Chapter Eight

Jay

“Jay-Jay, it’s me, Evan. I phoned loads and then remembered you were working nights. My bad. Just calling to arrange that beer session. Give me a bell when you wake up. Oh, by the way, someone on the ward reckoned they saw you in B&Q with Dr fucking Avery last week! How funny is that? You must have a body double walking around.”

My sleep-deprived, post-night shift, addled brain may have been responsible, but on finding out Lucien was arranging a meetup with an ex-boyfriend, an absurd level of jealousy I never knew I possessed threatened to overwhelm me. And so I kissed him since alternative methods of marking my territory, like cocking my leg and pissing on him, are socially unacceptable for many, many good reasons.

Even though the depth of my desire petrified me, from the moment I put my lips to his, burying myself in his wonderful scent and his wonderful taste, I was poised to wrestle him to the floor and claim him in another way—also deemed socially unacceptable in the anaesthetic department office at eight a.m. on a Tuesday morning.

So I had to settle for doing exactly as he’d instructed, hardly reaching the privacy of my bedroom before pulling out my dick and wanking into my hand to the picture he’d so eloquently painted. I haven’t come as quickly or as copiously since I was about fourteen. I’m thrilled, regardless, as for the first time in all my twenty-nine years, I kissed a man on the lips. And not just any man. No, for me it had to be the most confounding, scariest, hottest man alive. And fifty-eighth in line to the throne to boot. Not that I’ve been reading up on him or anything.

The night shifts were a distraction at least, and a busy distraction at that. In addition to a pile up on the M4—resulting in three casualties, each requiring an operating theatre and admission to intensive care—the poor young lad in the side room, with the horrendous burns, finally dropped off his perch on Friday night.

His condition had deteriorated by degrees throughout the week, and each night had found me spending time in his room, whether inserting new intravenous lines or making small adjustments to his treatment strategy on the advice of the microbiologists. In some ways, I’d always found him quite intimidating to talk to. What the hell do you say to someone who has had his family wiped out and has horrendous, ugly, life-threatening injuries that he knows he’s unlikely to survive? With his aura of anger, the lad was easier to avoid than to befriend. Once I cast my own inadequacies aside and got over the obvious disfigurement, breaking through his spiky defences, I discovered he was clever and sharp and not angry at all, just scared, grieving, and lonely. A bit like someone else with spiky defences that I know. In fact, although worlds apart in so many ways, the parallels between Billy-Ray and Lucien are hard to ignore.

Billy-Ray and I had established a bond over him taking the piss out of my love of the Gunners, and in turn, I’d mocked his preference of the Chelsea nancy boys. In another situation, although my gaydar is nowhere near up to full strength, I’d have wondered if he was flirting with me. But as the week progressed and he got sicker, he’d become quieter and withdrawn.

In the end, it was mercifully quick and mostly painless, thank God. Billy-Ray departed this world with scarcely a whimper. A very brief episode of acute shortness of breath, a loss of blood pressure swiftly followed by a virtual loss of cardiac output, and all assembled agreed that jumping up and down on his poor thin chest was not in his best interests, honouring a decision made during a formal discussion with him a few weeks before.

Earlier that evening, he’d been agitated, already struggling with his breathing, so I’d found a moment to sit with him to work out if I could do anything to make it better. He’d asked repeatedly after Lucien, wanting—no insisting—I find him between gulps for air. Why Lucien, I’d asked him, but he was probably becoming confused at that point—a lack of oxygen has that effect. He kept on repeating that Lucien was taking him for cocktails, that I was on the trip, too, that Lucien had said he loved me, that I was his Italian Stallion or some such craziness. In the end, I held his hand and let him ramble on until exhaustion took over, before creeping out of the door. He didn’t properly wake up again.

Later, after he’d died, a few of us took a minute to compose ourselves. It’s hard for the nursing staff when they lose long-term patients. They spend all day every day with them, whereas us doctors can avoid emotional ties by just popping in and out. Through his tears and over a cup of tea, the nurse on the night shift, Sanjay, explained that Lucien had visited Billy-Ray a lot, that he’d arranged transport for the lad’s granny, and he’d even bought him a mobile phone after his was lost in the fire.

Everyone had been surprised by this, but I’d thought of the gentle, soft Lucien that I knew, hidden behind an impenetrable wall a little like Billy-Ray’s, and more than ever had wanted to be with him. Knowing he was on his date in London, I’d texted him with a message as sexy and light-hearted as I could dream up because no one wants needy and possessive. Neither was it a good moment to offload to my educational supervisor the horror of not resuscitating a young lad and spoiling his evening out.

The remainder of the weekend passes trying to avoid conflict with Ellie, catching up on sleep, and sternly telling myself not to contact Lucien. Of course, I can’t stop torturing myself with images of him in his fancy Mayfair townhouse with some faceless gorgeous man, convincing myself that even now he’s sprawled in bed with this Jules character and the Sunday newspapers, having enjoyed mutually satisfying, rampant morning sex. By Sunday lunchtime, my fertile imagination has them planning their happy future together and choosing matching wedding rings.

I escape the horror that is living in a cramped house with someone who hates your guts because you’ve ruined their life, and meet Evan for a couple of beers in town. He’s staggered when I don’t deny the trip to B&Q.

“Okay, so I helped Lucien with a bit of DIY? What’s the big deal? You know I enjoy that sort of thing.”

“Fuck, it’s Lucien now is it? You’ll be invited for an intimate supper, darling, and a trip to the opera next!”

He says this in a hoity-toity sort of voice, mimicking Lucien’s upper crust accent. His attitude towards Lucien is starting to piss me off. I don’t know about Evan being my second-best man. I’m thinking of relegating him to about twentieth.

“If you knew him, you’d think he was okay too. He’s different outside of work.”

“Yeah? I know you’re open minded about stuff, Jay, but come on! Don’t start hanging about with Dr fucking Avery! He’s a bloody nightmare!”

“No, he’s not. It’s just that he’s wary of letting people get close to him,” I reply rather sniffly. “He’s a very private person, but actually, he’s been really kind and nice to me.”

“Jesus!” Evan rolls his eyes with disgust. “So presumably you went to his house as well? What’s that like—coffin-shaped?”

I roll my eyes back at him wearily. “Yes, Evan. I went to his coffin-shaped house and I helped him with some carpentry. Building more coffin-shaped things. And then we drank a bottle of blood each and watched Dracula on the telly.”

He laughs and downs some of his pint. “I bet his house is full of whips and chains. I bet he has a dungeon!”

“Don’t be an arse. It’s a very nice house actually.” There’s a fucking understatement. “The carpentry job was quite straightforward, to be honest. Once I’d removed the old wooden panelling and worked out the right thickness of …”

“What, was there just the two of you? Did he try to jump you?”

I shake my head, somewhat incredulous. I guess casual homophobia has been there all along; I’ve just never noticed how prevalent it is before. “Since when did we decide that being alone with a gay bloke was a bad thing, Evan? They’re not all lying in wait to pounce on every willy that wanders past, you know! You wouldn’t have made that assumption if I’d been alone with a heterosexual woman.”

Okay, so I’m not exactly waving a banner at London Pride dressed in a tight rainbow T-shirt, but, baby steps. Lucien would be proud of me. We drink our beer in silence for a few minutes. Evan watches me sadly.

“I don’t know what’s bloody got into you. It’s like you’ve changed, like something’s happened to you. If you tell me what it is, I’ll help you however I can. Ellie will help you. We’ll get through it. It won’t be easy, but she’ll have you back, I know she will.”

I rest my head in my hands with frustration. “I’m not going back. It’s over. I don’t know how many times I’ve got to tell you. I did the right thing for both of us by pulling out. Because it wasn’t right. I don’t love her as much as she deserves. There is nothing else to discuss, apart from that I shouldn’t have left it so late in the day. Trust me; I’ll never forgive myself for that.”

Evan has enough sense to drop it and let the conversation drift to other things. He’s getting married in five months himself and definitely won’t be calling it off—Paula and he are besotted with each other and are planning on kids already. I don’t want to fall out with him as he means well and has stood by me, but if he’s any indicator, my family are going to struggle just as much when they all find out the truth.

*

I manage to make it all the way through until Monday without contacting Lucien, hopefully giving the impression that I’m supercool and not a pathetic, lovesick puppy. Despite having a few scheduled days off following my night shifts, after checking with the rota, I decide to wander into the hospital on Monday afternoon anyway, on the off-chance of conveniently bumping into him. By that I mean walking past his office door every five minutes until he spots me.

But he’s nowhere to be found. I recheck the rota. Maybe he’s off sick? Or perhaps he was having such a marvellous time with his former lover (who by now, in my mind, has turned into a very young, impossibly gorgeous Brad Pitt circa his brief cameo in Thelma and Louise) that he decided to extend his stay. Even now, Lucien’s at the embassy sorting out a visa and booking flights for his new life in Chicago. Okay, perhaps I’m overthinking it, but I wander down to ICU hopefully anyway, just in case I’ve somehow missed him.

Glancing through the window, I see that Billy-Ray’s bed is now occupied by a woman who looks older than God, peacefully lying in her drug-induced coma as the breathing machine does its thing. Kevin is tinkering with a blood gas analyser in the corridor, and we exchange a greeting. I enquire as to whether he’s seen Dr Avery, but he shakes his head.

“Not seen him since Saturday morning. Quite chipper he was for him, even stopped to chat. Mind you, not quite so chipper when I told him the lad in room three had finally kicked the bucket. Looked like he’d seen a ghost, to be honest. I was in half a mind to go after him he was so upset, but you know Dr Avery, he would have been as likely to tell me to bugger off as admit he had a heart.”

He turns back to the complicated piece of machinery and starts dismantling the filter. “He spent a lot of time with that lad, more than anyone else. I’ve never seen him care so much about anyone.”

*

I’m so blinded by him and becoming so comfortable around him, that I don’t notice the warning signs until it’s too late. On my arrival at Rossingley, I find the back door is unlocked as usual, and after knocking a few times with no response, I let myself in.

He’s in the kitchen as normal, lounging on the squishy sofa, with his feet propped up on a low stool and a book in his hand. Thank god he’s not got the bloke from London cuddled up next to him. On initial impressions, Billy-Ray’s death doesn’t appear to have hit him too badly. Not if he can sit there, cool as a cucumber, reading a novel. I’m so enthralled, it takes me a moment to notice the ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts, the empty vodka bottles stacked in a careless heap next to the bin, or the mess in the sink. I just grin like a village idiot at him, and he regards me coolly back, his eyes glassy. And I still don’t bloody catch on.

“Hello, Lady Louisa. You look nice.”

He puts the book down, saying nothing, so I feel the need to qualify. Having never really made a direct reference to his unusual attire before, I hope I haven’t offended him.

“You know I like you in a dress. You should have worked that out by now.”

“It’s not a dress,” he corrects waspishly. “It’s a dressing gown.”

“And very fetching it looks, too, Dr Avery.”

I chance a grin. The memory of our fucking amazing kiss and his dirty talk in the office has my dick swelling, and perhaps whatever mood he’s in, I can charm him out of it so I get a repeat performance, and maybe more.

“Feel free to fuck off, Dr Sorrentino,” he responds coolly.

He’s speaking in a very clipped, precise way, as though every word is an effort. His eyes are pale blue chips of ice as he silently appraises me. He hardly ever swears, unlike me. Fuck, this conversation isn’t going how I planned at all. Perhaps he is really upset by Billy-Ray dying, although it was a few days ago now, and it’s a sad occupational hazard that patients come and patients go, even unusual, interesting ones. I try again.

“No, I really mean it. The nightie also. It’s…it’s kind of hot.” And bizarrely, I truly mean it.

The dressing gown is rose-pink and fluffy, possibly cashmere. I’ve never seen him wear it before; it’s a very expensive-looking version of something my nan would buy. Underneath, he’s sporting a full-length white cotton nightie with fancy lace detailing around the neckline and little pale-pink satiny ribbons weaving in and out of the lacework. Both items of clothing chastely reach down to his ankles. Just visible through the gap at his sternum is the ubiquitous rope of pearls, and he fingers them almost constantly. Not that I noticed that either, until it was too late. His narrow feet are bare, his toenails painted midnight-blue. Oh, and he’s wearing black eyeliner and a pearly-pink lip gloss. The diamond earring glints at me.

Why the hell am I finding this whole eccentric package so bloody enticing? When this is all over, when he’s clocked that I’m a confused idiot and moves on, I’m going to need to book myself in for counselling or something because this stuff is way too deep for me.

“Are you a tranny?” I ask, pretty bravely, actually, considering this is Dr Avery.

I’ve finally caught on. He’s not in the best of moods, to put it mildly. Perhaps his night out went badly. Lady Louisa is in hiding, and the sweet, shy sixteenth earl has definitely gone AWOL somewhere on the vast estate. My best option would be to have a quick cup of tea, offer consolation over the death of Billy-Ray, make my excuses, and go, leaving him to his grump. Suddenly sitting forwards, he glares at me, trying to decipher if I’m laughing at him. I’m not, far from it. He’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever encountered, whatever he wears.

“No, Jay. I just like putting on a nightie every now and again. I’d rather you didn’t label me. And you should know that ‘tranny’ isn’t very PC. You are not allowed to use words like that these days.”

That clipped, deliberate voice once more, every word dripping ice. And still, I don’t give up, even though something is clearly wrong. Maybe that Jules geezer is upstairs, maybe they’ve had a row, maybe he’s being odd because he wants me to go, maybe…

“Does wearing a nightie turn you on?”

Christ, what has got into me today? It’s like I’m on my knees and begging for the firing squad to point every single gun at me, whereas right now, I should be running for my life. I’m on the cusp of apologising for asking such an intrusive, embarrassing question, before banging my head against the nearest brick wall, when he responds.

“Do you want to find out?”

Do I want to put my head in the lion’s mouth? Run, Jay, run, and don’t look back.

He leans back into the sofa again, seemingly challenging me, although his eyes are a little unfocussed. With one hand, he carelessly fondles himself through the white cotton. Fuck. I want Lady Louisa; I want the sixteenth earl. I’m not sure I’m man enough to handle Dr Avery. My dick is thinking independently of my brain, however, and I make an effort to take control of the situation.

“Yeah, all right then. Come and join me over here.”

For a second I think that he might; it appears as though he’s about to lift himself up off the sofa. But then he sighs heavily, as if even the effort of that simple movement is beyond him. Without warning, his face suddenly crumples, and covering it with his hands, he emits a wild, anguished sound, somewhere between a sob and a hiccough, a hopeless, animalistic cry of despair as he rocks on the sofa.

“He’s dead, Jay,” he moans, his face hidden in his hands. “He’s fucking dead, and I wasn’t there. I promised him I’d be there, Jay.”

The clipped voice has gone and in its place are slurred words, rolling into one another, and tears—hopeless, despairing tears—run freely down his beautiful face. I’m over on the sofa with him in two strides and sweep him into my arms. He clutches at me desperately, and even though he stinks of booze and fags and stale sweat, I kiss his hair, his eyes, his wet mouth, rocking him, whispering that everything will be okay because I really want to make it okay for him.

Lucien even cries elegantly; after that initial outburst, there are no more ugly sobs, no snotty nose. Just glittering tears endlessly falling down those pale cheeks, and if licking them off wouldn’t freak him out, then I would, because I’m so desperate to taste him, all of him. Eventually, he falls into an exhausted, restless sleep, still cradled in my arms. Typically, he doesn’t snore either.

He wakes about four hours later, his head nestled in my lap, and blinks up at me blearily. I’ve not sat there gazing at him the whole time, although it would have been easy to do so. Instead, I cleaned up the mess, stripped his bed sheets, and nipped out for some food.

“You smell like a camel’s arse,” I say when he’s fully awake. I pet his hair anyway.

Smiling sadly, he closes his eyes with a heavy sigh. “I suppose a shag’s out of the question then?”

I persuade him to take a shower, hovering anxiously behind as he wobbles into the bathroom on legs that threaten to collapse beneath him. We establish that he last ate solid food in London on Friday evening and has existed on a diet of fags and vodka since. As I adjust the shower controls, he slips out of his dressing gown, and I avert my eyes as I help him lift the nightie above his head and off. Ensuring the door remains unlocked, I leave him to it and lay out an almost replica clean set of soft nightwear I found in a drawer. As far as I can see, he has an endless supply.

Clean and dressed, he pleases me by obediently swallowing down two slices of toast with marmite and a glass of orange juice. Watching him chew, working the pearls with his fingers the whole time, I decide that now is not a good moment to discuss his food issues. Or nag him that he should have called me the minute he found out about Billy-Ray. Or ask him about his night in London. Or tell him how much I think I love him. Instead, I lead him back to the sofa.