“He’s good to everyone. That’s why we have to look after him.” Cass opened the front door. “And he’s a traditional boy. His favourite meal is steak and chips.”
They walked into town in silence. Jake found himself scrutinising the sign outside the Dragonfly before he thought of anything to say. “Wankers. Sorry. I heard you cook the best steak in London.”
Cass rolled his eyes. “Tom tell you that?”
“No, I read it on Twitter.”
“Twitter?”
Jake followed Cass across the street. “I set up an account for Pink’s last week and searched the hashtags for all your businesses. Pippa’s is huge.”
“Really?” Cass grinned. “I think we had a Facebook page once, but the bloke who set it up moved on, and we never got round to getting the password off him. What else did you find?”
“Quite a bit. Your snack boxes are really popular in Canary Wharf.”
“Ah, see, I knew that,” Cass said. “Tom was wittering on about it a few weeks ago. I think he wants to expand the Bites delivery zone outside of the city.”
“What do you want?”
Cass shrugged. “Whatever he wants. He’s normally right. Here’s the butcher’s. You coming in?”
Jake trailed to a stop. He wasn’t in the mood to face a crowded shop in the poshest place he’d ever been. “Not today.”
Cass didn’t look surprised. “All right. Wait here. I know the bird behind the till, so I’ll only be a minute.”
Jake leaned against the wall a little way from the door and lit a cigarette. He hadn’t smoked much since coming to live with Tom and Cass, but he had a few left in the last pack he’d bought in London. He blew smoke into the sky and watched the middle-class Christmas shoppers go about their business. Snippets of their conversations reached his ears. They spoke like Tom, smooth and posh, but they sounded nothing like him.
Cass plucked the cigarette from Jake’s fingers. “If you’re going to smoke, you have to share.”
Jake blinked. “Wow. That was quick.”
“Told you.” Cass puffed on Jake’s cigarette and closed his eyes. “I know people in high places. Don’t tell Tom I smoked. I’m only allowed to smoke at Pippa’s.”
“Allowed?” Jake had seen Tom be stern with staff and builders, but he couldn’t imagine him forbidding Cass to do anything. Or Cass obeying.
“It’s a compromise. I couldn’t get through a weekend at work without killing anyone if I didn’t sneak a couple of fags. That’s hassle Tom doesn’t need.”
“Wankers.”
“Exactly. Let’s swing by Waitrose and head home.”
Jake watched Cass unpack the remaining shopping. He’d already tackled the mammoth bag of potatoes and the green beans with the biggest knife Jake had ever seen. “What did you get in the butcher’s?”
“There wasn’t much left, but I scrounged up a few rib eyes. Want to see?”
Jake shrugged. His coding project was calling him, but he was hungry too, and watching Cass make his own brand of oven-baked chips had turned out to be a fascinating distraction. There was a poetry to Cass in the kitchen.
Cass laid three steaks out on the red board he’d placed over the wooden block he’d cut the vegetables on. “See this eye of fat in the middle?”
Jake wrinkled his nose. He liked eating meat well enough, but the raw product had always freaked him out. “Is that where the name comes from?”
“Yep.” Cass checked the time and took a pan down from the hooks above the stove. “Tom won’t be long. If we cook these now, they can rest while we do the beans and find some booze.”
“We?”
Cass smirked. “Sure. Why not? Come here.”
Jake hesitated a moment, then slid off the kitchen stool he’d made himself at home on and rounded the island.
Cass passed him the pan and pointed at the gas burners. “How do you like to eat your steak?”
Jake whistled and slapped his arm a few times before he answered. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten any red meat that wasn’t a burger. “Dunno.”
“Good answer.” Cass lit the front burner. “Means I get to boss you around. Contrary to popular belief, the fat in a rib eye means it’s better cooked medium, rather than rare-as-you-dare. All right with that?”
Jake nodded. “What do you want me to do?”
“Now there’s a question. Um, grab that oil and the salt and rub some on the steaks.”
Okay. Jake followed Cass’s direction and rubbed olive oil and salt into the slimy surface of the meat. Then he brought the red board to the stove. “Do you want oil in the pan?”
“Nah. It’ll smoke like hell.” Cass narrowed his eyes and gauged the thickness of the steaks with his finger and thumb. “Cook them four minutes a side, then we’ll wrap them in foil and leave them a bit.”
Jake took the tongs Cass held out. “You want me to put them in?”
Cass held his hand over the pan. “Yeah, I’d say so.”
Under Cass’s guidance, Jake placed the steaks in the pan and seasoned them with pepper while they cooked. Then he wrapped them in a foil parcel and set them aside. “Is that how you cook them at Pippa’s?”
“Not quite.” Cass lit the burner beneath the green beans. “The pans don’t get as hot at home. The meat will cook a bit more in the foil.”
Jake took it all in. Despite his aversion to the raw meat, dinner was starting to look like the best meal he’d had in years. Cass threw some spices over the chips in the oven, then showed Jake how to make boring green beans taste amazing with olive oil and lemon.
When they were done, they sat at the counter with some strange Japanese beer—samples from a supplier—Cass brought up from the cellar. They made small talk for a while, but it turned out that Cass was even worse at it than Jake. Cass, it seemed, liked to speak his mind.
“Do you ever forget about your TS?”
Jake swallowed some of the pale, super-fizzy lager. “Sometimes. If I’m distracted or absorbed in something, I don’t notice the tics.”
“Ah.” Cass nodded slowly, as though he was having a silent conversation with himself. “Maybe I’m picking up on that. You were ticking loads this morning. I haven’t noticed it at all since we started cooking.”
“Fly him to the moon. Fuck. It’s all over.”
Cass stared at Jake a moment, then he burst out laughing. Jake laughed too, and let his favourite tics get the better of him until both he and Cass were crying and gasping for breath.
Cass grabbed Jake’s arm. “Sorry, mate. I’m not laughing at you, I swear.”
Jake shook his head and attempted to calm the fuck down. “It’s okay. I like laughing at it. Makes me feel normal. Shh.”
Cass fought with himself, but his laughter seemed as irrepressible as Jake’s tics. Only the sound of a key in the front door sobered them both. Jake turned his head, his gaze fixed on the kitchen doorway. Tom’s footsteps echoed on the bare wood of the hallway until he appeared, smiling, and took in the scene of Jake and Cass hunched over the kitchen counter, their faces bright with laughter.
Tom’s smile was a mile wide. “Something smells good.”
“Jake made us dinner,” Cass said.
“Did I bollocks,” Jake protested. “Cass taught me to cook steak.”
“Bossed you around, more like.” Tom’s smile deepened and a flash of something suspiciously like relief coloured his features. He ventured further into the room and embraced Cass, kissing him soundly.
Jake averted his eyes, wondering if he should leave them to it. He’d never seen them kiss before, and the reaction deep in his gut was a little disturbing. He’d expected to hate it, to be jealous, but those emotions were strangely absent. He liked it. He wanted to look back, stare at them, and absorb it all. He wanted to wind his arms around Tom from behind and press his face between his shoulder blades. Feel the effect Cass’s kiss had on the steady beat of his heart, and pretend Cass’s love was for both of them.
�
��Wankers. Shit. Sorry.” Jake slapped his hand over his mouth, and the feeling was gone as abruptly as it had arrived.
Tom pulled away from Cass with a rueful grin. “Don’t ever be sorry. Come here.”
He drew Jake into a warm, tight hug, before he rested their foreheads together. “It’s good to be home. Let’s eat.”
A few weeks later, Jake battled through the Christmas Eve crowds at Covent Garden Tube station. It was the first time he’d been back to London since Cass had rescued him from his landlord, and though he’d missed the vibrant city, he hadn’t missed the sensation of a stranger’s elbow in his ribs, or the smell of a packed underground train.
He fought his way out of the station as he let the tics he’d suppressed on the train escape. It felt strange to be in London without Tom. Daft, really, considering he’d spent the past four years on his own.
Jake followed the flow of tourists and Christmas shoppers to East Colonnade Market. His favourite magician’s stall caught his attention, but he ignored his natural instinct to stand and stare and pressed on to a secluded corner of the market he’d never noticed before.
He smelled Pink’s long before he saw it, and even when he spotted the small cluster of tables, it took him a moment to find the teeny tiny open kitchen, doling out paella to the bustling crowds. Tom had described it as “a real hole in the wall,” and he wasn’t wrong. There was no branding, no logo, nothing to link the chef and single waitress to Pink’s or Urban Soul. Only a small wooden sign, lost in the chaos of the market, identified the restaurant at all.
Hmm. Jake leaned on a railing. He’d been over Pink’s accounts and knew it was profitable, but the way Tom told it, there was an air of unfulfilled potential, a missed opportunity that made Tom twitchy. Jake took out his phone and pulled up the Twitter account he’d set up for Pink’s. He’d spent his time on the train following the surrounding businesses, food blogs, and London media outlets. Most of them had followed him back. Some had tweeted, recognising the name, and querying the bespoke hashtag Jake had devised a few nights ago, over some beers with Cass.
Cass. Yeah, he was more food for thought. Things had mellowed since steak night, and they’d resumed their habit of daily texts. But each night now, after a lingering kiss from Tom before bed, Jake found himself waiting downstairs for Cass. They’d meet in the living room, have a drink, and talk long into the night about music and movies until Cass fell asleep on the couch. Then Jake would creep away to the big bed he had all to himself, and hope that Cass eventually found his way upstairs to spend some time with Tom.
Time that was precious to them.
Time they seemed all too willing to share with Jake.
It felt like a weird limbo, and Jake wondered if this was really how Tom and Cass had lived before he’d come along.
He checked himself for unresolved tics, and then descended the stairs to the dark corner where Nero, the chef, was working. The Spaniard glanced up as Jake approached, alerted to his presence by Jake’s buzzing whistle, but to his credit, his expression didn’t change at all. When Jake held out his hand, he even smiled.
Huh. Cass said he was grumpy. “Hey, I’m Jake. I’ve come to take some pictures of you for the new website.”
Nero snorted. “Not me, mate, the food. My ugly mug won’t do you any favours.”
Jake grinned. With his copper skin and soulful eyes, Nero was far from ugly. Jake peered into the huge pan he was working with. “This is paella, right? Are you doing anything else today?”
“Hake and chorizo. Here, stir this. I’ll go and get some for you to try.”
Nero thrust what looked like a canoe paddle at Jake and disappeared into the back area of the tiny kitchen. Nonplussed, Jake stirred the plump saffron-scented rice until Nero returned with a plate of food—which smelled amazing—and a bucket of shellfish.
“Keep stirring, mate. I need to chuck these in.”
The shellfish clattered into the pan. Jake recognised prawns and mussels, but a strange elongated shell caught his eye. “What are those?”
“Razor clams. Shame we’ve only got the ten tables, because they were cheap as chips. I bought loads. Couldn’t help myself.” Nero dolloped some paella from a second pan into a bowl and held it out with the plate of hake.
Jake smiled his thanks. “You don’t have to feed me.”
Nero shrugged. “How can you sell something you haven’t tried?”
Nero had him there, and both dishes were amazing, like all the food he’d tried at Urban Soul’s various outlets. Tom and Cass were definitely fulfilling their vision of a unique experience for every guest they served.
Jake snapped a few pictures with his smartphone, honouring Nero’s wishes and sticking to the food. He did get a few inadvertent close-ups of Nero’s hands, though, and it took him a few glances to realise that Nero only had three fingers on his left hand.
That gave Jake pause. He knew from the state of Cass’s hands and forearms that chefs were, by nature, covered with scars and burns, but to lose a whole finger? Jake shuddered. Though, with his missing finger, Nero looked like a rogue, the best kind of rogue. Like a gangster, or . . .
Like a pirate.
Jake sniggered, and it bubbled into a tic he could tell took all Nero’s discretion to ignore. With that in mind, he quit while he was ahead and bade Nero good-bye.
He jostled his way through the market crowds again and back out into the open air. The street performers tempted him, but it was getting late, and he had a few things left to do before he caught the train back to Berkhamsted.
It had been a few years since he’d last celebrated Christmas, but though Tom and Cass only took a few days off and it was a holiday steeped in their own brand of tradition, they’d made it clear it was tradition they wanted to share with him. Jake had the impression their routine hadn’t changed much over the past few years: Work for Cass, then a late meal and a boozy night out. Neither of them had mentioned presents, but Jake had already bought Cass a remastered Morrissey album. He’d seen it in Camden and hadn’t been able to resist. Cass loved the Smiths, and Jake enjoyed watching him drift around the big house in Berkhamsted, singing to himself with a faraway look in his eyes.
Yeah, in that respect, Cass was easy. Getting a gift for Tom was proving more difficult. Jake spent more time with him, worked with him, kissed him—they’d fucked, for God’s sake—but Tom’s interests outside work and Cass remained something of a mystery.
Jake meandered through the festive lights of Covent Garden. He bypassed the designer shops and stuck to the boho independent stores. He’d just about given up when his gaze fell on a simple glass photo frame in the window of an artisan home wear shop. It called to him, though he couldn’t say why.
Perhaps it was the price. At twenty-five quid, it was the cheapest thing he’d considered so far.
Cheap, but . . .
Jake slipped into the shop and picked up the frame. Tom worked all over London, but when he wasn’t traipsing around the city, he spent most of his time in his office above the Stew Shack, a tiny space that held nothing but computers, phones, and filing cabinets. Jake figured a photo of Cass would brighten the place up, and anyway, he was bang out of time and ideas.
He bought the frame and headed for home, stopping at a post office on the way to buy sweets and send a belated card to Leeds. Jake felt pretty ambiguous as he let the festive red envelope drop into the postbox, but both Tom and Cass seemed to think the small contact with his family was important.
“Don’t burn bridges that don’t need to be burned,” Cass had said. “You can’t fix what ain’t there anymore.”
Whatever the hell that meant.
Jake braved Euston and caught the fast train home. He settled in his seat and stuffed a few boiled sweets in his mouth. Keeping his tongue occupied sometimes kept him quiet.
He retrieved his phone and set about editing the photos he’d taken at Pink’s. He drafted a few prototype tweets and saved them. Tom didn’t know much about Twitter, bu
t he’d scheduled a trial promotion period in the New Year. Somehow, Jake had ended up in charge of it.
His phone buzzed as he was finishing. A voice mail from Cass that must have come through when the train had passed Bushey and Watford.
“Hey, Jake. Fucking crazy day, man. Got loads of prep still to do for tomorrow. I’m not gonna be home tonight. By the time I get there, it’ll be time to turn my arse around and come right back. Can you call Tom for me? He must be on the underground and his voice mail’s full. Gotta go. See you soon, mate.”
Jake frowned. Cass had made it home every night since he’d moved in, though he sometimes didn’t crawl in until the early hours and was often long gone by the time Jake woke. Something felt off. He called Tom. It took a few tries to get through, but eventually the call connected. “Cass rang. He’s not coming home tonight. Said he’s behind on setup for tomorrow.”
Silence, then the sound of a door closing. “That’s convenient.”
“Um, is it? Wankers. Fuck.” Jake glanced around, but no one was looking his way.
Tom sighed. “Never mind. We were supposed to go somewhere tonight. Guess I’ll have to go alone.”
“I could go with you.”
“No, it’s all right; this isn’t a work thing. I’ll see you soon, okay?”
Tom hung up without further comment. Jake put his phone away, perplexed, but there wasn’t much he could do, stuck on a train by himself, and by the time Tom joined him at the house a few hours later, the frustration he’d heard in Tom’s voice was gone.
“All right, mate?” Tom dropped a takeaway pizza on the kitchen table and kissed the top of Jake’s head. “Did you have a good day?”
Jake nodded and turned his computer screen in Tom’s direction. “Want to see?”
“Nope. Show me after Christmas. The office is officially closed. No more work.”
Jake opened his mouth to protest, but Tom silenced him with a kiss, the kind of kiss that went on and on, even after Tom had pulled away. “What are we going to do instead?”
“Nothing.” Tom unbuttoned his shirt. “I’m gonna put some trackies on, eat pizza, and watch Morecambe and Wise. You in?”
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