by Con Riley
It’s a simple admission that hits hard, provoking an honest response. “I didn’t dislike Lydia.” Honestly, Jason got along fine with Andrew’s first wife.
“And yet she left me for my boss who sacked me the moment I found out about them. Most people would think that was a good reason to dislike their brother’s partner.”
“Of course I don’t like her now.” But at the start, she’d been good fun. Lydia had made Andrew happy from the first day they met at uni.
“Then Chantel asked if you’d been as determined to see Julia as bad news.”
Jason recoils at what seems like deliberate shit stirring. Of course Chantel will look good compared to Andrew’s ex-wives—she hasn’t had time yet to break his heart and take him to the cleaners.
“Chantel can’t understand why you won’t take time to get to know her when you had plenty of time for Julia.”
That’s because he’s been fooled twice already. Jason blaming himself for that second disaster was easy. Julia made Andrew smile again five years after his first marriage ended. If anything, he encouraged Andrew to propose so his happiness would linger. He could kick himself about that now.
“She wonders if you hate women in general.”
Fuck that.
Jason’s grip on his fork tightens.
Fuck. That.
The most important person in his life was female. His late foster mum—Andrew’s mother—had been a red-haired force of nature who saved him from the care system.
Hate women?
No.
Hate anyone who hurt his brother?
Always.
“I don’t get it,” Andrew says, his voice almost overwhelmed by the swell of surrounding conversation. “I don’t understand how you can dislike someone so much when you haven’t even met her.” He pushes his coffee aside to break the remaining flapjack in half. “Do you even remember what you called her last night?”
Jason fills the silence while Andrew chews. “I said… I said that she’s so much younger than you. Over twenty years, for God’s sake.”
Andrew speaks around his mouthful. “That’s not exactly how you described her, but regardless, she’s an adult. Half the time I don’t remember the age difference.” He swallows and adds, “It doesn’t matter to Chantel either, so what’s your next objection?”
“She doesn’t even have a full-time job.” Jason recalls saying so last night, only much more unkindly. Both men sip their coffee in silence, the words gold digger unspoken between them. Jason wonders if Andrew’s drink tastes half as bitter as his own at that moment, but when Andrew looks over the rim of his cup, his eyes begin to crinkle.
For one glorious moment, it seems like the tension will break between them. That lasts until Andrew says, “You called me her sugar daddy.”
He had.
“And you said I was only a meal ticket while she’s still a student.”
Jason closes his eyes. It’s so likely to be true he can’t believe Andrew can’t see it.
Andrew clearly isn’t ready to hear it either. “Then you gave it less than a year before she took me for every penny.”
He reopens his eyes when Andrew pauses, watching him touch the corner of the RSVP between them. “So I’m sure you can understand my surprise if one night’s sleep is long enough for you to completely change your opinion.” Then Andrew rubs his hands over his face, looking much older than a man in his mid-forties when they lower. “Thanks for replying.” He leaves the “at last” unsaid. “But of course I can’t expect you to be my best man for a third time.”
“Don’t say that.” There’s no way Andrew can get married without Jason right beside him. Who else will pick up the pieces when it ends? “Listen. What I said about Chantel was… it was a mistake. I spoke without thinking. I was worried, that’s all.”
“That’s what Chantel said. She thinks you must have been stewing on it for ages.”
“She might be right about that.” Stewing and expecting the worst.
“She usually is.” This time, Andrew’s smile is bright before it dims. “You’d know that for certain if you made an effort to meet her.”
“I will.”
“I’d like to believe that.” Andrew’s gaze softens like his mother’s used to. “I really would, mate. But you didn’t exactly make an effort the first time I tried to get you two together. You didn’t even turn up.”
Jason can’t recall if he even made an excuse, so sure Andrew was heading towards another world of pain when this new fling ended.
Andrew’s not finished. “And the next time was more of the same. She came all the way up to London again only for you to stand us up. And don’t give me any bullshit about being too busy for lunch that day. You had no intention of coming. I know because I tracked you down and saw you playing cards with a bunch of Polish builders.”
This is news to Jason.
“I watched you for ages. You couldn’t even speak the same language as them, but they were more appealing company than my fiancée. I thought it was a last-minute case of cold feet, only the more I think about it, the surer I am that you had no intention of meeting us that day. If you had, you would have worked out of your office for the morning. But you chose to get dirty on a construction site rather than meet the woman I’m going to marry.” He speaks matter-of-factly, but perhaps emotion is why his hand trembles when he brushes plaster dust from Jason’s shoulder. “Maybe it’s a blessing you didn’t show up—even if you had come, you wouldn't have made a very good impression dressed like this.”
Something loose inside Jason curls tight—a surprise reminder of early foster placements. Wearing the wrong uniform to new schools led to unkind laughter he’d almost forgotten. Criticism of his clothes is a blast from the past that leaves him abrupt. “I’m sorry. I didn't realise making a good impression was part of the best-man vetting process. Jesus, Andrew, you know I’m not into any of that fashion bullshit.”
Andrew’s perceptive, as ever. His matter-of-fact tone relaxes. “It’s not about fashion.” Then it firms. “It’s about respect.”
That word hangs in the air between them.
“It’s about the fact that most people make some effort to smarten themselves up if they know they're meeting someone important.” Andrew brushes a flapjack crumb from his tie. The silk is the exact same shade as his eyes—a colour Jason’s almost certain he wouldn’t have chosen for himself. Maybe Chantel is fashion conscious and wrapped up in appearance. It would explain Andrew’s sudden insistence that his clothing matters.
“Listen, just because I don’t waste money shopping—”
“You waste money on plenty of other things, so tidying yourself up and coming to lunch shouldn’t have to be such a big deal.”
“I don’t waste money.”
“Stop.” Andrew’s lips tighten all over again. “Just stop.” He takes a moment before speaking. “I don’t mean you actually throw money away. I mean that you don’t hesitate to buy in help when it suits you.” He counts examples on his fingers. “I know you pay for a cleaner, and you always get your groceries delivered. For goodness sake, you even have a monthly wine subscription.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” Outsourcing chores makes good sense. It’s exactly what he does at work, buying in the right talent to restore buildings even if that means flying craftsmen in from Europe.
“My point is you don't need to be into fashion to look smart, like you don't need to scrub your own sink to have a clean bathroom.”
“So you think I should—what? Outsource my clothes shopping before I meet her?”
“Why not? It would show you were making an effort. Get yourself a—what do you call them? A personal shopper.” His grin is sudden and bright. “Christ, if one can get you out of your shitty workwear, I'll pay them myself!”
That tight curl inside slowly loosens at Andrew cracking a joke—the first time he’s heard his brother laugh in what must be weeks. Relief makes him gruff. “What do you reckon t
hat will cost me?”
Andrew chases a few more stray flapjack crumbs. “How should I know? Google it if you’re serious.”
Jason does. He clicks the first link that comes up on his phone and then almost shouts. “Nearly three-hundred quid? For half a day? You’re having a laugh.”
Andrew’s smile fades across the table. “I wasn’t serious about a personal shopper.” His tone is so sad before it hardens. “But I am about you showing Chantel a little common respect. See, here’s the deal: I love her. Much as I want you next to me when I marry her, I’m not going to force you if you’ve already made your mind up.”
“I haven’t—”
“Oh, I think you have.” Andrew lowers his voice until it’s hard to hear over the hiss of the milk steamer. “You forget how well I know you—expecting the worst is your default setting. But I know this as well: Chantel’s special to me—so special—but you don’t know a single thing about her. She’s having a hard enough time already with her dad about the wedding. It’s crap that the closest person to me is just as determined to spoil it.” His next exhale is a long sigh. “I’ll pass your RSVP on to her.” His next words are rueful. “The really sad thing about this whole situation is that she’ll be so happy to get this. She’ll forgive and forget in a heartbeat because she knows you’re important to me. She really wants to like you.”
Goodness but she’s clever.
Thankfully Andrew doesn’t see his scepticism. He only glances quickly at Jason’s black eye. “You do believe that I’d do anything to turn the clock back to before I lashed out, don’t you? I truly never meant to touch you.” He raises a hand to his own eye, as if expecting to feel bruising. “I’m one hundred per cent sorry it happened at all like I’m one hundred per cent certain you’d love Chantel if you got to know her. I’m just gutted that you won’t make time to tidy yourself up and share a meal with us both. It’s killing me that you can’t even do that—that you aren’t happy for me.”
“I am. I am happy for you,” Jason lies through his teeth before admitting one truth. “And I have to be your best man.” Desperation makes him promise. “I’ll make more of an effort.” He snatches the card from Andrew. “Let me deliver this to her myself.”
“You’ll go down to Riversmeet?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll travel from London to the Cotswolds just to deliver your RSVP in person?”
“Yes.” A couple of hours on the train will kill two birds with one stone. He’ll get back in Andrew’s good books and make sure Chantel knows there’s no way their home will ever be hers while he still owns part of it.
“And you won’t mention any of what you said to me about her being a gold digger?”
“No. Of course not.”
Andrew still seems doubtful.
“I promise,” Jason insists. “I’ll deliver the RSVP myself soon. On Friday, if that’s good. I’ll make an impression on her.”
“You don’t have to impress her. I was only using smartening up as an example of making an effort. Just get to know her.” Andrew stands and pulls on his jacket. “She’ll love you. She wants to, Jason. So much.”
Jason thinks hard after he and Andrew part ways, envelope clutched between work-rough hands before he slides it into the back pocket of his chinos. A frayed hole meets the tips of his fingers, the grubbiness of his work wear reflected in a boutique window.
Smartening up isn’t a bad plan.
If Chantel is as superficial as she sounds, him dressing casually will only lend her an advantage. He revisits the links for stylists on his phone. Their rates really are ridiculous, their waitlists extensive. If he’s doing this by the end of the week, he needs to see someone tomorrow at the latest.
Thunder rumbles over the roar of traffic and the sky suddenly darkens, but the department store at the far end of the street is lit up like a beacon.
Its windows gleam and glow, showcasing clothes he wouldn’t normally spare a glance at. Now they signal a potential answer to his problem, but when he goes inside for a second time that day to ask after the man who helped him, the clerk manning the wedding department isn’t half so helpful. He sets down some champagne flutes and narrows his eyes before saying, “No. He doesn’t work here.”
“No?” This guy has an accent as well, so maybe a language barrier is the issue. Jason speaks much more slowly and loudly this time. “He helped me here earlier. He’s blond. Young.” Jason holds a hand level with his chin. “About this tall. You must know who I mean. I saw you working together.”
“And I said he doesn’t work here.” This time the assistant crosses his arms firmly over his chest. “He’s definitely not on the payroll.”
“Listen,” Jason says, catching another glimpse of himself in a nearby mirror. His chinos could stand up by themselves, and his shirt’s not much better. Jesus Christ, he’s shabby. “I need an appointment with him as soon as he can fit me in.”
“An appointment?”
Surely the concept can’t be so hard to grasp? “He’s a personal shopper, isn’t he?” His next statement certainly doesn’t deserve a bark of laughter.
“I’ll pay him to dress me.”
Chapter Five
By early evening, Vanya snoozes, his head cushioned by such softness he can’t force his eyes open. He snuggles a little deeper, sure this can’t be the narrow, sagging single bed only a foot or two from Kaspar’s in the cramped room they share. No, this pillow belongs on a bed whose comfort he’d almost forgotten. He rubs his cheek against its cover, greedily inhaling its clean scent.
It smells of detergent instead of mildew, the whole room warm and cozy.
He must be at home.
Only the persistent rumble of passing traffic makes him reconsider. It’s much louder outside than the suburb they moved to once his father’s business took off. A small smile curls a corner of his mouth as he remembers the day they moved in. His father’s chest had been about as puffed up with pride as this pillow feels under his head. No more shared hallways for them, he promised, where the smells of cooking always lingered. No more communal laundry shared with a dozen families. Peace and quiet signalled his status as a respected business leader. This intrusive traffic noise, on the other hand, belongs to a city.
But the scent of warm, clean linens is comforting and familiar.
If this is a dream, he wants to prolong it.
Maybe if he opens his eyes, he’ll see Mama ironing. He’ll get up in a moment to help, and if he uses folding the sheets as an excuse to pull her into a tight hug, that’s no one else’s business.
The illusion pops like a soap bubble when a harsh voice wakes him.
“You can’t sleep here.”
His eyes shoot wide open.
A London launderette comes into sideways focus. The flint-faced woman, who takes in service washes, stands with her arms folded. She glances at the towels he’s drooled on, looking none too happy. “You need to wake up.”
“Yes. Yes, I’m sorry. I rested my eyes for a moment, that’s all. I’ll get out of your hair right now.”
Her incomprehension suggests he’s spoken Russian. He almost tries to explain again in English, but she’s turned away already. Behind her, the machine holding his laundry stands empty, its door wide open. Vanya scrambles to his feet and spits out a curse. Most of his clothes were in there. If someone’s stolen them while he snoozed…. Panic catapults him from half-asleep to wide-awake in one heart-crushing moment, only forestalled by the woman’s return. She places a full laundry basket on the folding surface before speaking slowly and loudly, like so many Brits he’s encountered.
“These. Will. Crease. If. They. Sit. Any. Longer.”
He recognises the greying T-shirt she holds up.
Relief leaves him dizzy.
Thank fuck.
Less than a year ago, he thought the word disaster defined floods and quakes and landslides. Now the thought of replacing simple things like underwear has cold sweat prickling his skin. Something
so insignificant shouldn’t affect him in a way that’s physical.
He’s so tired of this feeling.
He rubs a hand through his hair from his forehead, where it’s longest, to the shaved prickle at the nape of his neck, and tells himself to get a grip already.
Things could be worse.
He isn’t alone, far from home, with no clue how to replace these items these days. Nope. If all his clothes are stolen, he has other options. After all, recycling bins overflow in every supermarket car park. Rummaging through them might be a poor relation to his old shopping habits, but it’s a whole lot better than wasting the money Kaspar squirrels away to secure their future.
The woman returns to tap the face of her watch. “You need to go.” She taps it once more. Her head tilt towards the door doesn’t require translation.
“Yes.” He nods and mirrors her exaggerated motions. “Yes. I’m fold. Right now.”
He does while his heart rate slows from a gallop, putting into practice the swift motions he learned from Kaspar. He folds this load as fast as he can, then gathers up the towels he’d napped on and heads back to the hostel, toting bags that bump his knees as he walks. They lighten as he makes stops along the way, handing over a pile of dishtowels to the Turk at the corner cafe, accepting some supper for his trouble. He deposits a larger stack at the barbers on the promise of a future shave and haircut. His load soon lightens by half, but as he approaches the hostel, it feels twice as heavy.
What will he walk into this time?
His mail open and then discarded, littering the communal hallway?
Or more broken dishes of his in the kitchen, which no one ever leaves clean?
And to think he’d been impressed at the name of the building. Queen Victoria House sounds much more regal than the reality, where multiple occupancy means multiple problems, especially in a building like this, so meanly converted that neighbours have no secrets.
He drags his feet and attempts another internal pep talk.
Things could be so much worse.
So much.