by Drew Hunt
“You’ve really fucked things up this time,” Pete said to Thommo.
“Me? What the fuck did I do?”
Pete didn’t bother answering. He’d already set off in pursuit of Paul.
Trevor was torn. He hated to see someone he cared a great deal for be so out of sorts. However, he wondered what good he would be if he got involved. And though it pained him, he knew he had to maintain his distance. With great reluctance Trevor decided to do nothing, and continued bowling.
* * * *
By the time Thommo called it a night and the cricket team had ambled back to the pavilion, there was no sign of Pete and Paul. The pegs they’d used and the benches they’d sat on were empty. Trevor now wished he’d said something, done something to help. Though he was at a loss as to exactly what he should have done.
The pavilion had an air of subdued quietness as everyone got dressed in their street gear. Feeling uncomfortable, Trevor changed quickly and set off home.
From a distance Trevor could see someone sitting on his doorstep. He thought it was Paul come to explain what had happened. Trevor couldn’t help it, his steps quickened. He’d been given a second chance to help, and there was no way he would squander it. However, as he drew closer, he could see it wasn’t Paul. It wasn’t until he’d reached the house next door but one, and the man had spotted him coming and stood up, that Trevor realised who it was.
His steps faltered. It couldn’t be. Then after giving himself a mental shake he began walking again, his heart beating more rapidly. He opened his garden gate and made his way up the short path.
“Trevor, me old mate.”
That well-remembered grin did something to Trevor’s insides, leaving him weak and in a fog. Not quite believing what his eyes were telling him, Trevor reached out to touch the apparition. It was solid, it didn’t disappear.
Using what little breath he could muster, he whispered one word. “Gary.”
“I thought I’d come stay for a couple of days. Hope that’s all right.”
Trevor stared. He still had difficulty believing who was standing on his doorstep.
“Sorry to come unannounced.” Gary shuffled his feet. “Things aren’t so good between Lisa and me, and—”
Trevor still didn’t say anything, he couldn’t move.
“Trev? Is this a bad time?”
Partially snapping out of his trance, Trevor apologised and fished out his key, unlocked the door and ushered Gary inside.
Chapter 7
Moving from room to room, Paul thought the house felt clean, fresh, new. It also felt empty, quiet, devoid of Trevor. He shook his head. It had only been, what, three hours since he’d left Trevor’s?
He remembered the sad and disappointed look Trevor had tried to hide. Hell, hadn’t he also been trying not to show how much he didn’t want to leave? Over the weeks that he’d spent with Trevor, Paul had had to do a massive re-evaluation of the bloke.
There was much more to Trevor than he’d first thought. Before he’d stayed with him, he’d pegged him as a gossipy, limp-wristed shirt-lifter. Now…Paul sat heavily on his new sofa and stared unseeing at the freshly wall-papered walls. Now I miss the hell out of him.
“Fuck!” Paul said, getting to his feet and moving toward his drinks cabinet.
* * * *
Although falling asleep Friday night wasn’t a problem, thanks to the distillers of Glen Fiddich whisky, Paul woke in the small hours and couldn’t get back to sleep.
Saturday was spent getting his house in shape, a task made easier by help from Pete, but made more difficult by the presence of Thommo.
“Jesus, don’t just drop them!” Paul shouted from the kitchen as he heard Thommo put down a box of LPs.
“They were heavy.”
Fortunately none of the discs had suffered damage. “Uh, why don’t you go down the supermarket and get some beers in.”
“Oh, all right. But you’ll have to give us some money. I don’t get my unemployment giro till Tuesday.”
Pulling out a twenty-pound note Paul handed it over, knowing he wouldn’t see any change.
The rest of the move went off okay, especially as Thommo probably decided to take the long route back from the supermarket.
“Yeah, via his girlfriend’s,” Pete observed dryly.
“He still with her?” Paul asked.
“For the moment. Poor cow.” Pete opened a box containing a new pair of curtains. “Didn’t know red velvet was your colour.”
Paul wrinkled his nose. “They’re what my mother sent. Still, they’ll have to do until I can go out and buy some new ones.”
“They for the French windows in the dining room?”
“Yeah, I couldn’t get my old ones clean.”
“Want me to put ‘em up for you?”
“Would you?”
Pete smiled. “‘Course, but don’t you tell anyone on the cricket team that I know how to hang curtains.”
* * * *
Pete invited Paul out for a pint and a game of darts on Saturday evening.
“Maybe that bird will be there, the one who you got chatting to?”
Paul hadn’t dared confide in Pete about what happened with Geraldine. “Doubt it.”
“No good?” Pete waggled his eyebrows.
“Not my type.” Paul changed the subject, and Pete didn’t seem to notice.
* * * *
Saturday night was just as sleepless as Friday’s had been. Paul had hoped his more moderate alcohol intake would stop him from waking early with a sore head and upset stomach. Although he suffered none of these ailments, he was left tossing and turning, unable to get to sleep. Around two A.M. he decided to get up and potter around for a while. But little needed doing. Before he’d moved in, Trevor had vacuumed the new carpets, scrubbed the refrigerator which fortunately still worked after it had dried out. As did the washing machine. He’d not received the awful dining room curtains by that time, and Trevor was making noises about them.
“It’d not take me long to run you up a pair. I could even line them for you.”
Paul had politely refused. Trevor had done so much already. Trevor was only mollified when Paul confessed his mother had a spare set she was letting him have.
Fingering the red velvet, Paul wished he’d allowed Trevor to make him up a pair. “Though God knows what colour he’d have picked.” Paul immediately castigated himself. Before he’d moved into Trevor’s, he’d imagined outrageous colours on all the soft furnishings, fancy pelmets and frilly tie-backs. These images were soon discarded when he’d seen the quiet and understated décor Trevor had chosen.
Quickly rejecting the idea of watching something on the telly, Paul alighted on his bookshelf. The bottom row of books had had to be thrown away, but fortunately those higher up had survived, although many of them hadn’t appreciated being in a damp environment. Picking out a western he’d read before—he sat on his new sofa, turned on the nearby standard lamp that Trevor had insisted on buying as a housewarming gift—and settled down to read.
* * * *
A hammering on his front door made Paul jump. Quickly coming to, he realised he’d fallen asleep on the sofa. The person at the door banged again, and this time started ringing the bell, too.
“I’m coming!”
“Bloody hell, you look rough,” Thommo said.
“What time is it?”
“Just past nine.”
“What the fuck you doing up so early on a Sunday morning?” Paul rubbed his eyes.
“Reminding you we’ve got a match at Elderwood this afternoon. It’ll take hours to get there with the roadworks so I told everyone to set off early.”
Blinking at the bright sunlight, Paul mumbled a response.
“And I need a lift. My car broke down last night. Bloody thing.”
Paul opened the door wider to admit his guest.
“Any chance of a fry up? I’m starving.”
“What’s wrong with your own kitchen?”
; “No clean pots. And I’m out of bacon.” Thommo pushed past him and headed for the kitchen and started to open cupboards.
“Oi! Leave my kitchen alone. Five minutes and it’ll end up looking like yours.”
Thommo stepped back. “All right, you do the cooking, then. Bloody hell, you weren’t this house-proud before you stayed with that poof.”
Instantly Paul’s lethargy left him. The next thing he knew, he had Thommo up against the pantry door. “One more comment like that and it’ll be a hospital breakfast you’ll be eating.”
“Hey!”
Paul released his friend. “I’m just warning you. Trevor’s all right.”
Thommo looked as though he was going to give a sarcastic reply, but one look at Paul’s determined face made him reconsider.
* * * *
Paul’s mind wasn’t on the cricket match. He would be hard pressed to say where his mind was. The team slumped to an early defeat, being bowled out with at least ten overs left of the innings. Thommo wasn’t happy; although Paul wasn’t the only cause of their lack-lustre performance, Thommo seemed to aim most of his criticism in his direction. Paul didn’t have the energy to defend himself.
Thankfully, Thommo got a lift back with someone else, leaving Paul to drive home alone with his thoughts. As he passed Trevor’s house he saw that a light was on in the front room. He pulled over, unhooked his seatbelt and then just sat there. Why had he stopped? He had no reason to visit Trevor.
Taking a deep breath, he belted up again, started his car and drove home. Thankfully, exhaustion allowed him to sink into unconsciousness soon after his head hit the pillow. He didn’t dream, or at least if he did, he didn’t remember.
* * * *
Not questioning why he had a spring in his step, Paul found himself whistling as he prepared for work the next morning. A cup of coffee and a slice of toast was breakfast. Thommo had eaten all the bacon and eggs the day before. He even had the cheek to complain at how few eggs Paul kept on hand.
Making a mental note to visit the supermarket on his way home, Paul picked up his car keys and headed out. It seemed odd to travel to work alone after having Trevor in the passenger seat chatting away, making funny remarks at whatever they passed or at something the DJ said on the radio. Paul unconsciously turned his car and made a detour to Trevor’s house. But on arrival he found Trevor had already left. Unaccountably deflated, Paul pointed his vehicle toward Leadstone and its town hall.
But once at work, a minor crisis soon swept him up in its complexity, consuming his attention for most of the morning. The elected leader of the Council wanted a whole raft of statistics concerning the potential extra revenue that could be obtained if the fees charged for requests for land purchases were increased. Paul hated having to prepare such tedious executive summaries. He suspected he could write whatever he wanted in the bulk of the report; all the elected officials would ever look at were the opening summary and the final conclusions.
He managed to finish the first draft by lunchtime and took it to the typing pool. Because the paper was destined for the leader’s office, he marked the typing as urgent. “Which means I should get it back by the end of next week,” he grumbled as he dropped it in the tray. He then headed directly for the staff dining room for much-needed sustenance.
Sandy was there munching on her celery as usual. Paul, who didn’t mind the occasional salad, would never indulge himself in front of her, however. He enjoyed the look of disapproval he always got when he put his plate of meat on the table.
“I was reading a report the other day that said eating beef causes male fertility to decrease.”
“That’s all right, I wasn’t planning on having any kids.”
Paul began hacking at his dinner; the chef had overcooked the roast. Paul thought back to the roast dinners Trevor prepared at weekends. The meat almost fell off the bones it was so tender.
Thinking about his former house-mate, Paul looked around, but couldn’t see Trevor anywhere. Some dumpy looking woman, all frizzy hair and flowing skirts, caught his eye as she left the serving line. Paul thought he knew her, but couldn’t put a name to the face. She made her way over, smiling and blushing at him.
“Hi, uh, is this, uh, seat taken?”
Paul, who was chewing his way through a mouthful of tough cow flesh, shook his head.
“Thanks. I’m Trish. You must be Paul.”
Paul nodded and finally managed to swallow. “Yeah, that’s me.”
He couldn’t remember the last time someone of the opposite sex got all giggly and shy with him. No, that wasn’t true. There was that girl in the sixth form. Paul smiled at the memory. God, what was her name? Over a period of a couple of weeks she had gradually sat closer. Touches that could have been passed off as innocent soon grew to unmistakable caresses. Everything Paul said was funny, or the wisest thing the girl had ever heard. She seemed to hang on every word. Paul remembered being both flattered and more than a little uncomfortable.
Remembering where he’d seen what’s-her-name before, Paul asked, “Don’t you work with Trevor?”
“Oh, uh, yeah.” She blushed, obviously recognising she’d been caught.
A glance in Sandy’s direction saw the woman roll her eyes.
“How’s he doing? I’d have thought he’d be here.”
“Oh, he swapped lunches with me.”
Paul felt a pang of…he wasn’t sure. Refusing to label it as disappointment, he continued to eat, all the while feeling Trish’s gaze on him.
“Did you do anything interesting this weekend?” Trish asked.
Paul wasn’t sure the question had been aimed at him.
“My best friend and me went into Leeds, to a beauty parlour she knows.”
“Uh huh.” Why was she telling him all this?
“I thought I’d try a new hair style. Do you think it suits me? My friend thinks it makes me look younger.”
“Oh, uh, yes. Very nice.”
“You think so?” Trish patted her hair and beamed.
Sandy sounded like she was choking.
“Something go down the wrong way?” Paul asked. “I’d be glad to thump you. On the back.”
Sandy recovered and continued chewing, obviously deciding to ignore Paul’s remark.
The rest of lunch dragged. Trish kept trying to interest Paul in conversation, and he kept answering distractedly.
* * * *
Instead of heading straight back to his office, Paul took a detour via Human Resources. Trevor was there, head bent, entering data into his computer. Paul was dismayed to see he’d gone back to wearing his garish artist’s smocks.
“There you are.”
Trevor started. “Huh?”
“Didn’t see you at lunch. What’s-her-name said you’d swapped lunches.”
“I, uh.”
Paul wasn’t sure, but did Trevor look guilty, upset?
Remembering the rather uncomfortable meal he’d just experienced, Paul asked, “Is she, Trish, is she all right? I mean—” Paul blushed. “She seemed a bit, well, obvious.”
Paul then grew embarrassed. Why had he gone off on that particular tack? Things got worse when Trish floated in and started up with the flirting again. The situation wasn’t helped by Trevor egging her on, suggesting he and Trish go see that bloody romance he’d been forced to endure with Geraldine. Paul made his escape as soon as possible, ever more confused at Trevor’s behaviour.
* * * *
The confusion continued. It seemed every time he asked Trevor to accompany him on some visit or other, Trevor always had an excuse not to go. Eventually Paul had to conclude Trevor wasn’t interested in being friends. This was so at odds with the outgoing vivacious person Paul had lodged with.
* * * *
During an away cricket match, as Paul waited to go into bat, he got talking to a brunette called Natalie. He was immediately attracted to her. Natalie was both pretty and intelligent. Paul didn’t like the air-head Trish type, nor the po-faced bluestoc
king school mistress variety, either. Paul wondered momentarily if Natalie was a bloke in a frock, but good sense prevailed. Even he wasn’t unlucky enough to encounter two cross-dressers.
Because Natalie lived some distance away, he was able only to see her at weekends. It was during their second weekend together when he was able to confirm Natalie’s womanly attributes.
The two had dined at the pub in Natalie’s village. The heavy oak beams and rustic interior appealed to the country boy within Paul. He particularly enjoyed the horse brasses by the large open stone fire-places, and the prints depicting various hunting scenes along the walls. Paul got carried away with the pub’s rural ambience, not to mention Natalie’s pleasant company. Much to his surprise, when he stood up after they’d decided to call it an evening, he was a little unsteady.
“You okay?” Natalie asked.
“Uh, yeah. The landlord’s best bitter must be stronger than I’m used to.”
“Well, you would insist on having a third pint, just to see if the first two weren’t flukes.”
Paul rubbed his forehead. “Shit, I think you’re right about me getting carried away.”
Natalie smiled. “It’s a good job I intended asking you to stay tonight then, isn’t it?”
“Oh, uh.”
“I’m not letting you drive home.” She held out her hand. “Give me your car keys.”
Paul handed them over, they then walked steadily back to Natalie’s cottage. The cooler night air had revived Paul, who thought he might be able to drive after all.
“No way. My dad’s a policeman. He drummed it into me from an early age that I’d never allow anyone to drink and drive.
* * * *
Waking up the next morning alongside Natalie, Paul was glad he’d stayed over. They’d settled in front of the TV, but soon grew less interested in the late night movie, and more interested in each other. When Natalie had suggested they take things upstairs, Paul had made no objection. What had begun with kissing, soon became heavy petting, and then a frenzy of fumbling fingers as each had struggled to undress the other without unlocking their lips, until, at last, Natalie had reached down and took hold of his cock, which long ago had lengthened and thickened.