by Lily Morton
“Fuck, Henry,” he says urgently. “Shit. I’m close.”
“Then come. I’ll lick it up.”
“No. Ungh, that’s too dangerous.”
“Pshaw,” I scoff, increasing the speed of my hand. “Don’t be such a ninny.”
Ten minutes later we stand by the side of the road looking at the car and the bonnet which is steaming gently from the impact with a tree.
“Did I, or did I not say that it’s dangerous to come when you’re driving?”
I shake my head. “Please. That’s just you. Everyone else manages it.”
“You sound like you took a straw poll,” he snipes.
I glare at him. “It’s alright for you. You came out with no scratches. I, on the other hand, have a sprained wrist.”
“Boys who jerk other boys off in a moving vehicle never have a happy ending,” he says in my father’s voice.
I shake my head. “Your happy ending was the start of the trouble.” I push him. “And don’t use my father’s voice when talking about sex.”
He laughs and takes my wrist gently in his hand. “Is it okay?” he asks softly, and I smile.
“It’s fine, babe. It’s like a war wound.”
He shakes his head. “Henry, there are no war wounds like this.”
“And still you rain on my parade,” I say in a tone of dramatic dismay.
He laughs and drags me in for a hug. “The RAC will be with us in about an hour. They’ll give us a lift to the hotel, and I’ll book a hire car tomorrow.”
We stand for a minute hugging each other and enjoying the warmth of our bodies until he loosens his hold and looks up at the sky. “Look at the stars.” He sighs. “They’re never as bright in London because of the light pollution.”
I nudge him. “Light pollution and shops and taxis. Don’t throw the baby out with the bathwater.”
“What does that even mean?” he says, instantly looking aggrieved. “What sort of parent does that ever happen to? You’d have to be unbelievably forgetful to misplace your child down a drain. Not to mention they wouldn’t fit down a plughole.” I laugh loudly, and he hugs me tighter. “What was I talking about?”
“The stars,” I prompt.
He grins. “I remember camping out in Afghanistan once.”
I cock my head back to look at him. “You camped in Afghanistan? When I thought about you abroad, I imagined you dodging bullets and slinging down whisky in a dive bar. Not sitting around the campfire eating hot dogs and singing ‘Ging Gang Goolie.’”
“I think you have a perception of my old job that’s been formed by films and Ernest Hemingway. I didn’t do a whole lot of slinging down whisky shots with glowering locals.”
“Well, you weren’t particularly good about dodging bullets either,” I say tartly. “And you’re making the country sound like Butlin’s.”
He chuckles but gives a funny sort of sigh. “Not Butlin’s, but it was incredibly beautiful in places. People forget that in the haze of war. I remember sitting around a campfire talking while the stars seemed to bear down on us. Like the sky was too full to hold them up.”
I hug him close. “I think that’s one of the few times you’ve spoken about that time affectionately.”
He shoots me a startled look as if he’s forgotten I’m here, and something like worry unfurls in my belly. It’s like he’s far away from me all of a sudden. As if he’s transported himself to that faraway country and left his body behind as a shell. I swallow hard as he carries on talking.
“I had a lot of good times when I was away. So many good friends and experiences that I’ll remember forever. It was only the later years and the burnout that spoilt it.” I can’t conceal the jerk of my body, and he looks sideways at me. “You okay?”
I nod quickly. “Of course. I’m fine.” I pause. “I’m glad you had good times. I guess I’ve just got used to the way you left it.”
Partly for me. Are you regretting it now? Am I enough?
I want to ask him questions, but I swallow the words.
“It’s Patricia,” he says, mentioning his therapist. “We’ve moved into focusing on good memories. I have to think of one every time we meet, and it’s dragged up some happier times.”
“I’m glad,” I say quietly, and he cups my face, and I raise it for a kiss.
A few minutes later, I look around and shudder. “It’s very dark here.” I pause. “And quiet. Very, very ominously quiet.”
He bites his lip as if trying not to laugh. “It isn’t that quiet. There’s the noise of the wind in the trees.”
“The spooky wind in the trees.” I look around again. “And it’s so… so… open. Where are all the houses? Where do people live?”
He loses the battle and laughs. “In the caves,” he says in a dramatic voice. “Where they lie in wait for innocent red-haired travellers to rob them of their two pieces of very fucking heavy luggage.”
“I detect bitterness.”
“Yes, you don’t have to be Sherlock Holmes for that. Henry, we’re away for two fucking nights, and most of that time we’ll be naked.”
“Yes, but the times we’re not naked I’ll need to wear clothes, and I have to be prepared for all eventualities like temperature fluctuation from warmth to freezing cold. Wind, rain, snow.” I wave a hand airily. “You know what I mean.”
“This is the Cotswolds. I don’t think they’ve had severe temperature fluctuations since the Ice Age.” He looks around. “It’s England. Pack for rain and wind and then layer.” He shrugs. “Easy.”
I smile at him. “I love you,” I say affectionately. “You’re so adorable.”
He gives me the smile that seems to be solely reserved for me. “I love you too. You’re such a pain in my arse.”
“Only if I don’t prep well.”
“Ho ho ho.” He sits down in the car and drags me onto his lap. “Sass, sass, and more sass.”
I take off his baseball cap and smooth my fingers through his hair. “Ivo, there is only one person I would be prepared to brave the countryside and all the weather for, and it’s you.”
He smiles. “Baby, I’m fucking honoured.”
An hour later, I stir in my seat. “When did the RAC say they were coming?”
He looks at the Breitling watch that I bought him for Christmas last year. “An hour ago.” He looks at me. “Are you cold? Do you want the heater on?”
I shake my head. “I’m fine.”
He nods. “I’ll ring them.” Palming his phone, he slips out of the car and paces away. I occupy myself by watching his arse as he walks along the verge. He’s wearing a green Ralph Lauren jumper and old jeans, and the denim clings lovingly to his backside and narrow hips while the jumper hugs his broad shoulders. I remember hovering over him this morning and watching my bare cock pushing inside him, and I stir and adjust myself.
A few minutes later, he lopes back to the car. “I’ve got bad news and good news.”
I shake my head. “Bad news first.”
“Okay, Captain Gloomy. The bad news is that the RAC won’t be here for a few hours. The earliest they can make it is in two hours.”
“Two hours,” I echo, looking at the clock. “The reception desk at the hotel will be closed by then. Okay, give me some good news quick.”
“We haven’t been murdered by the wild bandits that roam the Cotswold back lanes yet.” He laughs as I punch his arm. “Okay, okay, I’ve just remembered that Max lives nearby.”
“Max, your old mate? Journalist Max?” He nods, and I ask, “What are you thinking?”
“Well, he’ll come and pick us up,” he says with a grin. “And if I talk nicely, he’ll take us to the hotel. It’s perfect.” He holds his phone up. “I’ll ring him now.”
Before I can say anything, he’s gone, and I hear his voice say, “Max,” delightedly. I slump down in my seat. Great. Max Travers. With the exception of me, he’s Ivo’s oldest friend. The two of them met when they apprenticed at a newspaper together when they
were seventeen, and they were as thick as thieves for a long time. At one point I’d been as put out over Max as Ivo had been about Gabe. However, while Gabe and I have never slept together, and he’s in a loving relationship now, the same can’t be said for Max and Ivo. They were fuck friends for a while, and Max is still single and holding a slight torch for Ivo.
Don’t get me wrong. I don’t fear Ivo leaving me. I know he loves me and is faithful. But Max is a threat because he’s still a journalist, and after hearing Ivo’s fond recollections, I’m worried that Max is going to be offering a siren’s call to the life he left behind.
My thoughts are interrupted by the door opening. Ivo grins at me. “He’s on his way.”
“Great,” I say hollowly. “That’s lucky.”
Twenty minutes later, a battered old Land Rover passes us and pulls sharply in front of the car. I watch as the six-foot muscular journalist gets out. Illuminated in our headlights, his shaggy, dark hair lifts in the breeze, and he looks casual and masculine in his jeans and old navy sweatshirt. I sneak a look down at my skinny jeans and black polo neck jumper combined with an oversized grey cashmere scarf. Then I look at Ivo’s wardrobe staple of an old jumper and jeans held together seemingly by willpower. I frown. If someone were to look at us, they would think that Ivo and Max are together, and I’m the visiting fashionista.
Ivo exclaims in delight and hurries out of the car, dashing over to Max and giving him an exuberant hug that nearly lifts him off his feet. For a second, I see joy and what looks like yearning in Max’s eyes before he looks over at me and shutters his expression.
They stand talking for a few minutes while I wonder whether to interrupt. Finally, Ivo steps back, looking around as if expecting me to be there. He starts in surprise before looking back at the car and gesturing impatiently. I purse my lips and stare back at him before slowly capitulating.
“Aye aye, captain,” I mutter, opening the door and swinging out.
The two of them turn fully to meet me, and it’s almost intimidating to see them together. Both tall and good looking, they have an air of capability about them as if they’ve had everything thrown at them during their years and batted it back.
I shake my head free of stupid thoughts and paste a smile on my face. “Max,” I call out as I get close. “Thank you so much for coming out on such a horrible night.”
“Horrible night?” Max echoes, plainly mystified.
The wind is making the trees bend and dip, and I shiver as the cold air gusts up underneath my Hugo Boss jumper. “It’s cold,” I say feebly.
Max snorts. “This isn’t fucking cold, Henry. Now, you should have been with us in Iraq. The desert at night gives new meaning to the word cold.” He nudges Ivo. “I don’t think Henry would have liked it though.” He smirks. “No showers or central heating.”
I push my glasses up, feeling like an idiot. “Sounds like boarding school,” I mutter, and Ivo gives a great laugh.
He pulls me close and kisses my temple, nuzzling into the hair affectionately. “You’ve also obviously never stayed in a house where Henry controls the heating. Charles Dickens would have written books about it.”
I elbow him, and he jumps away laughing. I smile hopelessly, caught in the curving arch of his full lips, as spellbound as if he’d spoken words of magic. I look up and flush as I see Max’s eyes on us. Something moves behind his eyes, but it’s gone before I can work it out.
“Come on, then,” he says, clapping his hands. “Let’s get your luggage in the boot.”
“Hope you’ve got room,” Ivo mutters sourly.
“Plenty for a couple of backpacks,” Max says. “Why?”
Ivo shakes his head. “You haven’t travelled with Henry yet.”
He flings our boot open, and we stand and stare at Ivo’s battered holdall and suit bag and my two pieces of expensive matching luggage. I flush slightly as Max turns to face us. “But you’re only away for a couple of nights.”
As if sensing my discomfort, Ivo suddenly straightens and flings his arm over my shoulders. “The weather can change drastically.”
“In the Cotswolds?” Max asks.
Ivo holds his gaze stubbornly. Eventually, Max shakes his head and hefts one of my cases out. “Let’s get these in the car, and we’ll be off.”
“I’ve got the postcode for the hotel,” Ivo says, brandishing his phone.
Max shakes his head again. “No need. It’s late, and the reception desk will be closed. Give them a ring and let them know you’re staying with me and will be there tomorrow.”
“Oh, but…” Ivo shoots me a nervous glance. “We couldn’t do that, Max.”
He should be bloody nervous because he wouldn’t like staying in the same house as anyone I’d slept with. It’s also a case that this is supposed to be a romantic few days away together, not me, him, and an old fuck friend.
I straighten my spine and open my mouth to make a polite refusal, but when I look back at Ivo I see a hint of happy excitement lurking in his expression. I slump. This is his oldest friend apart from me, and he and Max went through a lot of shit together that led to an intense bond. Ivo only has a few of his own friends now, having been out of the country for so long. His friends are from his old job, and they’ll appear at our house for a few days, drink all our booze and tell war stories, and then they’re gone. Max is actually in this country a lot now, having retired from working abroad early this year, and it would be nice for Ivo to have someone who’s here all the time.
“No, it’s fine,” I say steadily. “If it’s okay with you, Max, we’d be really grateful.”
A few hours later, my gratitude is running low. We’re sitting over the remains of the delicious meal of pesto chicken and tomatoes that Max cooked. I shoot a jaundiced look at it. It’s a known fact that Ivo and I can’t cook, but for the first time, I feel stupid. I make a mental note to have another go at a cookery book when we get back. I then make another mental note to check that the smoke alarms and the fire extinguishers are working. Then I look around idly.
Max’s cottage is beautiful. It’s on the outskirts of Chipping Campden. Built of honey-coloured Cotswold stone with grey paintwork, it’s a lovely cottage with low-beamed ceilings and flagstone floors. He inherited it from his grandmother a few years ago and has modernised it with power showers in the bathrooms and a huge modern kitchen.
Chipping Campden itself is charming with its long street of shops and pubs and tourists. Let’s not forget the tourists. They’re everywhere and seem to let go of all social conventions when they hit the village. Three women stood outside earlier, looking through the window without a trace of shame while we were eating dinner. They only fled when Max stood up and pretended to strip.
A burst of laughter draws me back to the table. Max and Ivo started in on the whisky after dinner. I declined and kept to my wine. Max is leaning forward relating some tale while Ivo is leaning back, one long arm around my shoulder, his fingers playing absently with the jumper over my shoulders. It’s a slight comfort that he hasn’t hidden our relationship. Instead, he almost seems proud to be with me like this, and some part of him has been in contact with me since we walked through the door. Max, meanwhile, watches us with dark, bemused eyes as if we’re exotic creatures in the zoo.
Ivo’s laughter recalls me to the conversation. “I can’t believe we did that.”
Max sits back and smiles. “Believe it. Some would say we had a death wish in those days.”
In those days? I’d say their whole careers are an example of it, but that wouldn’t be welcome. Nevertheless, Ivo shoots me a look as if he knows what I’m thinking. His lip quirks, and I shake my head at him.
Max pours another shot, and Ivo refills my glass of wine. I purse my lips. I’m going to feel fucking awful in the morning.
“Do you miss it?” Max’s question is quiet and slurred, and I look up sharply. He’s staring intently at Ivo.
Ivo shoots a look at me that angers me. It’s as if he suddenly can’
t admit to liking his career around me. Fuck that. I’ve known him for so many fucking years, and I’ve always known that he loved his job. I don’t want him to cotton on to the fact that I’m feeling threatened by this newfound nostalgia, so I glare at him, and he blinks and turns back to Max.
“Sometimes,” he says hoarsely, and my heart sinks. “Sometimes, I miss the pace. Like life was spent on fast forward and everything felt richer for it. We had to savour every feeling and experience, because who knew when it could be the last.”
I hold still, struck with incredible fear. Does he miss it enough to go back to it?
Max nods clumsily and takes a hefty slug of his drink. “Me too,” he mutters. “Will it go away?”
“Yes,” Ivo says softly, and something in his voice draws my gaze towards him. He’s looking at me with absolute love glowing in his lion’s eyes. “It’s like missing smoking. The pangs for something that could kill you get fainter and fainter, especially when you replace that life with a better one.”
“What could be better than that?” Max asks bemusedly.
Ivo shakes his head and smiles. “Waking up in the same bed every morning knowing that I’m going to roll over and my fingers will find Henry next to me. Painting in my studio in the sunshine amongst all the colours. Petting my dog and arguing with Henry over dinner. Going to bed together and putting my cold feet on him. And knowing that tomorrow will bring more of the same.”
I stare at him, feeling a lump in my throat.
Max scoffs and breaks the moment. “Mate, that sounds really boring. No offence.”
No offence, I mouth.
Ivo grins. “It’s not boring, Max. It’s beautiful. It’s quiet joy and laughter and happiness that warms your belly.” He shrugs. “I wouldn’t replace that with anything.”
Max stares at the two of us and shakes his head. “You’ve changed, Ivo.”
Ivo looks up, his eyes bright in the lamplight. “How?”
“You used to be the life of everything. I’ve never met a daredevil like you before or since. There was nothing you wouldn’t do.” He gives a low laugh. “Do you remember Hong Kong?”