Bond Street is a sea of shoppers. Jason takes a far less crowded side street to the coffee shop where Andrew’s due to meet him.

He stops before he gets there.

Maybe he should take a moment before he’s face-to-face with his foster brother—gather his thoughts so he doesn’t put his foot in his mouth all over again. And he definitely shouldn’t arrive empty handed. An envelope design on a shopper’s carrier bag lends inspiration. He backtracks to a greeting card store, taking awhile to find the correct section before a card decorated with two black bowties catches his attention. He plucks it from the shelf.

The groom and groom thank you for your kind gift!

Marriage was unimaginable when he’d first grasped his orientation; a concept designed for other people. At least same-sex marriage becoming common enough to warrant its own shelf these days is a sign that foolishness doesn’t discriminate. His snort is soft as he slides the card back into place. Foolishness and a bizarre extension of hope that luck will prevail despite evidence to the contrary. He selects another card featuring a simple horseshoe. The message it contains is straightforward as well—a wedding acceptance he should have sent already, he knows, as he scribbles his name inside.

Andrew is waiting when he finally gets to the coffee shop. He still wears his suit jacket despite the mugginess of the cramped shop, apparently serious about not sparing Jason much time. His expression is certainly sombre, his gaze intent as Jason weaves between crowded tables.

Relieving him of his best-man duties probably won’t take too long.

That happening seems likely when Andrew doesn’t return his greeting. He doesn’t acknowledge the envelope Jason holds out either. Instead, he abruptly stands, raising the same hand he last used to strike him.

Jason doesn’t flinch. He hadn’t last night either. He only exhales when Andrew makes gentle contact, his knuckles skimming the side of his face, retracing where they last made impact. Jason watches Andrew’s lips press together, a familiar half-moon scar—so small a stranger wouldn’t notice—whitening as they tighten. It disappears almost completely when Andrew speaks.

“I meant what I said in my text. Mum would kill me if she could see this.” His thumb pressing Jason’s cheekbone adds a sudden sharp sting. “She’d turn over in her grave, then find a way to knock our heads together.”

“She would.” Jason inclines his head until Andrew lets go, the press of his hand lingering after his hand drops. “She’d lose her shit like she did when I kicked out your tooth.” That faint scar on Andrew’s lip is a long-lasting reminder. He thrusts the card into Andrew’s hands until he takes it. “This is for you.” He clears his throat. “Actually, it’s for you and Chantel.” He takes a seat when Andrew drops heavily into his own.

A waiter delivers an order to their table as Andrew shrugs out of his jacket. “I really haven’t got long, so I got our drinks to go.” Two takeaway cups of coffee stand next to a solitary flapjack—Jason’s all-time favourite.

He must be forgiven.

Relief makes him joke a little. “Trying to sweeten me up? I thought that would be my job.” He lifts the lid of his cup and adds sugar, watching it sink through the white foam before stirring, only looking up when Andrew doesn’t answer.

Andrew’s expression is as serious as Jason has ever seen it, closed where he’s usually wide open. “Listen,” Andrew says, “I feel awful about what happened last night.”

“There’s no need. I know you didn’t mean to—”

Andrew interrupts, insistent. “Here’s the thing, mate. I did mean it.” He presses his lips together again, scar a bright-white danger signal. “Not to hurt you, obviously. I was aiming for the punchbag behind you, I promise. And now I know you’re an idiot who puts his face where he shouldn’t, I’ll never risk lashing out anywhere near you again. But if you’re going to talk that way about Chantel….” He shakes his head. “You have to know I won’t listen. I can’t listen, so I can’t be around you if you’re planning on repeating any of it.”

A chunk of flapjack clings stickily to Jason’s fingers, suddenly a whole lot less appetising. “I’m sorry.”

“No. I am.” Andrew pulls the lid from his own cup, eyes fixed on its contents. “I’m sorry I didn’t pick up on it so much sooner. I feel stupid for not noticing.”

“Not noticing what?”

“That you hate her.”

Hate is such a strong word—one Jason’s sure he hasn’t said aloud. But now that he’s had time to think about it, what he implied last night surely comes close. He stuffs some flapjack into his mouth, aware that, while it must be moist and gooey, it distinctly tastes of ashes.

Andrew lifts his cup before putting it down without taking a sip. “I was angry. I still am. Angry about what you said, furious about what I did in response, even if it was accidental, and so pissed off about the whole situation. It all came out of the blue.” He hangs his head before he says, “I can’t believe how I reacted. I thought thumping the punchbag would make me feel better. But Chantel made me sit down afterwards and think it through.”

No matter how much he chews, Jason’s no closer to swallowing.

“She asked if you were as vocal about disliking my first wife before we married.”

Finally, he forces down his mouthful. “You told Chantel what I said about her?”

“Of course I didn’t.” Andrew’s glance is a flash of cool steel instead of its usual soft blue. “She knew something was wrong the minute I phoned her after midnight. Didn’t take her long to figure out you were the reason. There aren’t that many people left I care about enough to lose sleep over.”

It’s a simple admission that hits hard, provoking an honest response. “I didn’t dislike Lydia.” Honestly, Jason got along fine with Andrew’s first wife.

“And yet she left me for my boss who sacked me the moment I found out about them. Most people would think that was a good reason to dislike their brother’s partner.”

“Of course I don’t like her now.” But at the start, she’d been good fun. Lydia had made Andrew happy from the first day they met at uni.

“Then Chantel asked if you’d been as determined to see Julia as bad news.”

Jason recoils at what seems like deliberate shit stirring. Of course Chantel will look good compared to Andrew’s ex-wives—she hasn’t had time yet to break his heart and take him to the cleaners.

“Chantel can’t understand why you won’t take time to get to know her when you had plenty of time for Julia.”

That’s because he’s been fooled twice already. Jason blaming himself for that second disaster was easy. Julia made Andrew smile again five years after his first marriage ended. If anything, he encouraged Andrew to propose so his happiness would linger. He could kick himself about that now.

“She wonders if you hate women in general.”

Fuck that.

Jason’s grip on his fork tightens.

Fuck. That.

The most important person in his life was female. His late foster mum—Andrew’s mother—had been a red-haired force of nature who saved him from the care system.

Hate women?

No.

Hate anyone who hurt his brother?

Always.

“I don’t get it,” Andrew says, his voice almost overwhelmed by the swell of surrounding conversation. “I don’t understand how you can dislike someone so much when you haven’t even met her.” He pushes his coffee aside to break the remaining flapjack in half. “Do you even remember what you called her last night?”

Jason fills the silence while Andrew chews. “I said… I said that she’s so much younger than you. Over twenty years, for God’s sake.”

Andrew speaks around his mouthful. “That’s not exactly how you described her, but regardless, she’s an adult. Half the time I don’t remember the age difference.” He swallows and adds, “It doesn’t matter to Chantel either, so what’s your next objection?”

“She doesn’t even have a full-time job.” Jason recalls saying so last night, only much more unkindly. Both men sip their coffee in silence, the words gold digger unspoken between them. Jason wonders if Andrew’s drink tastes half as bitter as his own at that moment, but when Andrew looks over the rim of his cup, his eyes begin to crinkle.

For one glorious moment, it seems like the tension will break between them. That lasts until Andrew says, “You called me her sugar daddy.”

He had.

“And you said I was only a meal ticket while she’s still a student.”

Jason closes his eyes. It’s so likely to be true he can’t believe Andrew can’t see it.

Andrew clearly isn’t ready to hear it either. “Then you gave it less than a year before she took me for every penny.”

He reopens his eyes when Andrew pauses, watching him touch the corner of the RSVP between them. “So I’m sure you can understand my surprise if one night’s sleep is long enough for you to completely change your opinion.” Then Andrew rubs his hands over his face, looking much older than a man in his mid-forties when they lower. “Thanks for replying.” He leaves the “at last” unsaid. “But of course I can’t expect you to be my best man for a third time.”

“Don’t say that.” There’s no way Andrew can get married without Jason right beside him. Who else will pick up the pieces when it ends? “Listen. What I said about Chantel was… it was a mistake. I spoke without thinking. I was worried, that’s all.”

“That’s what Chantel said. She thinks you must have been stewing on it for ages.”

“She might be right about that.” Stewing and expecting the worst.

“She usually is.” This time, Andrew’s smile is bright before it dims. “You’d know that for certain if you made an effort to meet her.”

“I will.”

“I’d like to believe that.” Andrew’s gaze softens like his mother’s used to. “I really would, mate. But you didn’t exactly make an effort the first time I tried to get you two together. You didn’t even turn up.”

Jason can’t recall if he even made an excuse, so sure Andrew was heading towards another world of pain when this new fling ended.

Andrew’s not finished. “And the next time was more of the same. She came all the way up to London again only for you to stand us up. And don’t give me any bullshit about being too busy for lunch that day. You had no intention of coming. I know because I tracked you down and saw you playing cards with a bunch of Polish builders.”

This is news to Jason.

“I watched you for ages. You couldn’t even speak the same language as them, but they were more appealing company than my fiancée. I thought it was a last-minute case of cold feet, only the more I think about it, the surer I am that you had no intention of meeting us that day. If you had, you would have worked out of your office for the morning. But you chose to get dirty on a construction site rather than meet the woman I’m going to marry.” He speaks matter-of-factly, but perhaps emotion is why his hand trembles when he brushes plaster dust from Jason’s shoulder. “Maybe it’s a blessing you didn’t show up—even if you had come, you wouldn't have made a very good impression dressed like this.”

Something loose inside Jason curls tight—a surprise reminder of early foster placements. Wearing the wrong uniform to new schools led to unkind laughter he’d almost forgotten. Criticism of his clothes is a blast from the past that leaves him abrupt. “I’m sorry. I didn't realise making a good impression was part of the best-man vetting process. Jesus, Andrew, you know I’m not into any of that fashion bullshit.”

Andrew’s perceptive, as ever. His matter-of-fact tone relaxes. “It’s not about fashion.” Then it firms. “It’s about respect.”

That word hangs in the air between them.

“It’s about the fact that most people make some effort to smarten themselves up if they know they're meeting someone important.” Andrew brushes a flapjack crumb from his tie. The silk is the exact same shade as his eyes—a colour Jason’s almost certain he wouldn’t have chosen for himself. Maybe Chantel is fashion conscious and wrapped up in appearance. It would explain Andrew’s sudden insistence that his clothing matters.

“Listen, just because I don’t waste money shopping—”

“You waste money on plenty of other things, so tidying yourself up and coming to lunch shouldn’t have to be such a big deal.”

“I don’t waste money.”

“Stop.” Andrew’s lips tighten all over again. “Just stop.” He takes a moment before speaking. “I don’t mean you actually throw money away. I mean that you don’t hesitate to buy in help when it suits you.” He counts examples on his fingers. “I know you pay for a cleaner, and you always get your groceries delivered. For goodness sake, you even have a monthly wine subscription.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Outsourcing chores makes good sense. It’s exactly what he does at work, buying in the right talent to restore buildings even if that means flying craftsmen in from Europe.

“My point is you don't need to be into fashion to look smart, like you don't need to scrub your own sink to have a clean bathroom.”

“So you think I should—what? Outsource my clothes shopping before I meet her?”

“Why not? It would show you were making an effort. Get yourself a—what do you call them? A personal shopper.” His grin is sudden and bright. “Christ, if one can get you out of your shitty workwear, I'll pay them myself!”

That tight curl inside slowly loosens at Andrew cracking a joke—the first time he’s heard his brother laugh in what must be weeks. Relief makes him gruff. “What do you reckon that will cost me?”

Andrew chases a few more stray flapjack crumbs. “How should I know? Google it if you’re serious.”

Jason does. He clicks the first link that comes up on his phone and then almost shouts. “Nearly three-hundred quid? For half a day? You’re having a laugh.”

Andrew’s smile fades across the table. “I wasn’t serious about a personal shopper.” His tone is so sad before it hardens. “But I am about you showing Chantel a little common respect. See, here’s the deal: I love her. Much as I want you next to me when I marry her, I’m not going to force you if you’ve already made your mind up.”

“I haven’t—”

“Oh, I think you have.” Andrew lowers his voice until it’s hard to hear over the hiss of the milk steamer. “You forget how well I know you—expecting the worst is your default setting. But I know this as well: Chantel’s special to me—so special—but you don’t know a single thing about her. She’s having a hard enough time already with her dad about the wedding. It’s crap that the closest person to me is just as determined to spoil it.” His next exhale is a long sigh. “I’ll pass your RSVP on to her.” His next words are rueful. “The really sad thing about this whole situation is that she’ll be so happy to get this. She’ll forgive and forget in a heartbeat because she knows you’re important to me. She really wants to like you.”

Goodness but she’s clever.

Thankfully Andrew doesn’t see his scepticism. He only glances quickly at Jason’s black eye. “You do believe that I’d do anything to turn the clock back to before I lashed out, don’t you? I truly never meant to touch you.” He raises a hand to his own eye, as if expecting to feel bruising. “I’m one hundred per cent sorry it happened at all like I’m one hundred per cent certain you’d love Chantel if you got to know her. I’m just gutted that you won’t make time to tidy yourself up and share a meal with us both. It’s killing me that you can’t even do that—that you aren’t happy for me.”

“I am. I am happy for you,” Jason lies through his teeth before admitting one truth. “And I have to be your best man.” Desperation makes him promise. “I’ll make more of an effort.” He snatches the card from Andrew. “Let me deliver this to her myself.”

“You’ll go down to Riversmeet?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll travel from London to the Cotswolds just to deliver your RSVP in person?”

“Yes.” A couple of hours on the train will kill two birds with one stone. He’ll get back in Andrew’s good books and make sure Chantel knows there’s no way their home will ever be hers while he still owns part of it.

“And you won’t mention any of what you said to me about her being a gold digger?”

“No. Of course not.”

Andrew still seems doubtful.

“I promise,” Jason insists. “I’ll deliver the RSVP myself soon. On Friday, if that’s good. I’ll make an impression on her.”

“You don’t have to impress her. I was only using smartening up as an example of making an effort. Just get to know her.” Andrew stands and pulls on his jacket. “She’ll love you. She wants to, Jason. So much.”

Jason thinks hard after he and Andrew part ways, envelope clutched between work-rough hands before he slides it into the back pocket of his chinos. A frayed hole meets the tips of his fingers, the grubbiness of his work wear reflected in a boutique window.

Smartening up isn’t a bad plan.

If Chantel is as superficial as she sounds, him dressing casually will only lend her an advantage. He revisits the links for stylists on his phone. Their rates really are ridiculous, their waitlists extensive. If he’s doing this by the end of the week, he needs to see someone tomorrow at the latest.

Thunder rumbles over the roar of traffic and the sky suddenly darkens, but the department store at the far end of the street is lit up like a beacon.

Its windows gleam and glow, showcasing clothes he wouldn’t normally spare a glance at. Now they signal a potential answer to his problem, but when he goes inside for a second time that day to ask after the man who helped him, the clerk manning the wedding department isn’t half so helpful. He sets down some champagne flutes and narrows his eyes before saying, “No. He doesn’t work here.”

“No?” This guy has an accent as well, so maybe a language barrier is the issue. Jason speaks much more slowly and loudly this time. “He helped me here earlier. He’s blond. Young.” Jason holds a hand level with his chin. “About this tall. You must know who I mean. I saw you working together.”

“And I said he doesn’t work here.” This time the assistant crosses his arms firmly over his chest. “He’s definitely not on the payroll.”

“Listen,” Jason says, catching another glimpse of himself in a nearby mirror. His chinos could stand up by themselves, and his shirt’s not much better. Jesus Christ, he’s shabby. “I need an appointment with him as soon as he can fit me in.”

“An appointment?”

Surely the concept can’t be so hard to grasp? “He’s a personal shopper, isn’t he?” His next statement certainly doesn’t deserve a bark of laughter.

“I’ll pay him to dress me.”