Love at First Hate

by JL Merrow

  Taking a bite of his sandwich—it was well tasty—Sam got an uncomfortable flashback to his teens, and his mum telling him in no uncertain tones he was expected to get A-stars for all his exams. He swallowed. “Common folk, yeah, definitely. Actually, I was thinking we could get an actor in to do an oral history bit from the point of view of a French peasant? Talking about the local lords taxing them half to death to pay for the defending armies, and the English stealing or destroying all they had left. And there’s going to be a section on Joan of Kent, of course.”

  Jennifer barked a laugh. “Of course. Nothing like a juicy scandal to whip up people’s interest.” She took a large bite of her own sandwich. Sam could imagine her eating up scandal with equal relish.

  “Yeah, I reckoned we could have a display on the prince’s gran and all. Isabella of France, I mean, obviously. Not the other one. Give a bit of background. The way the Black Prince was brought up—as a knight and a military commander from a young age—had to be related to Edward III’s own upbringing. That was a seriously dysfunctional family. Both parents off having affairs with other men, and each trying to turn the kid against the other. And that’s before mum and her new bloke had his dad killed.” Sam grinned, gesturing with his sandwich. “Got to include that too. Red-hot poker up the you-know-what? Kids love that stuff.”

  “Yes, but let’s not make it all about blood and guts. We need to include the feminine as well as the masculine.”

  “Hey, loads of girls are into blood and violence.” Sam had only to think of his sisters.

  “True, but a lot of them are into other subjects as well. Too many people seem to think feminism means allowing girls to have boys’ things. It goes the other way as well, and there’s nothing wrong with traditionally feminine preoccupations, such as relationships, family, and yes, even clothes and jewellery. Let’s not throw the baby out with the bathwater.”

  Sam made a note to ensure the dressing-up corner was stocked with frocks as well as men’s short tunics and hose, and to have none of that “boys’ clothes this side” rubbish. Some of those weird women’s headdresses would probably go down well with the kids. And now he thought about it, there was a bit of a gender bias in those planned videos, wasn’t there? He might have to do a bit of recasting. The soldier, now, had to look male—anyone who presented as female in those days would have been told to bugger off and join the rest of the camp followers—but the armourer, they could be a woman. Plenty of widows took over their dead husband’s trade in medieval times.

  He scribbled down some notes on a scrap of paper and absent-mindedly picked up another sandwich from the packet. He’d taken a bite before he’d realised what he’d done. “Sh— Oops. Sorry. I’ll, uh, buy you something from the shop?” There wasn’t a café as such, but the shop in the visitor centre sold sandwiches, drinks, and snacks, and there were picnic tables outside for when the weather was decent.

  Jennifer laughed. “I won’t say no. If they’ve any Cornish pasties left, that’ll do nicely. You should get one yourself. Put some meat on your bones. But tell you what, you stay here and I’ll get them. You look like you’re in the middle of a thought, and I could do with stretching my legs.”

  Sam grimaced. “I’m doing so well here, aren’t I? First I steal your lunch, and now I’ve stolen your desk as well.” He pulled out his wallet and handed her a tenner. It’d been lonely in there anyhow. “At least let me pay.”

  She waved it away. “No, no. I know what it’s like when you start a new job. All the expense of moving and you have to wait a month for the first pay cheque. My treat.”

  “If you’re sure . . .” Sam put his money away, wishing he didn’t feel so relieved.

  Bran was halfway through Gawen’s Japanese comic book for the second time when a familiar slim figure walked into the room. His suit was perfectly fitted and his hair freshly dyed blond. It was cut to flop artfully on top, as though he were only a few years out of public school and not the near decade which was actually the case. He’d brought flowers, and clearly not from a supermarket or petrol station—they were tied with twine and wrapped in paper printed with the name of a florist in Newquay.

  Craig. Bran hurriedly shoved the comic book behind the dubious camouflage of his water jug. “What are you doing here?” God, he didn’t want Craig to see him like this. Their roles, throughout their relationship, had been clearly defined: Craig, the younger one, eager to learn from Bran, the respected, sophisticated businessman. An updating of the classic Greek arrangement.

  There was nothing remotely sophisticated or worthy of respect about lying in a hospital bed wearing a backless gown, his hair unkempt and his skin sallow with ill health. It shouldn’t matter, Bran told himself. He’d ended their affair, for God’s sake, so why should he care if Craig saw him in such a pitiable state?

  But he did care. It was humiliating. Craig looked exactly as he had the last time Bran had seen him: fit, well-groomed, and slightly naïve. The last was a lie, as Bran well knew. That boyish, trusting air was Craig’s stock-in-trade. Bran had no doubt it would take him far—but what he didn’t understand was what had brought him here.

  “What am I doing here?” Craig repeated with a puzzled frown, putting the flowers down on Bran’s bedside table. Their scent was heady, washing over the dreary smell of disinfectant and the stale sweat of the sickroom. “I heard about the attack, of course. How are you? You don’t look at all well. Did you really get pneumonia? I thought that was only old people.”

  Bran ignored the question and its unflattering implications. “How did you hear about it?”

  “From the local news website, to start with. And of course it was talked about at work.”

  “Of course it was,” Bran muttered. Craig’s employers at Pennock & Hardy must have learned of Bran’s indisposition with positive glee. No doubt Craig had spent a busy working day helping them prepare to rob him blind over the Constantine Bay property. Bran could hardly fault him. They’d always agreed that business and pleasure should be kept strictly separate.

  “I heard you were deathly ill.” Craig’s low, chiding tone startled him from his musings.

  “Damn it, who have you been talking to?”

  “Sheryl at your solicitor’s.” Craig’s face turned sulky. “I phoned her, since I assumed you’d rather I not contact your family. It wasn’t pleasant, having to find out about you like that. Although you’re actually looking a lot better than I was led to believe.”

  Given what he’d said earlier, he’d clearly expected Bran to be at death’s door. Was he disappointed? Perhaps he’d expected a tearful deathbed reunion. Craig had an annoying relish for drama. “I can’t imagine why you’d care about my state of health.”

  “Are you serious? Of course I care.” Craig pulled up a chair, hitched up his trouser legs, and sat beside the bed. He reached over to grasp Bran’s hand. “Look, I know you said we should stop seeing each other, but I’ve been thinking. Of course it wasn’t working out, not the way it was. You get out of a relationship what you put into it, and there was always more putting out than putting in with us, wasn’t there?” Craig’s lips curved up in one of those rueful little smiles he did so well. “Why don’t we start again? Properly, this time?”

  God help him, Bran was tempted. He’d felt so alone, ever since the incident. He’d realised how much of his days had been filled by work—stripped of that, he was nothing. He’d thought Craig would be repulsed by his obvious weakness, but instead it seemed to have brought out a hitherto unsuspected caring side.

  Bran wondered what else Craig’s carefully cultivated image might hide. They’d spent so much time together—but had they really got to know one another? Bran had always desired Craig, and would presumably desire the man again, once he was no longer feeling as though a truck had hit him, but there had always been the unspoken agreement that sex, along with certain other mutual interests, was all it was, on both sides. There had been no talk of caring for one another. And now, it seemed, Craig wanted
that to change. Wanted to start again. Properly.

  But by properly, Craig meant openly, didn’t he? Abruptly Bran’s temper flared, and he snatched his hand from Craig’s grasp. How dare he come here, when Bran wasn’t himself, and try to browbeat him into coming out?

  “I’ve told you before,” he said as icily as his throat would allow. “That’s not going to happen. You know my reasons—”

  “Your reasons.” Craig sent Bran a look he couldn’t interpret. “A few old fuddy-duddies with one foot in the grave won’t respect you anymore if they find out you like cock?”

  “Keep your voice down!” It set off a paroxysm of coughing.

  Craig rubbed Bran’s back, which was soothing and therefore annoying in equal measure. “They probably already know. I should think everyone already knows. For God’s sake, you just got gay-bashed.”

  “That wasn’t . . .” Bran’s chest was tight from coughing, and he felt hot and miserable.

  Was that what it had been?

  Craig was frowning. “Can you really not remember anything about the attack? That’s what Sheryl said, but, well, office gossip. How reliable is that?”

  “Please go,” Bran rasped, exhausted.

  “Poor you. It must have been horrible.” Craig leaned over to kiss his cheek, and to his shame, Bran did nothing to stop him. “Will you think about it?” He stood up, thank God. “The more you run scared, the more people are going to attack you. Because they think they’re going to win. You don’t want to let them win, do you? Think about it.”

  He patted Bran’s hand one last time and left. The flowers he’d brought lay on the bedside table, wilting, until a nurse bustled in. “Oh, these are lush. I’ll put them in water for you. Was it that nice young man who brought them? Is he another brother?”

  “Please just take them away,” Bran said wearily. “I don’t want them.”

  “Sure, my lover? Well, I won’t let them go to waste. Anything you need?”

  Bran shook his head, and she left, taking the flowers with her.

  Peace at last, thank God. Why couldn’t Craig see he didn’t want to come out? Didn’t want a proper relationship? Love was a lie, and the only truth of it was pain. He was fine how he was.

  Bran found himself missing the flowers’ fragrance, even so.

  The next day, Bran decided enough was enough, and insisted on being discharged from hospital. He had to sit through a stern talking-to about not letting his physio lapse this time, and getting plenty of rest—apparently he was the only one to see the contradiction in this—but eventually he was permitted to go home.

  He called Bea to drive him back to Porthkennack. If he’d thought she would be pleased, he was disappointed.

  Her tone was brusque. “You’ll have to wait until this afternoon. I’ve got a . . . lunchtime meeting.”

  “Oh? I didn’t think you liked those.”

  “It’s important to network. Are you sure you’re ready to come home?”

  “Yes.” Bran bit back a curse. “I’m fine.”

  “That’s what you said last time.” There was a pause. Was Bea censoring herself too? It was so hard to tell over the telephone. “I’ll see you at three.”

  She hung up, leaving Bran uneasy and impatient to see her again. She’d been so odd in her manner, so remote, ever since . . . Ever since he’d been attacked, Bran realised.

  It wasn’t a comfortable drive home, what with the silent disapproval he had to endure en route. But Bea drove carefully so as not to jostle his ribs, and although the trip exhausted him, at least it didn’t leave him in agony. And when they got home, she made him soup again, and sat with him while he ate.

  For a while it was almost like when they’d been children.

  Twenty-Nine Years Ago

  “But I don’t like rugby,” Bran said, keeping his chin up, although his knees were showing a distressing tendency to shake. “What’s the point of chasing after a stupid ball in the mud?”

  They’d just got out of the car at Bran’s new school. His uniform was stiff and uncomfortable, bought too large so he could grow into it, and almost all of the other boys were taller than him.

  His father’s frown deepened. “The point, Branok, is to toughen you up. Prepare you for life. You can’t be soft in business. People will walk all over you if you are, and I’m not letting you run our family’s fortunes into the ground after I’m gone. You’re finished with prep school now, and you need to start learning to act like a man. Like someone who’s fit to be head of the family. Stop hanging around your sister’s skirts. Although I daresay she could teach you a thing or two about being tougher, come to that.”

  It stung. So what if Bran had spent most of the summer holidays with Bea? They’d always spent time together when they weren’t at school. “Don’t women need to be tough too?” he demanded.

  “Women are tough,” Father said softly, surprising him. “But it’s a different sort of strength. A quiet strength. Patient and enduring.”

  Bran would have had to be an idiot not to know he was talking about Mother. She’d been ill for years. Ever since Jory had come along. At four years old now he was more annoying than ever, always wanting to be included in anything Bran and Bea did, and wearing Mother out with his whining.

  Sometimes she was better for a week or two, able to leave the house and do things with them. More often, she wasn’t, and only Father saw much of her then. She hadn’t come with them today. Bran had had to say goodbye to her yesterday, as Father hadn’t wanted her disturbed this morning before they left.

  “Anyway,” Father said with an air of finality. “I expect to see you in the rugby team by the end of this school year.”

  “What if I’m not good enough?” Bran surprised himself by asking.

  “You will be good enough.” Father’s tone promised Bran would regret it if he wasn’t. Then he made sure of it. “Don’t you want your mother and me to be proud of you?”

  Bran nodded, his gaze downcast.

  Father took hold of his chin and raised it. “Then be a man.”

  Present Day

  The very next day, Bran forced himself to rise and dress. He was desperately short of energy, but more than anything, he needed to know what was going on with the exhibition. Jory’s vague, It’s all in hand response to his questions had been preying on his mind. Bran had assumed it meant Jory had done as he’d been asked and taken on the curator’s role himself, but he needed to know.

  It was impossible to find anything out from home. Jory, of course, had his phone switched off—a teacher taking calls during lessons would hardly be a good example to his pupils—and Jennifer Solomon hadn’t answered Bran’s emails, which rankled. Nor had she responded to the telephone messages he’d left. She might not be, strictly speaking, accountable to him, but was a modicum of courtesy too much to ask? Especially given the benefits Bran’s exhibition would bring to the castle. It was time to pay a personal visit. Bran had yet to meet anyone who could ignore his physical presence. It was a cheering thought.

  It was disconcerting to put on a suit and find it no longer fitted well. Bran hadn’t realised how much weight he’d lost—he had to fasten his belt on the last hole, and his jacket hung off his shoulders.

  His spirits took a further dip as he realised driving would be unwise. He didn’t like to think what sort of strain it’d put on his ribs—turning the wheel, twisting to look over his shoulder—and in any case, he was still on painkillers. Resigned, Bran called a taxi to take him out to the castle. The driver, a weather-beaten man with fading blond dreadlocks that looked absurd coupled with his middle-aged spread, seemed to take perverse delight in hitting every pothole along the route, jarring Bran’s ribs mercilessly.

  “Wait here for me,” he said with some reluctance once they’d reached their destination. The driver nodded wordlessly and turned up the radio.

  Bran got out of the car with a curious mix of relief and nervous anticipation. The wind off the sea seemed stronger than usual, and bit thr
ough Bran’s business-wear, leaving him fighting not to shiver. It seemed he was the only one feeling the cold, however. Visitors to the castle ambled by in short-sleeved shirts, some of them eating ice cream.

  The castle car park was three-quarters empty, which Bran supposed wasn’t surprising. It was still only May, and the children were all in school—although half-term must be coming up soon, mustn’t it? Bran made a note to check the dates. He’d lost track of time lately.

  It would all change once the exhibition was up and running, he told himself. Nevertheless, he’d have been happier to see more visitors there.

  His first priority was to check on the construction work on the exhibition centre. Walking round to the site, Bran was relieved to see it appeared to be well on schedule. They were fitting out the interior now, and there was a wonderful sense of potential in the gleaming bare walls and empty display cases. Even the smell of the place, paint and sawdust and new carpeting, quickened his blood.

  “Mr. Roscarrock?” The site foreman hailed him. “Wasn’t expecting to see you back here so soon.”

  With anyone else, Bran might have suspected a guilty conscience. But Roarke was a good man—Bran had employed him on other projects. “All proceeding to schedule?”

  Roarke nodded. “Like clockwork. Nothing to worry about here. I hear you’ve had some trouble down at the cannery, mind.”

  Bran bit back a curse. “I can’t believe those idiots failed to secure their plant. You’ve had no break-ins here, I take it?”

  “None.”

  “Thank God for that. The last thing we need is the cathedral panicking and deciding we won’t be able to keep the prince’s armour safe.” But then, Roarke had never failed to provide adequate security on a site. “You’ll be putting in the displays soon, then.”