“But I can help. I know everything about him. What he likes to wear, to eat, to read. What he watches on TV. What turns him on. I know exactly what makes him happy. I know how to touch him to make him come like a rocket. I know—”
“Owen—”
“I was with him for six months. I’m an expert in Thorne Morrisey. I can make him fall for you. He likes—”
“Don’t tell me,” Linton said. “I don’t want to know.”
“But I can get you a head start.”
“One slip from me and he’d guess. Don’t you think he’d be suspicious if I just happened to like everything he did? Or if I said something about him that you’d told me but I’d forgotten I’d heard it from you and not him? Just leave me to it. Once there’s something to report, I’ll tell you.”
“You have to make him fall for you or it won’t work. Five weeks isn’t long.”
It was too long.
“Owen, are really certain you want me to do this?”
“I want Thorne to see how much he hurt me. What he did was cruel.”
“And what you want me to do isn’t?”
“I’m not the first one he’s done this to. You’re doing the world a favour. Kicking him where it hurts. In his fucking ego.”
Linton rolled his eyes, powered down his phone and stuffed it inside a shoe in the bottom of the wardrobe. Dirk’s rehab had his new number, and Linton had put a few of his friends’ details on the recently purchased phone so he didn’t look like a total loser if Thorne did pick it up. He’d also added Cindy’s number using the code Client C1. Then made up a few more so it looked as if he had more than one client.
This is so stupid.
He went back to the kitchen to get himself a bowl of frosted cereal—his comfort food at all times of the day and spotted the pile of architecture books, the drawings of buildings pinned on his board, his extensive collection of pencils, and groaned. He had to hide those too in case Thorne came to his flat. Christ, I’d be hopeless as a spy. He wondered if he ought to tell Max that Pascal had been to see him because Pascal could wreck everything without even trying. But not just that. For once Max could do something to help him. Make sure Pascal left him alone. He retrieved his phone and called him.
“Linton,” Max said.
“I thought I’d better tell you that when I pulled into the car park under my building I found Pascal waiting for me.”
“Shit.”
“I told him go but…” Linton didn’t think he needed to finish the sentence. Pascal had to be either let in on what Max had paid him to do, or Max had to find a way to persuade Pascal to drop all ideas of getting back with Linton. Not hard to guess which Max would favour.
“I’ll talk to him.”
When the whole thing had blown up at work, Linton and Pascal had been having a blazing row and Max had overheard. Half the office had overheard. Max had been swift to blame Linton, accusing him of chasing Pascal. The three months in New York had been seen as a way to defuse the situation without either of them having to resign, though Linton could guess who’d be the one to leave if it came down to that. Linton had been happy to go to the States, though Pascal hadn’t let up on emails or trying to get Linton to talk to him on Skype. At one time Linton would have been flattered by the attention, but all it did was make him annoyed. He wished he never had to see or speak to Pascal again, but he wanted to keep working for DRA too much to walk away. Yet. But the time would come and maybe sooner than he’d expected when he let Max down. It irked that no matter how good he was at his job, it would make no difference in the end.
“Any progress with Thorne?” Max asked.
“I engineered a meeting.” Linton lied. “He’s interested.”
“I want you to break his fucking heart.”
“Then stop Pascal pestering me.”
Max ended the call.
Linton shuddered. He wasn’t going to break Thorne’s heart, but he worried that in the process, he might break his own.
Linton woke in the morning still tired after a restless night spent worrying about Dirk, fretting about Pascal and thinking too much about a kiss that wasn’t really a kiss. Linton liked kissing and first kisses were important because they indicated what might follow. But that, that had been unlike any first kiss he’d given, except perhaps his first ever, age twelve - a tentative, swift brush of lips in case Will hadn’t been into it and Linton could back off fast before he got thumped in the stomach or worse. He hadn’t been thumped. What followed had changed his world.
The only difference in the way he’d kissed Thorne was that he’d not been riddled with nerves and a better kiss hadn’t followed. Even so, though it had just been a slow feather touch of mouths, it had been a kiss that had made Linton’s heart leap. But would Thorne even remember or just think Linton was a wanker who’d taken advantage so he could brag about locking lips with a celebrity?
He could have at least given Thorne his number. There would have been no suspicion in that except he’d been instructed not to chase. Linton wasn’t a chaser anyway. Not the way he played.
Coffee. He rolled out of bed and padded to the kitchen. While he ate breakfast, he looked up details of the Abacus Chess Club. Players met in a room attached to a café in the heart of Canary Wharf. There were no formal arrangements. Just turn up, find a partner and make a contribution toward the overheads. At least it wouldn’t look too weird if he turned up there now. River might have meant the coaster for Dirk, but it had given Linton a legitimate reason to go, if only to explain why Dirk couldn’t. Except what was he going to say? Dirk had a job in Yorkshire? He’d gone on holiday? Or should he tell the truth?
Café Printemps had been mentioned by Owen. It wasn’t far from Holland Park. It was a toss-up between what would look the most obvious. Turning up at the chess club—with no guarantee River would even be there, let alone that the guy would invite him back to where he lived or that Thorne would be there if he did. Or sitting for hours in the café on the off-chance Thorne would call in. Or sitting outside on the off-chance he’d walk past.
Or none of the above.
When he found himself deleting his browsing history, he groaned, but better safe than sorry.
In a way, Linton wanted to do the thing that would be least likely to risk him bumping into Thorne. He’d legitimately be able to say he’d tried, and if he could stretch out the non-contact for long enough, maybe Max would come to his senses and let it drop.
Except for one tiny detail. Max would want his money back.
And the other not so tiny detail. Linton wanted to see Thorne again. Shit. This would have been so much easier if Linton wasn’t attracted to him.
He went for a run. A six mile circuit to Canary Wharf and back. Maybe by the time he’d finished, his world would make sense again.
No matter what terrain he was running over, no matter how uncomfortable and sweaty he was, Linton used running time to think about problems in both in his work and personal life, searching for solutions and new approaches. He usually ended a run on a high, always in a better mood than when he’d started, infused with a belief that things would be okay. That euphoria rarely lasted but he enjoyed it while it did.
That morning he had a lot to think about and it was all about Thorne. The rush of endorphins still came as he reached his building, but the exhilaration was brief. Even before he’d walked into the lift, life slammed back on his shoulders. He didn’t even feel like having a wank in the shower.
Thirty minutes later, Linton had dressed to impress in blue chinos and white linen shirt. Weekends spent on Long Island had given him an all over golden tan but when he looked in the mirror before leaving his flat, all he saw on his face were lines of anxiety. He put his laptop, Cindy’s manuscript and his sketch pad and pencils into his messenger bag and set off for Tower Hill Station. From there he took the underground to Kensington High Street.
Café Printemps was tucked away on a side street not far from Holland Park Gardens. It was warm enou
gh to sit outside and he picked a table away from the door and ordered coffee and a blueberry muffin from a smiley, chatty Polish waitress who introduced herself as Marta. Linton didn’t particularly like blueberries so figured it would take him longer to eat if he had to pick them all out. Any excuse to linger.
The first thing he did was read Cindy’s manuscript. It was a story about a sheep family and the adventures of a baby sheep, who climbed through a fence and wandered into a garden where a little boy was having a birthday party. The lamb had a fantastic time, eating cake, playing on the bouncy castle, then went home to tell his brothers and sisters all about his day.
Linton knew little about picture books for children. He thought it was a cute idea, but suspected Cindy had used too many words and by adding a carousel and candy floss machine had made the party too extravagant. The sort she might have given her kids but not what the average child would expect. Linton had been nine before he’d registered there’d never been a party for Dirk on his summer birthday. Maybe up to three years old it didn’t matter but when Dirk turned four and their mother made no effort to even get Dirk a cake, Linton had made sure his brother didn’t lose out. That year and every year that followed.
He arranged parties in a park or playground and bought food from the supermarket with his pocket money. He and Dirk had made the invitations and party bags out of a roll of wrapping paper. He sucked in his cheeks as he remembered how happy Dirk had been, how grateful for just a few crisps, a bottle of lemonade and a cupcake with a candle. Our fucking mother.
Linton took out his laptop and Googled how to write a children’s book.
Definitely needed to be less than a thousand words and Cindy had written twice that many. Linton wasn’t heartened to read that unless the author could draw, publishers wanted to choose their own illustrator, but then wasn’t this Max just trying to keep him busy or at least make him look busy?
Linton made several sketches of a lamb in different styles, lightly coloured in, then photographed them and emailed them to Cindy. There was no point spending too much time on one particular type of illustration if that wasn’t what she was looking for. She sent an email back within minutes approving the one Linton also happened to like the best.
When he realised he’d spent three hours producing dozens of sketches, he was stunned. Even more stunned when he registered he’d eaten the little pile of blueberries he’d put at the side of the plate. The café wasn’t busy otherwise he suspected he might have been asked to move on. If Thorne had walked by, no way would Linton have noticed. Before he left, he drew a quick sketch of the young Polish waitress who’d not only served him, but looked after his stuff while he nipped to the bathroom.
“That’s so good.” She smiled in delight when he gave it her. “Thank you.”
“Thank you for not telling me to leave.”
“You buy coffee, you sit as long as you like.”
Linton wasn’t sure whether he was disappointed or relieved to be heading back to his flat without seeing Thorne. He picked up a free paper from the stack in the station and read it on the platform while he waited for the train. On the second page, there was a photo of a smiling Thorne in a tux, arm in arm with some woman, and Linton pressed his lips together. He’d sworn off bi guys after Pascal. Now here he was trying to hook up with another one. Sort of. As he read the story that went with the photo, he stiffened with shock.
On the way home last Saturday night following the charity premiere of his latest film, Thorne had come across a young man being attacked. The victim had been left bloody and half-naked in a doorway close to Leicester Square. Thorne had phoned for help and taken care of the man until the police arrived.
What the fuck? It had to be Dirk. Linton’s lungs locked. He scanned the rest of the article desperately hoping not to see Dirk’s name. It wasn’t there. He breathed out and read from the top.
Thorne had later gone to speak to the police to tell them everything he’d seen. What had he seen? Thorne’s agent, Orlando Harding, said Thorne was characteristically downplaying his involvement, but had undoubtedly played a significant part in a life being saved. The young man was thought to be a homeless drug addict who had since discharged himself from hospital. Thorne said all life was precious and he’d had no concern for his own health and safety when he’d stopped to help. No arrests had been made and enquiries were ongoing.
The paper crumpled in Linton’s fists. Thorne had hinted he recognised Dirk when they were in the pub but not pushed it. Why not? Had he really not remembered? Why put this in the paper now? At least they’d not used Dirk’s name.
Linton pondered whether this had given him a reason to get in touch with Thorne. To thank him for helping Dirk. Then what? String him along until this charity event when Linton was supposed to humiliate him? He had even less reason to do that now. Maybe Dirk would have died if Thorne hadn’t found him.
He was almost back at his flat when his phone vibrated in his pocket.
“Hi, Amadeo,” Linton said.
“What the hell are you working on? Can you really not say?”
“No, sorry.”
“It better not be a project I wanted.”
“It’s not.”
“Pascal’s just thrown a tantrum with Max. The guy stalked out of Max’s room and kicked over two waste paper bins on the way out of the office. Christ, he has a temper.”
“Wonder what that was about?” Linton tried to sound as if he had no idea.
“You?”
“I doubt it.”
“Pull the other one. Fancy meeting up for a drink?”
“Sorry, mate. I can’t for a while. Snowed under.”
“Okay. Give me a call when you’re free. Damn, I can see Max heading my way. Talk later.”
Probably not.
Thorne had spent the day at home, lounging in the sun in his boxers in his small, private back garden, flicking through books and reading scripts. He was still smarting from having been tricked about the watch. Were there going to be pictures in the paper of him looking a prat? Christ, was it for some practical joke themed TV show? But then there’d been no big reveal. No guy leaping out and yelling “got you”.
He’d kept rerunning the day in his head trying to work out if there was something he should have seen earlier that would have clued him in that he was being played. But he’d not being looking for a con and so had not seen one. He wanted to laugh it off as a prank, but when coupled with the incident of the spiked drink and what followed, the uneasy feeling in his gut intensified. Had he upset some fan? Had someone seen through his mask?
Apart from Orlando, no one knew what had happened yesterday, not even Josh. River wouldn’t understand. Well, he’d understand Thorne was upset and that would in turn distress him. Better to forget it had happened, make sure it didn’t happen again and hope Orlando found out who was behind it. Thorne felt an idiot for not having seen through the scam earlier.
As he tossed yet another book aside, his phone vibrated. Orlando. It was like the guy had a line on his thoughts.
“Hi,” Thorne said.
“Have you seen the paper?”
“No.” Oh God. What now? He swore his heart rate doubled in an instant.
“That guy you stumbled across is out of hospital.”
Thorne breathed a sigh of relief, then felt bad he wasn’t relieved for the right reason. He already knew Dirk was okay. “What’s in the paper?”
“Just about you finding him, calling the police, taking care of him.”
Thorne groaned. He could guess what Orlando had done despite asking him not to, but there was nothing he could do about it now.
“So no requirement for flowers,” Orlando said.
“I’d like to send them anyway. Did they have an address for him?” He made sure he didn’t sound too inquisitive.
“Wapping. That was all I could get.”
“Ah well, never mind.” Shit.
“You ask the address and not his name?”
“His name’s no use without an address.” Had he gotten away with that?
“Dirk Williams.”
Thank you, Jesus.
“Right.” Thorne made sure he sounded as though he didn’t give a fuck.
“I needed to know in case he tries to get in touch and ask for money.”
What? “Why would he do that?”
“Because he’s a heroin addict who’ll seize any opportunity to feed his addiction.”
“That’s rather judgmental. How do you know he’s a heroin addict?”
“I just do. Don’t look for him. He was good news and now he’s bad. He made you appear to be a concerned citizen, but the last thing you need is to be associated with a heroin addict. You send him flowers, he’ll ask for the whole bloody shop.”
Fuck off, Orlando.
“Are you listening to me?” Orlando snapped.
“Of course.”
“You and Amanda are on the Now Show tomorrow night to talk about Changing. Look up some amusing facts about footwear and wear decent shoes. The car will arrive at four thirty.”
“Okay.”
Thorne went back inside the house. River was in the kitchen watching something on his laptop. Probably more bloody clouds.
Thorne moved behind him and gaped at the image of a long thin bank of mist churning across the sky. “Whoa, that’s impressive.”
“A roll cloud. It’s formed—”
“Not now,” Thorne said. He picked up his tablet from the counter and sat opposite River. “If you wanted to find out where someone lived, how would you go about it?”
“What area?”
“Wapping.”
“Over twelve thousand people live in the Wapping and St. Katherine district.”
Thorne groaned. He’d forgotten that River had studied London population stats for a while. Still, probably only one guy with the name Linton Williams.
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