The Bruise_Black Sky

by John Wiltshire

  So, the thought that occupied him all day whilst riding with Emilia, giving Emilia her first tennis lesson, and avoiding Babushka until he’d mulled over the ramifications of her being younger than Philipa—and thank God he’d removed some of the incriminating pictures of him and Philipa from Ben’s Christmas box; they might be very hard to explain—was when was Ben going to fucking tell him what was going on? Nikolas had the ridiculous suspicion that somehow they wanted Ben, his Ben, to take over from Oliver as the gladiator Sushi, or whatever his dumb name had been. Putting all the pieces of the puzzle together, it was all he could come up with. But that was so ridiculous he was trying hard not to think it, which, of course, ensured it went around and around in his head all day.

  That afternoon he went in search of his errant lover and discovered him at the computer, which was unlike Ben—even sitting down during the day was uncharacteristic for him. It was also odd for him to immediately close down all his tabs—unless he was looking at porn. Nikolas despaired at Ben sometimes. He genuinely didn’t know about Ctrl.Shift.N. How pathetic could anyone be?—and he’d been an actual spy…incognito…

  “We’re going to Exeter. To look at paint.”

  “What?”

  “Emilia wants to decorate her own room in the new cottage. It’s a…what is that expression? In English?”

  “Way too big and expensive a room for a thirteen-year-old girl?”

  “No, that’s not it. Hmm, let me think. Blank picture. It’s a blank picture, and I said she could decorate it any way she chooses.”

  Ben frowned. “Are you sure? I doubt she’ll be thinking unicorns and fairies and clouds, Nik. This is Emilia, yeah?”

  Nikolas frowned, too. “I have no objection to not seeing unicorns. I suggested something along the lines of a cultural theme…”

  “Ah. What you mean is you’ll have it exactly how you want on the pretext of advising her. Seriously, this is Emmy. She’s your creation. I’d be wary letting her have free rein. I’m seeing body parts? Did you actually watch that movie yesterday?”

  Nikolas raised his brows. “Do you want to come?”

  “To a decorating shop in Exeter? Er, let me think, no.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to work out for a while.”

  “Work out. Again?” Nikolas had a fleeting image of Mr Whitestone in his gladiatorial perfection. No, it was too ridiculous to worry about. What a great opportunity to offer Ben a prompt though. “Why all this sudden exercise…?”

  “I’ve got lazy. See ya then. Good luck. You taking Radulf?”

  “Of course. I value his judgement on all issues, particularly the selection of paint colours.” He was waiting for Ben to pick up on the joke and comment that the dog was blind (and being a dog possibly didn’t have opinions on paint), but he didn’t. He’d turned his back and was scrolling again.

  “We should watch some more of that show tonight…”

  “Yeah. I’ll cook. Pick some stuff up on the way home, will you?”

  Fuck. He’d have to just ask, which would then give Ben the upper hand in the ensuing conversation…Fuck.

  Emilia came in to look for him. The moment was lost.

  Driving to Exeter, Nikolas convinced himself that Peter Cameron and Oliver Whitestone had been conducting a secret, doomed affair, and that when he’d lost Oliver (closet gay suicide), Cameron had searched the world for a look-alike to take Ollie’s place in his bed. And found Ben. His fucking Ben.

  It was more likely than wanting Ben to star in a fucking TV show about a gladiator called Sushi Bar!

  He forgot to stop and send Babushka and Emilia to do some shopping.

  Which would not have been so bad in the old days, when they either ate out or ordered in. Now Ben wanted to cook. He’d said homemade was essential if you wanted to eat the good fats. The good ones? This was news to Nikolas, who’d been forced to eat all sorts of lardy substances over the years and never found any of it good.

  Not stopping for the supplies was very bad now, however, because Ben immediately said they’d have to go—shopping. The huge Tesco that was only half an hour from them was open twenty-four hours a day, apparently. How did Ben know all these mysterious things? Nikolas had missed the we in Ben’s comment. Tuned it out. We meant…them both. Go shopping. To…Tesco. He could hardly think the word let alone picture himself entering such a place. He’d never once in his whole pseudo existence in England stepped inside a supermarket. If he had, he’d have possibly graced Fortnum & Mason with his presence, but fortunately they delivered.

  It was seven o’clock but the car park was packed. Nikolas suggested they go home and order in instead. Ben refused. He wanted to cook.

  They walked in. Nikolas was never so grateful for being dressed only in jeans and a T-shirt. It was still a little over-dressed, even so. Who knew tracksuits had so many uses? Or came in so many sizes?

  Ben handed him a basket. This was different. Nikolas always tried to find the novel in everything they did. He could think of some other untried activities, watching Ben’s incredibly nice arse in his jeans, that he’d rather be doing, but carrying a basket around Tesco had to be appreciated for what it was.

  And, in its own way, it was quite interesting. Nikolas made straight for the seafood counter and selected some very nice local lobster. Then he drifted to the very end of the store and found the alcohol. His favourite vodka! He was beginning to enjoy this experience. Who knew you could just wander around and pick up food? He went to the wines and selected a few. The basket was getting heavy. Where was Ben when he was needed?

  Ben was standing with an armful of stuff, annoyed. Nikolas fetched a trolley, which was even more fun, and wheeled it back to Ben. Ben was talking to a young man. Nikolas narrowed his eyes. Then he glanced around. There were an unusual number of young men, he thought, for a supermarket, which should be full of women. Obviously.

  He moved closer. So close the trolley did a little damage to said young man. Ben put his armful of food items into it.

  “Why are there so many men here and who was that?”

  Ben shrugged. “It’s Friday. It’s kinda singles’ night? It’s traditional.”

  Nikolas frowned, checking out the other customers again. “What’s traditional?”

  “If you’re single. You come shopping and meet others…on a Friday.”

  Nikolas pondered this as they queued to pay. “This is a place to cruise for gay sex?”

  Every single head in their queue and the ones on either side turned to glare at him.

  Nikolas thought for a moment…Danish? Russian? Ah, English…

  Ben faced front, his arms crossed stonily. It was a bad time for someone to ask for his autograph, which they did—a young man slipping forward in the queue to thrust his shopping list at Ben to have it signed. Yes, he was, yes, awesome but tragic. Nikolas had heard it too many times for it to be amusing now.

  What would it be like living with the new Sushi Bar?

  A Hollywood star…Ben had already been on the cover of Time. What if he was on the cover of…some Hollywood rag? Rolling Stone magazine?

  Even the fucking pope had been on the cover of Rolling Stone magazine…

  Maybe it would be better if Peter Cameron was trying to tempt Ben into a secret love affair…his replacement Oliver Stonyballs. Maybe. Ben would then obviously tell the man to poke off. He’d possibly use that exact expression, too. It was one of Ben’s favourites. He got it a lot.

  Or would Ben fall for the superficial good looks and money of the older man? Was that like Ben? Hard to say. Peter Rabbit was married, of course—had been. Would that put Ben off? A secret affair with a handsome, ex-married, rich, older man? Hmm.

  §§§

  It was a good meal. Nikolas hadn’t eaten so much for a very long time—the lobster to start and then steak with steamed vegetables to follow. Emilia and Babushka tucked into some ice cream after, but Ben drank water and read a magazine he’d picked up at the superma
rket.

  Men’s Fitness.

  Fuck.

  He was going to have to ask.

  He needed to pick his moment.

  He was good at that.

  Lots of practise…

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Ben was nearly at the top of the long climb in his mind. He saw it as a visceral thing, a pounding upon the tors in the sunshine, running up a steep slope, swimming in heavy waves towards a sunlit lagoon. He was almost there, Nikolas driving him from above, taking him places that no one else ever had or could, so close he could feel the tightening in his balls, the deep ache beginning to spread from—“Ben?”

  —his arse to his—“Benjamin?”

  “What? Fuck, Nik!”

  “When are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

  “What! Now?”

  “So there is something going on?”

  “Don’t fucking stop!” Ben rose forcibly to his hand and knees, thrusting back into Nikolas’s powerful body. No way would Nikolas resist this position. He wouldn’t be able to resist it.

  They came together.

  Ben could feel Nikolas filling him and then spilling out, the tickling trickle down his thigh, and he collapsed ready for sleep. A two-hour workout, no sugar—he was exhausted and fading.

  “So, tell me now…”

  “Oh, bloody hell. In the morning.” He could tell him and then go for a long run, give him time to get over the shock…

  Nikolas lay down, heavy on Ben’s back, twirling his finger around in Ben’s hair.

  “Ow!”

  “Tell me.”

  “Are you a little girl? Pulling hair, for fuck’s sake? The man who spoke to me at the ball is called Peter Cameron. He’s a film director. He made that movie with the psychotic marine colonel who blew up all the blue aliens that were nesting in that skyscraper in New York? That you said was the crappiest most unlikely film you’d ever seen? Anyway, Oliver Whitestone plays the guy in After the Wars—the one who wins all the time? Well, he died. Peter Cameron wants to make a movie about his life…a kind of documentary thing, I think, and he wants me to play Oliver. ’Cus I look a bit like him. A lot like him. And I’m not a known actor. And I kinda look…fit. There you are.”

  §§§

  “Uh-huh.” That scenario had not occurred to Nikolas. Ben in a one-off Peter Rabbit documentary about Oliver Cromwell. Seemed harmless enough. Even if he painted Ben blue…No, he could see no real flaws in this at the moment. “Where would it be made?”

  “Two or three months in New Zealand and then in the States. Louisiana, if they can get the agreement of the studio to use the set, if not, somewhere in LA, I think.”

  Even better. Two months in New Zealand. He could see this panning out very nicely. He hadn’t been to his properties in New Zealand for years…twelve? More—and then only for a fleeting visit. He could kick one of the tenants out now and they’d be gone before he got there. Very nice indeed.

  Radulf?

  Long way to fly a dog.

  Maybe he could go first class, too…

  “When do we leave?”

  §§§

  Ben genuinely didn’t like arguing with Nikolas. Even when he was giving Nik the silent treatment it was awful and took all his concentration not to just break down and give in—and that was when Nikolas was in the wrong.

  Now, this was the first time Ben was fighting with Nikolas when he was in the wrong, in a way.

  If their situations were reversed, there was no way on God’s earth Ben would allow Nikolas to do this on his own. No way. He didn’t even need to think about it. He went where Nikolas went. It’s just the way they were.

  And yet, he’d now told Nikolas he was leaving him—for six months…possibly more.

  They weren’t squabbling, per se. After all, what can be said after I am coming and no you’re not had been said back? Not much that didn’t just repeat endlessly until they’d bickered like children am, am not, am, am not…all fucking night, and now he had a headache and felt shaky and not like going for a long run, which is what he needed to do. He’d lost two pounds since he’d spoken to Peter Cameron, and his muscles were more prominent, especially around his waist, which is where he’d wanted to concentrate. As far as he could see, Oliver Whitestone had worn nothing except a pair of skin tight Lycra running shorts for the whole first season. You can’t get away with fat in Lycra. You just can’t.

  He ate an omelette for breakfast—eight egg whites only and chatted to Emilia about her bedroom, making some more helpful suggestions than Nikolas ever would, and avoided questions about where the recalcitrant one was.

  He was brooding.

  That’s where he was.

  Ben hated arguing with Nikolas but even worse was hurting Nikolas. He’d told him once that he would never do this. Whatever happened between them, Ben would never hurt him. This had hurt him. “When do we leave?” For how many years had he wanted Nikolas to talk about we and not I? Was it not the one thing he accused Nikolas of—that tendency to live in his own head, making his own plans and then announcing them? So wasn’t this exactly what he had just done?

  Nikolas was hurting. Genuinely. All the bluff and bluster had just dissipated on genuine bewilderment and a heartfelt, “Why can’t I come, too?”

  Fucking hell.

  And why couldn’t he?

  Wouldn’t that be the sensible thing to do? Just find Nikolas wherever he’d taken himself off to brood and say, “Okay, come, please.”

  So why didn’t he?

  If Nikolas came, everything would be done how Nikolas wanted it to be. It was just how things were. Emilia might believe that she’d bought the paint she liked. She might think she was going to paint her room how she wanted. But she wasn’t. Ben knew this. Babushka had designed a little cottage for herself and her granddaughter. Nikolas was building them a luxurious contemporary house out of oak in the grounds, which matched the architectural uniqueness of their house. He hadn’t even looked at the sketches Babushka had sent.

  Nikolas had bought Babushka’s dress for the ball, Emmy’s, her necklace, hell, sent her to that school in the first place, then wanted her here for the holidays so he bought her a horse to tempt her, then had to install the grandmother or it would have been creepy…Everything, like a god playing with his little human chess pieces. Christ knows what he’d been doing in Scotland that week. Changing lives, if Ben knew Nikolas.

  Everything how Nikolas wanted it to be…

  Hell, Ben hadn’t even known Kate had gone to the States! He’d wondered why he never saw her at the London house anymore, why she didn’t come down. It was embarrassing what had happened, but not something they couldn’t get over. He’d not been given a chance to meet up with her. She’d just disappeared.

  That was an unfortunate thought.

  He took a cup of tea into the TV room and emailed her.

  She wrote back almost instantly. Kate tended to live on her computer.

  They had a brief conversation. Sorry, yes, how are you? Good.

  She was still alive. That was something.

  So, that’s why he didn’t go and find Nikolas and say, “Come with me, because I love you and I’ll miss you, and you are my life.”

  He didn’t do it because for one minute he’d genuinely believed Nikolas had murdered Kate and lied about her being in the States.

  He’d thought this and he’d not found it ridiculous or unlikely.

  That’s why he let his decision stand.

  He was going on his own.

  He had to.

  He was not going to be one of the sidelined in Nikolas’s life.

  He would not just disappear.

  He was Nikolas Mikkelsen’s life, and he was going to continue to be so.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Emilia’s Russian school friend, Lucya, had an older sister. Suddenly, and unexpectedly, this sister had been invited by her school friend to spend the summer in the States with her. Thus, Lucya would be on her own. Lucya’s m
other had phoned Ulyana Ivanovna—would Emilia come with her to Moscow for the last month of the holiday? And, of course, as she only saw her granddaughter during the hols, could they persuade Ulyana Ivanovna to accompany her…back to her own country…for a little shopping trip? Moscow? And they had a private plane.

  The cottage wouldn’t be ready for them anyway, not until at least the end of September. Would Ben and Nikolas mind if they went?

  Ben reflected that Ulyana Ivanovna was probably quite flattered by Nikolas’s genuine dismay that in three weeks’ time he’d be entirely on his own in the big house except for Radulf, who couldn’t see or talk to him. She hadn’t known, of course, that her abandonment coincided with his…It was unfortunate. There was no getting around it. Ben had been happier with the idea of going alone thinking of Nikolas with his little adoring flock to amuse him. Nikolas wasn’t too good on his own. He got into mischief. It was even worse that Tim was in Norway for some reason he had not been too specific about, and Squeezy had gone with him, for reasons no one needed explaining. That only left Jackson Keane.

  Kinney was the last person Ben wanted Nikolas left with.

  Although—despite the nickname Squeezy had given him—Kinney wasn’t gay, Nikolas was tempting.

  Ben hadn’t been able to resist him.

  When push came to shove (and wasn’t that an unfortunate expression when pondering Nikolas Mikkelsen?) Ben thought Kinney might go for it. Enough lines of coke and he’d probably try anything once. No, Ben had no faith whatsoever in Jackson Keane’s commitment to heterosexuality.

  But he could hardly lay down rules for Nikolas whilst at the same time deserting him. They’d tried mutual rules of behaviour before, and that hadn’t worked too well for either of them. They’d been monogamous…just.

  He was tempted to explain his predicament to Babushka and ask her to stay. But how did he word that? It didn’t bear thinking about.

  No doubt, if he consulted Nikolas, and Nikolas was speaking to him, Nikolas would say, “Why not ask me to come to New Zealand, Ben? That would solve all your problems.” Because it would. It would be so easy…