Chapter Fourteen

Jay

My night out with Evan and Ellie and the gang is a trial to be endured. I know Evan means well, and I appreciate the gesture. He’s trying to bring me back into the fold, and a part of him is still hoping that if we carry on as normal, then everything will just slip back to how it was before.

I feel like I’m on a treadmill, with scarcely enough time to get off and take a piss, let alone time to breathe deeply and make sensible plans for my future. Evan’s demands for his birthday celebration are the least of my worries, to be honest. Night shifts take their toll, and I’ve been doing shedloads of them recently as I’m paying people back for all the swaps I arranged for the wedding and the honeymoon. And Ellie doesn’t make my night work easier. While she’s not deliberately being noisy during the day, when I’m trying to catch a few hours’ sleep, she’s certainly not going out of her way to tiptoe around quietly in consideration of the bloke who’s monumentally fucked up her life. As if I could sleep properly, anyway, on the camp bed in the spare room. I’m convinced it’s a major contributor to my daily backache.

And yes, while on the subject of Ellie—another huge fucking row tonight. It had been bubbling under all week, as I missed the appointment with the conveyancing solicitor thanks to an overrunning emergency case in the operating theatre. I hadn’t made the rescheduled appointment the next day, either, due to Billy-Ray’s funeral, and then she’d demanded to know my whereabouts when I was in London. I’d been suitably vague, and she’d accused me of trying to deliberately sabotage the house-selling process.

Tears and undignified shouting followed, and that was just me. I’m so on the edge right now, I could fucking scream. To top it all, my sister phones just as I’m claiming five-minutes peace and heading for a quick shower. All I’m asking for is five fucking minutes standing under a hot jet of water and letting it spray over my aching back and pounding head, but I end up getting thirty seconds. As far as I can tell, the whole point of the conversation is to lecture me for the hundredth time how I’ve disappointed and upset my mum. No one apart from Lucien gives two fucks as to how I’m feeling right now.

I sink miserably into the back of the taxi, head still pounding and Ellie by my side, giving me the silent treatment. There is so much tension radiating from both of us that the taxi driver swiftly abandons his cheery chat and turns up the radio. From her tearstained face, she’s clearly as miserable as I am. And it’s all my fault, of course, as everyone is only too pleased to keep reminding me. Closing my eyes, I rest my head back and let my thoughts drift to Lucien, the only bright spot in my otherwise exhausting daily whirl. And I haven’t even got time for him either. I wonder what he’s doing right now, and I imagine him elegantly sprawled on that big squashy sofa in his cosy kitchen, sipping his beloved Campari while expertly completing the Telegraph crossword. I hope he’s eaten properly. I’d give my right arm to be cuddled on that sofa with him, snuggling into his fluffy pink dressing gown, instead of in this cab with this lovely girl who hates me, and spending the next four hours with a group of people who think I’m a fucking idiot.

Our whirlwind midweek trip to London had been a far too brief happy hiatus. Lucien’s London is very different to mine, very different to most people’s, I imagine. His Mayfair home is extraordinarily grand. A housekeeper had stocked the fridge and prepared a light supper, and a concierge service had ensured we had the best window seats on the fifty-second floor of the Shard reserved for whenever we chose to arrive.

When this is all over, when Lucien has twigged that I’m a ten-a-penny ordinary bloke from Wolverhampton, living on my own in a grotty flat above a chip shop, I’ll slot that night away in my memory as a perfect treasure, bringing it out only very rarely, examining it for flaws and forever finding it flawless. Because that night was when I realised, in amongst all the madness I’ve created, I’d fallen hopelessly, dangerously, gloriously in love with Dr Lucien Avery, the sixteenth Earl of Rossingley. He’s spoiled me entirely for whichever man comes along after him. None will compare to his grace, his beauty, his wicked charm, his childlike delight in my oversized body, and his utter, utter sweetness.

There are certain districts in London where anything goes, and no one takes a second look. Not at two men, arm in arm, sauntering down a busy street, not even when one of the men is so head-turningly beautiful that my heart undergoes an alarming series of palpitations every time he leans up to kiss me.

He’d predictably pinched his cousin’s ridiculous sparkly Converse and paired them with skinny white jeans and a fitted navy silk shirt, the pearls tucked safely inside. His eyes were made up with black kohl, and his fingernails matched. The overall effect was jaw-droppingly stunning; next to him I felt lumpy and provincial in my jeans and soft flannel checked shirt.

Banishing all thoughts of inferiority, I’d made up my mind to enjoy every second of it as we took our seats in the intimate booth. Lucien persuaded me to have an alarmingly purple-coloured whisky and blueberry-based cocktail, while he had a fancy margarita, the exclusive tequila apparently distilled from agaves that had been crushed between the thighs of fifty Mexican virgins or some such shit. Both of our glasses had way too many swizzle sticks and umbrellas; if my dad could have seen me, he’d have had a bloody fit. I’m not sure the gaudiness was quite Lucien’s cup of tea either, but he reckoned Billy-Ray would have loved it, and we raised a bittersweet toast to him.

One cocktail had turned into three, and Lucien insisted I was the most handsome man in the room, even though my lips and tongue had turned purple and I looked as out of place as a pimp in a nunnery amongst all the glamorous fashionistas, Lucien being the most glamorous by far. Then back home, back to the mansion and the extraordinary wealth he wears so lightly. We stripped each other and dived into bed—black silk sheets no less, the kinky bugger. He did that simple thing I love, and of which I’ll never tire, lying on top of me and kissing me to distraction, rubbing his cock against mine, smothering me in his scent and his long lean beauty. We could have lain on a bed of sacking for all I cared.

He’s surprised me because, having had a hint of his kinkiness already and peeked at the surreal contents of his bedside drawer, he’s prepared to carry on with the vanilla until I’m ready for more. And in my turn, I managed to surprise him because, in the early hours of next morning, I woke him with my lips around his cock, wearing nothing but a pink feather boa and a purplish smile.

Of all the fucking restaurants in all of Allenmouth Evan could have chosen to celebrate his birthday, he had to choose the Indian one I’d memorably visited with Lucien. The gang meet for drinks at the pub opposite, and I’m greeted reasonably cordially on the whole. A couple of the guys can’t resist remarking that they are astonished I’ve turned up instead of pulling out at the last minute, but apart from that, the snarky comments are kept to a minimum. We’ll see how everyone behaves a few pints down the line. I console myself with the knowledge that this is the last time I’ll ever have to do this. Ellie can keep our mutual friends; it’s the least I can do for her under the circumstances. I’ve just got to get through tonight.

There are ten of us altogether, made up of five conventional, heterosexual couples, and we enter the restaurant two at a time, like bloody Noah’s ark. Ellie and I bring up the rear. A man on his way out patiently holds the door open for us, a takeaway carrier bag under his arm, and I unthinkingly steer Ellie through ahead of me, with one hand lightly at her back. We’ve reached an uneasy détente for the sake of Evan’s birthday celebration, and she’s actually smiling at something I say as we make our way in. Looking up to thank the door holder, I find my gaze locked onto a pair of beautiful pale-blue eyes that I know better than my own. My gorgeous, my fabulous, my very best man.

Visibly stunned, his own gaze flits between Ellie and me, a brief look of shock and pain crossing his refined features as he registers the apparent closeness between us, the final link in the caterpillar of happy coupledom blithely holding up his exit. Though as quickly as the look appears, it vanishes, and a blank mask descends. I’m not so cool.

“Shit… Hi, Lucien. Hi…” I tail off as he gives me a polite nod.

“Hello, Jay.”

His tone is cool and crisp; he’s summoned up the Dr Avery persona that strikes fear in our surgical and anaesthesia colleagues alike. Ellie is already through the door, and I grab his wrist as he leaves.

“Fuck, Luce. It’s not what you think… Luce, wait.”

I don’t know what it is about exceedingly posh folk. Perhaps it’s being raised by nannies and boarding schools. But fuck me, they’re tough when they need to be, especially in public. The only sign that all is not well is the tightness of his grip on the plastic bag, his knuckles even whiter than normal. He looks at me as if we’re barely acquaintances, let alone lovers, and pulls his wrist away angrily.

“Please don’t do that,” he bites out at me icily. “Go back to your friends and your girl; enjoy your evening and don’t cause a scene.”

How can he be so fucking calm? Realising I’m no longer at her heels, Ellie eyes us curiously from the doorway. Lucien looks over my shoulder and nods at her politely.

“Good evening.” He smiles, and she gives him a faint smile in exchange. He returns his focus back to me.

“Enjoy your meal, and I’ll no doubt see you in the department sometime next week,” he says brightly for Ellie’s benefit. With a final half wave, he turns and walks briskly away down the street. I watch him go, deliberating whether to follow.

“Come on, Jay. It’s bloody freezing out here,” she moans from the door, and I hesitate before reluctantly following her inside.

“Are you all right?” she asks as an afterthought, looking at me as if for the first time. “You look white as a sheet.”

I mumble something about tiredness, scarcely able to speak as I trail after her. The single pint I had in the pub threatens to reappear; my heart pounds. I need to see him, I need to explain, he needs to know the truth.

“That was that weirdo Dr Avery, wasn’t it?” says Rob, one of the surgical trainees, as we arrange ourselves around a big table.

“I didn’t think vampires ate curry,” remarks someone else to a chorus of laughter.

“Freak. He’s fucking stalking you, Jay-Jay,” laughs Evan, clapping me loudly on the back.

Whatever appetite I might have had has completely disappeared. I order at random and sit in a miserable silence as my friends raucously chatter around me. The food takes forever to arrive, and when it does, I pick at a poppadum, the texture turning to cardboard in my mouth, and I struggle to swallow it down. The broken pieces mock me on my plate. I can’t make out any distinguishable country shapes, and there is no way I can contemplate eating a bloody curry.

Standing suddenly, clumsily pushing back my chair, all eyes turn to me as I throw down some money onto the table. “Sorry, Evan, I’m not feeling so good,” I announce apologetically. “I think I’m going to have to head off early.”

Everyone shows polite concern. Privately, they will no doubt put this down to more evidence of my recent bout of insanity, and I know I’ll be the topic of conversation once I’ve gone. I don’t give a shit. I’m out the door, flag down a cab, and head back home to pick up my own car.

*

Rossingley is swathed in darkness, the only sign of life a dim glow from the kitchen window. I knock loudly and push the door open before waiting for a reply. As if expecting me, Lucien sits at the kitchen table, primly dressed in his floor-length white cotton nightie, his pearls nestled against his chest. The curry is still in the bag, unopened next to him, and he glances up at me from the newspaper, raising his eyebrows.

“Don’t you have a party to attend?”

“Don’t you have a curry to eat?” I counter, nodding at the bag.

He turns a page, frowning slightly. “I rather lost my appetite.”

“So did I.”

I pull up a chair next to him, and we sit in silence for a few moments, his expression unreadable.

“Luce…I…”

“Please, don’t speak. I have something I need to say to you first.”

He carefully pushes the newspaper aside and contemplates me, his eyes roaming all over my face as if memorising me. He brings my fingers to his lips, holding my hand loosely in his cooler, slimmer one. With his other hand, he fingers his pearls. When he finally speaks, his clear voice is low and fluttery.

“I’m afraid I can’t be your bit on the side.”

Oh my God. I pull my hand away angrily. No, no, no, not now. Fuck, he can’t do this to me, he fucking can’t. “Is that how you perceive yourself?” I respond incredulously. “Because it’s bloody ridiculous if you do.” Almost shouting, I kick back my chair so I’m standing over him.

“No, but I need to be certain that isn’t how you perceive me,” he replies steadily.

He’s too classy to come out and accuse me of cheating on him. Of stringing him along. He’ll never scream and shout and demand to know what the hell I was doing on a couples night out with my ex-fiancée. I get that, but how the hell can the fucker sit there so calmly as he politely cleaves my world in two?

“Jesus, Luce, have you been paying any attention these last few months?” I rub my face in my hands and close my eyes. Dizziness washes through me, and I clutch tightly to the back of the chair to steady myself. Please don’t do this to me, please don’t, I can’t bear it. I’ll beg if I have to, whatever it takes, just don’t do this to me, not now.

He swivels round to regard me, then stands up, and gently taking my hand away from my face, holds it against his chest. “I need to be sure this isn’t the moment for me to be saying goodbye,” he says softly, and my heart silently crumbles.

Tears prick at my eyelids, all the tension, all the stresses, all the aggravation of the last few months threatening to flood out of me. I thought I’d reached rock bottom when I called off the wedding, but now I realise there are even further depths to plummet. Taking a couple of deep breaths in and out, scrunching my eyes up tight, I will myself not to fall apart. Is this it? Did I work up the courage to go to that shitty London club three bloody times to just jack it all in? To allow the most beautiful man in the world to turn his back on me? Did I call time on my straight life, alienating everyone who has ever mattered to me, to cave in without a fight? Am I really going to walk out of here and get back in that car and drive away from the one person who has kept me sane through all the madness?

Not fucking likely. Inhaling deeply, I straighten my shoulders and brush away my tears angrily, not giving them chance to fall.

“Saying goodbye? That’s what you think, Lord fucking Rossingley.”

Before he has a chance to fight it, my arms are around him, and he’s crushed against me, my lips hot on his, my hands gripping him through the thin cotton of the nightdress. He’s stiff in my embrace, but I carry on regardless because he’s not fucking getting away from me. Not ever. He likes all these muscles? Well, he’s got them, and I’m putting them to good use pinning him down. I hope he took a big breath beforehand because I own this fucking kiss.

He may have grasped an inkling that I’ll continue indefinitely if I have to because, finally, thank God, he’s kissing me back. His lips open, his tongue finds mine, his body relaxes against me, his arms slide round my back. Now I have his undivided attention, I pull my mouth away, still holding him tightly.

“It’s my turn to speak, Lucien,” I say fiercely. “And you need to listen very carefully.

“You are not saying goodbye. You’re not going anywhere, and I’ll tell you why. Because I want it all. Everything. I want scary, pissy Dr Lucien Avery. I want the sweet, brave sixteenth Earl of Rossingley; I want the beautiful Lady Louisa. I want to paint your toenails luscious pink velvet for you. I want to paint your fingernails black for you. I want to paint the fucking walls of this stately home for you.”

He giggles softly, a sound I’m planning on hearing every day for the rest of my life. “You make me sound like a DIY project, Jay.”

I stop his words with another searing, brutal kiss. “Shut up and listen; I haven’t finished. I want to do your fucking eyeliner for you. I want to dance in that enormous fucking ballroom with you. I want to watch red kites through those ancient binoculars with you. I want to visit my granny with you. And, Christ, I want you to wrap me up in your pearls and fuck me properly. I want to know how it feels to have you buried deep inside me.”

“Is this while we’re visiting Granny? Gosh, that will be quite the coming out, darling.”

“No, you idiot. But I need you to know I want it all, Lucien Avery. All of it. All of you. Because…because sometimes I think I love you so much I’m going to fucking explode.”

Silence, utter silence. He hasn’t moved an inch. Only the sensation of his warm breath on the side of my neck, his nose brushing against…

“Lucien, are you…are you sniffing me?”

He wriggles in closer, almost climbing up my body. My dick automatically responds, swelling against him, but it’s not about that, not now. This is so much more than lust and sex. Finally, he stirs, limpid blue eyes gazing up at me from under long blond lashes.

“Gosh. Can you say all those things again?” he whispers, then buries his blond head against my chest. I want to hear ‘gosh’ every day for the rest of my life too.

“What, all of it? I hadn’t prepared it or written it down or anything, you know. I just vomited it all out.”

“I’ll settle for the last bit then, darling. That was quite special all on its own.”

I push him away slightly so I can plant a soft kiss on his pale, smooth forehead. “I love you, Lucien. I love you more than I thought possible. You’re not my bit on the side; you never have been. You’re my front and centre. My heart.”

*

Growing up, I was blessed with three older sisters, and I lived with Ellie for a couple of years, so I’ve endured plenty of romcoms in my time. I would even go so far as to say that the extensive oeuvre of Jennifer Aniston could be my specialist subject should I ever be crazy enough to want to appear on Mastermind. So I know, with the closing credits about to roll, it is the turn of the recipient of all those heartfelt declarations of love to return the favour. But then Lucien Avery has never starred in a romcom, and evidently not watched many either, because I get the distinct impression those three little words I’m desperate to hear are not forthcoming. Instead, he turns to the plastic bag on the kitchen table and holds it up to me.

“Do you want to share some of this? I’m guessing you skipped dinner.”

Okay, whatever.

I’m disappointed, to put it mildly, but he knows how I feel about him at least, even if the feelings aren’t mutual. I breathe deeply and frown. “Yeah, sure. But why aren’t you having macaroni cheese?”

“Because a couple of months ago I met a handsome boy, and he gave me the courage to try some new things.”

The sweet, hesitant smile of gratitude that accompanies this statement says more than ‘I love you’ ever could. I get out some plates and cutlery while he reheats the curry in the microwave. I make him a Campari and soda the way I’ve noticed he likes it, and get a glass of water for myself.

“There are a few beers in the fridge for you,” he says shyly. “I wasn’t sure which brand you liked best, so I bought a selection.”

Beer and curry. Yep, I love you is so hackneyed; this man’s declarations of love are pure poetry.

“The beer has a very long use-by date—I checked—so they’ll keep if you don’t get through them all tonight. Obviously, you won’t because you’re driving.”

Had I misheard? Driving? After that little speech, I thought a bed and a shag for the night were pretty much guaranteed. “What the fuck, Luce?”

Smiling gently, he puts down his fork and lays a hand over mine as a stone lands heavily in the pit of my stomach, joining greasy, curdling lumps of chicken korma.

“Jay, listen to me, and see if you can do it without interrupting.”

I immediately open my mouth to interrupt, and he stays me with a finger to my lips, shaking his head firmly. He indicates for me to push my chair back, then climbs onto my lap, slipping his arms around me.

“I’ve been thinking about what I’m going to say for a few days now; although, I confess, seeing you with Ellie threw me completely. Shhh!”

He pauses and plants a kiss on my forehead. “After we’ve finished dinner, you are going to go home. Next week, I’m rescinding my role as your educational supervisor and handing it over to a colleague because our relationship has rather stretched the boundaries of what’s considered professional, to put it mildly. But as your current supervisor, until Monday at any rate, I’m instructing you to have at least eight weeks leave of absence from work.”

“But…”

“No, shush, and listen to me. During that time, you are going to meet solicitors and accountants and do whatever else in the way of paperwork is required to sort out your house and finances. You are then going to help Ellie pack up and ensure she is settled into another place. She deserves every bit of help you can offer, and you are going to do everything in your power to remain friends because she is important to you.

“You are going to use the rest of the time to visit your parents, maybe take your dad to an Arsenal game and take your nieces and nephews out. Talk to your mother; I think she misses you. If you want to tell them that you’re gay, then do so, but the choice is yours; it’s no one’s business but yours. Go and have a few beers with your second-best man and visit the gym or whatever it is you do to keep this delectable physique in such beautiful shape. I will be sending you some interesting medical articles to read, too, because I know you haven’t had time to catch up on reading, and it’s making you anxious.”

I watch him in a daze as he takes a small sip of his drink and wipes the corner of his mouth delicately with an elegant fingertip. “And then, when your life is back on track and you have the space and the time, if you still want me, then I’ll be here waiting for you. You are everything to me, by the way, just in case you didn’t know already.”

Tears trickle down my cheeks, and I hardly notice. It’s that last sentence that did it, slipped in so casually in his whispery, fluttery voice that I might have missed it. You are everything to me.

There is nothing cold about Dr Lucien Avery, whatever people may think. He is the warmest, wisest, most generous man I know. And if giving me the chance to walk away from him when it’s the last thing he wants isn’t a true declaration of his love for me, then I don’t know what is. His care and thoughtfulness are worth a thousand I love yous. Embarrassed, I brush the tears away, but he grabs my hand.

“It’s okay to cry, Jay,” he chides gently. “It’s okay to be upset, especially in front of me. Gosh, you’ve seen me at my worst on several occasions. It’s my turn to be strong for you.”

“But I’ve never taken sick leave; what will people think?”

He waves my concerns away. “Who cares what anyone thinks? It’s okay to admit that things are tough for you. Hey, you’ve called off a wedding, split up with your girl, started a new job, fucked a rather eccentric man, fallen out with family and friends, sold a house—there’ve been enough life events to keep you busy for ten years, for goodness sake!”

“Will you really wait for me, Luce?”

“I promise. If you still want me, I’ll be here. However long it takes. No one else will drink your beer, and I’ve become rather accustomed to warm feet in bed.”