David drove slowly up the hill. Rory’s house, or at any rate, the one corresponding to the address Mark had given David, was second from the end of a terrace on the right-hand side as one went up the delightfully named Pig Lane. Mark had explained it was called after the pub at its far end, the Pig and Poke. Which was all very well, but did they have to go with Pig? David would have been far happier at the prospect of living on Poke Lane.
As Shamwell streets went, Pig Lane was definitely on the low-budget end of the spectrum, with almost a council-estate aesthetic. The houses were small and huddled together, seeking safety in numbers. Their tiny front gardens were landscaped with less of a regard for horticulture and more for the storage of children’s toys and surplus white goods. A Methodist church stood halfway up, high gables pointing heavenward and austere frontage suggesting sternly that other afterlife destinations were also an option should one fail to repent—of what, precisely, David wasn’t sure, but he was fairly certain he’d done it.
David parked Mrs. Merdle by the side of the road. She stood out like a sore but impeccably bandaged thumb among all the weary Vauxhall estate cars, Ford vans, and ugly little Fiats. Finding a garage for her was going to be a priority. Safety for his newest darling was paramount, and moreover it would hardly be neighbourly to give all the other cars an inferiority complex. He unbuckled Gregory’s seat belt, gave Mrs. Merdle a gentle pat to reassure her that Daddy would be back soon, then trotted up the short path to the front door.
The man who answered his jaunty knock was rather on the short side, at least compared to David’s six foot one. A Watson to his Sherlock, or perhaps a Frodo to David’s Gandalf. Although he looked more like a shaven-headed Merry or a Pippin, to be honest. And David himself wouldn’t, of course, be seen dead with lank grey hair and a straggly beard. Hmm. He mulled it over. Maybe a Pippin to his Aragorn? The man in front of him did have rather lovely brown eyes beneath strong brows, the right brow a smidge fuller than the left. David’s fingers itched to even the score, but his tweezers were still firmly shut in Mrs. Merdle’s boot.
Pippin coughed. “Uh, you the bloke what wants the room? Mark’s mate?”
David realised he’d been mulling a tad longer than was strictly polite. “Mais bien sûr. You must be Rory? I’m David, but you can call me Davey. This is Gregory.” He held Gregory up and was pleased to see Rory break into a grin. Perhaps he was more of a Merry, after all.
“Nice to meet you. Both of you. Come on in. Um. Sorry about the mess. I tried tidying up, but I sort of ran out of places to put stuff.”
David wiped his feet and kicked off his shoes for good measure. Rory, he’d noticed, was wearing slippers that proclaimed him a Footy Mad Dad. David resigned himself to Saturday nights spent in front of Match of the Day. Still, at least it’d give him a bargaining chip to claim the television on Sundays. He’d been rather enjoying that new BBC costume drama. Admittedly, the lead actor was a little young for David’s usual tastes, being barely into his thirties, but he did look absolutely delicious with his shirt off. Especially in scenes that were most definitely Not In The Book.
The hall, which was large enough for two grown men and a teddy bear in the same way that the average elevator could hold thirteen people—i.e. only if they were extremely good friends, or at any rate comfortable with the prospect of becoming so by the end of the experience—led to the stairs. Off to the left was a door leading to the living room, which was where Rory directed David with a wave of his hand.
“This is it,” Rory said, shrugging.
The living room had wooden flooring, over which had been laid a thick rug with the kind of neutral, abstract pattern that fairly screamed I buy my taste at IKEA. Most of it was covered by a large, squidgy L-shaped sofa in front of a wide-screen TV. A sturdy, low wooden table took care of the rest of the floor space and was placed, if David was any judge, at the optimum distance from the sofa for Rory to put his feet up while watching the telly.
As he strongly suspected it had a secondary duty of dining table, David might have to have words with Rory about that. Not to mention, optimum distance for Rory meant that if David tried putting his feet up, he’d be able to use his knees as earmuffs.
Later, however. For now, he smiled. “Oh, how charmingly bijou.” That was the understatement of the century. If Rory turned out to own a cat, David would have to advise strenuously against any attempt to swing it. Even a mouse would be pushing it. On the plus side, however, the place was delightfully cosy. The sofa, in particular—David was sorely tempted to flump down on it and let himself be buried in an avalanche of cushions, but he resisted manfully. Unsolicited flumping, he’d found, could sometimes cause offence.
Rory rubbed a hand over his shaven head. The faint rasp of stubble lent him a dangerous air that seemed intriguingly at odds with his personality. “Uh, thanks? Evie had most of our old stuff when we split, cos of the kids, so I put all this together meself. You wanna see the kitchen next?”
“Lead on,” David said politely.
The room Rory showed him clearly was a kitchen, seeing as it contained a stove, a sink, and various cupboards and countertops under which nestled a minuscule fridge, a slimline dishwasher, and a washing machine, the latter thankfully of normal size. If it hadn’t been for those visible clues, however, David would have thought he was in a corridor, and not a particularly wide one at that. If he and Rory were ever both in here at once and wanted to pass one another, the ensuing scene would probably bear a strong resemblance to a scene from the Kama Sutra.
Rory made a face. “Yeah, I know, it’s pretty small. But it all works.”
“As the bishop said to the actor,” David murmured distractedly. “Maybe we could establish some kind of one-way system?”
“Be a bit of a faff, wouldn’t it?” Rory actually appeared to be considering it. “Nah, ’s not gonna work. Not unless we was end of terrace, and we’re not. You’d have to go out the door into the garden, hop over the fence and come round the side of next door. I don’t reckon Mrs. Willis would like that. We’ll just have to breathe in or something.” He laughed. “Course, if you breathe in, you’ll disappear. You sure you’re gonna want to use the kitchen anyhow?”
David pouted. “I do occasionally put food in my mouth. I also swallow, although the two statements aren’t necessarily connected.” He was most likely imagining the whoosh of that innuendo sailing straight over Rory’s stubbly head, but the bemused expression was real enough.
Yes, definitely a hobbit of some kind. David glanced down, but with the Dad slippers on, it was impossible to tell how hairy Rory’s feet were. “Bedroom?” he suggested brightly.
“Oh, yeah, right. This way. So you’re going into business with Mark?” Rory asked as he led David up a steep, narrow staircase at an energetic trot. With his longer legs, David matched the pace easily by the simple expedient of taking two stairs at a time.
“Mm. We always did work well together. Strictly professionally speaking, alas. But how about you? I don’t think he mentioned what you do.”
“Me? I’m a postie. It ain’t a bad job, long as you don’t mind the early mornings. Keeps the beer gut in line, anyhow, all that walking around.” Rory chuckled as they reached the landing, and slapped his belly, which was just on the right side of cuddly as far as David was concerned—Rory rather reminded him of a favourite teddy bear with all the fur loved off. “Here we go. This’ll be your room.” He opened the first door to the left.
David looked. And blinked. The room, while it was at least larger than David had feared, had pink walls, pink curtains, and a pine-framed bed with a pink duvet cover. Wand-wielding fairies flitted across it with appropriately gay abandon. “You know,” he said slowly, “you really didn’t have to redecorate on my account.”
“Uh, yeah, sorry about that. I let Lucy choose the colours and stuff, cos the idea was for her to have that room. I get the kids every other weekend, see.” Rory shrugged. “But she reckons it’s more fun camping out on the sofa with her brother anyhow, so you don’t need to worry about her getting the hump. And I’ll get that duvet cover out of your way. I only left it on cos the cat don’t always wipe his paws when he comes in.”
“Oh, you have a cat?”
“Yeah— Shit, you’re not allergic are you?”
David shook his head.
“That’s a relief. Uh, it’s more like half a cat, though.”
Hideous visions of a feline horribly maimed by venturing into traffic, or perhaps from a difference of opinion with the local catriarch, danced briefly, if regrettably clumsily, in David’s head.
Rory went on, apparently oblivious: “I sort of share him with her next door. Mrs. Willis.”
“Oh, thank God. Don’t ask,” David added quickly.
Rory’s expression didn’t get any less curious, but apparently his mum had done her job well as he didn’t, in fact, ask. “Uh, yeah, he’s only half-grown and he likes to play, but she can’t do much cos of her arthritis. So when he gets bored, he nips round here. I’m not s’posed to feed him, so I’m hoping you’ll keep stumm about the odd tin of tuna that goes his way.”
“My lips are never loose,” David assured him politely. “Now, if that’s the tour, all right if I get my things?”
“Yeah? You’re gonna go for it, then?” Rory appeared flatteringly pleased, which made a nice change from the all-too-obviously heartfelt “Thank God” Ryan and Samir had uttered in unison when David had announced he’d found somewhere to live.
“Absolument. Gregory loves it, don’t you, Gregory?” David placed the teddy bear gently on the bed and straightened his deerstalker. “He’s always been fond of fairies.”
“That’s great. Oh, haven’t shown you the bathroom yet.”
“Don’t worry,” David said gravely, halfway to the stairs. “I’m sure its location can’t elude me for long.”
Rory laughed. “Then let’s get your stuff inside.” He followed David downstairs, his footsteps oddly light for a man of his stocky build.
“Oh, there’s no need—”
“Nah, don’t be daft. I ain’t gonna sit on my arse while you’re humping stuff around.”
“It’s true I’ve always found humping to be more fun when done in company.” David opened the front door.
“Did you hire a van or . . .” Rory’s voice trailed off, and David turned to see why.
Rory was standing on the doormat staring, open-mouthed, at Mrs. Merdle. “Bloody hell. Is that yours?”
“Yes. Rory, meet Mrs. Merdle. She’s a flighty young thing, but we mustn’t hold her youth against her.”
“She’s beautiful.” Rory let out a sigh like a Dickensian orphan confronted with a baker’s Christmas window display. “And blimey, you went for the top-of-the-range model, dintcha? The whatchamacallit—”
“The Exclusive,” David butted in proudly.
“That’s the one. Eighteen-inch alloy wheels, turbo-charged engine . . . you go for the automatic?”
“Manual. I always feel so much more in control with my hand on the stick.”
Rory was nodding. Clearly he was a man of far greater taste and discernment than had at first appeared.
David smiled. “I’d offer to take you for a spin, but she’s a little overloaded at the moment.” He waved a hand at his poor car, a thoroughbred racehorse suffering the indignity of being used as a pack animal. Boxes and bags were faintly visible through the tinted windows, pretty much filling her interior, although David had done his best to pack only the essentials.
Never mind. She’d forgive him as soon as he found a suitably open road and let her loose. “And would one of these be yours?” David gestured to the two nearest cars parked, as every car on the street was, half on and half off the pavement. The first was a sleek if well-aged navy-blue Volkswagen; the next a rather tired-looking red Škoda Octavia with a scratched bumper and dented wing. David mentally crossed his fingers and hoped for the VW.
“Yeah, that’s mine. The Škoda.” Rory grinned, so presumably hadn’t noticed David’s wince. “Bet you’re too young to remember all them Škoda jokes that used to go around.”
“You mean, such as, ‘How do you double the value of a Škoda?’ ‘Fill the tank.’ ‘What do you call a Škoda with a sunroof?’ ‘A skip.’ Mm, no, never heard of them.”
Rory laughed. “What about, ‘Why does a Škoda have a heated rear window?’ ‘To keep everyone’s hands warm when they’re pushing it.’ Nah, they ain’t so bad, these cars. Just got ’emselves some bad press a few years back. And, well, it ain’t like I got money to chuck about.”
David felt a little guilty. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, and it wasn’t like conspicuous consumption was a virtue. Some people might even consider the reverse to be true. His mother, for instance, who was always telling him if he had to be shallow, he should at least try not to be too openly proud of it. Darling Hen. He’d been this close to giving up on the job hunting and moving back to Kent to be with her. As soon as he was settled at Rory’s, Hen was getting an invitation over to see the place.
Rory coughed, recalling David to the need to actually do some settling in before issuing invitations. “Sorry, where were we?”
“Uh, getting them boxes inside?”
“A man with a plan.” David opened the boot of the MG and started hoiking out boxes to lay them in Rory’s arms.
For a fortysomething-year-old man who’d presumably spent his morning tramping several miles to deliver the mail, Rory proved surprisingly energetic at transferring David’s worldly goods and chattels from car to house. David’s estimation of his fitness went up markedly. He even started to think it might be interesting to find out what Rory looked like stripped of his worn tracksuit bottoms and paint-stained T-shirt . . .
Where the hell had that come from?
He was overwrought, David decided, sitting down on his new bed to give Gregory a restoring cuddle. Worn down by the weeks of insecurity both professional and personal. He had a type, and Rory was most definitely not it.
Too short, for one thing. David preferred a man he could look up to, and not only when he was on his knees. And Rory wasn’t precisely what you’d call classically handsome in the Cary Grant/George Clooney mould. For a start, he’d taken the Ryan and Samir approach to grooming, and David liked to be able to run his fingers through his man’s hair.
Although possibly that faint five-o’clock shadow he’d glimpsed on Rory’s head would provide an intriguing texture—
No. Rory fell short of David’s ideal in more ways than simply the strictly physical. He liked a man who knew his own mind. Who took charge, both in bed and out of it.
Who was, frankly, a bit of a bastard.
David was willing to admit he might have many illusions about himself, but at least he was fully cognisant of what he liked. And nice, which Rory had in absolute shovelfuls, bless him, was not it. Clearly, their relationship was forever doomed to remain platonic. Which was good, David told himself. He’d always had a nagging feeling he should have more straight friends.
He recalled mentioning that to Mark one time, back in the far-off days of yore when they’d both worked for Charles at Whyborne & Co. Mark had just told him he should stop sleeping with them, then. Possibly the man had been in something of a bad mood, possibly due to David having temporarily mislaid an essential file just before a client meeting, possibly because he’d left it in the stationery cupboard after an unexpected quickie with bi-curious Colin from IT . . . anyway, that wasn’t important.
What was important was that David was going to have a new Straight Best Friend. “I think this is going to work out wonderfully,” he whispered to Gregory, then hurried out of his room to finish unloading Mrs. Merdle.
Only to find Rory dusting off his hands after placing the last of the boxes on the landing, having brought in the lot while David was away with the fairies. “Right, that’s all I could see. By the way, I was thinking, you want somewhere safe to keep Mrs. M, don’t you? Cos it ain’t too bad round here, but a car like that? You want to get her off road before some boy racer zooms down the hill and takes out her wing. So anyway, I got this mate what’s got a garage—you want me to give him a call? I’ll make sure he gives you mates’ rates, no probs.”
What had David just been saying? Total sweetie. “Rory, you’re a prince among postmen.”
Rory smiled, a hint of a blush on his little cheeks. “Nah ’s okay. Gotta keep the lady safe.”
Several hours later, David had driven Mrs. Merdle to her new home a mere ten minutes’ walk away through the village. He’d also unpacked his footwear collection (now lined up along the hall downstairs next to Rory’s sturdy walking boots), enlivened the bathroom with his Molton Brown toiletries (he’d used to buy Dior Homme, but the packaging was so dreadfully dull and drab, although not quite as appalling as Rory’s Tesco Value Shower Gel) and shoehorned his most essential articles of clothing into the dainty pine wardrobe in his new room. He was feeling in dire need of a good flump.
He hesitated. Should he go downstairs and flump on the sofa? Or was discretion the better part of valour as far as first-day flumping was concerned?
Mark had given him a stern talking-to when he’d called to say Rory was up for a lodger. He’d said it without the slightest appreciation for a good innuendo, too.
“Remember,” he’d said. “Rory isn’t used to anyone quite so . . . flamboyant. You might want to tone it down a little in the interests of getting along.”
“You mean you want me to be less, well, me?”
“Er . . . I wouldn’t have put it quite like that.”
“So basically, that’s a yes.” David supposed it was only to be expected. Mark had been married to a woman for years, hadn’t he? He must be something of an expert at hiding his rainbow light under a bush.
“Just give him a chance to get used to you, that’s all.” Mark hesitated. “And don’t forget if he mentions his ex, that’s Patrick’s mother he’s talking about. His most recent ex, at any rate.”
“Ooh, am I moving in with a serial heartbreaker?”
David had wondered, at the time, why Mark had snorted so strangely at that, but having met Rory in the flesh, it made a lot more sense. Rory was a dear, but he was hardly the stuff of which hommes fatale were made.
Still, David knew they were going to get along splendidly.
He decided to go and flump on the sofa forthwith.
When he got downstairs, however, David found the sofa sadly unavailable for flumping. Half of it was already occupied by Rory and the other half by a well-rounded man of around forty, manspreading so far David was surprised his stubby little legs didn’t snap off at the hips. The interloper, who had bushy dark hair, beady eyes and alarmingly aggressive eyebrows, looked up as David entered the room, and glowered.
David resisted the urge to glare daggers back at him, and pasted on a sunny smile instead. “Room for a little one?”
Rory, who’d been peering intently at some team sport on the television—football, from the chanting and the overexcited commentary—glanced up and turned the sound down. “David! Didn’t see you there. Come on, Barry, budge up. This is David, my new lodger. David, my mate Barry.”
“Enchanté,” David murmured politely, and held out his hand.
Barry took it warily with a muttered, “All right, mate?” He gave David’s hand a shake so brief it barely counted as one, then dropped it like a used condom and scooted over so far on the sofa Rory had to shift position or be squashed.
David sat down primly, his face beginning to hurt from the fake smile. “So, how long have you two known each other?”
“Years,” Barry blurted out. “We’re like that, me and him.” He held up two fingers pressed close together, then went red. “Uh, not in a gay way or nothing.”
“Perish the thought,” David said sincerely.
Rory laughed and nudged Barry in the ribs. “Oi, mate, you don’t have to come over all no homo with David.”
“Just keeping the record straight,” Barry muttered.
“Among other things,” David couldn’t help murmuring back. “Are you a postman too, Barry? Do you go around in those fetching little shorts, delivering hopes and dreams to the masses? And tax bills too. Obviously. One has to take the rough trade with the—”
“No.” Barry cut him off sharply. “Bookie.”
“What a shame,” David said charitably, because on the whole he thought the village had rather dodged a bullet, being spared the sight of those undoubtedly gorilla-like legs.
The brows, however, beetled. “You got a problem with bookies? You one of them antigambling bastards out to spoil everyone’s fun?”
David blinked and reviewed what he’d said. Ah. “Au contraire. I’ve even been known to have the odd flutter myself. And not only of my eyelashes.” He gave Barry a winning smile.
Barry neglected to return it. David’s smile sloped off to find somewhere it was more welcome.
He had half a mind to follow it. Was it just him or had the temperature in the room dropped around thirty degrees since he’d come down?