“I’m a sort of personal assistant,” I said. “But my boss needs me to be at his house in Sussex,” I added for good measure.
“Sussex ain’t far,” he replied, taking a deep gulp of tea.
And then, whilst those three words hung in the air, I suddenly launched myself at him, sending the contents of his mug flying across the marble worktop. I flung my arms around his broad, muscular neck and planted a big, passionate kiss on his lips. We stayed like that for a couple of minutes before he pulled away, smiling broadly.
“Something I said?” He grinned.
“As a matter of fact it was.”
And it was then I realized for the first time since my evening with Maria that what Frank said was absolutely true. West Sussex is not the dark side of the moon; it’s only a couple of hours away from London. A couple of hours away from home. I now felt ready to leave for Castle Beadale.
We showered together, but my tiny bathroom was so small it prevented us from getting too carried away. It did, however, allow us to explore each other’s bodies under the guise of simply getting clean. As fast as his strong hands lathered up every inch of my body, the hot water rained down and rinsed it clean. When it was my turn he held his arms above his head and turned his face into the stream of water. I massaged his broad chest and ran my fingers through the thick hair, slowly working down his torso. My hands moved around his waist and dwelled for a time on his high, round buttocks. His cheeks tensed when my soapy hands began to explore them, but he relaxed when I moved farther down his legs, paying particular attention to his thick, bulging thighs. I couldn’t help thinking that if we had found ourselves like this in one of the huge showers at the Landseer, we would have been fucking like teenagers by now, but the restricted space of my shower cubicle meant that this was as far as it was possible to go. Not to mention the fact that I had expected to be packed and ready to leave by now.
“So what you doing for the rest of the day?” Frank asked as we toweled ourselves off in the bedroom.
“I have to finish packing. I’m supposed to be leaving tomorrow.”
“So soon?” he said, pulling on his jeans. “I might have to come and see you in Sussex.”
I could feel myself smiling at the thought of Frank’s nipping down to Sussex to relieve the tedium of country life, but pulled myself together when I glanced at the clock. I knew I had to get rid of him if I was going to get anything done, but the truth was I was enjoying his company too much to ask him to leave.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” I said eventually, “but I really need to get on, and having you here is acting as something of a distraction—a very nice distraction, but a distraction nonetheless.”
“How you getting to Sussex?” he asked.
“Erm, train, I guess. I hadn’t really given it much thought.”
“Don’t bother; I’ll drive you. I can take the morning off and be back in London by mid afternoon.”
I stared at him over a pile of clothes. He smiled and took my chin in his hand.
“I’ll pick you up here at 9 a.m.—that work for you?” he said, before bending down to kiss me lightly on the lips.
“Oh! That’s really nice of you, but I can get the train, it’s no problem.... I wouldn’t like to impose. . . .” I babbled ever so slightly, stunned at his offer.
“It’s an offer of a lift, Anthony, not a marriage proposal; don’t worry,” he said matter-of-factly before pulling on his leather jacket and heading toward the door.
I searched his face for any sign that I’d offended him, but saw nothing. He didn’t even appear to mind that I was kicking him out. He just smirked when he registered my look of concern.
“If you really don’t want me to drive you tomorrow, just text me and let me know; otherwise be ready at 9 a.m.” I watched him descend the stairs two at a time before he stopped on the half landing and turned back. “Don’t be late—the meter will be running.” He winked, and moments later I heard the front door of the building slam shut with a bang.
It wasn’t until he was gone that I realized we hadn’t exchanged phone numbers, so I couldn’t cry off even if I wanted to. I felt a slight sense of irritation that I wouldn’t be able to make my excuses. He was totally sexy, and the night before had been great, but I had to face the fact that I was never going to see him again after he drove me to Castle Beadale. I mean, I couldn’t really imagine going out with a taxi driver. What on earth would we talk about?
Slumping back onto the sofa I surveyed the piles of clothes, books, and assorted junk littering the living room floor and realized the sight was no longer causing a knot in the pit of my stomach. A day earlier I had sat in exactly the same spot dreading all the upheaval of moving to a strange place and leaving everything and everybody I loved behind. But for reasons as yet unclear I was feeling infinitely more positive about the whole thing. Indeed, as I packed the last few things with renewed vigor, I could have sworn I felt the stirrings of excitement in the place where dread had been just twenty-four hours earlier.
By late afternoon everything I wanted to take with me was packed into two large holdalls. The rest of my stuff was boxed up to make room for Chris to move in. I’d already e-mailed him with detailed instructions on how the dodgy central heating worked and contact numbers for the landlord in case of emergency. All that was left to do was to hide the spare front door key under the mat, and the place was as good as his. But until then I was alone in the flat for the last time.
I padded through to the kitchen in search of a glass of wine, but just as I was about to open the fridge I saw, amongst all the postcards and utility bills stuck to the door, a small yellow Post-it note with Frank’s name and number on it. He must have stuck it there before he left. I punched the number into my phone and made a mental note to text him later to politely tell him I’d be taking the train. I also nervously recalled his last words before he left: “The meter will be running.” Yes, much better idea to go by train, I thought, pouring myself a very large glass of Sauvignon Blanc. With the state of my finances I can’t risk a taxi fare all the way from London to Sussex.
It didn’t take long for the wine to magically evaporate from my glass, but as soon as it did I was gripped by a raging hunger. I hadn’t eaten anything all day, but I really couldn’t be bothered to leave the flat, so I searched the cupboards for something vaguely edible. I love to eat, but I’m not much of a cook. While I’d been working at the hotel I had either eaten at work or headed straight out to a restaurant every night of the week, so I had very low expectations when it came to foraging for food in my own cupboards.
To my amazement, hidden behind various half-empty bottles of spirits and unopened containers of protein powder left over from a short-lived health kick, I found a packet of instant noodles. I studied the cooking instructions on the packet whilst waiting for the kettle to boil (I told you I wasn’t much of a cook) and in less than five minutes I had sufficiently quelled my hunger to concentrate on sending a few e-mails, updating my Facebook status, and checking out who’d looked at my Gaydar profile in the past twenty-four hours.
By seven p.m. I was exhausted and surrendered to the voices in my head telling me to turn in for the night. I laid out some clothes for the morning—a smart casual look consisting of chinos, Ralph Lauren shirt, and brown Prada lace-ups—and climbed into the still unmade bed. I pressed my face into the pillow on the side where Frank had slept and breathed in the faint trace of his smell. In seconds I was sound asleep.
The next day I woke early, realizing immediately that I hadn’t contacted Frank to tell him I’d decided to take the train. I showered briskly, and by eight thirty I was fully dressed and impatiently tapping my fingers on the kitchen counter as I waited for the Gaggenau to warm up. The idea of heading out of the door without at least one double espresso inside me was utterly unthinkable, but even so I didn’t want to be late. Once poured, the thick, treacly brew barely touched the sides before it was finished, the cup washed, dried, and wrapped carefu
lly in tissue paper before being stashed in my suitcase. My caffeine habit is a habit in every sense of the word and extends as far as the vessel from which I consume it. My cup of choice is a prized possession and goes everywhere with me. Stolen from Bar Italia one drunken night in Soho many, many years ago, it serves as a constant reminder of those heady days when youth and time are taken for granted. These days it’s chipped, and the logo has been rendered barely visible by hundreds of harsh dishwasher cycles, but it still has the power to make even second-rate coffee taste half decent.
I decided to wait for Frank downstairs and began the task of dragging my two bags noisily down the stairs one at a time. Leaving them in the hallway, I bounded back up the stairs to lock up the flat. I did so at high speed for fear I would change my mind and thrust the keys through the letterbox with a flourish. As they landed with a rattle on the other side of the door, I shivered with excitement. About what exactly, I still wasn’t sure.
Out on Stanley Gardens I scanned left and right for Frank’s taxi and felt a slight sense of irritation at the fact that, despite his having been quite insistent I be on time, he himself was nowhere to be seen. As I contemplated calling him, a car horn sounded loudly on the other side of the street. I scanned the line of vehicles and to my utter astonishment saw Frank behind the wheel of not a black London taxi but a bright yellow sports car. I stood rooted to the spot, surrounded by bags I knew instantly had no chance of fitting into this tiny and vaguely ridiculous car. Frank beamed wildly as the roof automatically retreated into the boot.
“So whaddaya think?” he shouted.
“I think that’s not a taxi; that’s what I think,” I replied, omitting to add that it was the most hideous car I had ever seen. “I’m not sure I’m going to get my bags in the back of there.”
“Come on!” he shouted cheerfully. “It’ll be a laugh!”
But I wasn’t laughing; in fact this was starting to feel like a really bad idea. I had thought I was going to be turning up at my new place of work in a relatively respectable London taxi. Instead, I would be arriving at Castle Beadale in what looked like a car stolen from a hairdresser.
“Frank, listen. I don’t think this is going to work for me; maybe I should get the train after all. Why don’t you just give me a lift to Victoria Station?”
He leapt out of the driver’s seat and crossed the road to where I was standing, motionless and open-mouthed.
“Come on, Anthony,” he said breezily. “You were much more fun the other night.”
He tugged at the handle of one of the bags, but I wasn’t ready to let go just yet.
“Is this your car?” I asked.
“Not exactly,” he replied, managing to wrestle both bags from my vise-like grip and marching over to the car. I followed him and watched as he slung them effortlessly into the back of the car. “I borrowed it from a friend.”
Rather irritatingly the bags did fit, albeit snugly, into the tiny recess behind the two seats. But I still wasn’t entirely happy, as I had visions of them flying open in transit and disgorging their contents all over the hard shoulder of the A23.
I looked over at Frank, ready to continue my protests, but when I saw the look of sheer enthusiasm on his face I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. This total stranger had taken the day off work, borrowed this ridiculous car, and offered to drive me two hours out of London—for what? Well, apparently just because he was a nice guy. “Okay, you win,” I said, climbing into the passenger seat.
“I usually do,” he said, starting the engine.
The drive out of London, as usual, seemed to take forever. We headed south to Victoria and sailed past the station where I could have caught the train. Brixton and Streatham were a noisy blur, but by the time we had left the motorway just south of Croydon the urban sprawl of London was replaced by the gently sloping hills of the South Downs.
With the directions on my phone, I was acting as navigator by shouting instructions over the deafening noise of the wind. We had attempted to play the radio, but it was pointless with the roof down, so I made do with the scenery and the occasional bit of lipreading between Frank and me. I started out worrying about what the drive would do to my hair, but after about half an hour I honestly couldn’t have cared less. At times I raised myself up in the seat so that the wind whipped my face, and Frank pushed me back down by placing a hand on the top of my thigh and squeezing tightly.
About ninety minutes out of London Frank turned off the main road and pulled into a petrol station located on the outskirts of a small village. The kiosk attached to the petrol station looked as if it served as the main village shop and had a steady stream of people coming and going with newspapers, groceries, and the like.
“Do you want anything?” he asked, rummaging in his bag for his wallet.
“I’m fine, thanks,” I replied, checking my windswept reflection in the rearview mirror.
Frank walked across the forecourt and joined the queue inside the small shop. I watched the scene through the large picture window as if it were a TV screen with the sound turned off. The young girl behind the counter appeared to get more and more irritated with an old man she was serving, and even from where I was sitting I could see her rolling her eyes as he painstakingly counted out the price of his newspaper in small change. When I glanced over at Frank he was looking at the girl with a face like thunder. He stepped forward and placed a gentle hand on the old man’s shoulder before speaking to him. Whatever it was he said caused the old man to smile and nod vigorously before stepping back to allow Frank to count out the money on his behalf. In a matter of minutes the old guy was heading off up the road with his newspaper tucked under his arm.
Well, Frank, aren’t you the man of the hour? I thought.
As exhilarating as open-topped cars are, even a short drive is guaranteed to leave the passengers looking like shit. One look in the mirror proved I was no exception. My eyes were watering so badly I looked like I’d been crying. I checked all the pockets in my jacket, but found nothing to wipe them. I thought there might be a pack of tissues in the glove box, so I popped it open and had a rummage around. I felt something like a handkerchief wedged in behind a pile of old parking tickets. When I pulled it out the tickets came with it, spilling onto my feet. But when I began to scoop them up, not all of the papers turned out to be tickets. Tucked in between them was a small handwritten note on lurid pink notepaper. I looked up and saw that Frank was still waiting to pay for his petrol, so I quickly unfolded the note and began to read:
Babe, don’t wreck my car or I swear I will have to kill you. Have fun and behave yourself!!!
Love you, xxxxx.
I held it in my hand for a few seconds, but then I saw Frank bounding toward the car with an arm full of snacks and drinks, so I stuffed it hastily into my pocket.
“Bloody hell, mate—you all right?” Frank laughed as he climbed into the driver’s seat. “You look like you’ve been bawling!”
“Crying?” I said, my hand brushing the pocket containing the note. “No chance; I’m not really the crying type.”
As Frank pulled out of the station forecourt he stroked my thigh affectionately.
Borrowed the car from a mate? I thought, smiling at him. Sure you did!
According to my directions Castle Beadale was only another thirty-minute drive, which I was glad about as I was starting to see Frank in a slightly different light. I felt a bit let down at the thought of his lying to me, but then again he had only been my “good-bye-London fuck,” so why should I care one way or the other?
He had said he was divorced and that he was single, but why should I believe him? He wouldn’t have been the first guy I ever slept with who was living a double life. But then again he seemed to know an awful lot about how to please a man in bed, too much to be simply dabbling behind his girlfriend’s back. I felt a faint stirring in my lap at the thought of exactly how good he was in the sack.
I put it to the back of my mind, figuring I had more impo
rtant things to focus on for now.
To his credit, Frank kept on trying to rekindle the conversation as best he could even though it was obvious my mood had changed.
“You excited about your new job?” he asked, squeezing my shoulder.
“Yeah, I really am,” I replied.
“You seem a little tense, but I suppose that’s normal on your first day.”
“Listen, Frank, I really like you, and the other night was great. I mean, really great, but how’s about we just stay mates from now on?”
“Bloody hell!” he said, taking his eyes off the road for a second to look at me. “Where did that just come from?”
“Oh, just ignore me,” I said, smiling at him. “I’m just being stupid. Probably something to do with all the upheaval of moving.”
He shook his head and laughed as if I had just spoken to him in Cantonese or something.
“According to my instructions,” I said, changing the subject and checking my phone, “we have to drive round to the back of the castle and park in the old stable yard. All visitors must enter through the servants’ entrance.”
“Fuck! How big is this house?” he asked.
“If you look over there you can see for yourself,” I said, pointing to a gap in the high boundary wall.
Frank slowed the car and pulled it up onto the grass verge, where we both climbed out and just stared in silence for a few minutes. It looked like part of the gray stone wall had been taken down for repair, and through it I could see the solid outline of the castle perfectly picked out against a clear blue sky. I have no idea why, but I was rather taken aback by how much like an actual castle it was. I’d been expecting a grand English country house like Castle Howard or Blenheim Palace, but Castle Beadale was nothing of the sort. “You told me it was a house,” Frank said, breaking the silence. “That, my friend, is a fucking castle!”
Manservant Page 5