THE WOOLMAKERS ARMS, BLAKENHAM, 9:16 P.M.
• • •
It was Dana who told Jesse that staying in wasn’t an option on Christmas Eve. He had called in a nostalgic mood, seeking sympathy, after catching It’s a Wonderful Life on TV. They used to watch it together, eating Mom’s spiced shortbread, he’d reminded Dana. But she hadn’t indulged him. “Jesse, you made this decision—you need to own it. Go make some new memories,” had been her exact words. So he had showered, cologned, and stepped into the cold to see how the locals celebrated.
Now, sipping a self-conscious pint, he couldn’t tell if the Woolmakers Arms was playing tricks on him. It seemed to be pure Ye Olde England—close and carpeted, with tiny, diamond-paned windows and such a low-beamed ceiling that he had to stoop. The seats were dark as church pews, and the beers had crazy names like Woodforde’s and Bullards. Back home this would have been a replica—like the dude ranch in Montana where he’d stayed with his ex, Cameron. He didn’t want to be the gullible tourist, taken in by a sham, but something about the Woolmakers suggested it was the real deal. He half regretted not bringing his camera, but he felt conspicuous enough as it was.
The bar was packed. Christmas Eve was clearly a big party night in Blakenham. Jesse wondered if this was the kind of topsy-turvy evening when lords and peasants mingled, like in Titanic. A group of three young guys with posh accents dominated the room. With them were two blond girls, giggling uncontrollably. They were all sitting by the fire, braying with laughter at an anecdote Jesse couldn’t catch. The men reminded him of frat boys at college, but their bodies were different—with bigger necks and barreled thighs. Two wore striped shirts, sleeves rolled up to show meaty forearms; the other had on a V-neck that just stretched over his broad chest. Their table was covered with empty glasses. The one with his back to Jesse stood and turned, and Jesse saw it was the guy who had jogged past him that morning. Their eyes met, fleetingly. Jesse watched him walk to the bathroom and resisted the impulse to follow, to see if he would acknowledge him were it just the two of them under strip lighting. Moments later he reappeared right beside Jesse at the bar, looking straight ahead. He had a preppy little snub nose and a fine, almost feminine jawline—at odds with his athlete’s beat-up ears. His hairline was wet—he must have smoothed it back in the bathroom. Jesse looked at his wrist, the hairs blond against his tan, muscles twitching as he fiddled with two notes. A gold ring shone on his pinkie, and beside his Hublot watch was a string of pale green prayer beads. Funny to see that the L.A. influence even made it here. “’Nother three Woodforde’s and two G-and-Ts, please, mate,” he said to the barman. He had a deep, garbled voice that reminded Jesse of Prince Harry—top of the “celebrities I am allowed to sleep with” list he’d had with Cameron. The guy turned to Jesse and raised his eyebrows.
“You were out running this morning, right?” said Jesse, before he could stop himself.
“Ha, yeah. Unsuccessfully,” he said.
“How come?”
The guy seemed confused. His cheeks colored slightly.
“Oh, uh, y’know. Suboptimal terrain,” he said, and Jesse could hear the air quotes in his voice, but wasn’t sure what he was alluding to. This must be the famous British sense of irony.
“Sure,” said Jesse.
“You on holiday? Sorry—vay-cation,” said the guy, in a twangy New York accent.
“Kind of. I’m also working.”
He could feel his adoption story about to spill out again, like in the airport, and stopped himself.
“Doing what?”
“Research,” he said. “I’m making a short film.”
“Cool,” said the guy.
Jesse waited for him to ask what it was about, or to question why he was working over Christmas, but he said nothing.
“Are you from around here?” said Jesse, fearing the conversation might end.
“We have a house here.”
“Cool. Must be a nice place to relax.”
“Yah. So beautiful. I love it here, the sea, the air. Awesome.”
“It’s beautiful, right?”
The barman set down the drinks. “And a pint for this fine gentleman,” said the guy, gesturing to Jesse.
“Hey, cheers—I appreciate it,” said Jesse. His “cheers” still sounded off.
The guy mock bowed, but said nothing as he put the two notes on the bar and tried to pick up all the drinks at once.
“Let me help you,” said Jesse, taking the gin and tonics.
“Thanks—George, by the way,” said the guy.
“Jesse.”
“Jesse. Good to meet you, mate.”
He followed George through the crowd, feeling the fizz of being invited to the popular table in high school.
Putting down the gin and tonics, he was unsure if he was expected to join the group or go back to the bar. They all seemed too drunk to notice either way. One of the men, who appeared to be the alpha male, was mid-story.
“And then,” he gasped, voice shrill with suppressed mirth, “Chingers sits up and promptly says: ‘Mmmm, Toby, why are your testes in my mouth?’” As if taking a cue, the table erupted with laughter.
“Guys, this is Jesse,” said George.
“Jessie? I’m sorry, your name’s Jessica?” said Alpha Male, dissolving into more guffaws.
“Stop it,” hissed the girl beside him, slapping him on the arm. “Sorry about this one—can’t take him anywhere,” she said, putting a hand over the man’s mouth. “Hel-lo,” she added, looking at Jesse properly. “And where are you from?”
“Los Angeles.” Jesse had learned long ago that this got a better response than “Iowa.”
“So what in God’s name possessed you to spend Christmas in Blakenham?” said Alpha Male. He talked like a fifty-year-old man, though he looked around thirty-five.
“He’s in film,” said George. So he had taken in what Jesse said after all.
“Christ,” said Alpha Male. “What are they filming here—period drama?”
“Uh, it’s more documentary.”
The girls were looking at him eagerly. They probably thought he was an actor. Women often did.
“Where’s the rest of your crew?” said the other, younger-looking girl. She had the same profile as the three men, and he guessed she was their sister.
“I came early. Wanted to get a feel for the place.”
“So you’re on your own at Christmas?” said the first girl.
“It’s all good—we just celebrated Thanksgiving back home. Plus it seemed like a nice opportunity to travel.”
“You can’t be on your own at Christmas! We’ll look after you,” said the girl he presumed was a sister, shifting up the bench to make room for Jesse.
She began introducing the table. Her name was Mouse, inexplicably, and the three men were her older brothers, as he’d guessed. Alpha Male, real name Tom or “Tommo,” was the oldest. George was the youngest, and the middle brother was named Matt. The girl beside Alpha Male was Camilla, Tom’s wife. By the way Mouse was tossing her hair, he guessed she didn’t have a refined gay-dar. But people didn’t always realize Jesse was gay, straight off. The looks Matt was shooting him suggested he thought Jesse was sharking on his little sister. Just as well Matt didn’t realize Jesse had a crush on his brother. A couple of times he sensed George looking at him on the edge of his vision, but whenever he checked, George either wasn’t or had just looked away. He was by far the cutest of the three brothers. He was the only one with the cool, swimming pool eyes. He wondered if George had guessed he was gay.
“Drinking game!” bellowed Alpha Male. “I Have Never: the Christmas round.”
Everything they said about Brits drinking was true. Shots were summoned from the bar and they played a few rounds of I Have Never, where it transpired that Matt had thrown up on his boss’s back at an office party, and Alpha Male had taken a dump in someone’s shoe at boarding school. Jesse wasn’t sure what the point was, since they clearly all knew each other’s secrets.
“OK, my turn,” said Camilla. “I have never given my ski instructor a blow job,” she crowed, looking at Mouse.
On impulse, Jesse knocked back one of the honey-colored shots on the table. His throat burned.
He blinked to find the whole group staring at him, stunned. His eyes met George’s, just for a second.
“What?” he said to them all. “Don’t tell me you had me down as straight?”
Alpha Male began chuckling and beating the table with his hand, his laughter rising to a crescendo. “So it’s that kind of film,” he spluttered. “Well, fuck me. Christmas drinks in the Woolmakers descends into gay porno. Fuck me.”
Jesse tried correcting them, but it was no use fighting the current—they wanted him to be a porn star, and so he was, even though he had no answer to Tom’s and Matt’s increasingly explicit questions.
The game moved on to everyone’s porno name, but the mood had shifted. Mouse’s hair tossing stopped. Matt was obviously repulsed by Jesse’s revelation, several times describing something as “gay” and then pointedly apologizing. Alpha Male was so drunk he looked like he wouldn’t care if Jesse had stated a sexual preference for chipmunks. The girls, he guessed, were keen to appear liberal. He could already see them telling the story in years to come: “Remember when we got talking to that gay porn star in the pub?” It was bullshit, of course. He’d barely been skiing. But he needed to know if what he sensed about George was real, or if his brain was addled by alcohol and too much alone time. Straight-seeming jock types had always been his weakness.
George was drinking hard. It looked like he was on a mission. Jesse had seen him finish two pints, a glass of mulled wine, and a bunch of shots, and now he was back from the bar with more beers—one for him, one for Jesse. Everybody else had refused his offer of a final drink.
Camilla returned from the bathroom. “Guys, I’m shattered. Home,” she said firmly, looking at her husband.
“Me, too,” said Mouse.
Alpha Male and Matt both stood, unsteadily. George stayed sitting down. “I’m gonna finish this one. I’ll catch you up,” he said to them, slurring slightly.
“Suit yourself,” said Alpha Male.
“Make sure he gets home safe,” Camilla said to Jesse. She seemed to be Mother Hen already.
“No sexy time,” added Alpha Male, and George gave him the finger. Matt looked appalled.
Now it was just the two of them. George was sitting back in his seat, eyelids drooping.
“Last orders!” shouted the barman.
“They’re closing already?” said Jesse.
“This is Norfolk, mate. You’re not in Manhattan now.”
“L.A. I’m West Coast.”
“Same difference.”
Was he just being a dick, or was it a clumsy attempt at flirting? A ringtone broke the moment, and George reached into his pocket. He looked at the screen for a second, switched it to silent, and let it sit, buzzing, on the table.
“Go ahead,” said Jesse, sipping the cool foam from his fresh pint. He’d nursed the first one for ages, and it had grown warm and stale.
“Nah, I’m leaving it.”
“Your girlfriend?” said Jesse. He’d spent enough time with straight men to read the signs.
“Fiancée.”
“Whoa. Serious.”
“I know. Not entirely sure how it happened, if I’m honest.”
“I’m guessing you put a ring on it?”
George grunted. He was staring at the phone, looking spaced out.
“How long have you guys been together?” said Jesse.
“Six years. Don’t get me wrong, she’s an awesome girl. Hundred percent. But it’s a massive commitment, y’know? There’s still a lot I want to do before I settle down, do the whole two-point-four kids thing. Guess you wouldn’t know.”
“Drink up, boys, we’re closin’,” said a hefty, middle-aged barmaid.
“Where are you staying?” asked George, suddenly.
“The Harbour Hotel.”
“Would the bar be open?”
“Maybe.”
“Quick one there, for the road?”
“Won’t your family wonder where you went?”
“They know I can take care of myself.”
“OK. Sure.”
They walked out into the night.