by JL Merrow
“You bet a mate fifty quid you could get me into bed?”
“Well, technically, yes… But listen—”
Con didn’t want to listen. He’d thought… He’d been so fucking stupid. When had Tristan ever given him any reason to think he actually gave a shit? Even all that stuff he’d done, going round to see Miss Wellbeck and that…
Yeah, well. Some people’d do anything to win a bet.
God, he was stupid. Why the bloody hell would Tristan ever give a shit about a bloke like Con? Someone who could barely even fucking read? Con scrambled off Tristan, grabbed for his jeans and yanked them on.
“Con, please…”
He shrugged Tristan’s hand off his shoulder. “Gotta go,” he said roughly. There was that sharp, hot feeling in his eyes that meant he was about to cry. And fuck, that’d just be fucking brilliant, wouldn’t it? Crying in front of Tristan.
He couldn’t. He just couldn’t. He pulled on his shirt, shoved his feet in his trainers and got out of there.
Chapter Twenty-Five
A Minced Man
Tristan pulled a cushion over his face and howled into it, long and loud. Oh God. It had been like some kind of nightmare. As if he’d been on stage and had inexplicably forgotten his lines, and each effort at improvisation had merely driven one more nail into his self-constructed coffin.
Worse than a nightmare. At least if you die on stage, you come back to life when the curtain falls. What had he been thinking of? Well, that was easily answered. He hadn’t been thinking at all. It was debatable, on current evidence, if he ever, in fact, thought.
How could he have been so irredeemably, utterly stupid as to mention the bet? Of course Con had been upset. Who wouldn’t be upon discovering they’d just shagged a base, imbecilic turd? Tristan was a flesh-monger, a fool and a coward. And that was the best that could be said of him. He lay there, the cushion still over his face in the vague hope he might manage to smother himself, until an odd sensation at his naked hip caused him to freeze in alarm.
It happened again. There was something smooth and warm brushing against his skin, soft yet hard, like an iron fist in a furry glove. And there was the definite suggestion of whiskers.
Slowly, Tristan removed the cushion from his face, and looked down to where a small black-and-white cat was rubbing its cheek on his hip. “Meggie?”
Meggie, for it must be she, stopped and looked at him. Moving cautiously, he reached down to fondle her head. She seemed to approve, putting a paw up as if exploring the notion of jumping on his lap.
Tristan was just trying to work out how to explain to her that, while he had nothing against that idea in principle, he’d really prefer said lap to be clothed at the time, when they both stilled at a knock on the back door.
A male voice shouted, “Hello? Everything all right in there? I heard shouting.”
Onslow. Bloody buggering bigoted Onslow. Oh, what the hell. Grabbing the cushion once more, Tristan placed it strategically over his groin and padded into the kitchen. “Can I help you?” he enquired politely through the glass of the door.
His neighbour paled. “Er. Yes. Just a little concerned…” His gaze dropped, and Tristan realised Meggie had followed him out here. She wound herself around Tristan’s naked leg, showing no inclination to leap through the cat flap and join her erstwhile foster father.
Tristan smiled. “Nothing to worry about. I was just enjoying a little quality time with my pussy. Weren’t we, Meggie,” he added, bending down to stroke her furry little head and, incidentally, giving his neighbour a perfect view of the naked Goldsmith arse.
Really, he thought, for a man of his age and weight it was astonishing how quickly Onslow could move.
Late that evening, now fully clothed and with a purring cat warming his lap, Tristan stared at the mantelpiece with its picture of Nanna Geary and the infant Tristan in what was probably his last blameless hour, and thought. If Meggie could forgive him, perhaps Con could? After all, it was just a silly misunderstanding. Yes, that was it. All he needed to do was tell Con he lo—was fond of him, and all would be forgiven.
It would, wouldn’t it? Of course, it might take a little time…
Time. The one thing he didn’t have, not after Father’s bloody bombshell.
Oh God. And he hadn’t even told Con about that. Had utterly failed to even hint that he’d be buggering off to New York next month, leaving the Sham-Drams high and dry, and letting all Con’s efforts—all he’d achieved—come to naught.
Oh yes. Of course all would be forgiven when he mentioned that little matter. The thought left a bitter taste in Tristan’s mouth.
But God, what could he do?
Desperate, Tristan reached for his laptop. What time was it in Hong Kong? Just about morning, he thought. And in any case, this was an emergency. And come to think of it, he hadn’t heard from Amanda for days. He should probably be getting concerned about her. Yes, calling her was the only possible act of a true friend.
And it would be an excellent opportunity for Amanda to prove herself a true friend. After all, anything Suki said about her had to be taken with an ocean of salt, and vice versa. They simply brought out the worst in each other.
But to him, Amanda had always been a true comrade.
He made the call.
“What?” she demanded, her more-than-somewhat tousled head coming into view. Apparently he’d reached her in bed again.
“Shouldn’t you be up already?” Tristan asked, concerned at her potential tardiness in the workplace.
“I’m taking a day off. I was trying to have a lie-in.”
He sighed in relief. “Perfect. I need you, darling. Things have gone horribly wrong with Con.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, you’re not still harping on about the local yokel, are you? Just forget it. I won’t ask you for the fifty pounds. You can just buy me something nice for Christmas.”
“I don’t owe you fifty pounds. That’s the whole point. You owe me. And he knows you do.”
“What? How could he possibly… You know what, don’t tell me. I’m busy, Tristan. I’ve got things to do today. Your existential crisis will have to wait.”
“What things? What could possibly be more important—”
“I’ve met someone. He’s here now, actually.” She gave a smug little smile. “He works in futures—doing very well at it too. Making an absolute packet. And he has contacts in films. He’s going to get me a screen test.”
Tristan blinked. “Well, best of British, my dear. But darling, I do need your help. How can I convince Con—”
She cut him off with an exaggerated eye roll and a noise of exasperation. “What does it even matter? He’s nobody, Tristan. It’s absolutely ridiculous to be so worked up about someone like that.”
“He’s actually a very competent actor,” Tristan corrected her stiffly. “And one of the kindest, most genuine people I know.”
“Oh, whatever. Look, just sort your own problems out, for God’s sake. Call me when you’ve got something interesting to talk about.”
Tristan’s view of her tilted and disappeared as she closed up her laptop.
He sat there for a long moment, staring at but not seeing his dim reflection in the black screen of his computer.
Chapter Twenty-Six
So Oft Beguiled
“He said what?” Heather looked like one of the lions off the pub sign come to life and about to gut someone with its claws.
“What a fucking tosser,” Chris agreed. “Pint?”
Con nodded sadly. As Chris stood, Sean patted Con on the shoulder. “Can’t believe it, mate. He seemed all right. You know, when you got to know him.”
“Are you positive there was no misunderstanding?” Robert asked.
Sean gave him a disbelieving look. “Yeah, right. Like there’s so many possible interpretations of t
hanks, mate, you just won me fifty quid.”
“He didn’t say it like that.” Con wasn’t sure why he felt he had to defend Tristan. Just…maybe he’d got it all wrong? Got the hump when it wasn’t anything anyone ought to get upset about?
’Cept Heather and the rest had been even more pissed off about it than he had. Well, maybe not, but they’d said a lot of stuff that made Con think it might not be such a good idea for Tristan to cross their path anytime soon.
’Specially Heather. Though she be but little, she is fierce, Tristan had said. And Christ, why did it have to hurt so fucking much to think about him?
“What’s it gonna mean for the play?” Sean asked.
Shit. Con hadn’t even thought about that.
“Might have to cancel,” Heather said, like it didn’t mean a thing to her either way.
Which was total bollocks. Con lifted his head to look at her. “You can’t do that.”
“If I gotta, I gotta. I mean it. I’m not making you go on stage with someone who’s treated you like shit. A cast’s a team, and if you can’t trust your team members, it’s not gonna work.” Heather’s gaze was determined. “I know he was helping you with lines and stuff, and that’s not the issue—we can all chip in and help, can’t we, lads?” There was a lot of nodding from Sean and Rob. “But I’m not making you work with that bastard if you don’t wanna. I mean it.” She gave him a wobbly smile. “It’s just a play, innit? There’ll be others.”
Not with the Sham-Drams, there wouldn’t be. Not with her directing, not if this one never got off the ground. And what were the chances Con would ever have the nerve to even consider going for a part in anything else?
It was well after closing time when Con finally got back to his flat. Head down, he didn’t realise at first that there was somebody sitting on the stairs just outside his front door.
It was Tristan.
“Ah,” he said, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat. “Can we talk?”
Con looked at him for a long moment. He looked… He looked good, like he always did. And part of Con—and not just that part, Jesus—wanted to say yes, and to take him inside. But he knew what would happen if he did. Tristan would be all smiles and smooth words, ’cos that’s what actors did, and they’d end up in bed again—or for the first time, seeing as it’d been a sofa back at Tristan’s—and then in the morning nothing would’ve changed. Tristan would still be the shit who made a bet about getting off with Con.
And he’d still be buggering off to New York in a couple of months. And what was worse, Con didn’t even know which one he most was upset about, really.
“Look, about the bet—it’s all just a silly misunderstanding. Yes, that was how it started. But that’s not how I feel now. I, well.” Tristan cleared his throat. “I’ve become rather attached to you.”
“Yeah? So that makes it all right, does it?”
“Yes?” Tristan sounded hopeful.
Con sighed. Fuck, he was tired. “Look, let’s say I believe you. That doesn’t change what you did.”
“Enjoyed a rather pleasant shag on the sofa?” Tristan’s attempt at a laugh came across as more of a nervous giggle.
Con’s fists clenched at his sides. The staircase outside his flat probably wasn’t the best place to have this conversation, but sod it. “You—look, what if you hadn’t become attached, yeah? Imagine that. What if we were here now, everything the same, but you actually didn’t give a shit about me. Hypothetically speaking.”
Tristan winced. “Well, hypothetically speaking, I suppose… Oh.” Tristan flushed, like maybe the penny had finally dropped.
“You…you did stuff. Stuff that made me…” Love you. Con turned away. He just couldn’t look at him any longer. “And then I find out, it’s all about winning a fucking bet. Look, I know you’re fucking off to New York in a month or two. I know that. But you made me think… I dunno. That maybe we could’ve managed, somehow. Or… Or I could’ve gone with you, even.” Christ, it hurt to say it.
“You’d have done that? For me?” Tristan’s brown eyes were wider than Con had ever seen them.
He shrugged. “Yeah, well. ’S all bollocks, innit?” He stepped round Tristan to let himself in and shut the door.
Then he went to wash his face because he wasn’t fucking crying, all right?
He wasn’t.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Joy’s Soul
Con had looked… Awful. Tired, and sad, and hurt.
God, Tristan was far lower than a mouse’s arse. Geological strata and millennia of evolution separated him from the hindquarters of mus musculus. Vile, loathsome creatures such as Tristan dreamed of one day building up enough positive karma to be reincarnated as a mouse’s arse.
Tristan lay on the floor of Nanna Geary’s living room, a cat upon his chest, her solid weight now heavier by half a can of hastily purchased sardines. Her breath, Tristan had decided, would serve admirably as the beginnings of penance for his sins. Had she been Meggie the First, said penance would also have included his suffering la peine forte et dure, but apparently cat manufacturers went in for more lightweight models these days. Perhaps, later, he could persuade her to slice through his jugular with a playful bat of a claw? At any rate, the floor was all he was fit for. He certainly didn’t deserve the sofa.
“You’re all I have left,” he told Meggie in a piteous tone. “Here I lie, alone, friendless…” No, wait, there was Suki, wasn’t there? She’d undoubtedly still be up. Of course, how to reach her was something of a problem, given the aforementioned cat of penance on his chest.
Discarding the idea of performing a sort of feline bench press, he eventually went for the gradual approach, levering himself up on one elbow and slowly tilting his torso until she got the message and scrambled off with a reproachful mew. “Terribly sorry, old thing,” he murmured and got to his feet to pad wearily into the kitchen. Perhaps it was about time he charged his phone again.
Suki answered on the seventeenth ring. “Tristan, darling, you’re coming back?”
“Ah. Not as such. I called for some advice.” Tristan cut to the chase. “You’re a woman of the world. Say your young man had completely ballsed things up with you, how might you best be placated and won round again?”
“Wouldn’t happen, darling. Life’s too short for second chances.”
“Not helping.”
“Well, what did you do? Confess all, and I may be able to help you.”
“Do? Did I say we were talking about me? I might be writing a play. A novel, even. It could be purely hypothetical.”
“Darling, you wouldn’t be ringing me at one o’clock in the morning for a hypothesis.”
“I might.” Tristan sighed. “Hypothetically speaking. Very well. I may have let on that my motives for pursuing a certain young man were—initially, only initially—less than pure.”
“And he was disappointed? Good Lord, Tristan, have you developed a passion for a priest?”
“Not that sort of impure. There, ah, may have been a bet involved.”
“Let me guess—with your little BFF? Which is not, by the way, supposed to stand for Best Frenemy Forever.”
“Amanda’s not—” Tristan cut off his impassioned defence of her before it had even started, no longer entirely certain why he was bothering. “It’s come to my attention that you may, just may have had an inkling of the truth when you warned me she didn’t have my best interests at heart.”
“If—and I doubt this most sincerely, darling—Amanda has a heart, the only best interests contained within that black shrivelled little remnant are her own. Of course she didn’t, darling. She couldn’t stand you doing well in the profession while she languished on the sidelines in bit parts.”
Tristan was silent a moment. “Was I doing well in the profession? I don’t mean to be rude, but, well, performing with the Players,
one doesn’t exactly rake it in.”
“Neither did Van Gogh, but he seems passably well regarded for his art these days.”
“Canvas lasts for centuries. Our art is rather more ephemeral than that.”
“Oh, how silly of me. Of course, no one’s ever heard of Henry Irving, Lawrence Olivier, Ellen Terry… Need I go on?”
“I’m not sure the average man in the street”—in Tristan’s head, the man in question bore a striking resemblance to Con—“has heard of more than one in three of that little lot.”
“So? Try asking that same man to name a painting by Van Gogh that isn’t about sunflowers.”
“Look, we’re going completely off script here,” Tristan protested. “You’re supposed to be helping me with my romantic woes.”
“Hypothetically?”
“No, curse it all. Really. I’ve cocked it all up, Suki. He isn’t even speaking to me.”
“Let me guess—he somehow found out about the bet? How, by the way, did that happen? Given your toxic little chum is on another continent.”
“I… Well. I may have, ah, alluded to it. In bed.”
“You know, it really is the supreme irony that you get to utter Puck’s famous line about mortals being fools.”
“Yes, thank you, I’m quite aware of that. Now come on, darling. Help meeeeeee.”
There was a pause. “But aren’t you going to be leaving him behind in a couple of months in any case?”
“One month, if Father has his way. But…” Tristan’s heart clenched at the thought of it. “He said he’d considered going to New York with me.”
There was a silence, although if Tristan imagined hard, he could hear her drawing in a drag from her cigarette and then blowing it out again through pursed lips. “Darling. I really don’t think he’ll do that now.”
“No. No, I don’t suppose he will.” Oh God, he could have had his cake and eaten it. Except…was that really the sort of cake he wanted in any case? Did he really want to force down baked cheesecake, when he could have a nice slice of Victoria sponge? Or, for that matter, Bakewell tart, or scones with jam and cream…