Chapter Fifteen

AFTER his admission about Damian Stone, Marcus had thought Tom would disappear into his shell the way he usually did—stop seeing Marcus altogether. What actually happened couldn’t have been more different.

During the following month, Tom sought desperately to find time slots for them to be together for sex—and the session heat ramped up to molten levels. But something in Tom had changed. He brought a fierceness to their brief encounters, and sometimes the detached passion unsettled Marcus. Not at the time, because Tom still made every effort to make sure he brought Marcus with him all the way. Neither did he offer to bottom again—not that Marcus minded that. Later, however, in quiet moments, Marcus realized they barely spoke during their lovemaking sessions. And whenever Marcus did, usually asking if everything was okay as they both quickly dressed to be elsewhere, Tom would placate him with a curt “Stop worrying. Everything’s fine.”

But other things—barely noticeable at first—had begun to happen. Even though they were having more short-notice encounters, there were no overnight sessions. Tom cited his need to keep his parents from suspecting anything. He’d also canceled once or twice at the last minute due to sudden work engagements—always something that did not form part of the careful household schedule they all followed meticulously. In Tom’s defense, his company had been inundated with work—Moira kept Marcus regularly apprised—and they were struggling to meet the deadline on one of the jobs.

Life had a habit of becoming busy when you least expected. Marcus knew that only too well. And while Marcus’s restaurants on either side of the Atlantic had reached a nice, manageable stride, giving Marcus more time to get involved in other things—approving the final draft of the recipe book Tina had asked him to create with the ghostwriter, final arrangements for the Birmingham opening—Tom’s business had taken on a little too much.

One Thursday, Marcus picked the girls up from school and dropped them off at Moira’s because Tom had a work meeting to attend, and she was busy preparing tea for them all. Moira insisted Marcus stay for a cup of tea and a chat. She always had a subtext for any invitation of this nature, and around seven, just as Tom joined them, the truth surfaced.

“Now Marcus, dear. We’re having a private dinner to celebrate our fiftieth wedding anniversary. Nothing fancy, about twenty of us—close friends and relatives. I know you’d probably want us to come to one of your restaurants, but we don’t want all the palaver of arranging transport to come uptown. So we’re going to Fettuccini on the high street. It’s one of John’s local favorites. They have a private dining room with easy wheelchair access. So I wondered if you’d like to come and if you’d want to bring anyone. Maybe Lincoln, if he’s available?”

Marcus glanced at Tom then, whose gaze dropped uncomfortably to the floor. Moira noticed the exchange.

“You can come alone, if you wish. Tom’s bringing someone.”

“I see,” said Marcus, folding his arms, a sudden anxious feeling in his gut. But he vowed not to show his feelings in front of Tom. “Thank you for the invite, Mrs. B. Yes, I’d be delighted to come. But it’ll just be me.”

ONE of the downsides of being a celebrated chef was that you also innately became a harsh critic of other people’s food. Good value was about the best he could come up with after sampling some of the soggy lasagna, overcooked pasta, and bland, uninspiring sauces on the sharing platters at Fettuccini. When the chef came out to say hello—someone had probably let on that Marcus Vine was in the house—Marcus made pleasant comments about the fare to the jolly Welshman who ran the kitchen.

But John and Moira appeared to enjoy the simple food, and after all, this was their special day. As an anniversary gift, Marcus had bought them tickets to see a show in the local theater, one that Moira had mentioned a couple of times to Katie. All in all, the evening went well, apart from the fact that Tom brought along Jeanette, the woman he had dated before choosing Marcus. Marcus liked her because she spoke her mind and came across as capable. What rattled him was that Tom hadn’t mentioned anything to him.

Toward the end of the evening, once most of the guests departed, the five remaining shuffled down to one end of the long table, where John held court in his wheelchair. On the opposite side of the table from Marcus sat Jeanette, with Tom to her left, while Moira sat next to Marcus.

Every now and again, Marcus caught Tom’s eye, the two of them sharing a moment of levity at a remark made by one of the guests. With a few drinks inside him, Tom seemed more like his old self. When Tom excused himself to use the bathroom, Marcus allowed conversations to bubble around him while he sat back and checked his phone. A message from Tina caught his eye, to call him about a few nonurgent matters they needed to get sorted. She had also sent him the article by Kitter that would be appearing in the Observer tomorrow, which he flicked through quickly. Beautifully written, of course, but more importantly, essentially positive. Knowing he was out that night, Tina had purposely not called. Not difficult to guess what the message was about: a few more interviews, a few more signings, maybe an update on Birmingham. After popping the phone away, he decided to call her the minute he got home. Get business out of the way in case Tom’s promise of getting away for an hour or two to pay him a late-night visit materialized.

“Tom seems much happier these days. Did you have anything to do with that?” said John, peering down the table. Having taken a mouthful of water, Marcus lowered the glass from his mouth and was about to reply when Jeanette beat him to the punchline.

“You know, I’d like to think so,” she said, tilting her head as she dabbed the corner of her mouth with a napkin. Marcus almost choked on his water. “We had a bit of a rocky start. Both needed time to breathe, I suppose. But yes, I’ve been out with him a couple of times recently.”

“Have you?” said Marcus, unable to stop the words tumbling out. Why had Katie or Charlotte not mentioned that? Or did they even know? More importantly, why hadn’t Tom?

“Just tagging along, really. Drinks down the pub with his football friends. And dinner with his work colleagues and their other halves when Tom needed someone on his arm.”

Marcus stayed his tongue this time. But unwelcome thoughts began to seep into his head. Was she really only acting as a companion to his formal events? Or was there more?

“Been trying to persuade him to take a weekend break with his girls and my son, James. They’re around the same age. If only I could get him to take some time off. He works so hard. Almost missed Katie’s parent-teacher evening.”

Perfect timing: the man in question returned to his seat at that moment.

“You took Jeanette to Katie’s open evening?” asked Moira, surprised, preempting Marcus, who had been about to ask the same thing. “You never said anything.”

Taking his seat, Tom simply shrugged but offered no explanation.

“Oh, I didn’t mind,” said Jeanette after a quick glance at Tom, clearly sensing she had stumbled upon something contentious. “James is in the year below Katie, so we did each other a favor, really. Anyway, the teacher we saw—Miss Stewart—seemed to be really impressed with Katie.”

“I thought Colbert was Katie’s homeroom teacher?” asked Marcus, glaring at Tom. “Doesn’t Stewart only take her for numbers? Why didn’t you—”

“Colbert was sick,” interrupted Tom, returning Marcus’s fierce gaze.

“Then why not reschedule?” asked Marcus softly, but Jeanette had already continued on, the poor woman floundering in the wake of Tom’s reticence.

“She had nothing but good things to say. A super bright girl, she called her. Said she’d always been good at reading and writing but had struggled with basic arithmetic. And then mentioned how much she had improved over the past term.”

Yes, thought Marcus, thanks to my hours of tutoring and perseverance. Even a cursory glance told him that Tom could read his bubbling anger.

“And now you’re considering a weekend break with Jeanette and James, I hear?” Marcus said, directly to Tom.

“Nothing’s decided yet,” said Tom, glaring back at Marcus. “Depends on a whole lot of things. Work, timing, school holidays.”

“Sounds lovely,” said Moira.

Yes, thought Marcus. One big happy family.

When poor Jeanette began to backtrack, Marcus let his head fall forward, pinched the bridge of his nose, and took a huge breath. Nausea caught in his stomach. Abruptly pushing his chair back from the table, he stood and addressed Tom’s mother and father, interrupting Jeanette. “Moira, John. Thank you very much for this evening. Would love to stay longer, but I need to rush off to deal with an urgent issue.”

Under his breath, he muttered, “Get my head examined.”

After bidding a general but cursory farewell to everyone—while ignoring eye contact with Tom—Marcus headed out of the restaurant. When he was barely twenty paces along the road, a hand grabbed him by the forearm and spun him around.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” hissed Tom.

“You,” cried Marcus, yanking Tom’s hand away. Anger bristled inside him, and the raw fury stopped Tom in his tracks. “You’re what’s wrong with me. Not only are you keeping me out of the loop on things, you’ve turned me into your dirty little secret. And do you know what’s fucking ironic? You’re using me for sex and poor clueless Jeanette for respectability. Parading her in front of colleagues, relatives, and teachers because you’re too ashamed to have another man by your side. Because of what people might think.”

“It’s not like that. She’s just helping out.”

“Are you fucking her?”

“No! There’s only you. I told you, we’re simply helping each other out. I—I’m doing my best to get things back on an even keel, back to normal.”

“Is that what you want? Normal?”

“For the girls’ sake, yes. What’s so wrong with that?”

“Nothing’s wrong with that. It’s just…. Where do I fit into your normal?”

The two men stared at each other. Marcus’s vision had blurred. Tom had no answer for that, and finally Marcus stepped away from him.

“Just as I thought,” he said and then let out a deep sigh before calming his voice. “You know, I think it’s my turn now. To tell you to back off. Give me a chance to find someone who respects me, who can not only be brave enough to stand next to me but also to stand up for me. I’m calling a time-out.”

“Is that what you want?”

“Yes. No. Shit!” said Marcus, looking out across the street, trying to find the strength to temper his thoughts and emotions. After a deep breath, he brought his gaze back to Tom, his voice softening. “Maybe it’s not what I want, but it’s what I need. I—I’m in love with you, Tom, I really am. If you don’t already know that, then you’re blind and deaf. I made a dreadful mistake investigating Damian Stone. Especially after you’d told me quite clearly to drop the idea. I admit that. So if you’re doing what you’re doing now because of that, then I sort of understand. But I also respect who I am. I’ve made a name for myself in a tough world. One where I am not only accepted but also—and yes, I know this sounds clichéd—out in the open, and proud of being gay. And I won’t live my life settling for the scraps of your life that you’re prepared to toss my way. I deserve better than that. And if it means I need to walk away from this, then so be it.”

This time Tom glared off into the distance, his eyes glazed. Marcus knew he should act on his words and leave, but he wanted to give Tom a chance to respond. After a few silent moments, he did, but not with anything Marcus wanted to hear. “I don’t think you’re being fair to Jeanette.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. And are you being fair to me?” cried Marcus. “You’ve got it all going for you now, haven’t you? But you know what? You can’t just pick the bits of me that you want and ignore the rest.”

“Does that mean the girls won’t see you anymore?”

“No,” said Marcus, softening his tone. “No, of course not. I said I made a mistake before, and I’m not going to do the same thing again. What I’ve committed to doing for the girls—helping with homework, taking them to school or picking them up, preparing meals, all of it, I’ll keep doing. But you and I need to go back to our previous arrangement, and most definitely stop seeing each other in private. It’ll be better that way. Give us both a chance to figure out exactly what we want.”

Once again they fell to silence. Even now Tom could not bring himself to look directly at Marcus, his focus on a hole-in-the-wall ATM across the street. Marcus hated seeing his friend appear so lost. His instinct was to pull him into a hug, but with the previous speech still fresh, he knew they had stepped beyond intimacy.

“Go back to the party, Tom. Your parents will be wondering where you are.”

Finally Tom folded his arms and swung his gaze back to Marcus. “What do you want, Marcus? Tell me what you want.”

“Wrong question, Tom. You need to ask yourself what you want. And more importantly, where my place is in that.”

With that, Marcus turned and walked away.

This time Tom didn’t follow.