for the crisps between them. “He has Tourette’s. You know what that is, right?”
“I think so,” Cass said after a moment’s thought. “Is that the swearing thing Keith Allen did that documentary on?”
“I don’t know, but there seems to be more to it than swearing. Jake called them tics . . . the swearing and stuff, but it was more physical than just shouting, like it went through his whole body.”
Tom explained the incident in the restaurant and the behaviour he’d witnessed in the bar and on the train. “It wasn’t so bad when we were fucking, though. I forgot about it, to be honest, and it felt like he did too.”
“So you fucked him, then?”
Tom chanced a glance around, but there was no one close enough to overhear them. “Yeah, I guess, but to be honest, for most of it, it felt like he was fucking me.”
Cass burst out laughing. “Really? That’s bloody brilliant. I wish I’d seen it. You’re such a control freak.”
“Yeah well, you like it.”
“True.” Cass sobered himself with clear effort. “Is that what’s got him under your skin so much? The fucking? Or is it the Tourette’s?”
Tom hooked his legs around Cass’s under the table, and reminded himself how lucky he was to be with someone who understood him so well. “I don’t know,” he said eventually. “I had a good time with him, and I liked him, a lot, but it feels unfinished. Like I forgot to do something that really bloody matters.”
“Sounds like more than fucking.” Cass drained his pint and dropped the glass on the table. “Maybe you should stick around next time.”
Next time. They left the pub with the notion swimming in Tom’s head, though Cass said no more on the subject. They completed the loop around the town and stopped at the Dragonfly, the bistro they owned on the high street.
Cass wanted to check the kitchen, but Tom stood his ground and parked him in a cosy alcove with a cup of tea while he wandered back of house under the pretence of doing so himself. Gloria, the bistro’s head chef, greeted him with open arms. Tom returned her crushing embrace with a wry smile. Gloria didn’t need her kitchen checked. Cass aside, she was the best chef they had.
“I saved some cassoulet and dauphinoise. Take it home for you and Cass. You both work too hard.”
Tom wasn’t about to argue, especially when Gloria was pushing her epic cassoulet on him. He bade her good-bye, retrieved Cass, and together, they made their way home.
They spent the rest of the day painting their bedroom, an activity that ended with Cass bent over the bed and covered in sticky white fingermarks. It was late by the time they sat down to the mountain of food Gloria had donated to them.
Cass eyed the overflowing dishes. “We always have too much food. Maybe you should track down your new friend. Feed him up a little.”
“You’d be okay with that?”
Cass shrugged. “Why not? You always know when someone needs your help. You’ve got a sixth sense or something. The fact that he’s hot is a bonus. Find him. Fuck him. Fix him. It’s what you do.”
“That’s not what I do.”
“Yes, it is.” Cass shoved his fork in his mouth like the conversation was done, but then he held out his hand. “You fix me all the time when I listen, and if he . . . Jake wants to see how, bring him home. I’d like to meet him.”
The thought of Cass and Jake in the same place together made Tom warm all over. He took Cass’s hand. “I’d rather you came home more often first.” He didn’t miss the bleak undertone lacing his words, but he tried to ignore it. “And I don’t fix you, babe; you fix yourself.”
“Do I? Some days I’m not so sure.”
Tom squeezed Cass’s hand. “What’s on your mind?”
“Hmm? Oh, nothing. Not really. Just hard to believe I’m really here sometimes, you know?”
Tom didn’t. He’d tried over and over to get his head around Cass’s continual belief that he didn’t deserve all that he’d worked so hard for, and still didn’t get it. Cass had come from nothing and now he had the world at his feet. Why couldn’t he be proud of that? Proud of them and all they’d achieved? Lord knew Tom was, but he’d lost this argument with Cass too many times to spoil their precious time together.
Instead, he squeezed Cass’s hand again, loved him a little bit more, and tried to find a plausible business reason to pass through Camden the following day.
In the end, it was three weeks before Tom returned to Camden, and even then, he had to use the lure of another potential restaurant site and sacrifice a day with Cass to find the time. And it wasn’t much of a lure. The newly vacant barbershop was tucked away on Chalk Farm Road; nowhere near the bustling markets that had drawn Tom to Camden in the first place.
He emerged from the Tube station on a dreary Monday morning and looked around. Clear of the weekend crowds he’d battled last time, the air felt different, but still vibrant and full of promise. The barbershop had appeared a dive on the website, but Tom still headed south with a flicker of hope in his belly. The colourful streets of Camden seemed to do that to him.
The estate agent met him at the boarded-up shop. It had been vacant a few weeks, and was already covered in the bright graffiti of London’s underground artists; street culture Tom would have to get scrubbed off before Cass persuaded him to leave it right there.
“Have you viewed any other properties since we last met?”
“Hmm?” Tom tore his gaze from the graffiti and caught his runaway thoughts. Christ, the place was a tip, and he was worrying about some poxy vandalism? He focused on the agent. “We’ve considered a few, but not in this area. There’s a site in Putney we might take on if we can’t make things work here.”
The agent looked offended. Tom wasn’t fooled. Estate agents were snakes, every bloody one of them.
“This is a great site,” she said. “I know it’s a bit off the beaten track, but it won’t be for long. We’re seeing lots of movement in this area.”
Tom let the comment hang and preceded the agent into the dusty premises. She continued to talk at him, but he tuned her out and surveyed the stripped shop front with a practiced eye. First impressions weren’t good. Depending on the depth of the structure, the architect he employed would need to do some serious work to maximise the building’s potential, work that wouldn’t be worth the money unless the site was hiding something spectacular.
The agent cleared her throat. “Come through to the other rooms.”
Tom flipped through the printed property details as he followed her to the area that could serve as the kitchen. He’d seen photos online, and knew the back rooms of the building were practically derelict.
“It does need a lot of work,” she said.
Tom shot her an irritated glance. “You think?”
The agent met his glare head-on. “Look, I know it’s a dump, but it has planning permission to extend another twenty feet, and you could utilise the upper floor too. The building is structurally sound. For the asking price—which I think you can negotiate down—this place is a steal.”
A steal. Easy for her to say, because that was the other thing about this building: it was for sale, not for rent and, if th
ey took it, would be their biggest, and riskiest, investment yet. “What was this place originally, before the barbershop, and whatever it was before that?”
The agent checked her notes. “The market tollhouse, and then a fire station, but it closed in the sixties. They built a new one down the road.”
Tom walked to the middle of the ground floor and spun in a slow circle. “What happened to all the stuff?”
“Probably in a museum somewhere.”
Tom glanced around again and tried to see past the dust and junk. He took in the disused bell clock. Beneath the vulgar modernisation, he was beginning to realise the building was gorgeous. Are those open arcades original? He’d heard of a chef up north who had converted an old RAF base into a pizza place, utilising many of its original features. Even the wood-fired oven had been built in the shell of an Apache helicopter.
His gaze fell on the open staircase. “What’s up there? Offices?”
“At the moment.” The agent consulted her notes again. “You could rent them out, or use them yourself. Are you still working at your place in Greenwich?”
Tom shrugged. He liked his cosy offices above their most recent and daring venture. The stripped-back stew-and-ale bar epitomised the ethos of the whole company, and reminded him every day what the hell it was all for.
An hour later, Tom said good-bye to the agent for what felt like the millionth time. Once she was gone, he lingered, snapping photos of the timbered old building’s exterior for Cass to look at when they met up that evening. Tom’s head still told him the place was a dump, but his gut said it could be something special, if only they could track down the fire station’s original . . .
“Bastard.”
The growled, bitten-out curse caught Tom off guard. He jumped a mile and spun around to find Jake behind him, hands clenched, eyes wide, and not looking entirely friendly. “Bloody hell. You scared me. All right, mate?”
Jake said nothing, just tapped his own cheek a few times. Tom couldn’t tell if the silence was deliberate. He took a step forwards, his hand reaching of its own volition for Jake’s scruffy sleeve. “Was that tic in context, or are you as pleased to see me as I am to see you?”
Jake jerked back and jostled a passing woman. “Piss off.”
Tom flinched. This time there was no mistaking the venomous bite in Jake’s tone, or the furious flash in his dark gaze. “Something wrong?”
“Where’s your boyfriend?”
“At work.” Tom kept his tone neutral. “He’ll be glad we ran into each other, though. You made quite an impression.”
“Are you taking the piss?”
“No.”
Jake glowered hard at Tom, his arms trembling. Then he lost the battle he must have been waging against his tics and went off like fireworks.
Tom waited, ignoring the occasional stares of passersby, but Jake’s tics didn’t fade, and Tom sensed the frustration pouring from him. He’d seen this before, at the PGB restaurant, when he’d dropped the plates.
Tom’s phone buzzed in his hand. Cass’s devilish scowl flashed onto the screen with an SMS at just the wrong moment. Any good?
Tom typed out a quick reply. Maybe. Need a concept, though. Fast. Bring this bastard to life.
Cass’s response was instant. Get your arse in gear then, pretty boy. I’ll bring the food.
Despite Cass’s very real disinterest in the nuts and bolts of the business, he designed epic menus for every restaurant they’d ever opened. All they needed was a plan . . . a vision. Tom’s vision; something that felt distinctly lacking right now, barring the sporadic flashes of fire hoses hanging from the ancient exposed beams.
“That’s him, isn’t it?”
Tom blinked. Somehow, he’d missed Jake calming himself enough to step closer and peer around him at the screen of his phone. “Who? Cass?”
“That’s his name?”
“Yeah. Want to see?”
Tom held out the phone. Jake stepped back like it was a poisoned lance. “Fuck off. You could’ve warned me you were cheating. I wouldn’t have stayed over. Fuck, I probably wouldn’t have shagged you at all.”
“I wasn’t cheating—”
“Yeah? Then why did your toy boy walk in on me in your bed? I’m not a bloody idiot, Tom. Is that even your real name?”
Tom laughed; he couldn’t help it. “Yeah, my name’s Tom. What else would it be? Listen—” He stopped and tried to order his thoughts around the distraction of Jake’s misplaced, but pretty damn sexy, temper. “Listen, I wasn’t cheating, okay? Cass and I have an open relationship. If you’d stuck around, he probably would’ve made you breakfast.”
“Yeah, right.” Jake ticked and slapped his own arm. “It’s a good story, but find yourself another mug.”
“Looks like you found me.” Tom took a risk and closed the distance between them. “Tell you what, how about we get some lunch. I’ll tell you all about myself, and if you still think I’m a twat, you never have to see me again.”
Jake took some persuading, but eventually Tom managed to coax him into a nearby café.
“You’re not buying me lunch, though. I can buy my own.” Jake stomped up to the counter and came back with tea and bacon sandwiches. “This posh enough for you?”
You sound like Cass. “Do I look too posh for a bacon sandwich?”
“Not today.”
Tom resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He’d woken up in Berkhamsted to find Cass had hidden all his smart-casual business attire in protest at their Monday apart. Tom had retaliated by stealing Cass’s only clean jeans and his favourite leather jacket. “Okay, so if you think I’m such a dickhead, why are you buying me lunch?”
“I spat in it.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“I wanted—wankers—I wanted to.”
Tom chanced a grin. “Well, I’m glad you didn’t.”
Jake picked up the pot of tea. His hand shook. He put it down again. “What the fuck is an open relationship?”
“You want me to define it?” Tom leaned forwards. “Or tell you what it means to me and Cass?”
“What’s the difference?”
“I don’t know, because we don’t care what anyone else thinks.”
Jake finally poured his tea, eyes down, his concentration clear. “Then why tell me? What makes you think I care?”
“I’m not forcing you to stay.”
With a low growl, Jake put his elbows on the table and glowered. “Go on, then. Enlighten me.”
Tom picked up his sandwich. The bread was plastic, soggy, and soaked in bacon grease. His mouth watered. “Cass is my partner. We live together, own a business together, and we’re totally committed to each other.” Jake snorted as he picked up his own sandwich, but Tom held up his hand. “Let me finish.”
“Wankers.”
“If you say so.” Tom bit back a grin. “Cass and I have been together a long time. I was twenty-one when I met him; he was nineteen. It was love at first sight, but we were too young to settle down. So we didn’t.”
“But you live together now?”
“Yes, but we still hook up with other blokes from time to time. Sometimes together, but that’s rare.”
“Why?”
“We don’t often find someone we both like.”
Jake’s frown deepened. Tom jumped into the awkward silence. “We’re very honest with each other. I would’ve told him everything about you even if he hadn’t come home when he did.”
“I thought he was going to deck me.”
Tom shook his head. Cass had a volatile temper, but it wasn’t triggered by jealousy. “Cass is cool. We approach things in different ways, but ultimately, we meet in the middle.”
Jake finished his sandwich. “Different? How?”
“Cass would never do this.” Tom gestured between them. “He fucks other people, but he likes his own space, mentally, at least.”
Jake raised an eyebrow. “He fucks other people . . . because you don’t bottom, right?”
>
“No. We fuck other people because we want to.” Tom held Jake’s gaze. “But in answer to your question, I don’t bottom. Cass is versatile. I’m not.”
“You shouldn’t have to cheat on each other because you don’t want to bottom.”
Tom suppressed a sigh. He really doesn’t get it. “It’s not cheating, Jake. We choose to live this way. It might not make sense to you, but it works for us.”
“Sounds fucked up.”
“So?” Tom felt the first flash of defensiveness. He wanted Jake to understand for reasons he wasn’t quite sure of yet, but he wasn’t prepared to let Jake—anyone—tear his relationship to shreds. “How do you feel when people judge you by how you sound?”
On cue, Jake ticked and growled something Tom didn’t catch. “Don’t play on my TS. It is what it is. It doesn’t define me.”
“I know that.”
Jake nodded slowly. “Your boyfriend—Cass—he’s . . .”
“Bloody gorgeous?” Jake rolled his eyes, and Tom smiled. “He wants to meet you.”
The faint trace of humour in Jake’s gaze faded like it had never been there at all. “No offence, but I don’t want to be part of some weird ménage trip. You’re a good shag, but you’re not that good.”
Tom said nothing. He’d enjoyed fucking Jake . . . enjoyed it a lot, and he knew Jake had too.
“Bastard, bastard, bastard. I wish you were a prick.” Jake groaned and put his head in his hands.
Tom rubbed Jake’s shoulder. “I’m not asking you for anything, Jake. You asked me a question. I answered it.” Silence. Tom squeezed Jake’s shoulder. “All right?”
Jake finally met Tom’s gaze. “If you didn’t do shit like that, I wouldn’t care if I never saw you again.”
Tom didn’t know what to say. He wanted to see Jake again, but the churning in his gut told him it wasn’t that simple. Jake didn’t get his relationship with Cass, he didn’t like it, and Tom couldn’t live with that. Cass was everything to him. Always.
“I should go.” Jake sat up and rubbed his face. “I need to go home.”
“Kentish Town?”
“Yeah.”
Tom withdrew his hand. Folded his arms. He knew this should be good-bye, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it. Instead he said, “Maybe I’ll stop by that cesspit you work sometime.”
Misfits Page 4