Chapter Seven

Lucien

I’m mostly working on the ICU this week. I find myself sitting next to Billy-Ray’s bed more and more, and sometimes, when no one is observing too closely and he’s agitated, I hold his hand. Wearing nitrile gloves obviously; I’m really not one of life’s natural hand-holders. It’s more of a lingering squeeze, to let him know someone cares. Hardly anyone ever comes to visit him and thinking about someone else’s loneliness instead of my own is a novel feeling.

I have Jay to thank for that. Every so often, I catch my underused facial muscles contorting themselves into what is almost recognisable as a smile. In the cold light of day, last Saturday’s activities are fairly tame by most people’s standards—a new friend dropped by, we took a country stroll together, and then popped out for a curry. No big deal, but for the first time since the accident, I’d willingly let someone into my house. I’d felt solid arms around me; I’d kissed a boy’s fingers; I’d teased and flirted and eaten a square meal. I could replay the afternoon and evening a thousand times in my head and not tire of it, but right now, I’m racking my brain and wondering if there is any more we can do for Billy-Ray, something we’ve missed.

On paper, and from the end of the bed, he looks shocking. His guts are buggered beyond repair—that’s a technical term for his condition, knowledge acquired after many, many years of study. His tissues leak protein faster than we’re managing to replace it. One episode of severe sepsis follows another, each more protracted than the last, and the microbiologists agree we’re running out of antibiotic options. He’s a bag of bones—another technical term. All of us doctors know it, the nurses and physios know it, and Billy-Ray does, too, but no one is yet prepared to pull the plug. Apart from Billy-Ray himself, who wishes he’d died in the fire along with everyone else. I can relate to that feeling. I’ve had it myself for a long time, but for the last few days, it’s faded somewhat. Years from now, I can almost dare to imagine myself carving out a semblance of a satisfactory life. And I have the existence of Jay Sorrentino to thank for that. Emily and Annabel take advantage of my good cheer and persuade me to help them on a teaching course sometime next year; they are staggered when I’m amenable to the idea.

Billy-Ray has begun calling me by my name, which is an improvement on ‘twat’ at least. Despite being physiologically worse, he’s psychologically more buoyant than usual (all things are relative), because his nan came to visit. It took two buses and a painful walk across town on an arthritic knee and two hip replacements—a situation I’ll be resolving immediately as from now on, she’ll be calling a taxi with all invoices directed to me. But under the bright point of colour on his good cheek, he’s pale, paler than usual.

“Had a rough few days,” he admits gruffly when I begin my routine examination. It’s easy to just look at the numbers on the obs chart and go through the blood test results, but sometimes it’s more useful to go with a good old-fashioned hands-on examination to appreciate a real feel of the direction of travel.

“That nice doctor—much nicer than you—was in here last night. You know, the dark good-looking one? He’s an Arsenal fan, but I’m not holding that against him.”

Jay’s worked a couple of night shifts this week—somehow, I have started tracking his rota. He’s probably relieved that we won’t bump into each other for a while, as our mentor-junior relationship has become unconventional, to say the least. I’m not sure who is mentoring whom any longer. I’m the mad Earl, the Androgenous Albino, everyone knows I’m a twisted mess. But Goldenballs? They only see what they want to see, the image he presents to the world. I’m the only one who’s glimpsed the confusion, although maybe I wonder if Ellie has too. He gives good face, but he’s exhausted by it all, buffeted by the cancelled wedding, Ellie, his friends and family, selling his house, new job, new man.

I hope the last item on that list buffets him for a while longer, whereas I’d like the other issues to all disappear. I trusted him enough to let him into my house, and I think I can let him into my life, too, most of it anyway. He rebuffed me gently in the car, but it’s only a matter of time. And I’m still in possession of his soft blue hoodie. He’ll have to come over and wrestle me for it if he wants that back.

“Oh yeah?” I respond, feigning disinterest. Billy-Ray gives me a withering look with the functioning side of his face.

“Hah! As if you haven’t noticed him. He’s dead fit. I’d like a man like that…”

“If you say so; I couldn’t possibly comment. How’s that tummy pain today? Better, worse, or about the same?”

He grunts and makes a so-so sort of noise.

“Bowels? Any more looseness?”

“I’m not surprised you haven’t got yourself a man with chat-up lines like that, Dr Avery,” he responds. “For your information, yes, very loose. They changed the sheets twice last night. I just can’t keep it in.”

He looks away out of the window, humiliated. My heart, the cold lump of ice that it usually is, bleeds for him. Watery diarrhoea, another sign of infection. Triggered by antibiotic treatment this time, which is ironic but to be expected. “We’ll get a sample, Billy-Ray, and send it to be tested.”

After writing some more notes and giving explicit instructions to the nurse for his care over the weekend, I make to leave. With my hand on the door handle, he rasps out my name, and I turn back.

“When are you going to let me die? Because I don’t want any of this fucking shit anymore.”

The young nurse regards me anxiously, making to intervene, but I hold my hand up to halt him.

“I’ll take it from here, Sanjay. Just give us a minute, would you?”

Alone again, I sit back down beside him. “Your body will let you die when it’s ready, Billy-Ray,” I say firmly. “And if and when it happens, I’ll make it as painless as possible. I promise.”

“What if you’re not there? What if it’s not your week and I get one of the others?” He’s tearful again, and I take hold of his pitifully bony hand.

“I’m always popping in and phoning up,” I reassure him. “If anything happens to you, I’ll hear about it.”

We sit quietly. I should leave; I’ve got plenty of other things I should be doing. The other staff on the ward round have no doubt given up on me and are breaking for coffee. I’m just thinking about slipping away when Billy-Ray starts speaking again.

“Do you think he’s gay?”

“Who?”

“You know, the buff doctor with the nice arse that I told you about. He doesn’t look gay.”

I smile. “What does gay look like?”

He stares at me as if I’m stupid. “I dunno. Like you, I suppose. Just…a bit…gay.”

“There are gay rugby players, Billy. They don’t look like me. Huge guys. And firemen and soldiers. When I lived in London, I had lots of gay friends. They came in all shapes and sizes.”

He ponders this for a moment and closes his eyes. I don’t think he’s going to say anything else, and then very quietly, “If I get out of here, Dr Avery, will you take me to London to meet some of them?”

I swallow down an unexpected lump in my throat. “Gosh, yes, Billy-Ray. It would be my pleasure.” I mean it, I really do. This poor boy tears me apart. I’ve made the stupidest beginner’s error of becoming attached to a bloody patient, and it’s too late to pull away.

“I can do better than that, Billy-Ray. I’ll ask young Dr Sorrentino to come with us too. He’s really nice; he’ll definitely say yes. I’ll take you both up The Shard.”

Billy-Ray gives his choking, rasping laugh. I wait until he stops, gasping for breath.

“Is that a euphemism, Dr A? Because if it is, trust me, you wouldn’t want to be going anywhere near my shard at the moment.”

“No, you idiot, it’s a really tall skyscraper! And right near the top, like fifty or so floors up, there is a bar, the highest bar in London. We’ll dress up and go, all three of us. You can borrow something smart of mine to wear; I’ve got more clothes than I know what to do with. The cocktail menu in the bar is out of this world, except I suspect Dr Sorrentino will just stick to beer. But you and me, we could have a mai tai, or a margarita—they serve them in really beautiful glasses—and we’ll get sloshed while looking out over the whole of the city and being entertained by Dr Sorrentino.”

“I like the sound of that, Dr Avery.” His eyes remain closed, his cool hand still tucked in mine. After a minute or so, I’m not sure if he’s awake or not; he’s much drowsier lately. I carefully disengage my fingers and pull away, still talking softly.

“And then, when we’ve finished there, we’ll take Dr Sorrentino dancing. I love dancing, and apparently Dr Sorrentino can be persuaded when he’s had a few drinks. And I know of lots of clubs where someone like you will fit in just fine. I’ll introduce you to so many pretty boys, you won’t know which way to look. We’ll dance till dawn.”

*

Men are like buses, or as Emily would say, like IVF treatment. None for ages, then two come along at once. She has twin boys, after many years of attempting to conceive. Jules Crawshaw, my ex, phones from his new home in Chicago, wanting to meet up when he visits the UK in a couple of weeks from now. He’s a good-looking city hotshot, blond and sleek and confident. My brother introduced us at a charity function five years ago, and for three years, I imagined we were a perfect couple. Sure, he was overbearing, and sometimes it felt like he slotted fucking me into designated sections of his busy schedule, but he could be charming and generous when the mood took him. And frankly, I was so busy with work and exams that having any sort of life outside of the ICU felt like a massive achievement.

Not long after we started dating, Jules moved into my London house and all was good in the world until he had to choose between me and a job promotion in Chicago. Chicago won easily, which summed up exactly how much he loved me. Then two months later, my family died. Jules sent me a card, a big bunch of flowers, a couple of texts—too busy with the new job to make the trip over, he knew I’d understand—and that was that. It’s only now, listening to his new faint American twang from across the Atlantic, as he insists how great it would be to catch up, that I realise I’m completely over him. Whereas I once thought I loved him to distraction. So yeah, we make vague plans; it’s not like I have a full social diary or anything. Hopefully, he’ll have scoffed lots of burgers and fries at cheap American diners and be flabby and balding.

The weekend rolls around, a mostly empty void, but I’m not dreading it quite as much as I did before Jay Sorrentino strolled into my life. Not that I’m expecting to see him. He’s rostered for another night shift tonight, and I’m trying not to be disappointed. I know I joked that I’m his best man, but it’s not as if we’re a couple or anything. And I do actually have a few tasks to keep myself occupied.

I’m taking positive steps towards pulling myself together and begin with having Will, my estate manager, drop by early on Saturday for our weekly catch-up, instead of me going to his office. I’m proud of myself for inviting him to sit at the kitchen table with a cup of tea while we go through the paperwork. He’s a nice chap, of indeterminate age but probably in his late fifties. His father was the estate manager before him. He’s been as patient with me through the whole sorry saga as anyone could be; he managed the press in the aftermath of the accident as if he’d been dealing with them his whole life, which makes me eternally grateful to him, even if he never did anything else. Granted, having a trusted employee drinking tea in my kitchen and going through routine paperwork is not much to applaud. But it’s a start, even if I do run my fingers over my pearls throughout the meeting, as though counting rosary beads. Will’s seen me at my worst; he doesn’t bat an eyelid. After he leaves, however, I collapse onto the kitchen sofa, exhausted, and soon enough, fall into a doze.

I’m woken by a warm hand lightly caressing my bare ankle. Jay is at the other end of the sofa, my feet nestled in his lap.

“Sorry to startle you,” he says softly. “The door was open. And the back gates. You don’t have much in the way of security around here, do you?”

I rub my face; I hope I haven’t been dribbling. “The gates are usually closed—Will must be expecting someone.” I smile at him. I can’t help it; seeing him is such a nice surprise. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

He holds up a bag of tools. “I’ve come to fix the panelling. I thought I’d take you on a date to B&Q first.”

I’ve never been to B&Q or any other DIY store for that matter. My world is opening up!

Jay’s so handsome, sprawled there on the end of my sofa. I wish it was my head in his lap and not my feet, and my face that he’s stroking so tenderly instead of my instep.

“Surely you must have something better to do today—I commandeered you last Saturday. And don’t you want a rest before going to work later?”

He shakes his head. “No, it’s fine. I’d rather be here than trying to nap at home. Ellie…er…Ellie and I have had a bit of a row. To be honest, I think I need to give her some space.”

“You haven’t rowed because of me have you?” I ask politely. Please say yes, please say yes. I hope my question came out sounding more concerned than I feel.

He grins and tickles my foot. “Not everything is about you, Lord Rossingley.”

I pull my foot away, squealing like a girl, but he’s got a tight grip.

“Okay, partly about you,” he confesses. “Although she doesn’t know that. Last night, I told her we needed to drop the asking price on the house and get it sold so I can give her what she’s due, plus all the money we lost on the wedding. Sharing the same small space is killing us both. But she failed her emergency medicine exams and said it was unfair for me to do all of this right now, particularly as she’s so stressed and revising again. So I agreed we wouldn’t, but I’m cross with myself for being so bloody weak because I really, really want to just get it over with for good.”

“Anything…um…anything trigger this rush, Dr Sorrentino?” I ask innocently, trying to keep the pleasure out of my voice.

My other foot gets a tickling, and I wriggle as he mercilessly holds both my feet down. I don’t stand a chance against those big strong hands.

“Come on, Lady Louisa, get your glad rags on. We’re going on an adventure to B&Q.”

Jay drives a souped-up Audi thing, with rich red leather covering every available interior surface. He drives it bloody fast too. I’m rigid in my seat. He doesn’t say much, and although we made a joke of his row with his girl and he tickled my feet and we flirted, his mouth is set in a fairly grim line, and I suspect his brain is miles away.

“I’m sorry you’re having such a tough time with everything,” I say eventually and rub his arm with my free hand. My other hand is white knuckled and gripping the seat. Briefly, he turns to look at me, which is quite scary when we’re travelling five million miles an hour, and he gives me a rueful smile.

“It’s okay,” he replies. “It’s nothing compared to when I called the wedding off—I stayed awake all night just in case she decided to slice my balls off with a rusty cleaver. I’m making her out to be an ogre, but actually, she’s a really, really nice girl, and she really, really did not deserve this.”

“If I’d known sucking my knob was going to cause you so much trouble, I would have declined the offer,” I say mildly, trying not to laugh. “Although I’m very glad that I didn’t.”

Gosh, I’m falling hard for young Dr Sorrentino. I realised that when he took me out for dinner last weekend and refused to kiss me afterwards, even though I knew he wanted to. Not many men of my acquaintance would have done that. Young, horny homosexuals aren’t known for their sexual restraint. He’s kind and honourable and trying to do the right thing by everyone, me included. And today when I woke up to find him stroking my feet, well, that was rather adorable too.

“Do you normally turn up at your consultant mentor’s house offering to do DIY?” I ask after a silence when he’s once more lost in his thoughts.

“No.” He grins across at me and pauses. “But then I don’t give most of them blow jobs in dodgy nightclubs either.”

He takes my hand and holds it in his lap. Intermittently, he gives it a squeeze. When I said I wasn’t one of life’s natural hand-holders, I think I just hadn’t found the right hand to hold. I feel the loss of his warm fingers when he lets go to change gear.

It’s difficult to concentrate on wood primer after that, but Jay’s a pro, masterfully negotiating our squeaky trolley up and down aisles and confidently selecting various unidentifiable bits of manly stuff. I follow him in a daze, in awe at the sheer volume and range of items on the shelves. How the hell I’d not discovered the joys of a DIY warehouse before this moment I have no idea. Jay even has a phone app to show him where to find everything.

Obviously, I couldn’t resist adding a few bits and pieces of my own to the trolley. By the time we come to the checkout, it is groaning under the weight of two prickly pear cacti, a baby monstera in a pretty blue pot, eight outdoor cushions for my favourite bench (I couldn’t decide on a colour so I bought two of each), a little stone elephant (because it looked lonely and cute), a wooden loofah (ethically sourced wood), three packets of cress seeds, and five Farrow & Ball tester pots. Oh, and his boring pile of bits and bobs for the wood panelling, obviously. Vowing never to take me there again, he somehow manages to cram it all into the pristine boot of his car.

Back home, I’m made to feel redundant fairly quickly as he gets to work, and apart from being the tea and Battenberg delivery service, I’m free to observe him do his manly thing.

“You don’t have to stay with me, you know,” Jay says, “if you have something better to do. You could arrange your new cushions or plant your cress seeds. Or put that ridiculous stone elephant where I’ll never have to see it again. I’m not going to nick the silverware or anything.”

“I like watching you. You’re a very pretty boy.”

He gives me a frown over his shoulder. “And you’re an arse.”

I indicate to the neatly cut hole in the wall. “It looks like warm work; you know you can take your top off if you’re getting too hot.”

He laughs and continues sanding down the edges of the new section of panelling. “I’ll let you into a secret. The first time I clapped eyes on you, I thought you were the most beautiful person I’d ever seen in my life. Male or female. Then afterwards, I thought it was because I was so pissed—when you’re wearing beer goggles, everyone’s gorgeous.”

“At work, they call me the androgynous albino,” I protest modestly, but I’m secretly delighted. “They probably think I don’t know everyone’s nickname for me. But this pasty look isn’t everyone’s cup of tea.”

“I didn’t realise it was mine until I met you. And I think you know exactly how gorgeous you are. Lots of the women at work certainly do, and that gay nurse manager is always hanging around ICU on the days when you’re in charge. If I didn’t think it would make you big-headed, I’d tell you that your good looks are a favourite topic of conversation at night on the unit.”

“Really?”

“Now don’t give me that coy look, Lucien Avery,” he teases. “You know they talk about you. To be fair though, most of them can’t decide if they want to kill you or shag you. Killing usually wins.”

“What about the second time you saw me, when we met in the anaesthetic department?”

He stops sanding and laughs, throwing his head back. “I thought you were as totally gorgeous as I’d remembered, but a complete and utter wanker.”

“Gosh, how charming. And now?”

He sighs and resumes sanding, his back to me. “Well, I still think you’re beautiful, but I also think I’m losing my marbles because for some reason, I want to spend every second with you. It’s keeping me awake at night.”

Why don’t you then? I almost say. Move in this minute, share my home, my life, my bed. How the hell has this boy got himself into such a mess? Why is he so loyal, so…good? Why doesn’t he just walk out tomorrow and come and stay with me?

I wonder if he’s scared to do it. After all, he’s been allegedly straight all his life. It’s a big step. Maybe he’s using sorting stuff out with his family and ex-fiancée as a way to slow us down a bit.

He puts down the sanding block and walks over to where I’m leaning against the opposite wall. Inhaling the scent of rich oak and Fahrenheit, I wish more than anything that he’d just kiss me, wrap his arms around me, take me to bed. The other shit he can sort later. He stands very close. If I reached up, just a tiny bit, I’d get my wish.

He gently smiles at me and steps back again, then softly strokes my cheek with the pad of his thumb. I slowly let out the breath I hadn’t realised I was holding.

“Fuck, you make this hard, Lucien. Give me time, I’m going to get this sorted, and I’ll be here for you. I just need some time.”

After the work is done, I heat up two portions of macaroni cheese, both for him. He rejects my offer of a tiny tot of Campari, citing work, and I make a mental note to buy some beer next time I visit Waitrose.

“Do you have plans for the rest of the weekend?” he asks after he’s hoovered up his dinner and gets ready to leave.

I make a pretence of looking at my watch. “Goodness yes, I should get ready,” I reply sarcastically. “My twenty-one-year-old toy boy should be arriving any minute now.”

Rolling his shoulders back, Jay stretches to his full height and winks at me. “Tell him his services will no longer be required, sweetheart. There’s a new man in your life.”

*

Jules phones me as I walk into the office on Tuesday, after collecting my pager from theatre reception. Assigned to the emergency list, I deducted a long time ago that it is easier to wait until the nurse in charge contacts me with details of the first patient rather than trying to fathom the list order myself. I put Jules on speakerphone so I can simultaneously fire up the laptop and flick through my work emails as he talks. He’s back in the UK and seems to be labouring under the misapprehension that I’m desperate to meet up. A year or so ago, this phone call would have commanded my full attention, but now, it doesn’t. Not because my emails are riveting, but because Jay Sorrentino has wandered into my office, fresh from his post nightshift shower, his thick black curls still damp. Hardly able to draw my eyes away from this vision of masculine perfection, I motion to him to sit, mouthing an apology.

“How about Thursday? Or Friday? I can do Friday,” Jules says. “Friday would be excellent! Say yay, Lucien! Is it a deal? Shall I pencil you in?”

That new American twang is grating on me, as is his insistence on pinning me down for an evening this week. I roll my eyes at Jay, who’s watching me curiously.

“Okay, Jules, yes, I can do Friday,” I sigh, drumming my fingers on the desk.

He lets out a whoop. Yes, it’s definitely an American whoop, and Jay and I both cringe simultaneously. I rattle through agreeing on a time and a location—I’d have agreed to a bacon sandwich in the hospital canteen if it would have got him off the phone—and then finally, I can turn to Jay.

“Morning,” I say, smiling at him. Grinning inanely actually, which is very un-Dr Avery-like. Jay’s going home to bed, and I wish I was joining him because, right now, perched on Annabel’s desk, all tired-looking and snuggly and warm in yet another soft blue hoodie, he’s absolutely delicious.

“Who was that?” he asks without preamble, nodding towards the phone.

“Nobody special.” I get up and reach around him for the pile of research papers I was planning on perusing during the operating list. “Well, not anymore. His name is Jules. He’s an old boyfriend, back in the UK for a while. He wants to…well, you heard the rest of it.”

“Mmmm, I did,” he replies, frowning. “Was it a serious thing?”

Well now, this is very interesting. Jay seems rather perturbed. “We did cohabit for a few years, so I guess that qualifies as serious.”

“And you’re meeting up with him for, what? Drinks? Dinner? Sex?”

I’m amused, and it shows. “Definitely the first two, and he’ll no doubt be expecting the third, if he’s anything like he used to be.”

Scowling at me, and not moving from his seat on Annabel’s desk, Jay leans across, deliberately closes the office door, and flicks the lock with an audible click. Then he turns back to me and, taking hold of my wrist, tugs me towards him so we’re inches apart. With his legs comfortably spread, I’m somehow manoeuvred between them.

“I’m not very happy about your Friday night plans, Dr Avery,” he murmurs with a frown, not letting go of my wrist. His determined gaze flickers between my mouth and my eyes. “Really not happy at all.”

“And why would that be, Dr Sorrentino?” I ask, rather breathlessly as he’s caged me between his solid thighs. His big hands have somehow found themselves cupping both my arse cheeks, pulling me even closer towards him. Lots of reasons to feel breathless, just one of them would have sufficed. His voice drops lower, a little gravelly.

“Let me put it simply, Dr Avery. I don’t like to share.”

Okay, so at this, I could point out to him that we aren’t exactly a thing, that we are merely friends and colleagues, that he lives with his ex-fiancée, that he’s firmly in the closet, that I haven’t had sex for like, ever, and that… But I don’t because his mouth captures mine, and at this precise moment, all words are totally superfluous to requirement.

Eight o’clock in the morning in my cramped, impersonal office is not exactly the time or the romantic location I had envisaged when Jay would finally make his move. Maybe I saw him pinning me up against a shady oak tree on the grounds of Rossingley, following a stroll in the wintry sunshine, or across the front seats of his Audi after a trip to the cinema, snogging like horny teenagers, the car smelling of popcorn. But we’ve pussyfooted around for a while now, and suddenly, bang, just like that, here in the hospital, he kisses me. It’s a firm kiss, close-mouthed, yet inarguably possessive. And as he pulls away, unquestionably not enough.

“I thought you wanted to have ‘everything sorted’ before we did this?” I suggest, reaching in for another.

“Seems like a touch of jealously is the only prod I need,” he responds, his mouth briefly against mine again. Frustratingly briefly.

I giggle. “There are so many inappropriate comments I could make right now.”

“You need a shave, Luce,” he declares, studying my smooth chin, a small frown creasing his tanned brow.

Now, I can confidently declare that I’m the least hairy man I know. Perhaps my cousin Freddie comes a close second. Back in the day, I snogged women with more facial hair than me.

“I’ve had a shave!” I counter, miffed. “About an hour ago! This is just what kissing a man feels like!”

“Oh.”

He looks like he’s considering this, and then closing his eyes, he leans in for another, softer this time, deeper. I taste mint toothpaste and inhale coconut shampoo. My tongue touches his, tentatively exploring. And, Christ on a broomstick, if he doesn’t bloody pull away again.

“It’s just a wispy scratch against my chin really,” he pronounces. “I can probably live with it. Must be worse for you, Luce, because I’m hairy as fuck.”

“Darling, can we discuss shaving routines later? I’m trying to bloody enjoy this!”

Goodness, he knows how to kill a moment. Or, for all his outward confidence, I wonder if he’s stalling, unsure where to take this. After all, from what he says, I’m a willing participant in his first-ever man-on-man kiss. However chaste.

“It’s okay to be nervous, Jay. I get it; I’m nervous, too, a little. It’s…well, it’s been a while for me too.”

He grins at me with that generous easy smile, his hands gently massaging my bum. “This isn’t me nervous, this is me exceedingly jealous and horny as fuck.”

And then he’s up and pushing me backwards, effectively pinning me between his massive body and my desk. Trapping me, with both of his hands in my hair, he leans in again, ferociously claiming my mouth. He might never have kissed a man before, but he’s not scared of taking the plunge. The kiss is sloppy, messy, needy. He lets out a low moan, more of a growl, really, as he fucks my mouth with his tongue, wedging his thigh in between mine, nudging up into my balls. Yes, his stubble is scratchy, but who gives a fuck; his arms slide around my waist and then down further still, squeezing my arse again. The length of his hard, muscular body presses against mine; his equally hard cock also presses against mine, and not for the first time do I appreciate there is something rather lovely about being crushed against a warm hoodie and an unyielding wall of muscle. Loki can go to hell; I’ve become Thor’s biggest fan.

I rub up against him, revelling in the friction until he eventually lets me come up for air and eyes me hungrily.

“What about marmite?” he breathes, the tip of his tongue running maddeningly along his lush bottom lip as if he’s still tasting me. “Is that a kissing-a-bloke thing too?”

I can’t recall the last time I was kissed so thoroughly; my cock can’t either. As my balls tighten, I give myself a rough squeeze through my trousers to relieve the ache. “No, that was my breakfast.”

He regards me thoughtfully, his lips pursed. Those long-lashed hazel eyes travel down to my hand at my groin and back up again. He plants a whisper of a kiss on my chin, then on my left cheek, my right cheek, and finally on the tip of my nose before moving to the side of my neck and burrowing in. It’s tender and cute and funny all at the same time.

“I haven’t got a fucking clue what I’m doing here, Dr Avery,” he says, his words muffled into my neck. “It’s all bravado. I bet your Jules bloke knows what he’s doing.”

I tilt slightly so I’m kissing the top of his damp head. Not entirely as confident as he pretends then. “Yes, he does. He was always quick to tell me what a wonderful lover he was, and how lucky I was to have him. But trust me, you’re the only person who’s made me smile so far this morning. And, incidentally, made me nearly ejaculate into my boxers, which would have made for an uncomfortable day in the operating theatre.”

He lifts his head, grinning shyly, and I lean in for another kiss. And maybe more because, hell, he’s locked the office door, and my cock is very keen to get in on the action. Slipping a hand down between our bodies, it would appear that his is, too, and I palm its long, hard length, eliciting a gasp of surprise from my gorgeous man. With my other hand, I start undoing his belt so I can unleash him from the tight confines of his jeans. Impromptu sexy games in my office at eight a.m. on a Tuesday? Gosh, yes please, bring it on.

My pager, however, has other ideas, barking out a curt message and vibrating angrily across the desk behind me, desperately vying for my attention.

“Adult trauma call in ED. ETA six minutes. Adult trauma call in ED. ETA six minutes.”

How dreadfully inconsiderate. Surely the world should have stopped spinning on its axis, or at least the population of Allenmouth should have had the good grace to take extra special care with its health and safety during the last phenomenal few minutes. Groaning with frustration, I take one final lingering kiss before regretfully stepping out of his hold and silencing the persistent vibrating. I pick up my keys and my badge.

“Sleep well, Jay.” I cup his cheek and lightly stroke his lips.

“How I’m going to sleep after this, I don’t know,” he grumbles, rearranging himself. My eyes travel down to the obvious bulge in his jeans, and he blushes delightfully.

“You will,” I determine. “I’m going to be picturing you sorting that out when you get home. Will you promise you’ll think of me while you do it?”

“Fuck, yes, Luce,” he breathes with a quick squeeze.

Reaching down, I cover his hand with mine as he holds his cock through his jeans. I press into him.

“When you’re jerking off, imagine how I’ll look when you fuck me. Right on this desk here.”

I’m so close; his breath is hot against my face. “When you are back at home and touching yourself, imagine me here, spread open for you, my legs wrapped around you. Think about how it will feel when you come deep inside me and I cry out your name.”

Reluctantly, I step back. With my hand on the door handle, I take one last glance down at his groin and grin. “But maybe don’t leave the office quite yet, we don’t want you scaring the secretaries.”

*

The trauma call turns out to be an overreaction to a middle-aged man in Lycra fancying himself as Bradley Wiggins. But overreactions are much safer than underreactions, even if they do scupper my sex life. My day continues as anticipated, delivering anaesthesia for a couple of appendectomies, followed by an impressively large bottom abscess on an impressively large bottom, and a screaming toddler who sustained a lip laceration after being pushed over by his older sibling because he wouldn’t share his chocolate digestive. Oh, the glamour.

I steal a few moments to myself mid-afternoon and hide in my office. It’s a bonus that nothing challenging is scheduled on the emergency operating list, as a certain junior doctor is exclusively occupying my thoughts. When Emily wanders through, I’m unaware that I’m grinning like an idiot to myself.

“There’s definitely something odd about you at the moment, Lucien,” she begins, settling herself down for a natter. “You seem…well, cheerful may be putting it too strongly, but you have certainly shifted several adjectives away from morose.”

I groan inwardly, recognising the tone of voice. Fishing.

“You haven’t had a new haircut, so it’s not that. You haven’t wound up Dr Leitner yet today, so it’s not that either. New shirt?” She pretends to search for another spurious reason for her earlier statement before smiling at me naughtily.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that it is somebody, not something that’s caused the sudden change.”

Annabel and Emily are forever trying to coax information from me regarding my love life. As probably their only gay friend, I suspect they like to imagine I maintain a small harem of well-oiled, willing young men chained up in the cellar. The truth would be a huge disappointment to them. Until now perhaps. The collective department jaws would be skimming the floor if they had an inkling about Jay and me. Stories of his aborted wedding have probably reached their gossip-hungry ears by now, but from what I’ve overheard myself in theatre, the rumour mill is short on detail.

I escape, on the pretext of an important visit to intensive care, but the urge to share my excitement with someone is overwhelming. The change in my demeanour must be blindingly obvious to everyone since even Billy-Ray notices I’m less surly than normal.

“So, has he shagged you, then?” he begins as I wash my hands prior to examining him. He looks absolutely awful this afternoon, even worse than a few days ago. I decide we need to recheck his infection markers. We restarted his nasogastric feeding two days ago, and from his overnight spike in temperature, I wonder if he’s aspirated some feed and is brewing yet another chest infection.

“Who?”

“The mystery guy you’ve been mooning after the last couple of weeks?”

I stand up straighter. “I have no idea what you are talking about, Billy-Ray. And I do not moon,” I declare haughtily, in full Lord Rossingley mode.

He smirks. “Twat. You’ve had a daft grin on your face every time I’ve seen you. Or perhaps it’s you shagging him?”

I retrieve a stethoscope, feeling uncharacteristically flustered, and listen carefully to his chest. He mercifully cooperates, leaning forwards obediently so I can focus at the lung bases. Sometimes he tries to hold his breath or makes squeaky noises so I can’t hear properly, just to exasperate me. His ribcage stands out against thin, bluish skin; he’s pitifully thin. With a sudden pang, I realise how much I’m going to miss him when he’s gone, and deliberately push the thought away. After I lay him gently back down, he watches me expectantly, waiting for an answer.

“Can you keep a secret, Billy-Ray?” I ask, settling into the chair next to him. For the sake of appearances to the nursing staff possibly watching through the glass, I pick up his obs chart. God forbid they think I’m going soft. I am going soft though—crazy too—confessing my innermost thoughts to a bloody patient. Billy-Ray nods without expression. Curiously, I think he can probably keep a secret better than anyone.

“I’ve met a boy,” I begin softly. “A really nice one, much nicer than me.”

“That’s not hard,” he butts in. “Carry on anyway.”

“He’s someone I don’t deserve. I…I…I think I’m in love.”

I look away from him, embarrassed, wishing I could take the words back. But treacherously, even more of them continue to spill out of me. “He kissed me this morning.”

I’m expecting that raspy hoarse laugh again; if ever anyone knows how to burst a bubble, it’s Billy-Ray. I wonder what he was like before the injury. Caustic and funny, I’m guessing. Brave too; after all, he did run into a burning building to try to save his sisters. I think I’d have liked him.

But when I look up again, there are only silent tears trickling freely out of his one good eye. I take his bony, thin hand in my ungloved one, not caring anymore if I’m spotted from the nurses’ station.

“Describe him to me,” he whispers.

And so, I do. “He’s got a body like Thor, but he’s dark, olive-skinned with curly hair. Like that handsome actor from Game of Thrones. He goes to the gym a lot; you’d definitely appreciate his body. He eats a lot too; he’s forever hungry, and he’s good with his hands.”

I get a squeeze for that comment.

“Not in that way, Billy! I mean he’s good at mending things, DIY type things. He’s kind and gentle and a little bit sad at the moment, but he hides it well.”

“More importantly, has he got a nice arse?” Billy-Ray’s voice is hoarse and sleepy; his eyes are closed.

“He’s got an amazing arse, Billy-Ray.”

“If I’m not mistaken, he sounds a bit like that doc who comes here at night sometimes. You know, the Arsenal fan.”

I laugh softly. “Yes, he does, doesn’t he? Now you mention it, I’ve described him exactly.”

Billy-Ray is silent for a moment, then, “Yeah, you’re right, Dr Avery. Sounds like you don’t deserve him.”

I squeeze his hand gently. “You’re a twat, too, Billy-Ray. A nice one, though.”

“Takes one to know one, Dr A.”

*

Leaving work at lunchtime on Friday, I drive up to the townhouse in Mayfair, where I spend an inordinate amount of time making myself look good for the dinner, without knowing why. Not because I want him back—that ship sailed long ago. Perhaps it’s to show him that, despite everything, my horrific family tragedies haven’t turned me into a jabbering wreck, although it was a close-run thing, no thanks to him abandoning me at a time when I needed him the most.

I don’t mind coming up to London every now and again. Mostly for the purpose of a clothes shopping splurge a couple of times a year. This house doesn’t hold any particularly upsetting memories for me. We never lived here as a family. My father much preferred the country life, so time spent here was more as a young man about town than with my parents and Oliver. The vast rooms still feel empty, though, especially when my cousin Freddie isn’t around to divert my attention.

Dinner with Jules starts badly and ends even worse. We meet at an old familiar haunt, a seafood restaurant we favoured in the early days when I thought the sun shone out of his bottom and I erroneously believed he felt the same about me. I’m gratified to observe he’s gained a few pounds, and his thick blond hair slightly recedes from his suspiciously smooth, tanned forehead, but if anything, it only enhances his suave, controlling manner. Which he always had, even in bed. Especially in bed—controlling, precise, and, well, metronomic in his desires and the predictable way he set about them. I always bottomed. The alternative was never up for discussion, another aspect of his domineering nature. And afterwards, without ever cleaning up, he would roll away from me and sleep, leaving me feeling used and unloved.

Even as Jules greets me with a firm bear hug and a wet kiss to my cheek, my mind drifts back to Jay and the light touch of his lips against the same cheek. The youthful scent of Fahrenheit and coconut-scented shampoo, instead of an eye-watering spray of a stupidly expensive, leathery Tom Ford something or other, mixed with stale whisky. I vaguely wonder how Jay’s night shift is going.

“I rather thought you’d have grown out of all that by now,” he drawls, that artificial transatlantic twang even more grating in person than down a phone line. He indicates my discrete eyeliner and lip gloss. “Now that you’re the lord of the manor and everything.”

I choose not to rise to it. “Come on, let’s order, I’m famished.”

If he was paying the least bit of attention to me, he’d know this for the diversional ruse it is. I’m never famished; my appetite was even smaller towards the end of our relationship than it is now. But he doesn’t care or notice because he’s caught the eye of a twinky, dark-haired young waiter, who’s only too happy to talk him through the wine list.

And so, the course for the evening is set with Jules expounding at great length on his marvellously thrilling new life in Chicago and me picking at a probably delicious seafood risotto and fervently wishing I was at home with Waitrose macaroni cheese and a glass of Campari. And Jay Sorrentino.

I didn’t think he would get around to it, but he does, eventually, as we’re halfway down the second bottle of Romanée-Saint-Vivant, a Chablis vintage probably costing more than Jay’s monthly mortgage repayments. Jules attacks the cheeseboard with gusto.

“So, how are you coping, Lucien darling? I can only imagine how dreadful this entire ghastly business must have been for you.”

Yes, you can only imagine because you couldn’t be bothered to find out at the time.

He raises a shoulder in a what-can-one-do sort of way. “I’d have grabbed the first flight over, but as you know, that huge contract with Sacharet wouldn’t wait for man nor beast. The New York office would have had my guts for garters if I’d missed the deadline.”

His face is unpleasantly flushed; white wine always did have that effect on him. His heavy-lidded eyes watch me lazily. Pulling my shoulders back and sitting up straighter, I inhale deeply, determined to deny him the pleasure of seeing me squirm.

“I’m great, Jules, really great. Things were tough for a while, obviously…” I take a swallow of my wine, allowing myself a second before soldiering on. “But the estate is all on track, and the job at the hospital is working out…and so…”

“I’d have thought you’d have knocked that doctoring thing on the head now that you are lord of the manor. It’s not like you need the money, is it darling?”

Lord of the manor. That phrase is beginning to grate on me. I wish he’d stop using it, especially as I detect a mocking tone whenever he says it. And most definitely, I’m no longer his darling.

“Well, I enjoy my work, and for the moment, I feel I’m able to combine both.”

It’s weak response, and I should stand up for myself more robustly, but he’s always had this effect on me, somehow managing to make me feel slightly inadequate, slightly not quite up to the job.

“And I’ve met someone at the hospital recently. It’s very early days and, well, a bit complicated, but I’m hoping our…our friendship will turn into something more.”

Jules’s eyes light up at this bit of gossip, so I tell him about Jay and the wedding, or lack of it. I gloss over how we unconventionally met—that’s private and just for me and Jay. After I’ve finished, Jules leans across the table, patting my hand rather patronisingly.

“Falling for a straight man? How foolish of you, although you always were a sucker for a sad story. But come on, sounds like he’s stringing you along, isn’t he? I thought even you knew better than that.”

I’m affronted. “He’s not straight, Jules. He’s coming out when the hoo-ha has calmed down a bit and he’s sold the house and everything. He’s just trying to do the right thing by everybody, that’s all. He’s incredibly loyal and thoughtful. So if it means I have to wait for him, then I’ll wait, because I think he’s going to be worth it.”

Jules regards me pityingly. “Oh, darling, you and your big heart. Always determined to see the best in people. Think of me and my wise words when he’s continually making excuses as to why he still hasn’t left her six months from now.”

Right, I’m so more than ready to bring this tedious evening to a close. I should never have agreed to it in the first place. It’s bringing back far too many unhappy memories of other evenings when Jules slyly picked apart my apparent defects. Eventually, we call for the bill, and he makes a show of paying for me, which is slightly ridiculous given my circumstances. From his detailed bragging regarding his obscene Christmas bonus, he’s rather flush with cash himself, but even so, it’s no match for my crazy, undeserved good fortune, and we both know it. I let him pay anyway, not wishing to cause a scene. It’s not me he’s trying to impress, it’s the strangers around us. The two bottles of wine had been followed with a couple of hefty tumblers of brandy, and thus his mood is bullish. I prepare my goodbyes outside the restaurant, but predictably, Jules has alternative plans.

“My hotel is around the corner, darling. I have a suite at the Dorchester. Fancy a fuck, for old times’ sake?”

The question was inevitable, anticipated since he’d phoned to arrange the dinner, to be honest, but he could have handled it with a little more panache. I shake my head in apology.

“I don’t think so, Jules. No need to tread over old ground is there?”

My response is nearly as gentle as Jay declining to kiss me after dinner in another restaurant not so long ago, but I accepted that rejection with a lot more grace than Jules is accepting this one.

“Christ, Lucien! Who swiped the jam out of your donut? There was a time when you couldn’t get enough of my prick up your arse. Think you’re too fucking high and mighty now, is that it, Lord Rossingley?”

Jules is quite drunk and quite loud. And his hand is quite tight around my wrist.

“Ow! That hurts!” I try to pull away, but he’s always been stronger than me, and he just tightens his grip, twisting hard.

“Fucking prick-tease, that’s what you are, Lord fucking Rossingley. I know you want it. Really, you’re a fucking slut most of the time.”

If he twists any more, he’ll break my wrist.

“Jules, stop it, for God’s sake! You’re hurting me!” Hot tears of humiliation threaten at my eyelids.

A few other patrons leaving the restaurant turn to look at us.

“You all right, mate?” A sizeable young bloke and his girlfriend are looking in our direction, and the man’s narrowed assessing gaze is enough for Jules to relax his grip and enable me to pull away.

“Fucking cunt,” he snarls, and turning his back, he stomps off.

The guy and his girl are still there. “Are you okay?”

I nod dumbly, mortified, wishing they would take their kindness and concern somewhere else.

“There’s a taxi rank down the road. We’re heading that way.” The man hesitates. “You can walk with us if you like.”

I nod miserably again, and we silently fall into step. I wonder what I must look like. A cheap pickup probably, in my skinny jeans and vintage McQueen blazer. Okay, perhaps an expensive pickup. And goodness knows the state of my mascara. I’m too old for this, and even though I’ll never see these Good Samaritans again, I want to explain that this isn’t the real me; I’m not the sort of man they think I am. But I don’t, of course, and mumbling my thanks to them both, I step into a cab and give the driver my address, settling back relieved.

As if sensing my misery, my phone pings a text message from Jay. His timing couldn’t be better.

I was just wondering what colour my best man had painted his toenails tonight.

All thought of Jules and the ugly scene on the pavement vanish. A little squeak of delight escapes my mouth. Christ, I’m thirty-four, I need to get a grip. Jules is so wrong about Jay leading me on. I know he is. Nothing could be further from the truth. He’s just giving it some time, that’s all.

Luscious Pink Velvet, I respond, tapping quickly.

A pause. Then:

I’d like to see your luscious pink velvet.

I’d like to see yours too.

My cock stirs at thoughts of Jay, naked on my bed, and me above him with my lips pressed around…well, around his luscious pink velvet. A longer pause, the taxi turns into Berkeley Square, and I indicate my house to the driver. Then:

I’d like to lick your luscious pink velvet.

Crikey, my hand involuntarily moves to my hardening cock, and I squeeze myself through the tight denim.

Are we still talking about my toenails? I type with a shaky thumb. Gosh, I wish he was here with me, more than anything.

No, Lucien, we’re most definitely not, although I’d be happy to lick those too.

*

I drive back to Allenmouth early next morning, glad to put distance between myself and the unpleasant evening. Jules hasn’t been in touch, and hopefully he won’t, but if he’s true to form, he’ll sober up and apologise. There will probably be extravagant flowers, and then he’ll attempt to repeat the whole performance again sometime in the distant future. Over my dead body.

My route takes me past the hospital turn off, and on a whim, I decide to pop in and check up on Billy-Ray. I’ve had a vague anxiety about him for the last couple of days; if my hunch that he is developing an aspiration pneumonia is correct, then I want to check whether anyone has chased the blood culture results, and Monday morning seems too far away.

His bed is empty on my pass through the unit. I’m not concerned; it’s a nice sunny day. When the unit is quiet and Billy-Ray’s well enough, Kevin, the technician, sometimes bundles him up under a pile of blankets and, accompanied by one of the nurses, takes him outside for some fresh air. Looking at the staffing notice board, I establish that Kevin is scheduled to be working today, so thinking nothing of it, I head to my office to catch up on some paperwork.

I might not be a closet gay, but I’m a fully signed up closet nerd, and I spend a happy hour immersed in a fascinating clinical review of the long-term sequelae of rising D-dimers in CMV positive patients with ulcerative colitis in Korea. I even take out my multicoloured pens and highlight a couple of points to raise with my colleagues at our next morbidity meeting. They’ll be on the edge of their seats. With my mind occasionally drifting to thoughts of Jay, I even hum to myself as I leave the office, startling Kevin, the technician, as he saunters past. He’s wheeling a ventilator machine along in front of him.

“Morning, Dr Avery,” he nods cheerfully. Inclining my head in his direction, continuing with my current buoyant mood, I startle him by initiating conversation.

“You look busy,” I remark, indicating to the equipment. Okay, so I’m a bit out of practice with small talk, but at least I’m trying. He sighs and pats the top of the ventilator as if it’s an old friend.

“Yeah, taking this ancient thing down to the workshop to get it stripped and serviced. It’s been due for a couple of months, but we had to wait until he died to take it out of the room. We’re a bit short at the moment, what with the other two being mended. We had to keep this old one handy because we never knew when he was suddenly going to need it, did we?”

A cold sweat breaks out on my forehead, the leather strap of my bag feels slippery in my hand. And from a distance, Kevin’s gruff voice: “He’s not going to need it now, though is he, poor kid? Bless him, at least it was quick at the end, but he’d have been better off dying in the house fire with the rest of them, I reckon.”

Occasionally, when driving alone, especially through quiet streets, or if I’m stuck behind a slow lorry for an interminable length of time, my mind wanders off to somewhere else. And then, with a jolt of alarm, I land back in the present and realise that if a ten-tonne truck had crossed the path of my car during that brief interlude, I probably wouldn’t have seen it until it was too late to avoid it. Well, that was me all the way home from the hospital.

I have no memory of walking to my car. I have no memory of driving back to Rossingley. A screaming voice in my head is telling me that he was just a patient, a boy I hardly knew, a sick, scared boy, and I should pull myself together. Patients die all the time. Every day. Plenty of my patients die, not because I’m an appalling doctor, but because they just do. Billy-Ray is merely another name on the list.

But this patient dying hurts more than the others and god how it hurts. A thousand times more. Because Billy-Ray is like me. I’m still a scared boy, too, even though I’m much older, my face isn’t disfigured, and I’m not lying in a hospital bed. But perhaps I should have been. Perhaps it should have been me burned to a crisp and now dead because… Why the hell wasn’t I in the helicopter with them? Why did I have to be the one left behind? What did the likes of Billy-Ray and I do that was so terrible we had to be punished like this? Every time I looked at him was a reminder that it could have been even worse for me, that I could have been like him. He didn’t have a chance at living without everyone else, and at least I was given that, even though I haven’t wanted it most of the time. Now I do want it, and Billy-Ray dies; he’ll never have that chance, and it all takes me back to square one. I’ve escaped again, I’m the lucky survivor. And I’m confusing myself and not making any sense anymore, and all these jumbled, screeching thoughts are whirring around my head, and I can’t block them out, not even if I put my hands over my ears and scream, not even if I stick my fingers down my throat and spew bile everywhere. I don’t deserve to eat. I don’t deserve to live.

My pearls. I need my pearls. Pearls and vodka.