by Con Riley
“Your safety should be a priority, not something they keep shelving like it doesn’t matter. If they saw what I saw when I met you—”
Vanya doesn’t like to recall that moment. Fleeing to Britain only to encounter violent skinheads in the hostel, where he was meant to be safe, could have ended badly. Kaspar stepping in when panic froze him is a favour he’ll owe him for forever. Getting to repay it is another hope he has for the future.
He squares his shoulders to recite what the official told him. “I need to go back next month. Until then, I should keep a registered address, and….” This is the rule that truly rankles. “And I’m still not allowed to earn money.”
He would have graduated by now, if he’d been more careful. Preparing for his first teaching position would have filled his summer instead of struggling with a new language. Having a future like that—secure, worthwhile, and needed—is a dream he has to let go now. He has to or the regret he wades through most days will surely drown him.
“Come on.” Kaspar’s still pissed off as they leave the fitting rooms but keeps it to a simmer until he gets back to the glassware he abandoned. His brusqueness knocks two flutes together, the chime as clear as his anger. “How exactly do they expect you to eat?”
“The same way I have since I got here.” Vanya pats his flat stomach. “I’m lucky they give me food vouchers at all.”
Kaspar grumbles. “Lose any more weight and you won’t get away with borrowing my clothes.” He sets out the next two glasses with more care. “What else did they say?”
“Just the usual,” Vanya says in Russian before switching to English. He clears his throat and stutters. “I-I’m need to practice. Practice English.” His brow creases. “Having a job would help. Could talk all day to people, but….” He shakes his head.
Getting a job right now could get him sent home without warning.
Given what he barely escaped from, it’s not a risk worth taking.
Kaspar replies in English that’s so much better than his. “Well, I won’t get you into trouble by offering you any of my wages. You can help me for free. Unpack these?”
Vanya does as requested, reading packaging labels under his breath until Kaspar interrupts him.
“You really need to practice your English that badly?”
“Yes.” He truly does. “I’m think is best plan to stay.” He’s yet to meet an official who has any patience, so he’ll practice morning, noon, and night if that helps at his next meeting.
Kaspar surveys the shop floor, his gaze speculative as he searches. “You might as well practice on that customer. He’s not buying anything here today.”
“He’s not? How can you tell?”
“He’s been here for ages. I overheard him taking work calls. Besides, look at him.” Kaspar sums up exactly what he sees. “What a mess. His type doesn’t shop here.”
Vanya takes in the rear view of a man wearing baggy chinos. His faded polo shirt stretches over broad shoulders in a way that’s familiar, reminding him of the guy he sat behind this morning. He has dark hair that curls too, only its length suggests neglect rather than deliberate styling. “What do you mean, ‘his type’?”
“I mean, he’s an average working person. Look at him and then take another look around you.” Kaspar’s right. Nearby, happy couples-to-be compile wedding lists while this man looks like he would struggle to pay for the cheapest item. “My guess?” Kaspar offers. “He came in out of the rain with no intention of spending any money. Seriously, you won’t cost me a sale by talking to him. It will be good practice.”
Approaching strangers is a challenge that hasn’t ended well in the past for Vanya. The champagne flutes he holds tinkle when he sets them both down; his halting English is as shaky. “W-what do I say?” A mirror offers a partial glimpse of the man holding up a necktie.
“It’s easy. People don’t want to seem stupid. They’ll agree with whatever you tell them if they think you know more than them.” He makes a shooing gesture.
Vanya peers around a display island. From there he can only see a sliver of his target. He’s older than he appears from behind; there’s a sprinkle of grey at his temple and lines that look like they’ll deepen around his eye if he smiles.
He can approach this man, even if his stomach turns in a slow flip. He can strike up a conversation with a stranger if it helps to keep him in this country.
Besides, Kaspar’s here to keep watch.
What’s the worst that can happen, this time?
Chapter Two
Losing his foster brother is the worst thing Jason Balfour can imagine.
The fact that it might happen again if Andrew ties the knot for a third time preys on his mind all morning. The black eye he woke with is another stark reminder of how badly they fell out last night, its bruising as out of place in this swanky Bond Street store as Jason. He’s much more at home on construction sites or sitting at his drafting table, but until he hears back from Andrew, he’s stuck here in limbo.
He could leave, but he wanders between shelves of gleaming crystal and posh wedding attire. He could leave, only that will delay a conversation that badly needs to happen. At least if he waits here, in the heart of London’s West End, he’s only minutes from where they usually meet up. If Andrew does make contact, he can get there at a moment’s notice.
He selects a necktie at random and holds it under his chin as he waits, barely seeing what the mirror reflects until he catches a glimpse of movement behind him—someone staring in his direction. Jason would take more notice if checking his phone wasn’t more important. He does so for the hundredth time already, but there’s still no answer to his I’m sorry about what happened last night text, no end yet to his waiting.
Jason closes his eyes despite the way that makes his eye sting. When he opens them again, the mirror reveals more of the person he just glimpsed—he’s young, smartly dressed, and fresh-faced. It also shows a flicker of interest Jason most likely imagines; a flight of sudden fancy that almost makes this bad day better.
When was the last time someone pretty paid his ugly mug attention?
Is he really getting cruised in a wedding department designed for happy couples?
He holds in a snort of laughter before turning to face his observer. The sudden horror he sees in return suggests he’s badly mistaken. Getting cruised isn’t in his near future, not when colour leeches from the face of the man who lifts a hand to his own left eye and winces.
Jason’s black eye throbs in sympathy. Hell, the whole side of his face aches.
Of course, that’s why he’s staring.
Jason shrugs, chancing a wry smile, and like late September sunshine peeking between the rainclouds outside, the small one he gets in return warms him. It lingers long enough that he wonders if his first impression was right. Maybe they are having a moment. It’s ridiculous to find that idea so uplifting, but ridiculous or not, his high steadily spirals when that small smile widens. This guy’s nothing like Jason’s usual hook-ups: at least a couple of decades too young, and yet—
That train of thought suddenly derails when he adds two and two together.
That smart black shirt is the same as others worn in this building.
He’s a sales assistant, not someone showing him real interest.
A crowd of lunchtime shoppers cuts between them, the assistant gone when they move on. Jason chuffs under his breath. What the devil was he thinking? First, that guy looked barely legal, all wide eyes and narrow shoulders. Second, he was probably only assessing the size of his wallet. Now that he’s had a chance to scrutinise him, he’s cut his losses.
Maybe that’s what Andrew is doing as well by not returning his calls.
Perhaps he’s drawing a line under their relationship as foster brothers.
Jason wanders between displays piled with expensive wedding nonsense, half-wishing Andrew would say so instead of leaving him hanging like this. The other half of him rationalises; an unscheduled meeting might h
ave cropped up. Wondering makes his head hurt. He stops in front of another mirror, raising a hand to his face without thinking, only to grimace when he touches abrasions that, in hindsight, Jason’s pretty sure he asked for. Turning abruptly away rather than looking at them for any longer seems like a good option until he walks right into someone.
“Oh! Sorry, mate—” His apology dies out. It’s not a person he’s bumped into. A mannequin dressed for a formal wedding stares blankly at him instead.
Weddings.
What a complete waste of time and money.
Andrew’s wedding, in particular, has been on Jason’s mind for months despite his pretence that it won’t happen. He touches a fingertip to his face again, the sting a painful reminder of Andrew’s expression last night after Jason suggested he should cancel.
No wonder he won’t reply to calls or texts today.
There’s no escaping that what he said was awful.
It doesn’t matter that anyone with half a brain can predict this wedding’s outcome. There’s no need to tie the knot these days and no good reason on earth to risk the home where both he and Andrew grew up. Marrying someone half his age who he’s only known for five minutes is foolish. Maybe he shouldn’t have used that exact phrasing last night, but Andrew’s excuse of trusting Chantel completely was an insane reason to shackle himself for a third time. If Andrew hasn’t learned that after divorcing twice already, Jason has no choice but to remind him.
Remembering saying so after their gym session last night makes his gut clench.
He stands beside a mirror that shows how badly he messed up and does some honest reflecting.
Andrew hated Jason’s only long-term boyfriend as well, but he never said a bad word about Garry until they finally split for good. Even then, his real opinion took years to slowly drip out. Jason’s done the exact opposite, blurting out every reason why this third marriage will fail before it’s even started.
What kind of brother does that?
He grabs another necktie from a display and stares at it without seeing. Will Andrew still want him as his best man? Regret blurs his vision, clearing when he blinks to find the same young assistant from earlier watching. This time those wide eyes don’t flicker away. His gaze is steady before lowering to the tie Jason holds. Then he shakes his head very slightly.
What does that gesture mean?
Jason looks carefully at the tie; its red silk is scattered with tiny bands of gold like the rings Andrew and Chantel will exchange soon. Red is a suitable colour for a winter wedding, isn’t it? The second headshake the assistant offers, firmer this time, suggests not.
Maybe Jason should listen to the message Chantel left on his voicemail late last night instead of leaving it unheard and unwanted. After all, part of yesterday’s fight had been about communication—the best man is meant to liaise closely with the bride from the start, but they haven’t even met yet.
Maybe she called to give him some instructions, like colour schemes and whatnot. He fishes out his phone to dial his voicemail inbox, the sales assistant gone again when he straightens.
Chantel’s message is a surprise, her voice different to his expectation.
Instead of a money-grabbing, hard edge, all he hears is hope and hesitation.
She must be one hell of an actress.
“J-Jason? You should have the replacement wedding invitation by now. Andrew promised to deliver it by hand rather than trust the postal service after it lost the last one.”
Jason huffs and turns away from the mirror to avoid meeting his own eye. Both a save-the-date card and that first wedding invitation are still propped up on his mantel. The second invitation Andrew gave him last night is unopened, shoved in his back pocket.
“When you didn’t reply to the first invite,” Chantel continues, her next words stumbling, “I-I… well, I wondered if you had a problem with me. Andrew says no and that I’m being silly. He says you probably assumed I’d know you were coming. Of course you are. Andrew never stops talking about you and about how lucky I am that you know what you’re doing—” She cuts off abruptly before quietly adding, “Because you’ve been his best man before, I mean. He says I should relax and enjoy the fact that you’ve done this with him twice already.”
She sounds so young and worried.
It’s almost convincing.
“You know him the best in the world, so you can help me make this wedding extra special.” It’s easy to hear her worried tone shift to upset. “I want to be relaxed about it, Jason. I want to so much, but I can’t relax at all now that Andrew’s so unhappy.”
He doesn’t care one jot for her feelings, but Andrew’s are another matter.
Guilt nags as the message continues. “I-I’m not sure how we got off on the wrong foot, or if it’s coincidental how emergencies crop up every time Andrew tries to get us together. Either way, I’d be grateful for a chance to meet with you, at last. Please let me know when’s good for you. I’ll come to you, if you like. Or you can come down to Riversmeet. It’s your home too, after all.”
Ah.
That’s where this fake concern is rooted—she’s discovered he owns part of the house she lives in. Getting half its value in a divorce will be tricky while he’s on the deeds too.
She keeps up her act until the end of her phone call. “Just… please make it soon, if you can? For Andrew?”
Perhaps he stands still for too long listening to the message again. He’s so wrapped up in trying to detect more bullshit that he doesn’t notice the silent approach of the sales assistant.
A low-pitched voice, husky and distinctly foreign, startles him.
“Look sad.” The silk tie is tugged from Jason’s fingers as the assistant admits, “I’m would be sad too. Choose worst colour. Ugly like….” He gestures at Jason’s face.
“Like my black eye?”
“Black?” Confusion flits across the assistant’s face as he questions. “Eye is red, same as tie. Come. I’m find much better.”
At any other time, Jason would resist instead of acquiescing. So what if Andrew’s spent a lifetime teasing him about his lack of dress sense? He’s more than capable of choosing clothes on his own, only somehow the hand on his elbow feels encouraging rather than pushy, this assistant’s broken English compelling him to carefully listen instead of interrupting. He finds himself in a corner of the shop floor, out of the way of other shoppers, in front of a full-length mirror.
“Here.”
Fabric slides around his throat, a coal-black strip of silk dividing his dusty shirtfront as the assistant loosely knots it.
“Is better. Yes?”
“No.” Black is for funerals, not for happy celebrations. Wearing it to Andrew’s wedding—if it happens—might be taken as an insult.
“No?” There’s no judgment in the assistant’s open expression or speculation for how much cash he can entice Jason to spend. Instead, all he sees is a hint of humour followed by a small sound of concern as he takes a closer look at Jason’s bruising.
He’s good at his job if this is how he engages with everyone who comes here.
He’s quick to sense a sale slipping away too.
Before Jason has a chance to back off, he grasps each end of the tie around Jason’s neck and holds it. “Look very handsome.”
The unexpected compliment casts Jason adrift until he guesses the assistant must mean the tie rather than him. For him, handsome is a stretch on a good day, appearance rarely a consideration when he spends so much time renovating buildings, chipping away at old plaster to uncover the bones of ancient dwellings. But there’s the spark of interest again that he thought he imagined earlier. Having it levelled his way is the only explanation for standing still as the assistant selects another necktie. It’s a silver-grey one that he holds up close to Jason’s temple, this time, where his hair is sprinkled with a little more salt than pepper.
A line bisects the sales assistant’s smooth brow. “Now have very big problem.” His sigh s
ounds authentic. “First tie is handsome. Second tie….” He squints like choosing an adjective is taxing. “Second tie is mature.”
“And you think ‘mature’ is a good thing?” It’s a question with two meanings Jason’s not sure the assistant will notice.
His answering, “Yes,” sounds definite. So does his next suggestion. “Should buy both.” His eye’s slant upwards as he smiles, looping the silver-grey tie around Jason’s neck as well. Standing this close is intimate, as is the way the assistant lowers his voice and murmurs, “Wife will like very much.”
“I’m not married.”
“Not married? So tie is for special date?” It’s possible he doesn’t need to knot the tie so slowly, almost as if he’s prolonging their conversation.
Jason doesn’t make him hurry. Instead, he stutters like he’s the one who’s younger. “N-no…. Well, yes. I suppose so.”
“Hmm.” The assistant pauses, his fingertips almost a caress just above Jason’s collar. “Date is lucky lady to have well-dressed partner.”
Opening his mouth to say he’s not about to purchase either tie should be easy; somehow “I’m not dating a woman” pops out instead.
“Not surprised,” is all the assistant replies. “Dress this way every day?” He plucks at the front of Jason’s polo shirt. A cloud of dusty particles rise between them. “Pretty girl won’t look twice.”
“I wouldn’t want a girl to look once.”
The assistant pauses before recovering. His next words are even quieter. “Could still dress better for boyfriend.” His eyelashes lower in a thick fan, but it’s Jason’s black eye that holds his focus when they lift. “Unless boyfriend gives you that.” Another expression flickers as his voice drops even lower. “I’m think you could do better.”
“A boyfriend didn’t—” An incoming text interrupts an explanation Jason wouldn’t usually offer to a stranger. The thought that Andrew might have finally replied hurries him. “I need to go.” Jason unknots one tie. “Sorry. I won’t be buying either of these.”