“Here’s the layout,” said Luke. He showed the page to Rupert. “There’s a progression to them. From chaos to order. You’re not really going to get the effect while they’re just leaning here, but”—he pointed to the middle panel of the group—“this is the last in the series. It represents harmony.”
Rupert sat back from the panel. He was no expert in art, even after several visits to London’s Tate Gallery during a brief affair with the BBC’s handsome arts correspondent. But as he stared at this particular canvas, he believed he could appreciate the emotion the artist was trying to convey. The intricate brushwork generated an overwhelming sense of harmony and peace. It was painted in oils, applied thickly to the canvas. Rupert rapidly scanned the image. His eyes flicked back and forth until they rested on its central area and slowly defocused. He felt his muscles relax, and a sense of overwhelming calm settled on him.
“What is it, Rupert?”
Luke had sat down, and Rupert was aware the American was staring at him closely. The canvas was almost hypnotic in the sense of well-being it created within him. After a long pause, Rupert turned his head to gaze at Luke.
“That’s quite something,” he began. “The others downstairs. They were different. It’s difficult to believe they were painted by the same—”
“I know,” said Luke, leaning in closer to Rupert. “Put those out of your mind. Tell me about this one. It’s affected you. I can tell. Describe what you feel.”
Rupert looked back at the canvas. Once again, the sense of calm engulfed him.
“I can only compare it to how I feel when I go back home,” he began. “There’s a place where I walk in the Chiltern Hills. I found it years ago. I go there to escape my parents. There’s a viewpoint I climb up to. It’s difficult to find, so there’s never anyone around. And when I get up there, I see the lush green of the valley laid out before me. There’s no sound apart from the calls of the red kites flying overhead and the wind blowing in my face—”
Luke leaned forward and kissed Rupert gently on the cheek. Rupert turned to see Luke’s deep brown eyes glisten as they stared at him with a penetrating intensity. Rupert raised a hand and placed it on the back of the American’s head. He pulled him close, and their lips embraced. Timidly at first. Then, emboldened by the sensuousness of the moment, the two men fell back on the studio floor and hungrily explored each other’s mouths with their tongues. Rupert traced the firm curve of Luke’s chest and tight waist as he slowly moved his hand down to the inside of Luke’s thighs. Luke groaned in appreciation when Rupert massaged him through the fabric of his jeans before he reached for Luke’s belt buckle.
The shrill, insistent tone of a mobile phone rang out. Rupert ignored it, but it persisted. With a curse, Rupert rolled to one side, sat up, and reached into his back pocket.
“Yes, what?” he said. He held the oversized smartphone to his ear and listened with mounting irritation.
“It’s all in my notes,” he said at last. “Didn’t you read them?”
The voice at the other end was equally agitated.
“Okay,” said Rupert with a sigh. “Send the image through now, and I’ll confirm the identity. But I’m damn sure it’s all in the camera shot list.”
He hung up the phone and looked across at Luke, who was lying back on the floor with his eyes closed, an arm resting on his forehead.
“I’m sorry,” said Rupert. “It’s work. There’s a last-minute rush on an edit of a piece I shot in a refugee camp in Greece last month. It won’t take a moment.”
Luke opened his eyes slowly and sat up.
The phone beeped, and Rupert tapped the screen. An image appeared on it. Luke leapt to his feet and backed away toward the open loft hatch. His eyes were wide with terror.
“Hey,” said Rupert. He stood up with the phone clutched in his hand. “Are you okay?”
But Luke had disappeared down the ladder.
Chapter 7
RUPERT STOOD at the top of the open hatchway, unsure what to do next. He looked again at the image on the screen of his phone. It showed the face of a Syrian man he had interviewed through an interpreter at a refugee camp on the Greek island of Chios last month.
Had Luke ever met this man? And if so, how? As far as Rupert knew, Luke had never been to Syria, and the chances of him traveling to a crowded refugee camp were remote. So what was it that had so clearly terrified the American? And it was obvious Luke had been terrified. Rupert decided he should wait a few minutes before he followed him down the ladder. To fill the time, he made a call to Sandra.
“’Ello, darlin’. ’Ow far ’ave you got on wiv ’im?”
“Look, I can’t really speak at the moment. But I’ve got a question to ask. Why is Craig editing my refugee piece? He’s just called me with some damn-fool question. I thought you were supposed to be doing it?”
There was a sigh at the end of the phone.
“This afternoon old iron knickers said the cut wasn’t tight enough and asked me to lose a few bits out of the edit.” There was a pause before Sandra continued. “I suppose I told ’er where she could stick it.”
“Sandra,” said Rupert in exasperation. “Why didn’t you tell me? You know what Craig’s like—”
“Yeah, about six years old and a right little know-it-all. ’Ow do you think I feel? She’s done it deliberately.”
“Yes, well you shouldn’t have insulted her in the first place,” replied Rupert, frustrated by her childishness. “I’m going to have to go in now, before he wrecks it—”
“But it’s gone ten o’clock,” said Sandra. “What about yer date? You can’t leave ’im. He must be champin’ at the bit for you—”
“It’s not quite like that,” interrupted Rupert. “Look, any chance you could come in too? I’m going to need you to back me up—”
“You must be fuckin’ jokin’, Rupert Pendley-Evans!”
Rupert held the phone away from his ear as Sandra’s deafening reply hit his eardrum. He tentatively placed the phone back against the side of his head.
“If you come in, I’ll tell you what happened this evening,” he began.
“You can do that tomorrow,” Sandra replied briskly.
“I’m out on a research trip tomorrow,” said Rupert. It was almost true. In the morning he was meeting an old university friend for lunch who happened to work for the National Crime Agency. But Sandra was not to know that.
There was a long pause at the other end of the call. Rupert gambled on Sandra’s desperate curiosity. He knew her too well.
“You gettin’ a taxi?” she asked finally. “’Cause if you are, you can fuckin’ well send one for me too.”
WHEN RUPERT climbed back down the metal ladder to Luke’s bedroom, he found the American sitting on the edge of his bed. His shoulders were slumped, and he stared absently at the battered old teddy bear on the dresser at the foot of his bed.
“You okay?” asked Rupert. He held the side of the ladder, with his foot on the bottom rung.
Luke lifted his head to look at Rupert. He straightened his back and stood.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” he said and walked to the doorway. “Why don’t I show you your room so you can get some rest?”
Rupert shook his head. “Yes, well, I’m afraid I’ve got to go back into work. Look, I can sleep at mine tonight. It’s really not—”
“No.”
Luke turned to look at Rupert.
“I’m sorry about all that upstairs. I’ve got a problem with… that is to say….” Luke coughed and stared at the floor. The room was still. Rupert clung to the side of the ladder and waited for Luke to explain more about his abrupt exit from the studio. Finally, the American looked up.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “There’s stuff I need to tell you. But not tonight. Look. I’ll get you a towel and show you your room and give you the spare key. You already know your way around the kitchen if you need to get something later.”
Rupert still hesitated. His foot rocked ba
ck and forth on the rung of the ladder.
“Don’t judge me.” Luke almost whispered the words. “Not yet anyhow.”
Rupert let go of the ladder. He crossed the bedroom to Luke and rested a comforting arm on his shoulder.
“I’m not going to judge you,” he said. “I’m the last one to sit in judgment. I just don’t want to upset you.” He pointed to the open hatchway that led to the studio. “And I certainly did tonight. But, in your own time.”
Luke turned his head and kissed the hand that rested on his shoulder. “You’re a good man, Mr. Pendley-Evans. Thank you for being patient.”
He slid away from Rupert’s arm. “Your room’s here. Right across the hall. I’ll go get you a towel and a spare key.”
THE VAST newsroom was busy when Rupert arrived. There was a low hubbub of chatter from the one hundred or more journalists, producers, and other staff who worked on the BBC’s domestic and world news services for television, radio, and online. The ten o’clock television bulletin for BBC1 had just finished. The shiny glass-and-chrome news set was ranged along the far wall of the newsroom. An array of television lamps, suspended from the ceiling, flooded it with light. The newsreader that night was a close friend of Rupert’s.
Rupert had worked with Beverly Daniels when they were both stationed in the BBC’s Washington bureau. He loved her quick wit and admired her ability to keep calm amid the politically charged madness of the American capital. She was Rupert’s producer for six months. When the news editor sent him to Canada to cover the election of the new, sexy prime minster, Beverly remained behind to report on the political reactions to the multiple shootings at a community college in Oregon. It was the first time she had appeared on camera. From the start, it was clear the camera loved her. In his Ottawa hotel room, Rupert had watched a recording of Beverly’s first broadcast. He was certain a new star was in the making.
He headed for the editing suites on the opposite side of the newsroom.
“Rupert,” called Beverly. “What are you doing here tonight? Another Royal tip-off?”
He turned and walked back toward the smoked-glass lectern in the middle of the news set. Beverly stood at the lectern and closed the lid of her laptop computer.
“Beverly darling.” Rupert kissed her on both cheeks. The musky scent of her perfume filled his nostrils. “When are the American networks going to snap you up? Surely it’s only a matter of time.”
She laughed and rested a hand on his forearm.
“I couldn’t be disloyal to Auntie BBC, now could I?” she said and tilted her head. Her long black hair fell across one side of her face. She brushed it away coquettishly with her hand. “And anyway, I couldn’t leave colleagues like you behind.” She looked around conspiratorially and leaned in to speak in a low voice in Rupert’s ear. “But if I were to be involved in discussions with a major international network—and that’s not to say I am—but if I were, would you come with me?”
Rupert looked at her and raised an eyebrow. This was hot news. If Beverly was about to be poached from the BBC’s ten o’clock news, it would leave a tempting vacancy to be filled.
“What would I do?” he asked finally. “Carry your bags?”
Beverly looked around her again before she continued in a whisper.
“CNN is launching a new investigative show this winter. No one knows about it yet. They’re looking for two anchors with British accents. Interested?”
“Where’s it based?”
“Atlanta,” Beverly whispered into his ear. “But with a passport to the world. They want the anchors to be seen at the heart of the news story. We could be anywhere. From Moscow to Manila.”
“We?” repeated Rupert. He leaned back to look at Beverly. “You seem to have got this all planned remarkably quickly.”
“Oh come on, Rupert.” There was a hint of irritation in Beverly’s voice. “I know you’re as ambitious as me. Neither of us have family or partners to tie us down here. We’re free agents.” She leaned in to his ear again, seductive rather than conspiratorial this time. Once more the musky allure of her perfume wafted over him. “CNN saw us onscreen together in that election special. They know we’re hot. The papers were full of our ‘sexual chemistry.’”
Rupert was tempted. A transfer to CNN would give him a worldwide audience, with a major boost in pay. His fame in the UK suddenly felt insignificant and parochial. But his ego was bruised by the fact CNN had approached Beverly first.
“I’m not sure I could face going back to the States,” he said finally. “I got burnt there last time. London’s my home, and I get to travel with the BBC. Anyway. If you go, perhaps they’ll give me the ten o’clock news.”
Beverly turned back to her laptop.
“You don’t fool me, Rupert Pendley-Evans,” she said with a smile. “I’ll tell them you’re interested.” She picked up the laptop and walked away from the set.
Rupert was about to head for the editing suites when a hand grabbed his arm.
“Oi!” said Sandra. “No need to run off like that. What did Bombshell Beverly want?”
Rupert looked down at the diminutive picture editor at his side. “Oh, we were just catching up,” he replied dismissively. “Thanks for coming, Sandra. I really appreciate your help. Let’s go and see what kind of a pig’s ear Craig has made of the edit.”
“Not so fast, mister,” said Sandra. She stood in front of him and barred his way. “’Is shift doesn’t finish until six tomorrow mornin’, so we’ve got plenty of time. Before we go any further, you’ve got your side of the bargain to deliver. What ’appened tonight?”
Rupert sighed. “Do you want a coffee? I’m not going to talk about it in the middle of the newsroom. And I’m certainly not going to talk about it in front of Craig. Shall we go down to get some of that disgusting brown liquid from the coffee machine?”
“Ooh, you know ’ow to treat a girl well, don’t ya?” Sandra rested her chin on the backs of her hands and fluttered her eyelashes at Rupert. “I’ll have a hot chocolate if you’re buyin’.” She flashed Rupert a wicked grin. “Then I can ’ave it whipped.”
Rupert laughed. They crossed the newsroom to a small area furnished with high-top tables and barstools. The dimly lit space was fitted with a microwave and a couple of vending machines dispensing hot drinks, snacks, and meals to reheat in the microwave. In the far corner, plastic cups and discarded food wrappers overflowed onto the floor from a flip-top bin. The tabletops were grubby and coffee stained. The small kitchen area was deserted. Sandra struggled up onto one of the barstools, and Rupert got a hot chocolate for her and a black coffee for himself.
“Why do they ’ave to make these bloody stools so ’igh?” complained Sandra. Her short legs dangled in midair as she tried to get comfortable in her seat. “They didn’t think about bleedin’ midgets like me when they built this place, did they?” She picked up the plastic cup of hot chocolate and quickly set it down on the tabletop again.
“Shit, that’s fuckin’ ’ot,” she said and shook her scalded fingers. “Now, Mr. Pendley-Evans. What ’ave you been up to tonight?”
Rupert gave her a selective summary of the evening’s events at Luke’s, culminating in the American’s rapid exit from his art studio.
Sandra shook her head and cautiously tried to sip from her plastic cup of hot chocolate. “Do you think ’e’s a nutter? Maybe the crack on the ’ead when ’e fell over in the bathroom ’as done ’is brain in. Whose picture was it you was lookin’ at?”
“Anas Ahmad, the guy who’d lost his wife and children when their boat capsized off Chios,” replied Rupert. He took out his phone and showed Sandra the photograph. “Craig sent it to me to do a name check.”
“And you say ’e just ran off?” asked Sandra.
“It was like something out of Hamlet. As if he’d seen his father’s ghost,” replied Rupert. He put the phone back in the pocket of his leather jacket, picked up the coffee cup in front of him, and took a sip.
“Damn, I s
ee what you mean,” he said as the scalding liquid touched his lips. He set the coffee cup down on the table again. “And no, I don’t think it’s right to call him a nutter. Or to call anyone else a nutter for that matter,” he added, with a disapproving look at Sandra. “But something’s disturbing him, and I’d like to know what it is.”
“Why is it all the gorgeous men are bonkers, eh?” asked Sandra, oblivious to Rupert’s criticism of her clumsy euphemism for Luke’s mental health. She looked up at Rupert. “Come to that, why is it all the gorgeous ones are gay?”
IT WAS half an hour after midnight when Rupert arrived back in Luke’s apartment. He eased the front door shut to avoid making a noise and walked gingerly down the corridor of his temporary home to the spare room. At the end of the hallway, he stopped. The door to Luke’s bedroom was partly open, and he could see the American’s long, muscular legs stretched out on top of the bedclothes. In the background he heard the rhythmic hum of a rotary fan, forlornly battling the oppressive heat of the close July night.
Rupert stood motionless outside the doorway. The door was open maybe six or eight inches and allowed a partial, teasing view of Luke’s naked sleeping form. Rupert could see the backs of Luke’s calves curve up to the indentations behind his knee joints. The taut hamstring muscles of his thighs twitched intermittently, as though he were running an imaginary race. Rupert recalled the previous night in Luke’s bathroom, when he’d cradled the injured man in his arms. He remembered watching admiringly as Luke’s toned muscles contracted and relaxed with involuntary spasms of apparent cold and fear. Standing here, on the threshold of the American’s bedroom, temptation overcame Rupert, and he pushed gently on the door to open it a little more.
The hinges creaked as the door swung open to reveal the sharply defined curves of Luke’s upper torso. The American stirred and rolled over onto his front, his arms spread across the pillows. The dark shadows of his buttocks clenched as he stretched his left leg and bent his right into a commanding sprawl across the diagonal of the bed. Rupert held his breath. Not daring to move. Not wanting to disturb this peaceful and erotic moment.
For the Love of Luke Page 5