Chapter Twelve

Jay

“What the fuck, Jay-Jay? Your sister told Ellie, who told Paula, who told me, that you took Lucien Avery home to meet your parents on Sunday??!!! WTF? I am seriously concerned re your mental health at the moment. CALL ME!”

*

My parents live on the edge of a little town about an hour’s drive north of Allenmouth. They moved there from Wolverhampton a couple of years ago to be nearer my eldest sister, who has kids, and to be closer to the static caravan they keep on the Welsh coast.

We’re both fairly subdued in the car, content to mostly listen to the radio. Lucien’s trying not to show it, but I’d hurt him earlier in the week when I’d backed off in his office. My feelings for him are spiralling out of control. I thought having a few days space might help me work out whether it’s the newness of a male relationship or the fact that it’s Lucien making my stomach churn and my head spin. Seeing him today after a few days break, seeing his cautious pointy smile and hearing his fluttery voice, I have my answer.

“I like your tattoo of the red kites,” I say after a while. Pleasant daydreams about his bare chest have led to, well, even pleasanter daydreams about the sexy stuff. I’m half hard as usual in his presence and adjust myself discreetly. “I forgot to tell you at the weekend. It’s cute.”

“Thank you,” he replies, genuinely pleased. “Oliver and I had matching one’s done when I was about eighteen. We were on holiday in Greece. Our mother was absolutely furious when she spotted them, but my father just laughed. Next thing we knew, he went and got himself one too. Talk about world war three kicking off.”

He smiles to himself at the happy memories. It’s a real step forwards that he can reminisce without the telltale catch in his voice, or the pauses, the swallows. I take hold of his hand and keep it in my lap.

I’m cross with myself that I should care but secretly relieved Lucien has settled for one of his conservative Dr Avery outfits, and his face is bare of make-up. It shouldn’t matter what he wears, but somehow it does. Yet even like this, he’s extraordinary—ethereal and unworldly. The pearls are tucked away on the inside. I spot the outline of them under his soft shirt. Part of me wants to stop the car, undo the buttons on that shirt, and see them against his pale skin, run my hand over his smooth chest and… I need to get a grip.

“So let me get this straight,” he says out of nothing. “You fancied men for a while, and then when you finally plucked up the nerve to do something about it, you chose the week before your wedding.”

I nod, slightly irritated. I’ve told him this already. The problem with car conversations is the captive audience. Unless I hurl myself through the door at seventy miles per hour, killing myself and most likely Lucien, too, there is no escape.

“Thanks, Lucien, for bringing up my disastrous last couple of months. I was just thinking how pleasant this journey was.”

Ignoring me, he carries on, happily covering old ground. “After sucking my cock, your suspicions that you’d changed teams were confirmed, so you did the right thing and called off the wedding, alienating your friends, family, and your bride.” He pauses. “Yet you still haven’t given anyone a reason as to why you suddenly developed cold feet.”

I nod again.

“So, when are you going to tell them?” he asks, not unreasonably.

“Not today,” I reply firmly. “Look, I hadn’t expected to meet you, had I? After the episode in the club, I cancelled the wedding and assumed I’d have months, years even, to sort it through myself, and when all the furore had died down, maybe find someone. Perhaps a shy, naïve gay bloke like me, with a flat in town and a cat, and we’d gently bond over our shared love of Arsenal or something. Instead, I bloody walk into you and your fabulous craziness, scarcely a week later!”

A glance over and he’s looking directly ahead and stifling a laugh. We’re only ten minutes from my parents’ house, a three-bedroom semi on a neat suburban housing estate. Why the hell did I invite him again? A spur-of-the-moment impulse I hope I don’t regret.

“By the way,” I say, “my granny will be there too. She has been diagnosed with early dementia and is very sweet, but don’t let her make you a cup of tea. The last one I had, she put Gaviscon in instead of milk.”

“I like peppermint-flavoured tea.”

“God, don’t tell my dad that. He’s a red-blooded, unreconstructed male.”

I’m obviously tensing up the closer we get because Lucien gives my hand a reassuring squeeze.

“Just relax, darling,” he says. “I’m a well-brought-up boy, and I’m looking forward to meeting your family. And if conversation veers towards you being nagged about the wedding, then I’ll do something distracting.”

Oh fuck, that could be anything. I hardly know this man, not really. What if he calls me darling in front of my dad? Yep, that would be distracting. And what if they ask him personal questions, just making conversation about his background and things? He related the tattoo story quite happily, but what if something triggers him, and he becomes upset?

“And my folks, well, um…we’re very ordinary, very working class. My dad’s a builder, and my mum’s a school dinner lady.”

Lucien leans across, far enough to give me a peck on the cheek. “Believe it or not, my family were pretty ordinary too. No, don’t scoff, they were! Obviously, we were stinking rich and had the estate and everything, but I’d describe the four of us as pretty normal when we were alone. It wasn’t all cream teas on the lawn and croquet, you know. My parents argued sometimes, Oliver and I bickered a lot when we were bored. We had family holidays where we played Monopoly if it rained, albeit in a very swanky location, and during term time, my mum nagged us about schoolwork. We occasionally ran out of milk and teabags; I got told off when I left my dirty rugby boots lying around, or if I forgot my please and thank-yous. You know, normal life stuff.”

He stops abruptly and looks out of the window. I say nothing and squeeze his hand a little tighter.

I’d prewarned everyone I was bringing a friend, so Lucien isn’t a surprise, and I was right surmising his presence would provide a useful foil. My parents and I haven’t been face to face since my unhappy phone call announcing the wedding was off. Most of our communication since has been perfunctory. My mum is convinced I’ve temporarily developed cold feet, and by the time I’ve sold the house will regret it forever and will want Ellie back. As well as being extremely fond of Ellie, they’re out of pocket financially, too, as they contributed to the cost of the wedding reception. It’s money they can ill afford to lose, although I’ll pay them back out of my share after we sell the house.

A complete fuck up all round, to be honest, so thank heavens for my muddled granny, oblivious to the whole fiasco. With open arms and a whiskery kiss, she greets me like the prodigal son. As does my two-year-old niece, who is here with one of my sisters and has taken a shine to Lucien. They say babies naturally gravitate towards pretty things.

My dad is quiet and seems to be the only one not gravitating towards Lucien. He’s a good, decent, family man. My grandad came over from Italy after the war, with barely a penny to his name, and between him and his brother, they built up a little family building business which my dad took over when he left school. Having had their financial ups and downs, as they head towards retirement, my folks are proud to own their own house and see four kids grown and financially independent.

As the first family member to go to university, a big deal at the time, I’ve made my dad very happy over the years. Less so recently, for obvious reasons. With three older sisters, I was the golden boy he always wanted. Throughout my childhood, his evenings and weekends were spent ferrying me about, to football practice in the winter and cricket in the summer. Next year, he’s stopping work for good, and I think he was looking forward to seeing me do those things with his grandchildren too. While my mum gave me a tearful bollocking after I called off the wedding, he’s been mostly silent, which in some ways is much worse.

My mum’s Sunday roast, with all the trimmings, is as delicious as always, and I’m gratified to observe Lucien eat a decent amount, although he politely declines her apple pie, a big error in my opinion. Conversation around the table never strays far from neutral topics, made easier when a cute toddler steals the limelight. She insists on climbing onto Lucien’s lap, and he seems perfectly content to have her there, even if she does smear ice cream all over one of his YSL silk shirts. As my nosy sister quizzes him about work, he’s charming company, deftly steering the conversation away from the personal, much to her suppressed irritation. I’ve brought colleagues home before—we’re often at a loose end if one of our partners is also a shift worker, although they’re usually blokes like me, clad in jeans and a rugby shirt—beer drinkers happy to argue about the recent purchases in the footie transfer window. If my sister is curious, she politely hides it.

After dinner, when we’re all mucking in to clear up, my granny corners Lucien in the kitchen.

“I’ve got a present for you,” she announces proudly, beaming up at him from behind her bottle-top glasses, her rheumy eyes magnified.

“Oh, yes?” smiles Lucien indulgently.

She ferrets around in the pocket of her housecoat. “Here it is. A handsome young man like you must have a pretty girl at home to give presents to.”

Their exchange garners curious attention from both my parents. There’s nothing overtly camp about Lucien’s demeanour or mannerisms, particularly dressed as conservatively as he is. But there is something far too pretty about him which begs the question. Too graceful. My parents aren’t especially homophobic, as far as I’m aware, and they’ve made Lucien feel very welcome, but it’s just not what they would hope for their son. Hence the sudden interest in my granny’s offering. Which saddens me as I’m all set to disappoint them massively. I’m still me, I want to shout. I’m still Jay, who loves his footie, who looks after his sisters, who has made them all proud. The disappointment won’t happen today anyhow; I’m not ready.

Lucien holds out his hand for whatever trinket my grandmother thrusts into his open palm. Last time she gave me a gift it was a lint-covered Werther’s Original, which looked as if it had spent three years lurking at the bottom of her handbag. Peering dubiously over his shoulder, I see a pair of pretty pink plastic hairclips, the sort of cheap tat my youngest sister used to spend her pocket money on in Superdrug. He studies them carefully, his lips pursed, clearly wondering how to respond. All eyes are on him; you could have heard a pin drop. Or a hair clip.

“So, Lucien,” prods my mother as casually as she can manage. “Have you? You never said. Is there a girl waiting at home for you?”

Lucien glances at me for a moment and then at his audience. I’ve broken into a cold sweat; it suddenly feels like his answer is of utmost importance. I’m so not ready for the big coming out; I’m truly not. Not yet. Casting his gaze back down at the hairclips and then up again at my sweet, batty granny, he slowly smiles.

“I have actually. Thank you so much; they’re very lovely. I think Louisa will be delighted with them, don’t you, Jay?”

The tension in the room evaporates, and my mother reaches for her tea towel once more.

I risk a wink at him. “She certainly will, Luce. I think she’ll look beautiful wearing them.”

*

After lunch, we watch football on the telly with my dad, during which Lucien gamely pretends an interest in the fate of Wolverhampton Wanderers. My dad’s already engaged him in an in-depth discussion about carpentry, and Lucien had obviously been paying attention when I fixed his panelling as he stood up well to the gentle scrutiny and covert assessment of his manliness. He even countered by asking if my dad had any recommendations for specialist sash window companies, which pleased me as there is an absolute gale blowing through our bedroom at Rossingley.

Our bedroom. Now I am truly getting ahead of myself. My bedroom is currently the eight-foot by four-foot box room in Ellie’s and my little terrace, in which I can scarcely turn around without bumping into something. My feet hang off the end of the camp bed. The best night’s sleep I’ve had in two months was at Lucien’s, even with him clinging onto me all night like a barnacle and then chaining me at dawn to the bedpost. And his feet are bloody freezing.

At half time, my dad sends me on a pot of tea errand to the kitchen, which was most definitely prearranged as my mum and sister conveniently seem to be lying in wait for me.

“How’s Ellie getting on, Jay?” asks my sister, giving me a shrewd look and not wasting any time.

“She’s…she’s okay,” I reply, reaching into the fridge for the milk. “Well, as okay as can be expected. Failing her exams on top of everything else was less than ideal, obviously. She’d be much better if someone would put in an offer on the house so we could both move forwards a bit.”

“Give her our love, won’t you? I don’t want her to think we’ve forgotten about her.”

I hear a sniff and turn to see my mum has a tissue pressed to her nose. Christ, just what I need. My sister jerks her head, indicating to me to do something about it. With a sigh, I go over and pat her shoulder.

“Look, I’ve said I’m sorry, and I really, really am. But…but I just couldn’t bloody go through with it, okay? I made a mess of things, and I’m sorry.”

She brings her hand up and squeezes my fingers. “I know you are, love. But me and your dad, we’re struggling to understand it, that’s all.”

Tears are rolling steadily down her cheeks, and my sister produces another tissue. “We’re going out of our minds with worrying about you,” she sobs.

God, I hate myself for upsetting my lovely mum so much. I’ll carry the guilt for the rest of my days.

“You look so tired,” she continues, shaking her head. “And Ellie’s so lovely. You seemed so happy together. Is it something she did that you won’t tell us?”

“God, no. Definitely not. Ellie’s done nothing wrong.”

I kneel on the floor, put both arms around her, and hug her familiar heaving body close. “Please don’t worry about me, Mum,” I beg, throwing my sister a pleading look. “I’m fine, honestly. I’ve just got a lot on. It will all blow over; we’ll get the house sold, and I’ll pay you back and…”

“It’s not about the money, Jay,” she sobs. “It’s you. We can’t understand you, that’s all.”

“I said I’m fine—please stop worrying. Let’s talk about something else.” I search around for a topic, anything at all. “Tell me how Aunty Lorna’s getting on after her hip operation.”

*

We take our leave when the football match ends, my mother insisting Lucien has his share of the apple pie in a Tupperware for later. Ten minutes down the road, I breathe a sigh of relief and look across at him to find he’s sporting the two pink hairclips in his short blond fringe and attempting to keep a straight face. I snort with laughter.

“Do you think they fell for it, Louisa?” I laugh, trying to concentrate on the road and not on the ridiculous vision of loveliness next to me.

He shrugs. “Probably not. Pull over.”

We’re on a quiet stretch of road that I know well, and a little farther along, I pull into the carpark leading to Allen Downs, a patch of heathland popular with dogwalkers. At this time of evening with the light fading, the carpark is empty. I kill the engine.

“Why have we stopped?” I ask, unfastening my seatbelt.

“So I can do this,” he answers and, leaning across, kisses me deeply. “I couldn’t wait any longer.”

Kissing across the front seats in a dark car is an underrated pleasure. We do it some more until, eventually, he pulls away.

“Listen, Jay. Let me tell you what I think, now that I’ve met them all.” He rests his hand lightly in mine, twisting in his seat so he’s facing me.

“First of all, you’re lucky, you know? You’ve got a really nice family back there, who all care for you. They might not be the most expressive, but there was so much love across that dining table, and most of it was directed at you. You’ve made a decision they can’t understand, mostly because you haven’t told them your reasons, and they are obviously desperately worried about you. Perhaps that worry and frustration has been coming over as anger whereas, actually, everyone is feeling hurt and upset. They’re not angry at all.”

I sigh. He’s right. Of course, he’s right. I realised that when my mother collared me in the kitchen. “But how can I tell them the truth? I’m dreading it as I’ll upset them all over again. I can live with them being disappointed when they find out I’m gay—that’s their problem not mine. And I’m not going to get all worked up if their attitude isn’t perfectly PC—I’m too old to care about that, and they’re too old to change. But I hate being a cause of all this worry when they have done so much for me. When I’m not calling off weddings, we’re all very close, and I want to stay that way. Initiating a conversation about being gay will be awful beyond words.”

Lucien frowns, a small vertical line appearing between his eyebrows. “And that’s the only aspect of the whole situation that annoys me.”

My confusion probably shows on my face as he carries on. “The only reason you should ever feel obliged to offer, to explain your actions, is that you realised Ellie wasn’t right for you. That marrying her wouldn’t have been fair on yourself or her. And you’ve done that already. Sure, it would have been a hell of a lot easier if you’d reached that conclusion slightly sooner, but at least you did it before you tied the knot and not after several years of married misery together.”

He reaches up and tucks an errant clump of curly hair behind my ear. “I’m proud of you for having the balls to stand up and call the whole thing off when you did. Not everyone would have been brave enough to do that.”

I still don’t get it. “So why does that make you angry?”

“What makes me angry is that one day in the future, you think you will have to stroll into your parents’ home, or your friends’ houses, or the anaesthetic department, and announce that you are gay. And then suck up people’s reaction to it. As if you almost have to declare and then apologise for being in a minority group. When your sister was seventeen, she didn’t sit your parents down in the kitchen and declare that she was heterosexual, did she? She didn’t come out to her friends one night and confess that she fancied men? Just as my brother, Oliver, didn’t have to advertise to the world that he was straight. Frankly, whomever you choose to have sex with, whether male or female, is no one’s business but yours.”

I didn’t peg Lucien as much of a defender of gay rights, and he probably isn’t, but he’s certainly passionate enough about this on my behalf. And it’s kind of wonderful. “So what should I do then?”

He shrugs. “Nothing. You do nothing. You repeat the absolute truth—that marriage to Ellie wasn’t right for you, you are deeply sorry you arrived at that conclusion so close to the wedding itself, and then you carry on. And sometime in the future, if you bring a boy home like you did today, and happen to hold his hand like a straight couple might do, or discuss your holiday plans together like a straight couple might do, then they can draw their own conclusions, can’t they? But you don’t need to explain yourself, or warn people—Hey, guys, just a head’s up. I’m gay, okay?—because straight people don’t, so neither should you. Being gay doesn’t define you; it’s just a part of you. And having said all that, you never know, they might surprise you with their response. As I said at the start, your family love you very much.”

Resting my head back, I momentarily close my eyes. I’m so glad I took Lucien with me today. But I’m weary; the whole saga is dragging me down. I could sleep for a week. When I open them again, he’s still looking at me intently, those pale-blue eyes imbued with warmth.

“The hair clips suit you, Louisa.”

“They’d go better with one of my nighties, though, don’t you agree? Perhaps the cream satin?”

I reach down to the button at the side of my seat, and it silently starts moving backwards. “Get your skinny arse over here; I need a cuddle.”

Audi bucket seats are not designed to be shared by two tall blokes, especially when one of them is as beefy as me and the other has endlessly long legs. Somehow, I get him sandwiched in my lap sideways on, wedged between me and the steering wheel, those slender limbs stretched out on the passenger seat.

“Maybe the other way around would have been easier?” he questions as his head bumps against the interior roof. “Or, call me unadventurous, but waited until we got home?” Even with the seat fully reclined, his neck is at a less than ideal angle.

I shake my head. “I can’t wait. I needed you on me now.” A flush starts at my neck. His solid weight in my lap is soothing after my emotional afternoon.

“I like you above me and over me. Covering me.” His hands start reaching under my shirt. “I thought…um…I thought that I’d be the one, you know, always on top or whatever. But actually, I want to be underneath you just as much.” My face turns scarlet; I so wish I hadn’t confessed that. I still haven’t told him what I really want, but he’s probably guessed by now. And anyway, I don’t need any more words.

His soft mouth slants down onto mine, and closing my eyes, I let him kiss my worries away, ravaging my mouth until I’ve pretty much forgotten how to speak. My hand snakes automatically up his lean thigh until I encounter the warm heat of his shaft through the denim. I begin to undo his belt. Despite shagging his arse, being tied up by him and, sweet Jesus, being rimmed by him, I’ve yet to properly touch his cock.

“I feel about sixteen,” he jokes, easing his arse up so I can loosen his chinos.

“I don’t care,” I growl. “I’ve been wanting to touch you all afternoon. It’s been bloody murder.”

“Yes, you were eyeing me rather hungrily over dinner, as though you couldn’t choose between me or the huge slab of beef on your plate.”

“Shit, do you think anyone noticed?”

“Who knows? But from what I’ve seen, the way they looked at us—your dad particularly—I think they can guess at the reason. And I think they’ll be okay with it. Maybe not overnight but given time.”

“I don’t want to talk about my parents while I’ve got your knob in my hand.”

I take the weight of it in my palm, a fine satiny layer of skin enveloping a steel kernel, before rubbing my thumb gently over the slit. Already wet with pre-come, I add to it by spitting into my palm. Slowly sliding my hand down the shaft elicits a sweet hitch in Lucien’s breath. He’s a mostly silent lover compared to me—he extracts all manner of embarrassing sounds out of me—so even this sharp intake of breath feels like a reward.

There’s no room to do anything more than this in the car, but I don’t mind because kissing fully clothed in the dark and giving him this simple hand job is strangely as intimate as anything we’ve done so far. He fucks into the channel of my fist as his soft lips find mine, and after he comes, spilling over my fingers with a breathy sigh, I bring my hand to my mouth and lick up every drop.