Chapter Five

Reuben

Dear Guillaume,

So, I’ve met the earl’s cousin, and he’s like no one I’ve ever known before. He’s perhaps a couple of years younger than me, but has seen and done so much, and is very clever. He’s travelled all over the world. And he wears beautiful clothes. You’d love them, especially his Moncler jacket. It must have cost him a fortune.

I thought he’d be useless at gardening, but he works hard without complaining, apart from about how he’s got blisters on his precious hands. He never stops moaning about his precious hands.

The lads have tried to piss him off almost since he arrived, but he’s taken it all well—much better than I managed when I started. Yesterday, Lee sent him off to fetch a lefthanded screwdriver, and he laughed and told him to ‘eff off’ in his very posh voice. Joe had already tried to catch him out the day before, by asking him to hold a bag of compost over his head so Lee could creep up behind him and slit the bag open, but he didn’t fall for that either. I think they’ve given up now. He’s coming to the pub tomorrow night with us—that should be interesting!

He talks a lot—and I mean a lot, and he’s very smiley and jolly. But I think it’s that British stiff-upper-lip thing you told me about. Sometimes, I watch him when he doesn’t think anyone is looking, and he seems really fed up.

My English lessons with Gandalf are going well. We’ve nearly finished An Inspector Calls already and will soon be starting the Shakespeare sonnets. Freddie—that’s the earl’s cousin—is going to bring his laptop over one day so I can watch the film version of it. He says it’s really good. And what’s more, he’s going to help me with the history exam as he has a degree in modern history from Cambridge University!

I’m glad to hear the football practice is going well and that the team aren’t missing my silky footwork skills too much! Rossingley doesn’t have a football team, unfortunately. But after Easter, the cricket season starts, and Freddie says he’ll show me how to play, if I want.

Love, Reuben and Obélix

PS. I’ve reread this letter through, and I realise I’ve talked about Freddie a lot. Don’t worry. I’m not going to get myself in a mess over him. He’s way out of my league. I don’t think he realises we’re ‘batting for the same team’ as Lee puts it, anyhow. And I keep reminding myself he’s only here for a few months.

PPS. The picture is of delicate winter aconites. Such a pure yellow, a reminder of the sunshine we haven’t seen for a while…

Freddie is such a good teacher, even if he is very bossy, although he prefers if I describe him as ‘assertive’. So, bossy it is. And he was right when he said he knew everything there was to know because I’ve not managed to catch him out at all. I was of two minds when I invited him into the cottage. Half of me thought it was a ridiculous suggestion the second the words left my lips. Why would a man like him possibly want to spend his Saturday afternoon drinking tea with me? Especially in my tiny home, when he’s used to living in mansions and fancy London houses. And he must be thinking I’ve only got one set of clothes as he’s never seen me in anything different. Perhaps next time I take a trip to Allenmouth, I’ll treat myself to another shirt or sweater, or a pair of trainers, so he doesn’t realise I only own one pair of shoes.

But the other half of me felt a thrill when he said yes because, wow, he’s so handsome, he’s like a film star. I could stare at him all day. And those long, lean thighs. Mon dieu.

★

Freddie says affluent London hipsters spend a fortune trying to recreate the atmosphere of the Rossingley Arms and never quite manage to pull it off. I haven’t been in any other British pubs to compare it with, and I’ve never met a hipster, so I don’t know if he’s right or not. It’s a bit down at heel. The carpet is worn and sticky, and the walls could do with a fresh lick of paint. They serve a variety of locally brewed beers, one brand of white wine, one brand of red wine—not even French—and a few spirits. The only foods available are crisps, peanuts, and pork scratchings, which are revolting: some of them still have strands of pig hair stuck in them. One room has the bar area, the other has a big-screen telly, a pool table, and a dartboard. The toilets smell bad.

It’s a pub strictly for locals, where everyone knows everyone. So when a tall, striking stranger like Freddie walks in, it’s like that American Werewolf in London scene when all the patrons stop what they are doing to stare at the newcomer. Predictably, Freddie is entirely unfazed, and as the rest of the crew are already at the bar, we make our way over. Although he must be hot, he keeps his beanie hat glued to his head.

“I’m trying to keep a low profile,” he explains patiently, facing the bar with his back to the nosy locals. “The blond hair is a complete giveaway that I’m one of the Duchamps-Averys. Lucien and his family always made a point of never coming here. It’s not a snobby thing, and I’m sure Jay would love to use his local pub. He’s a proper beer drinker. But most of the people in the village are employed by Lucien, or live in one of his houses. He even owns this pub! So he feels it’s awkward for people to relax and enjoy themselves when the boss is looking over their shoulder.”

“I think it’s too late for hiding,” I inform him as I observe Joe cosying up to some of his cronies. It would take a lot more than covering up his blond hair for Freddie to sneak in here unobserved. Even with the woollen beanie pulled low on his head, he’s still eye-catching. “You’re the most exciting thing that’s happened here for weeks.”

“Is that so?” he replies teasingly, giving me the full breathtaking smile.

Merde, those moles really are absolutely perfectly symmetrical; it’s almost as if they have been drawn on in brown pencil. And his deep blue gaze is stupidly captivating. Mon dieu, I’m in trouble. When I say nothing and bury my nose in my pint, he does the same, idly looking around and frowning slightly.

“They’ll all know exactly who I am soon enough anyhow.”

I don’t understand what he means by that, but I don’t have too long to think about it as Joe and Lee join us.

“Got you another pint in, Aloysius, with a Jägerbomb chaser,” Joe says. “That all right?”

“Another fizzy pop okay for you, Frenchie?” adds Lee with a smirk as he plonks down a half of shandy. “You’ve had your quota; I don’t want to be carrying you home.”

“Oh, Lee,” quips Joe in a high-pitched voice, full of fake dismay. He holds his hand over his mouth. “I don’t think he wanted his boyfriend here to know he’s such a lightweight.”

Freddie looks on, amused, as I simultaneously flush madly, give Joe the finger, and tell Lee to fuck off three different ways in French.

The drinking starts in earnest as we settle at a low table. Freddie generously buys most of the rounds for the other two, and it becomes clear after a couple of hours that they’ve seriously underestimated his ability to consume alcohol. All three of them are five pints and six Jägerbombs down, and apart from a slight glassiness to those dark-blue eyes, Freddie’s seemingly as cool as the other side of a pillow as he suggests they go for a seventh. Joe is looking decidedly peaky, and Lee definitely stumbles on his way back from the toilets.

Apart from occasional scrutiny to ensure Freddie is keeping up with the booze, we’re largely left alone at our table. Joe is engrossed in a heated discussion with one of the farming crowd about the optimal time to be planting peas, and Lee makes eyes with a woman easily old enough to be his mother. Gandalf and Steve sloped off some time ago. We probably look like a proper couple sitting on our own together, and Lee and Joe will certainly have something to say about it on Monday morning. I don’t really care; I’m enjoying being the sole recipient of Freddie’s attention far too much.

He asks me about gardening, and I cautiously outline what I’d do in the walled garden if I were to ever be in charge. Before long, we’ve mapped out a plan of the entire area across the table, with beer mats representing each section of planting and piles of peanuts where the plants could be. It’s fun, even if Freddie is only indulging me.

“Us gardeners are secretly more ambitious than l’empereur Napoleon, you know, Freddie,” I confide in him. It has happened by minute degrees, and I’m not entirely sure how, but we’re now sitting very close to each other. I don’t need alcohol; the press of his warm thigh against mine is intoxicating enough. I’m scared to move, and with our faces only inches apart, Freddie’s breath is warm on my cheek.

“Say ‘shrubbery’ again for me, Reuben.”

“No. I’ve already said it twice. You just like to hear me pronounce difficult English words very badly.”

“Go on,” he coaxes and flutters those damned deep-blue eyes at me. “Shrubbery. Please, say it again, just for me.”

These bloody English words. How I’m supposed to get my French tongue and lips round them, I don’t know. I humour him anyway.

“Shrubbery,” I say, but I think it comes out more like “chobbery.” Freddie laughs with delight, the connard.

Taking the moral high ground, I continue outlining my ideas.

“I’ve seen pictures from a stately home somewhere, in one of my magazines, where they had a beautiful formal ornamental pond in the centre of the herb garden, and filled the pond with black ink. The contrast with the flowering shub…shr…plants around it was stunning, I’d love to see us experiment with stuff like that.” I realise I’ve started waving my hands around a lot and stop abruptly, sitting on them.

“Don’t stop, empereur! I like your ideas,” Freddie remarks. “Especially the ones involving shrubbery. I think Lucien will too. He mentioned only the other day he’s ready to put his stamp on the place. I’ll tell him, and when he next has a meeting with Steve, he can pass them off as his own thoughts. Steve will be obliged to go along with it.”

I’m immediately anxious. “I don’t want to get into trouble, Freddie, or for Steve to think I’m going behind his back. He’s a fantastic head gardener, and I’m a complete amateur in comparison. I’ve got so much I need to learn from him.”

“I know, and don’t worry, sweetheart. Lucien would never do that to you. He’s extremely good at managing people. Knowing Lucien, Steve will probably end the conversation believing the ideas were all his own!”

It’s daft, but I love it when Freddie calls me sweetheart. I know it’s only an affectation, and he probably doesn’t even realise he says it—it’s like how the barmaid here calls everyone ‘hon’ or honey—but it makes my stomach do somersaults anyway.

Freddie indicates to my shandy. “You don’t drink much, do you?”

I shake my head. “Didn’t exactly get a lot of opportunity to build up a tolerance to it during most of my twenties.”

He doesn’t really have an answer for that. The prison thing hangs between us, and I’m relieved that he doesn’t push it.

“You’ve passed the test anyway,” I tell him, changing the subject. “You are now a bona fide member of the Rossingley gardening crew! I think Joe and Lee are very impressed by your ability to keep up with them.”

A smile tugs at his lips. There’s a faint tinge of pink across his cheekbones, and his words are slightly slurred, although he hides how much he’s drunk very well. “Shall I let you into a secret, Reuben?”

I nod and lean closer. He smells of something fruity and probably very expensive. I’m glad we’re sitting at a table because my dick has been like fast-setting concrete over the last hour or so.

“I’ve had a hell of a lot of drinking practice. Too much, my father would say. Although not with beer. Truthfully? I hate the taste of beer,” he says under his breath, shuddering. “And those Jäger things are bloody revolting. But if I didn’t do it, they would have made my life a misery.”

He leans in even closer. “And it’s been worth it, even though I shall have a serious case of beer flu tomorrow. Because it means I’ve been able to talk to you all night. And I like being part of your gardening crew. Overall, it’s been a win-win.”

Without warning, he brings up a hand and tucks some loose strands of my hair carefully behind my ear. “I’ve been wanting to do that for the last hour.”

His cool fingers brush my temple. “So pretty,” he murmurs.

He’s looking at my mouth as he says it, and for a moment, I have an alarming fear he’s going to reach forwards and kiss me. Which is all well and good, bloody incredible, to be honest, but this most definitely isn’t a hipster London wine bar. It’s one thing my work mates making teasing insinuations, but quite another for them to see me kissing this extremely handsome man. The Rossingley Arms isn’t quite ready for man-on-man action. My heart is beating so fast I’m surprised no one is looking round to see where the thumping noise is coming from. Seeming to change his mind, Freddie sits back again, thank goodness.

“We should probably go,” I announce hurriedly. “Lee and Joe are leaving now, and it will soon be kicking out time. And it’s quite a walk.”

The walk back home is deceptive. From the location of the pub on the edge of Rossingley village, it’s only about a mile down a twisty country lane to the main gates of the estate. Which doesn’t sound very far, but then it is at least another half mile up the steep estate drive. There are no streetlights or pavements in Rossingley, and when the sky is cloudy, it can be very dark indeed. Usually, I use my phone light as a torch; the one time my battery was flat, I was virtually hugging the middle of the road to find my route home. And I was sober, there’s no way Freddie could do it pissed on his own.

He flicks his wrist, glancing at a sleek watch. “Chill, Reubs. Our taxi should be arriving any second now.”

I snort. “You’ve spent too long in the big smoke, Freddie. There are no taxis round here at this time of night.”

“Au contraire, mon ami, look!”

A large, rumpled, and grumpy-looking figure fills the doorway, jiggling a set of car keys. Oh merde, it’s the earl’s scary boyfriend. Freddie tugs at my arm. “Your chariot awaits, monsieur.”

It only becomes apparent quite how drunk Freddie is when he stands up. He really has done a remarkable job of hiding it up until now. He weaves towards his chauffeur, who accompanies an eye roll with a theatrical sigh as he takes his arm.

“Hi, darling,” Freddie purrs, and the scary boyfriend raises his eyebrows.

“I think I may have told you before, Freddie,” he begins sternly, but I can see he’s not really cross. “There’s only one person on this planet who calls me ‘darling’, and it isn’t you, mate.”

He drags Freddie towards the exit.

“Hang on, hang on, darling. I need a wee first,” slurs Freddie. “I’m bursting.”

He veers off in the direction of the toilets. I’m left to accompany the scary boyfriend outside, and we wait, leaning up against the Land Rover. If I was shy around Freddie, it’s nothing compared to how this hulking giant makes me feel. Mon dieu, I wish I was safely tucked up in my bed.

“It’s very kind of you to come and collect him,” I begin nervously. “You don’t have to give me a lift though. I’m very happy to walk.”

“No worries, mate,” he says with a wave of his hand. I’m not that good at identifying different regional accents, but he’s not posh, like Freddie and the earl, nor obviously a local.

“I had to come and get him; I’d never have been allowed a wink of sleep otherwise.”

He gives me a slightly sheepish look. “Lucien worries. A lot. Thanks for staying with him.”

“He didn’t set out to get drunk. I think it was some sort of initiation from the other gardeners.”

“I know. He warned us it might happen. You don’t have to make excuses for him.”

We stand in awkward silence until Freddie reappears. Sashaying up to the scary boyfriend, he goes into full camp mode, batting his eyelashes.

“Jay, darling. May I say how dark and brooding you’re looking this fine evening! And you’ve stayed up late to make sure little old me gets safely into bed. Are you going to tuck me in again, like last time?”

“Get in the back of the bloody car, you idiot,” Jay responds gruffly.

Freddie winks at me, and I unsuccessfully try to hide a snigger. The earl’s boyfriend efficiently manhandles him onto the back seat, but there’s no denying the tenderness in the way he carefully buckles him in.

Needless to say, it’s a quiet journey up to Rossingley, apart from Freddie’s tuneless humming. As we bump over successive cattle grids, he gives a little moan of pleasure.

“Ooh! The vibrations make my willy tingle! Do they make your willy tingle, Jay?”

I’m in the front passenger seat, and from the corner of my eye, I see Jay trying not to laugh. He drops us off near the back entrance to the big house, then goes to park up.

“Bye then, Freddie,” I start and turn to go. “See you tomorrow.”

He grabs my wrist, surprisingly fast for someone so drunk. Usually if someone grabs me unexpectedly, I panic and pull away. Ten years in prison and you learn pretty quickly to be always alert. But there’s nothing remotely threatening about Freddie, especially when he’s so pissed he can hardly stand upright.

“Not so fast! Not without a goodnight kiss and a cuddle; those are the rules.”

He grins at me with such childlike delight, I can’t resist. He’s too pissed to know what he’s saying, and he won’t remember any of it in the morning anyway. I will, of course. I’ll be reliving it for days to come. His arms open wide as I tentatively step into them. Closing my eyes, I relish the brief moment of being crushed against his lean hard body, deciding there and then that my head tucks very neatly under his chin. There’s a brief press of lips against my hair.

“God, Reuben,” he whispers, his beery breath hot in my ear. “You have no bloody idea, do you?”

★

The next couple of weeks at work start with a bombshell. Suddenly, the reason Freddie is hiding out amongst the gardening team at Rossingley becomes crystal clear. Lee bursts into the potting shed at eight o’clock, Monday morning, brandishing yesterday’s copy of the Mail On Sunday and looking exceedingly pleased with himself.

“Cop a load of this! It’s fucking hilarious!”

Freddie and his father have made the front-page headlines.

HOME SEC’S SON ON US DRUGS RAP.

I only know it’s Freddie’s father because Joe keeps up a gleeful commentary as we pore over the paper. The position of Home Secretary is apparently a lot more impressive than the job title suggests. To a foreigner like me, it sounds like he’s rearranging the stationery drawer in someone’s home office, but really, he’s a very senior and very important minister in the government. Why the British don’t use a more straightforward term beats me.

“Shit, boys, I should have worked it out on day one!” crows Lee, revelling in the moment. “That’s the earl’s fucking Uncle Charlie! His dad’s brother! He’s now in the government, and, of course, Freddie is his boy! Uncle Charlie used to come here a lot when I was a kid, before the family accident. Oh dear, oh dear, our Aloysius has got himself into a right spot of bother!”

Freddie, himself, has a further two-page spread on the inside. There are so many dazzling pictures of him, I don’t know which to look at first. The largest is a photo taken when he was much younger and very innocent-looking, wearing a cap and black gown, presumably during his time at Cambridge. He’s posed next to a man I recognise from the headlines as his father, who also looks younger and much less stressed than on the front pages. The Duchamps-Avery gene is a strong one. He has the pale hair and a harder version of Freddie’s aristocratic features, as well as Freddie’s height and slim physique. In the Cambridge photo, they are both staring unsmilingly at the camera; it doesn’t strike me as the most loving of family snapshots.

There is a montage of pictures of Freddie, falling out of night clubs and into taxis, clearly worse for wear, sometimes hanging onto the arm of a glamorous female, and one where he is being held upright by a suave-looking, handsome older man. I don’t like that one so much. According to the caption underneath, his name is Vincent Cade, a well-respected businessman, philanthropist, and, I’m learning, Freddie’s on/off boyfriend.

And then the modelling shoots. Putain! Viscount (Viscount!!) Aloysius Frederick Lloyd Duchamps-Avery is a top model! One of the world’s most sought-after male models! I don’t know why I’m so surprised. He’s stunning, his bone structure is perfect…his teeth, his colouring, his eyes… Pictures of him posing in glossy magazine shoots, one of him swinging his hips down a catwalk in Milan. I’ve probably seen some of these adverts hundreds of times in passing, well-known luxury brands filling page after page of advertising space. Sure, he’s wearing makeup, clad in God-knows-what outfits, but it’s my history teacher, my gardening buddy, my secret night-time fantasy, my Freddie.

“Hah, listen to this,” calls out Joe, snatching up a section. “Viscount Aloysius Duchamps-Avery, known as Freddie to his friends, is currently checked into rehab at the exclusive Meadows Resort in Arizona, where a spokesman says he is responding well to treatment for his cocaine addiction.”

He looks up, grinning. “No, he’s not. He’s fucking over there!”

Sure enough, Viscount Aloysius Frederick Lloyd Duchamps-Avery was walking towards us across the grass.

“And you can keep that information to yourself, Joe. And you, Lee,” growls Steve, threateningly. “That is if you still want to have a fucking job or your testicles by the end of the week. If anyone puts two and two together and recognises him from the pub on Friday, it’ll come from one of them, not from us. The earl looks after us, and we look after ’im, and don’t you ever forget it, lads.”

“Morning everyone,” says Freddie, unzipping his jacket as he steps into the shed. “Sorry I’m a couple of minutes late, I…ah…had one or two minor issues to deal with this morning.”

He smiles pleasantly, but only a fool would miss the tension in his face and the purplish smudges under his eyes. Even top models don’t look their best after a sleepless night.

Steve gestures to the sink and table in the corner. “It’s all right, mate. Kettle’s on, help yourself. We ain’t got started yet. I was reminding Lee and Joe here of a few ground rules.”

There’s an uncomfortable silence while we all pretend we’re not ogling Freddie as he pours himself a drink. Gandalf surreptitiously clears away the newspaper. The first person to break the silence is Lee.

“I hope that’s only caster sugar you’re spooning in there, mate, and not anything stronger.”

Even Steve snorts. Freddie watches us with an amused expression on his face.

“Aloysius, mate, can I ask you something?”

Joe’s question sounds almost timid.

Freddie doesn’t fall for it and shakes his head slightly at the persistent use of his fancy name. “Yes, Joseph?”

“At lunchtime, after Reuben here’s done his schoolwork, will you show us ya Blue Steel pose?”

There’s a split second when Steve and Gandalf attempt to control their laughter and fail miserably. The rest of us piss ourselves. When we’ve calmed somewhat, Freddie answers, his upper crust tones ringing out clearly.

“Yes, you fuckers, and if you’re very good, I’ll throw in Magnum too.”

★

He’s as good as his word. But first, at lunch, Gandalf and I spend fifteen minutes racing through a comparison of the triumphal patriotism of Rupert Brooke’s The Soldier with the negativity of Dulce, all of us concluding the reason for this being that the former was written in 1914 and the latter after far too many young men had pointlessly lost their lives.

Despite the general buzz of excitement in the potting shed following the newspaper revelations, taking a minute to reflect on these poems is sobering. Having a lesson on how to execute a perfect turn at the end of a catwalk while maintaining a haughty stare is, frankly, the only way to lift the mood at the end of our lunch break.

Gandalf is a complete natural; he has the figure for it, being long and lean, and totally uninhibited, possibly because he’s slightly stoned. Lee and Joe need to shift the beer bellies before they can be taken seriously on the catwalk, and Steve and I outright refuse to join in. But Freddie? Merde, I could watch the jut of his narrow hips swaying hypnotically back and forth all afternoon. It’s fortunate my shirts are long and loose because, otherwise, I’d struggle to hide the effect he’s having on me.

We don’t get any time alone until late afternoon when Steve has us following behind him, raking up grass cuttings he’s left from string trimming the borders of the south lawn. Freddie has been much quieter than usual after the hilarity at lunchtime.

“Sorry you’re having a tough time,” I say eventually.

He stops raking and sighs. “All of my own doing, I’m afraid, Reuben. The only mystery is that something like this didn’t happen sooner.”

“It explains why you managed to sink all that beer on Friday without throwing up though.”

He laughs a little. “Yeah, it does, doesn’t it? If Lee and Joe had known about this, I’m not sure they’d have been quite so keen to challenge me.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” It’s a silly question. Of course, there is nothing someone like me can do to help.

“You’re helping plenty by being here. And the rest of the lads are too.”

He briefly closes his eyes, puffing out his cheeks. “It’s what I do next when this all blows over that’s the problem. I don’t want to go back to how I was living before, but I can’t see a way forwards either.”

“What, you mean you don’t want to carry on modelling? I get the impression you’re rather good at it.”

“You liked those pictures in the newspaper did you? Maybe I’ll put on a private show for you sometime.”

He’s only teasing, but I blush anyway.

“Nah, the modelling’s okay, although it’s not going to last forever. It’s more my lifestyle that goes with it really. I’ve been on a sort of booze- and drug-fuelled roller-coaster, and it’s time I got off.”

I regard him carefully. He’s so warm and open, smart too. Even people like Lee and Joe are drawn to him. He’s won them over despite all their preconceived prejudices about someone posh like him.

“Are you really a drug addict, Freddie? You don’t look like one, and believe me, I’ve seen a few. Prisons are full of them.”

He shakes his head. “No, not really. I’ve got more money than sense half the time. And made too many unsuitable friends. Since I’ve been here, I’ve not fancied any of the white stuff once.”

“And did…did you really do what they said you did in that sex club?”

My face flushes hot as I ask, and he laughs, a proper belly laugh.

“I have no idea, sweetheart. I was too drunk to remember. Possibly. But you don’t want to believe everything you read in the papers. Let’s hope they don’t find out about a night I had in Venice last January. Goodness, that will set the cat amongst the pigeons.”

I widen my eyes, and I’m almost whispering. “Merde! What did you do?”

He winks. “If you say onomatopoeia three times for me, in that cute French accent, I might tell you.”

I love it when Freddie teases me. It’s obviously quite an easy thing to do as he manages it several times a day. We heap a pile of grass cuttings into a wheelbarrow.

“My father has told me that I’m supposed to work out my future while I’m lying low here for a while. If you have any good ideas, feel free to share them with me as I’m all out.”

“I reckon you could do whatever you turn your mind to, Freddie,” I reply. “You’re good at everything—history, English, gardening, mincing along a catwalk…” He gives me a playful swat on the arm.

“And you’re good with people too,” I continue. “You’ve managed Lee and Joe really well. They were looking for any excuse to fall out with you. Steve too—he can be tricky sometimes.” I stop, the heat burning up my face.

“That’s very kind of you to say, Reuben. Lucien says the same. Unfortunately, the rest of my family think otherwise.”

“What’s your father like?”

Freddie smiles slightly and resumes raking. “Very driven. Doesn’t suffer fools. Doesn’t suffer me. Well, he’s fed up with me really, and I don’t blame him. We’re not particularly close, but I’ve embarrassed him terribly, and he doesn’t deserve that. I don’t blame him for wanting me to disappear.”

He pauses, his voice cracking slightly. “The bloody stupid thing is, I… Well, he’s my father, isn’t he? So I still love him, although he’s not very lovable. The part of this whole fiasco which upsets me the most is that I’ve gone down even further in his estimation. I didn’t think that was possible.”

“What about your mother, what does she think?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know, she’s buried in a graveyard about two hundred miles north of here; shall we go and ask her?”

It’s the first time he’s been sharp with me, and I reach for his arm. “Mon dieu, I’m sorry. Sorry for being so nosy.”

“It’s okay. I shouldn’t have snapped. I’m tired, I guess.” He runs his hand through that fine blond hair with a sigh. “My mother died of breast cancer when I was twelve. Father remarried not long afterwards. His new wife is scarcely older than me, but I suppose he gets a kick out of parading her on his arm. I think I’m now superfluous to requirement.”

“My mum died when I was only twelve too,” I respond. “Heroin overdose. She was English but lived in France. I don’t know why. I don’t know much about her background at all. But she’s the reason my English is so good. We spoke English at home.”

“Fuck! Christ, Reuben, I’m so sorry. Here’s me whining over my poor little rich boy problems. What about your father?”

It’s my turn to shrug. “Never knew him. I was in foster care after my mother died, and then… Well, then, after that, it all…it all gets a bit…” I look up at him. “Could we talk about it some other time, maybe?”

“Yeah, sure, it’s cool,” he replies and gives me a glimmer of a smile. “Dead mothers and criminal records. Seems we have a lot more in common than we thought.”

★

For the next few evenings, we settle into a routine. After work, Freddie comes back to the cottage, and he makes a pot of tea while I feed Obélix and light the wood burner. After that, we have an hour of history revision before he heads back to the big house. There’s no more chat about dead mothers, or the fact that the newspapers are calling for his father to resign. He still hasn’t asked me about prison, and I’m glad because he might not be so keen to help me if he knew the truth. Somehow, this hour has turned into the highlight of every day. I’m going to enjoy it while it lasts.

On Friday, he has a proposal for me.

“Why don’t you come over tonight? I’ll make us some dinner, and then we can watch An Inspector Calls together? I can hook my laptop up to the big television screen in the library.”

I’m dubious, to say the least. It’s pub night, and Lee and Joe will soon realise who I’m with if I don’t turn up. It’s not like I have any other friends with whom to while away a Friday evening. Not to mention the enormous gulf between—well, who he is, and who I am.

“I’m not sure the hired help watch telly in the earl’s library, Freddie.”

He’s having none of it. “That’s ridiculous, Reuben! Lucien wouldn’t mind at all; he’s always asking after you. And anyway, he and Jay won’t be there—it’s date night, remember?”

On alternate Friday evenings, when the scary boyfriend isn’t working, Freddie told me Lucien puts on his glad rags, the Aston Martin comes out of the garage, and the two of them disappear into the night. He has no idea where they go, but it must be somewhere pretty special because the first time they came back—and Freddie was still pottering around the kitchen—they were practically undressing each other as they stumbled through the door. Joe claims he’s spotted them sharing a romantic dinner for two in the local Indian place just this side of Allenmouth, but that sounds very unlike the earl. He’s the last person I’d imagine sharing a plate of poppadums and chicken tikka in a suburban restaurant. More likely, Joe is winding us all up.

Freddie has that familiar, stubborn, bossy expression, which means he won’t take no for an answer. So at seven o’clock on Friday, dressed in my smart blue sweater and clean jeans, I knock at the kitchen door. My hair had refused to co-operate, so I’ve pushed it back in a low ponytail, held with a rubber band. I’m inexplicably nervous. I’ve never been on a date, but if I had done, I think this is how I would feel.

Freddie answers immediately, almost as if he’s been waiting, and putain, he looks incredible. He’s evidently recently showered; his blond hair is damp and slicked back, and his slim feet are bare. Hanging low on his hips are some sort of loose, dark-grey pyjama bottom things.

“A bit early for pyjamas, Freddie.”

“They’re not pyjamas, you French philistine. They are extremely sophisticated silk yoga pants.”

“I thought we were watching a film?”

“We are. These are part of Galliano’s leisure wear range.” He looks fondly down at his ridiculous, sexy, baggy pantaloons and gives the soft material covering his thigh a friendly stroke. Mon dieu, I need to pull myself together.

“Who’s Galliano?” I ask innocently, “And why have you borrowed his yoga pants?”

I’m teasing him, and he knows it. He holds a plain black T-shirt in one hand and casually puts it on as he ushers me inside. I’ve only ever seen him bundled up in country clothing, and it’s probably a good thing because I would never have achieved anything, either in the gardens or in our makeshift classroom, if he dressed like this all the time. I have only the briefest glimpse of a sculpted, pale torso, but it’s certainly an image I’ll be revisiting when I’m alone in bed later.

“Good evening to you, too, Reuben. I’ve made a leek and lardon quiche. Hope that’s okay? Hey, that sweater suits you.”

A glass of red wine appears in my hand, and I take a nervous gulp. Do I remove my work boots or do I keep them on? My socks are clean, so I toe the boots off, but I don’t think Freddie cares either way. I’ve been in this kitchen before, several times with Lucien, but despite my secret crush on him, the atmosphere never felt so charged. For me anyway. My new crush appears oblivious, efficiently piling crockery and food onto two trays. I follow him down a hallway to what is apparently the library.

Mon dieu, it’s a gorgeous room. I’ve never seen so many books in one place. Even the prison library didn’t have this many. Guillaume would absolutely love it. Rows upon rows, and some look very old. The ceiling is amazingly high, with fancy coving around the edges and a fabulously intricate plaster rose in the middle. There are so many things I want to take a closer look at in this room; I feel as if I’ve walked onto a film set. Freddie is occupied setting our plates out on a low polished coffee table, then stoking the fire, so I have an opportunity to glance around at the artwork covering every available piece of wall space between the bookcases. Some of it, I can’t make heads or tails of, all swirly shapes and bold colours. I’m so busy staring I don’t notice he’s stopped fiddling and is watching me.

“Come and sit down on the sofa. We don’t stand on ceremony here. Let me top up your glass.”

I must have drunk my wine without noticing because my glass is empty.

“Only a small one please. You know I’m not used to drinking alcohol. Especially wine. I’ll be flat on my back if I have much more.”

I redden as I realise too late what I’ve said, and Freddie smirks.

“There are so many comments I could make right now, Reuben, but I’m going to be very mature and say nothing. Bloody come and sit here with me and we can start eating. I’m starving, it’s all the fresh air, I’ve never had such an appetite.”

★

One year and eight months ago, I was a prison inmate, sharing a cell with a Belgian armed robber who screamed in his sleep every night. Now, I’m curled up on an earl’s enormous squashy sofa, in a vast stately home, watching a film on a gigantic television. And next to me, with his arm stretched along the back of the sofa, so close it’s almost around my shoulders, is the earl’s cousin, a man so beautiful and so kind I never want this evening to end. Everything about it is perfect; the savoury tart he’s cooked, especially for me, the red wine which is making my face feel all warm and fuzzy, the film which we occasionally pause so we can discuss points of interest with my exam in mind, and of course, Freddie himself.

As the final credits roll, I reluctantly heave myself up off the sofa. Granted, Freddie said Lucien wouldn’t mind at all, but even so, I’d still feel fairly awkward if he arrived home while I’m still here, not to mention having to make small talk all over again with the scary boyfriend.

“Don’t feel you have to leap up, Reuben. It’s Saturday tomorrow; we’ve got a lie in!”

I make feeble excuses about having to get back to Obélix and being tired at the end of a busy week. Freddie sees them for what they are but lets me go without fuss. We carry the plates through to the kitchen, and then he escorts me to the back door.

“Shall we have a crack at simultaneous equations tomorrow?” he suggests with a wicked grin. “I thought I might ask Jay to go through it with me first—these medics have all taken maths A-level, you know, and he’s a smart cookie. I bet he can still do them.”

I groan. “That would be wonderful, Freddie. I’ve been putting off tackling them. But only if you have time, honestly. You do enough for me already.”

He’s shaking his head. “Stop saying that! I’ve already said how much I’m enjoying doing the work with you. Maybe not the maths as much as the history, but it’s better than moping around here all day.”

Leaning forwards, he casually puts his arms around me, as if this is something we do all the time, and pulls me into a tight hug. My face is tucked into his neck, and I breathe in a heady whiff of zesty, masculine cologne. I was right the first time he did this; I do fit perfectly against him.

“Night, sweetheart,” he murmurs into my hair. “Sleep well.”