by Clare London
“They have?”
“But that may be too awkward for you, coming back to a place that you once owned and ran.”
“Working with you?”
“Yes. I’m looking for a partner, you see.”
Jesus. “I…” Simon wasn’t sure what to say. His heart was beating fast, his mind already running through how the business could be improved with two committed workers, all the ideas he’d had, but had shelved because Brett had never really pulled his weight.
Trev was breathing a little faster than before. “Think about it. There’s no rush.”
“That’s like a mantra to you, isn’t it?”
Trev looked more serious. “I have problems, Simon, same as everyone. Struggles. But I don’t want life’s challenges getting on top of me. Or other people, either. That gets in the way of dealing with them.”
When he leaned back across the table, Simon froze in his seat. Trev smelled of paint, tea, and cake as before. But now there was an extra hint of rich chocolate; a smudge of it on his lips. Simon wanted to taste that again, and taste it on those lips. He really wanted to.
But.
Trev jerked back, his cheeks colouring. “God, of course you might think…! Simon, I’m not expecting you to put out, to get a job. Hell, no. It was a genuine offer.” When Simon didn’t move, he rushed on, “It’s totally my mistake. My stupid move. Look, I really want you in the shop, and if you’ll still consider it, I promise I won’t—”
“Touch the goods?”
“Oh, for God’s sake. Now I’ve messed everything up—”
“Come here.” Simon snagged a finger in the neckline of Trev’s overalls and tugged him forward. “Thank you.”
“What?”
“For making the bakery the important thing. And I think I’d like to take you up on that offer.”
“The job?”
“Yes. But also…” Simon pulled him closer. Trev couldn’t take his eyes off Simon’s mouth, though he was obviously making a supreme effort not to. The kiss was slow and warm and bristly with Trev’s beard. It was absolutely wonderful. Simon had worried for a long time he’d compare any new guy with Brett, but Trev was astonishingly, wonderfully different. Fresh. Exciting. It was like he fired up a different set of nerve endings. Or maybe Brett hadn’t ever fired up these ones.
Trev murmured softly into Simon’s mouth, a silly, wordless sound of pleasure and relief. Simon was really going to enjoy returning to the bakery, whether he was the boss or the hired help. And he was also going to enjoy dating Trev, because he was determined that was going to happen. Two separate things, with multiple promise if they both worked out.
And they still had the rest of that chocolate rabbit to share.
CHAPTER THREE: JEZ
It rolled into the shadowed doorway of the deserted hardware store, right beside his sleeping bag. An egg. An oddly-shaped egg, wrapped in silver foil.
Jez hadn’t touched an Easter egg for years, not one just for him. Not since he was last in foster care, two—no, nearly three—years ago. He’d left the system at eighteen and ignored all the well-meaning help they offered. He’d been a dickhead. Too angry. And too doped up. Yeah, he’d been trouble, all right.
But that was behind him now. Well, that particular trouble, anyway.
He wondered where the egg came from. If he should pick it up. It nudged against his blanket, then lay still.
That was when he noticed the kid. Actually a young man, skinny and pale with fabulous, curly red hair, wearing smart clothes but in that casual way some people have, when they’re not really bothered about being a fashion plate. He had his back to Jez, facing the supermarket next door. There was something about him…
Jez didn’t bother completing the thought, let alone a judgement. What other people were and did was their own business nowadays. But he sat up with his back against the peeling paint of the door frame, and he watched.
The kid walked slowly to the front door of the supermarket, watched its automatic doors slide open, then wheeled around and walked across the pavement to the traffic lights. But he didn’t cross the road toward the main shopping centre: instead, he turned again and walked back to the supermarket. Then paused as the doors slid open. And didn’t enter.
He repeated this odd little routine three times before a gang of schoolboys on their lunch break spotted him. Laughing among themselves, pointing and jeering.
“Forgotten your shopping list?”
“Moron!”
“Weirdo!”
One of them went closer than he should have to a stranger, and pushed the kid.
Jez didn’t know exactly how it happened, but he was suddenly on his feet, facing the boys. They saw him at the corner of their gaze, and paused for a minute, glancing among themselves. Then the taunts started up again.
Jez took several steps forward, into the kid’s trajectory, standing between him and the gang. It was a chance for the kid to make his escape but he didn’t. Jez could hear him humming softly behind him. He hadn’t realised you could actually hum anxiously, but the emotion radiated off the kid and pricked the back of Jez’s neck. Yet the kid didn’t run away.
What was that all about?
“Leave him alone, guys,” Jez said. It was a while since he’d spoken aloud: his voice was hoarse.
“Who d’you think you are?” One of them was larger than the others, an obvious ringleader.
“Dosser. Homeless bum.” The others sneered. They laughed at him together, in joint scorn, a jarring, ugly sound.
“Both of those,” Jez said. “But I’m also a boxer and look after my friends.”
They hesitated.
“Hey,” one of them said to the ringleader. “You wanna go for chicken? That blonde girl’s working there lunchtimes.”
“Whatever,” the ringleader muttered.
They were saving face, Jez knew. But he didn’t want to hit anyone, either, so he kept quiet. He watched them push deliberately round the kid, one either side as if cornering him, then they ran off across the road.
When he turned around to go back to the doorway, the kid was staring at him.
“Thanks.”
Jez shrugged. Wasn’t sure what else to do. “No problem. I’ve had trouble with them before. They’re just looking for someone to pick on. Like all bullies, you just gotta stand up to them and they chicken out.”
“Chicken,” the kid repeated and smiled. “That’s where they were going, right? That’s clever.” He stood there, nodding as if Jez was spouting inspirational crap instead of the bravado it actually was. “Are you really a boxer?”
Jez shrugged again. He felt uncomfortable, standing here in the middle of the pavement, even though people naturally gave him a wide berth. He’d taken a few boxing lessons when he’d been in and out of hostels. He still used the athletic tape sometimes, to fix things close to his chest when he slept. Cardboard, old vests, bits of a real wool sweater. And anything precious, like his books and his money, when he had some.
He shuffled back and flopped down onto the front door step of the hardware shop. He wanted to pull his sleeping bag round him again, or one of his brightly coloured blankets, but that was stupid when the weather was warm for the time of year. He waited for the kid to move on, to run off home. He didn’t. In fact, he walked over until he stood by the shop, his shadow cast over where Jez sat.
“How do sheep keep warm in winter?”
“What?” Jez didn’t understand what he’d heard. He tuned out a lot of passing conversation.
“How do sheep keep warm in winter? It’s a joke.”
“I don’t know.”
“Central bleating!” The kid laughed and Jez just stared. The kid didn’t look like an escaped lunatic. His laughter was healthy, Jez had a nose for that. Had it been that long since someone told him a Christmas cracker-type joke?
“Can I sit with you for a bit?” The kid’s voice was gentle but not weak. And he waited patiently for a reply, which Jez found refreshing.
>
“Why?”
“I like you. I want to be with you for a while. We can talk, we can be quiet, whatever you like. I won’t get in the way.”
Jez glanced around at the narrow doorway and his pile of stuff taking up most of the step. Difficult not to get in the way. “You still scared of those wankers?”
“No. well, yes. But not just that. “
“Don’t you want to…? I dunno. Do your little dance some more?”
The kid stared at him: his cheeks pinked.
Shit. “Sorry,” Jez said. That had been a crappy thing to say, on many levels. “I’m not one to talk. You do exactly what you want to do, kid.”
“I’m not a kid actually. I’m nineteen and the walk… the dance, as you say… that’s my routine. Helps me get into the supermarket.”
Jez took some time to look at the kid properly. Yeah, he did look older than first sight. He spoke clearly, and with only a little bit of weirdness. And as Jez had just said—who was he to talk?
“I’m not a moron,” the kid said, quite calmly. “My name’s Eric, and I’m on my way home. It just takes me a while, and I thought I’d stop for a bottle of water. But that doesn’t mean I’m mad. Or can’t manage. Right?”
“Right,” Jez said, and meant it. He’d known plenty of people who used coping strategies. And plenty who didn’t, and they were the ones really couldn’t manage. “It’s okay. Sit for a bit.”
But Eric still paused. Looked like he was counting with his fingers, tapping each one against his thumb, back and forth. He seemed calm but he didn’t meet Jez’s eyes now. “Are you worried I’m here to take your pitch?”
“My pitch?” Jez had fought hard at the beginning for this spot in the doorway of the closed shop. Beside the supermarket branch, so he often found food and drink there, and as long as he didn’t hassle the customers, they didn’t mind him nearby. A few doors away from the bakery where he could sometimes afford a breakfast roll. Not a lot of foot traffic during the day, but there were flats above the shops, so he had a few regulars, commuters who dropped coins into his cup once or twice a week on their way to the mainline station. One old man from the nearby housing estate came and stood by him for an hour each week, listening to music on a battered old iPod while his dog curled up beside Jez, as if the man was lending Jez the company. One of the young women from the community centre brought him a book now and then, explaining they recycled their donations when the shelf got too full, and she’d noticed he liked to read. Even the local police would nod to him rather than insist he moved on.
Yeah. Jez supposed it had become his pitch. He could leave his blankets and bags there now and find them in the same place when he got back.
“Sit down,” he said again. “You’re making me feel nervous looming over me like that. But all I’ve got’s a bit of cardboard to sit on. Not like I entertain people here.”
Eric curled down on the edge of the step beside him and smiled.
Shit. Jez wasn’t in any way a poetic kind of guy, but it was like the sun suddenly got brighter.
They sat for a while in silence. Eric hummed, and sometimes whispered under his breath. Jez read another page of his book. But every time he glanced over at Eric, he smiled back, his eyes clear, his body relaxed. Eric was just different, that was all. Jez was surprised he even considered things like that any longer, having lost sight of normal some time ago.
“Why is it so wet in England?” Eric asked suddenly.
“Sorry?” Jez looked up at the sky; it had been clear all day.
“Because the queen’s reigned for so long.” Eric chuckled.
Despite himself, Jez found himself smiling. “You like jokes, don’t you?”
“I like making you laugh,” Eric said simply.
While Jez puzzled this out a bit more, Eric reached behind him with a slight frown. “What’s this? I nearly sat on it, I’m sorry.” It was the egg. “An Easter egg! Did someone give it to you?”
“I found it. It rolled into my blanket. It’s broken.”
Eric lifted it almost reverently, then shook it. The foil crackled against the shifting pieces of chocolate. “Yes, it’s broken. But it’s still in the wrapper.”
“Yeah. So?”
“So, it’s okay to eat, right?”
The look on Eric’s face was pure mischief. Jez had to laugh. “Yeah, I guess. You want it?”
Now Eric looked shocked. “No. It’s yours.”
“We can share.”
The chocolate was amazing. Jez treated himself now and then to a bar from the supermarket—the near-expiry special offers—but this was spectacularly better. Eric spent probably a bit too long making sure they both had exactly the same amount, but Jez appreciated the care taken.
“Where does lightning go on a date?”
Jez was getting used to this but he still had no idea of the answer.
“To cloud nine!”
“For God’s sake.” Jez laughed at the cheesy punchline.
“Have you got one? A joke?” Eric asked.
Jez racked his brains. There’d been a couple in the newspaper that got dumped on his blanket at the weekend. “What did the thunder say to the lightning?”
“I don’t know,” Eric said gleefully.
“Stop flashing!”
For another hour, they told jokes, they chatted about the people passing. Eric told him to keep his voice down, in case he offended anyone. Jez rolled his eyes—he’d been offended by passing behaviour so often he’d lost count—but he did it, for Eric. The old man with the dog arrived and Eric was thrilled to make room for the animal to settle for a while.
Amazing how cramped it was in that bloody doorway, but Jez found he didn’t mind.
Then after another few, quiet minutes, Eric stood. “I have to go now.”
He must have had some internal clock, because he wasn’t wearing a watch. Jez only knew the way the light changed over the course of the day, but it looked like it was late afternoon. “Okay. Are you…?” He wasn’t sure what to say. He wanted to know Eric would be okay, but who was he, a homeless guy with a doorway pitch at the wrong end of town, to give advice to someone else?
“Hey, Jez.” Eric’s voice was kind in a way much older than his years. “Don’t worry about me. I’m not some loony wandering the streets. I have a job in an office, this is a day off for me. I’m not good in crowds, I know. I have issues I need help with. But so does everyone, right?”
“Right.” Jez had never heard a truer word and it humbled him to hear it from Eric.
“I have a flat, too. Couldn’t live with my parents all my life, that’s not the best thing for anyone.”
Jez nodded, though Jez hadn’t lived with his parents since he couldn’t remember.
“It’s in a house with other people. We have a caretaker who fixes anything that goes wrong. A supervisor, and regular visitors. They help out the others who aren’t as good at looking after themselves. I’m lucky.”
“You are. It sounds good.” And, shit, it did. Especially when Eric’s expression was so content, so secure in his place.
“I have a place, too.” Jez didn’t know what the hell made him share that piece of information, Eric would only think he was some huge loser.
“You live there?”
“No. But I can go there in the evenings. Get some food, meet some mates. Have a shower, get fresh toothpaste and stuff.” The outreach club was run by the church, beside the community centre, and was pretty easy-going on everything except no drugs. That was part of the attraction for Jez. One of their counsellors had helped Jez get off the junk a year ago. “They’re looking for a room for me. Even a bed would be something, but the hostels around here are all full up or closing due to lack of funding. There are massive waiting lists. I’m not in immediate danger, they say.”
Eric nodded as if this wasn’t news to him. Jez felt disorientated. There was no judgement from this kid. No shock, no disgust. “You can come with me if you like.”
“Me?�
� Jez bit back a snort. “No, I don’t think so. It’s your flat, kid. Sorry, I mean, you’re not a kid. But I can’t tag along there.”
Eric peered at him thoughtfully. “And you don’t want to lose your pitch.”
Jez didn’t hold back the laughter this time. It sounded harsh, even to him. The doorway was cold and bleak, he had to huddle in against the cracked door so the pigeons on the windowsills above didn’t crap on his head, and sometimes the boldest urban fox pissed right next to him while he slept. “No, I don’t want to lose my pitch.”
Eric thought for a while. “If there was a spare place at the house… if the supervisor came to tell you about it, explain how it works. Would you come then?”
Jez didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t stayed in a house for so long, his body shuddered with nerves at the thought. But… Eric’s face was so earnest, so hopeful. “Whatever,” he said, but softly so Eric didn’t think he was being an arsehole like those schoolboys. “Thanks. I mean, for thinking of me. But I’ll be last on anyone’s list of priorities.”
“No,” Eric said, and his voice sounded much older, like before. And like he knew what he was talking about. “They’ll tell you. They help those who slip down the list. Those who can turn things around, if only they have a solid base.”
“Is that what you have?”
“Yes.”
“Then… yeah. Okay.”
Eric bounced from one foot to the other, as if really excited, grinning. “What did one hurricane say to the next?”
Jez shook his head, smiling. He was going to miss the company, he realised.
“I’ve got my eye on you!” Laughing, Eric dipped quickly and kissed Jez on the mouth. Gently, but very, very deliberately. “Not a kid, right?”
“Right.” Jez was too startled to do anything but parrot.
“See you tomorrow,” Eric called as he set off towards the crossing outside the supermarket.
And Jez—amazingly, still smiling, still feeling those soft, chocolate-flavoured lips on his own—was pretty sure that would actually happen.
CHAPTER FOUR: HENRY
“What the hell is it?”